At the Kati Roll
Company, we were enjoying our kati rolls, adda (conversation), and the reunion
we had after a year. A group of young girls sat at the table next to us.
Soon, an
oddly dressed young man joined their table. Given my ignorance about popular
American fashion, I could not say if he was a style icon, or generally poorly
dressed. When the girls smiled sheepishly at him, I thought that they knew each
other. But the girls started to leave their table, clearly uncomfortable. They
might be planning to leave anyway, but our young man surely facilitated their
departure.
By now, my
colleague and I were curious spectators. The man had a drawl, maybe he was
drunk and stoned and anything in between. The girls left, and the man walked
further inside the restaurant with confidence, calling out to more people. I
could not see any further after that. I told my colleague about my
disappointment that four girls could not confront a man and ran away, validating
him and fueling his courage in the process.
Sometime
later, the man came back to us, of all the tables. I could not understand what
he said but recognized a mishmash of words that occasionally sounded like baby
and boob. Sure, all babies need boobs for nourishment, but I don't think that
was what he meant. I saw red! I am allergic to people calling me baby, and I
didn't ask for an assessment of my boobs. He walked towards us with an
intention of joining our table.
“Dada, ki
bolchen bujhte parchina, Banglaye bolun,” I said out loud enough to turn a few
heads in our direction. (Please speak in Bangla, I cannot understand what you
are saying, I said).
The man was
momentarily stunned. Of all the things he would have anticipated, a sharp reply
in Bangla was outside his syllabus of imagination.
He has some
nerve, he asked me to speak in English, with more references to baby and boobs.
I lost it.
“Banglaye
katha na bolle hobe? Boshe boshe meyeder theke khisti khachhen, bujhteo to
parchen na. Ingriji te katha bolte parbo na, amake niye jokhon katha bolchen,
amar bhashaye katha bolun aage.”
The more I
spoke in Bangla, the more confused he got. It had never occurred to him that he
would not be able to communicate to a girl something as simple as a lecherous
remark about body anatomy. With a horrified expression, he started to leave the
restaurant.
“Arrey
paliye jachhen keno, adda maarben na?" was the last thing I said before he
scampered out.
Looks like
my “confuse your enemy” ploy worked wonderfully, although it was unplanned,
untested, and impulsive. Whatever the guy had expected from us (shame,
discomfort), being reprimanded in a foreign language was outside his
imagination. This strategy might have failed if he had a gun or knife or if it
was late in the night. I do not know. What I know is that in the heart of
Manhattan, my mother tongue gave me the confidence to confront, confuse and
belittle a man, and drive him away. I could have given him a piece of my mind
in English. However, communicating and engaging with him was not my goal.
Whenever you speak in the language of the enemy, you validate and empower the
enemy.
Speak to
your enemies and speak to them in your own language (and not their language). Chances
are that the enemy will not understand your language. If they did, then they
would not be enemies. I use the word “language” metaphorically here.
sunshine
