Jaipur - Searching for a Gujarati translator and our Bollywood adventure

March 2007 

Searching for a Gujurati Translator

 

One day when we had nothing special planned we headed off in search of someone who could translate Gujarati into either English or Hindi.  I had taken a photo of five Gujarati women at a mosque in Bijapur and had offered to send them some copies of the photo.  Only one of the women could write, and only in Gujarati, so I took that address, hoping I would find a translator sooner or later.  This proved more difficult than I had thought.  

We had tried many places, but it wasn’t until Jaipur that someone said that they might know someone who might be able to translate the address for us.  One of the managers at our hotel directed us to a hotel in another part of town, the name or address of which he couldn’t quite remember, but he drew a vague circle on our map, saying he thought the word “Gujarat” might appear somewhere on the hotel sign.  It was, at least, a start.  

 

After some fruitless wanderings, we found a hotel that looked like a possibility.  At least it was in the right spot.  A young boy who appeared to be working there said “yes” when we asked him if someone there spoke Gujarati, and yelled something up a dark ladder-like flight of stairs.  A few minutes later a man came slowly down.  Fortunately he spoke pretty good English, but he did not speak Gujarati and was as unable to decipher the address as we were.  But he did tell us that there was a restaurant nearby (on the “backside” of the theatre, from which we had just come) where the owner spoke Gujarati, and where the city’s Gujarati people went to eat.  It was called the Annapurna restaurant, and he was sure someone there would be able to translate the address for us.

So back to the theatre we tramped, by this time wondering if we were on a wild Gujarati goose chase.  We walked to the “backside” of the theatre, but saw no restaurant.  We did see a rickshaw driver, so we asked him if he knew where the Annapurna restaurant was.  He asked if we wanted a ride there - he would take us for 20 rupees.  Doug laughed and said “it’s right here, we can walk if you can just point us in the right direction!”  The rickshaw driver, perhaps unhappy at having his services turned down, waved his hand towards the left. 

 

In the meantime I had spied two men and a young boy sitting in a driveway near the corner.  I went over and asked them if they knew where the Annapurna restaurant was.  They said “just here, backside,” and pointed in the opposite direction to the one the rickshaw driver had suggested.  The young boy volunteered to take us there, so off we went, trailing behind our intrepid little leader.  Of course the restaurant was not only very nearby, but it also had a sign on the road - we just hadn’t noticed it.  We thanked the boy and offered him five rupees, but he refused to take it, despite our friendly insistence.  This was one of the only times in India that anyone has refused to take money (so rare that neither of us can think of another).  It was both a charming gesture and a relief to know that at least some children have not been spoiled by the armies of rupee and bon-bon giving tourists who are, unwittingly, contributing to the problem of beggary in the country.

 

The waiter-cum-cashier at the Annapurna restaurant said yes, there was a man who could speak, read and write Gujarati, but he was just now having his lunch, so could we wait a few minutes.  We happily agreed, and sat at a small table adjacent to the Gujarati man and his friends, all of whom were tucking into what looked like great thali lunches.  (Thalis are small individual “buffets” of several Indian dishes, served with a mound of rice and a few chapattis, on a plate like a TV dinner tray.  They are both excellent and cheap.)  

We ordered chai (spiced milky tea) and sat looking at the unusual pictures on the walls.  One was in fact an embroidered and very faithful likeness of the Taj Mahal.   We were frankly amazed at the cleanliness of the place.  There were no black greasy stains on the walls, no chipped plaster or paint, and no layers of dust and dirt on every available surface.  The table tops were clean – not just casually swiped with a filthy rag, but clean.  Our metal water glasses were both clean and dry, without the usual residue of questionable water inside and out.  The bottled water we ordered was cold.  The tea was hot, and good.  And the spoons, like the cups and glasses, were clean and dry.  There were even napkins on the table.  

 

While this may not sound like such a big deal, in India it is absolutely extraordinary.  We have had to learn not to look too closely at the places we eat – and certainly not at the “kitchens,” which are unbelievably primitive and dirty – or at the cutlery, crockery or table-tops.   What was even more extraordinary about this place was that it was clearly not a “tourist” restaurant, so presumably was not maintaining these standards for the tourist trade.  Indeed we were the object of considerable curiosity and much commentary.  We decided we’d come back the next day for lunch before going to the theatre in the afternoon.

