The curse of Ekalavya

"You're on the wrong track, man . . . you’ll find no takers for your plain language thing.”

— “But it’s got to begin, surely? Things are changing everywhere. In Australia they’ve rewritten law in plain language . . . in Sweden, they’ve a special cell that translates into plain language every law the Swedish Parliament passes . . . in the USA, Bill Clinton signed an executive order asking all State agencies to use plain language . . . in the UK . . . ”

“Oh belt up. You’re always going on about them. It’ll never succeed in India.”

— “Why not?”

“Because Indians worship gobbledygook; every child gets stuffed with it. Their textbooks spew hideous language . . . they’ve got to buy help-books; get tutors to explain it all— it’s the system, and the system just bores into the kids; then the kids grow up and perpetuate the system, see?”

— “But if kids can’t understand what they’re made to read, doesn’t that make a switch to plain language all the more necessary?”

“You don’t seem to grasp reality, do you?”

— “What’s the reality you figure I don’t get?”

“But don’t you see, Indians never bother about understanding ANYTHING! Watch pious Hindus around a puja. How many of them understand what the priest mumbles? The priest might blather at a marriage mantra for a funeral, and nobody’ll give a damn, don’t you see?”

— “Yes, but a puja’s just a ritual; doesn’t prove anything. What about commerce . . . trade?”

“But everything’s a ritual here. Look at the business letters Indians write: if it’s in a regional language, it’ll be the same blather—the message buried under bunkum.”

— “Yes, but that’ll change. India’s becoming a global player . . . the language of commerce, of trade, will have to measure up to global standards . . . the language in letters to partners, clients will change.”

“Oh yeah? Change to what?”

— “Well, to . . . er . . . plain and precise language.”

“India’s been in the global market for quite some time, you know. Show me one Indian company—just one—that spends a paisa training its men to write sense. They’ll go on writing their business letters the way the goddamned clerks wrote ‘em in the Company days . . . truth is, Indians never wrote business letters; began after the Brits came . . . been no change since: Yours of the 11th inst . . . the undersigned begs to blah . . . with reference to the above, please see below . . . where do you see anything changing, huh?”

— “Well, we do have a client in ICICI Bank . . . they’re switching to plain English; we’re training their staff.”

“Hah! And you think that means a change . . . like you see one swallow and it’s summer. Go ask around . . . for every ICICI Bank chap that wants a change, fifty’ll oppose it.”

—“But they do ask us to edit their documents, you know; we’ve re-worded and re-designed many of their forms.”

“But that’s just one bank. Got any more clients? How long you been at it?”

—“Almost two years.”

“There you are . . . just one and the same client in all of two years. Look, you got the bank only because someone there’d heard about plain language . . . And how many Indians have even the foggiest what ‘editing’ means?”

—“We’ve held workshops for them.”

“What’s a workshop? All about upgrading skill, right?”

—“Yes, certainly, we upgrade their writing skill . . . over just three days.”

“Hah, hah , hah . . . and you think their management is bothered about writing skill?”

—“Why would they ask for them if . . .”

“Then tell me why they aren’t continuing; get this straight: the word SKILL means nothing to Indians . . . and besides, Indians carry the curse of Ekalavya: they’ll never be skilled at anything—EVER!

—“The curse of Ekalavya? What’re you talking about?”

“Yes, the curse that descended on India when Ekalavya’s fingers were chopped off so he might never excel Kshatriyas at archery.”

—“But Ekalavya was made to sever his right thumb; I read somewhere no archer needs to use his thumb; only the index and middle finger.”

“You bet some RSS geek cooked that one up. The thumb was an interpolation, to dumb down the crime; you bet Dronacharya chopped both his index and middle fingers. But that’s hardly the point. What you got to understand is that Ekalavya’d acquired super skill all by himself — peeping unseen at how Dronacharya trained the princes; severing his fingers meant Indians murdered fine skill. Don’t you see: Indians just don’t care for skill; ’cause they haven’t any.”

“You’re very harsh on Indians.”

“No, dammit, I’m just realistic . . . you get some response at a writing skill workshop and bus, you think you’ve wrought a change. Those guys at the top couldn’t give a shit about writing skill: they themselves write nothing but bunkum . . . wake up, man, wake up!”

My wife stood at my bed with a cup of tea. “I’ve been hollering from the kitchen . . . must I always carry your tea to your bedside?”

Funny, I thought. A December morning, and yet I was perspiring!

But who was that cynic in the dream? I tried to recall the face . . . I could recollect only a mirror image of myself. My alter ego? Was I allowing my plain language campaign to eat me up?
“Gotta get a grip on myself . . . things will change,” I told myself — just as I’d told the dream cynic.