By David Astle
Landmarks are worth a visit but are they worth a photo? Does the global scrapbook really need one more snapshot of a noseless Sphinx, a lilac Uluru? I've had a gutful of the Eiffel, while Machu Picchu is fast becoming too Mach of a Machness in pixel terms.
Hence my shutterbug is a different strain of bug altogether. Phooey to Tower Bridge – and bah to Big Ben. You'd sooner catch me snapping graffiti on Portobello Road than skulking the transept of St Pauls. Even after touring India for a month I actively dodged the Taj for names like Paradise Cement, Honest Carpenter and Plastic King. I sidestepped Amber Fort for the glory of Happy Hour School and Drizzle Restaurant.
Illustration: Simon Letch
Language in general is my photographic subject, from billboards to jam labels. And as pickings go, India is one big orchard. So many quirky signs dangle in view with so few gigs on the data plan. Skimming my image bank now, I see Razzle Dazzle Yoga Studio, Harshit Ceramics, Horny Clinic, plus a cafe offering A Cup of Conversation.
In the finest Hindu tradition, some signs extend to existentialism. Like the airport demand – Please Be In A Queue. Or the gatepost instruction, Aware Of Dog. Or the edict plastered in one hotel's foyer: Guest Is God.
Meanwhile, where Aussie road workers might erect a Detour sign, the Indian gang prefers Diversion, which tickled my crossword fancy. Though not as much as Chennai's Central Puzhal Prison, evidently a lockup where unscrupulous compilers must complete their sentences.
Though not every semantic vagary is writ large. My ear was just as busy on the streets, sifting Hindi for telltale signs of mutual phrases, since English has dug quite the inroad into India's principal language. Eavesdropping conversations, I heard words like candlelight or blue moon pop up. Over the PA, the air steward rattled off her Hindi instructions, tossing in boarding pass, ground staff and seat pocket.
This should tell you a lot, just as the maverick signs are a sign. An eager host, Hindi welcomes English words with ardour. With just one catch: the visiting word must walk a corridor of funfair mirrors in order to stay. Distortion is the key to belonging. Often that twist is phonetic, where mobile puncher isn't a phone abuser, but roadside assistance for a flat tyre. Or hospital ends up being aspital, just as elevator ends up being lipht.
Elsewhere the charms of Hinglish prevail, the fastest growing hybrid in the world. Hinglish, you could say, is in one big airdash (hurry), boosted by Mumbai's millennials being so glassy (thirsty) for the linguistic cocktail. Or perhaps the Bangalore brigade, when not juggling helplines, is grateful for the timepass (idle distraction).
Quizzed by customs on my return, I had nothing to declare but prepone (to bring something forward in time) and co-brother (my brother-in-law). Far shrewder imports, I'd argue, than a brass Krishna or desiccated cardamom.
More than Hinglish, I also lugged a few purer Hindi fragments that English sorely needs. The first is jugaad, which we might translate as fix. Yet jugaad combines cunning, influence and dexterity. A car engine, or visa problem, can be overcome by some adroit jugaad.
The other treasure is kahaani, a word I learnt while touring many Indian schools. On paper the English equivalent is story, yet a kahaani is truly a spoken story, one that's shared within a circle, and relayed on to the listener. Jugaad and kahaani – our own world will be richer for both.
Finally, at the risk of seeming greedy, I also smuggled maaya, which Google translates as hallucination. Well, not quite. Gurus sit on mountains to divine the maaya. Yogis chant to seek it. Even hapless tourists with a fetish for street signs can be known to slide into this ethereal state. I'm telling you, co-sister, maaya is the ultimate timepass.
davidastle.com
Twitter @dontattempt