 

Even before our man finished his thali he asked to see my Gujarati address, and between bites and slurps, translated it from Gujarati into Hindi as one of the waiters wrote it carefully onto my waiting envelope.  He checked it carefully to make sure the waiter had gotten it right, grunted his approval, and went back to slurping his chai.  I felt a real sense of accomplishment at having managed to get the Gujarati address translated, and having had such a good time doing so.  The fact that the Hindu address on the envelope was no more comprehensible to me than the Gujarati one was a wonderful added touch.  After profuse “thank-yous” and “namastes” we left the restaurant feeling quite elated.  

 

As we passed back by the young boy who had taken us to the restaurant, we offered him a chocolate bar, telling the older men with him (his father, his uncle?) what a good and helpful boy he was and how wonderful it was that he had refused our offer of payment for his services.  They of course were very pleased by this compliment, and agreed whole-heartedly that he was “a good boy.”

 

Bollywood Bash in a Wedding-Cake Theatre

 

The next day we went back to the Annapurna restaurant and had a great thali lunch.  The waiters were thrilled to see us, and vied for the opportunity to serve us.  After that we headed round to the “frontside” of the theatre where we were going to see a newly released Bollywood movie - in Hindi, of course.  We entered through the doors marked “Ruby and Diamond.”  These are the expensive “upper class” seats, in the balcony, overlooking the riff-raff below (of which there were very few).  

 

Apart from wanting to escape from the mid-day heat, we wanted to go to this theatre because of its reputation as the most beautiful, ornate and plush of any in India.  It was all of these things.  I have never been in a theatre so ornate.  It was like being inside a wedding cake - all light pink with white scalloped ceilings and trimmings, and royal blue plush carpeting.  There were grand curving stair-cases up to the balcony.  But before going up we helped ourselves to REAL buttered popcorn and a Mars bar from the candy-stand.  When we got to the balcony, a uniformed usher silently and ceremoniously directed us to our reserved seats with a flashlight.  It was like going back in time to my childhood when we would go to “a show” at the Orpheum Theatre in Vancouver.  How I admired the handsome uniformed ushers, and envied them their ability to see so many wonderful movies.

The movie had just started.  The fact that it was in Hindi was really not too significant, in terms of our understanding of the film.  The plot of all Bollywood movies is the same: an arranged marriage where the man and woman meet a few times, and miraculously actually “fall in love” (communicated only by yearning looks and highly stylized gestures – absolutely NO KISSING allowed in Indian movies!).  There are a limited number of “tried and true” sub-plots involving alternately funny, sad, dangerous and romantic themes, until finally the couple is married in a preposterously fancy (and traditional) wedding ceremony, and the movie’s over.  

 

Even the supporting actors have highly stock roles, including the daughter-doting father-knows-best, the jocular uncle, the loving sister, the precocious little brother, and the mean mother-in-law (who of course in the end is won over and becomes nice).  The film sets are kitchy beyond belief, with huge fake full moons and over-bright stars for the romantic scenes, astonishingly clean buildings and streets and very modern homes – all the stuff of fairy-tales, certainly not anything like the reality of most Indian people.  

 

But of course the people love these movies.  For many it must be one of the only opportunities they get to be transported from the dreariness and hardship of their own lives and to pretend, for just an hour or two, that the Bollywood world is real, and that they might find it.  This is the stuff of their dreams.

 

My personal dreamland collapsed the day after the movie when I discovered that one of my gold onlays had come loose (was it the popcorn?) and was actually falling off when I ate.  My tooth wasn’t sore, and it didn’t feel like anything was terribly amiss, but I knew I should see a dentist and get the thing glued back on before there was a problem.  The thought of seeing a dentist in India was both distressing and disgusting to me.  I felt vaguely sick even thinking about it.  Where and how and by whom I got it fixed – at least temporarily – is the subject of another story....

 

 

For more information on Jaipur go to:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaipur