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Thai Pongal is round the corner...
By Aditha Dissanayake
An invitation for lunch on Thai Pongal day from our neighbour makes me want to learn Tamil. I go in search of the "Spoken Tamil" book I had purchased at the International Bookfair, last year, and begin in earnest. Morning is the best time to study, say the sages. I rouse myself at 5.30 a.m., douse my face in cold water and begin.

The opening sentence comes as no surprise "Enadu peyar Raja! (My name is Raja)- the traditional first three words every beginner of any language is supposed to learn. "Enadu peyar Raja, enadu peyar Raja, enadu peyar Raja…" I mutter softly to myself as I pace the sitting room in the semi-darkness hoping that if I keep repeating the words aloud I will remember them for life. May brother walks into the room, looks at me, searches for his glasses, and looks at me again.

"What's the matter?"he asks, almost in panic. "Enadu peyar Raja..." I continue to mutter, ignoring him completely. Then he sees the title of the book in my hands, raises his arms in exasperation and walks off saying my nuts need tightening.

By six in the morning I realize I can tell somebody my age, the number of brothers and sisters I have, their names and their ages in Tamil. Wondering if anyone would ever be interested in me to know all about my kith and kin in this way, I read through to the end of the page and stop.

My eyes pop out. The last question on the page reads 'Ungalukku eththanai kaikal undu?" How many hands have you? The question that follows asks "how many eyes have you?" How could I ask such questions from Mr. and Mrs Ramachandran, on pongal day?

But by seven in the morning, I am convinced I have mastered enough Tamil to have a conversation with Meera. "Meera Irikka?" I ask her when she answers the phone. She giggles and says "sollunkal". I hurriedly turn to the chapter called verbs in the book in my hand. Sollunkal means tell. Tell? Tell what? Something, anything, I suppose. I hurriedly turn to the chapter with the heading "Words Used in Daily Life". My eyes race through them. There is aadu, meaning goat, madu meaning cow, pala meaning jakfruit and there is thara meaning duck. I construct my first sentence in Tamil and ask her "Thara niram enna?"

The thousand decibels of sound that comes down the line makes me move the phone away from my ear. "Why have you taken such a sudden interest in drakes?" She asks through the laughter. I am disappointed. I think of giving up, but a sudden burst of courage makes me plod on.

"Stop squealing like a pig and speak to me in Tamil" I beg her. "How can I stop laughing when you phone me up so early in the morning and start talking about ducks?" says Meera first in Tamil, then in English when I plead for a translation.

"But according to this book, those are the words you are supposed to be using everyday,” I tell her helplessly. I make Meera agree to speak to me only in Tamil from now on. But after five minutes of listening to a volley of unfamiliar sounds I beg her to stop. Two hours of reading "Spoken Tamil" is obviously not the best way to converse with a person like Meera, I decide.

Throwing the book aside I turn towards the television. From the occasional Tamil advertisements the only word I manage to pick up is "parunkal"which means look. Progress is slow, especially as I am outnumbered when it comes to watching a Tamil teledrama. The eternal quarrel about which channel to watch, intensifies. It is only on an evening when my mother and I would be alone at home, and when I could convince her that the Sydney Sheldon in large print is far more enthralling than a Sinhala teledrama that I manage to listen to Tamil, the way she is spoken!

But here too, I fail. According to Meera I seem to have picked all the wrong words. As she keeps telling me nee is not the equivalent of you in English and poda is a word to be avoided at all costs.

Thai Pongal day is only three days away. It is distressing to realize that I still know only a few words of the second-most-widely-spoken-language in Sri Lanka, and that too, only to ask somebody questions like where is your nose and how old are you? I am still at the beginning of the tunnel. It may take at least half a century for me to reach its end. But who has got the patience to wait till then? I pick up my Tamil book again, dial Meera's number and begin all over again. Minukku parakka mudiyuma? (Can a fish fly?) I ask her.

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