My late grandmother spoke French. Maybe that is why foreign languages have always intrigued me. So I decided to learn one. Russian looked complex while German sounded too guttural. "Master French in 1 1/2 months" ...hmmn, this sounded good. Enough French to help you if you got lost in France or any francophone country, for that matter. So finally, French it was.
The Professor was a 30 year old Indian (not a Frenchman), tall, dark, beefy with a shock of black beard, more suited to play the role of a pirate. He was fresh out of the mint, we were his first batch of students and if we passed our exams, he would be sponsored by the Institute to complete his Masters in France. A mighty tall order, 1 must add.
A mixed bunch, ranging from a 14 year school schooler to a 52 year old Banker, our class of 13 students dropped down to 7 in the 1st week. Perhaps, after a closer look at the "notorious" French grammar, also, they would never be the cause for the Professor to remain stranded on the Indian soil.
Seated in pairs - the 14 year old girl and I, a pretty young 22 year old girl, (the PYT) with the handsome but balding engineer (nick-named Baldy) and so on, only the Banker, being extremely shy, sought solace in the back bench. Day 1: We learnt to say our name (in French) by repeating after the Professor — "My name is Paul". We continued the same chant for many days until we were reminded of our "christened" names.
During this time, the gaffes we made were innumerable. Asked how many children he had, the Banker shyly replied "Douze" (12) instead of "Deux" (2). Not realizing his mistake he stopped after giving their names "Aisha" and "Anwar" and we burst out laughing. The Professor added that it would have been better if the children were named after the months in a calendar. But for a plum assignment in Canada, the Banker would have dropped out too. "I am not here to crucify you" bellowed the Professor, as we screamed "Merci! Merci!", meaning thank you. "Roll the "er" as they do in Marseilles", he added and not like the English "Mercy"! And days rolled by.
On the day of the speech test, we sat with butterflies in our stomach beating out a marching band. The topic was to sum up in French "What I did last night". All of us finished our turns but for the PYT and Baldy. By this time the "grouch" had found a permanent fixture on the Profs face. And, why not? French, his true love, was being "guillotined" by us, turn by turn. The Professor drew to his full length, approached the PYr and demanded "So, what did you do last night"? Disconcerted, the doe-eyed Pyr looking resplendent in the pink chiffon saree, batted her eyelids coyly, turned to Baldy and whispered in English "Vipin, what did we do last night"? The class went uproarious while the Professor guffawed heartily.
The PYT did not make her appearance in the class again. Baldy, well, he joined the Banker in the back bench. The exam was conducted and the result was announced. Thanks to chicken-pox, I had to give the "re-union" a miss. My partner called me up to inform that I had topped the class, while she had come in 2nd and that the Banker had flunked. Later, I heard that our Professor had just as soon left for France. Sadly, I did not continue with the course but I have remained passionate about French ever since. Now, not the language, you see, but the French wine. I love them — Red or White. To this, let me raise a toast. "A la santé!" (To health!) like the French say it.
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