1

Indian English

baap•re [bap•re] interjection. (1) an expression used as an exclamation; can have both a
genuine or sarcastic tone (2) analogous to “oh my!” or “oh my God!”

I walk in the door after getting off the school bus, frustrated as usual. I have
yet to understand the kid four doors down who has the privilege of being dropped at
his front door. It’s because he walks with a severe limp—legs, arms, and expression
crooked since birth. He’s always ripe with a lash of anger at the world, that is, minus
the Bible and Billy Graham.
Before I see her I hear the clicking of her knitting needles and know she’s
there. Nana’s sitting on the loveseat parallel to the kitchen bar counter, her usual
perch after her afternoon nap and before her evening tea. I walk down the hall into
the living room, throw my backpack against the bar, sigh my way into the kitchen,
bang out a glass of water from the fridge, sigh my way back to the futon, and plop
heavily onto the overgrown cushion.
“Baapre! What happened today?” she asks, her gentle accent bragging British
reign with a touch of western India.

bha•faat [ba•fat] noun. (1) a verbal blunder, like spreading confidential information or
calling someone by the incorrect name

My dad is famous for bhafaats. But the real kind. Every time I think I’ve made
a bhafaat I have to self-correct: I’m always getting them confused with generally
stupid mistakes—spoken or done. But Dad takes home the cake for saying the wrong
thing at the wrong time.
“So, what do you think about these new MP3 players? Are they cool?” he asks.
Are they cool?, I think to myself. Weird he asks. He must want something.
“Why are you asking me about an MP3 player? Do you plan on getting one?”
“No I’m just wondering what they are.” He wants something.
“Dad, if you’re thinking about getting me one for my birthday, I don’t want it.”
Mom shoots a glare from the kitchen. He blew it.

chup [chʊp] verb. (1) to command someone to be quiet; can be used towards an offensive
or neutrally-charged comment, but always indicates that the listener doesn’t like the subject
matter (2) analogous to “shut up”

Buttons is our ten-year-old Maltipoo. Her six pound size keeps her from being
physically intimidating but she certainly doesn’t relent with her bark, yapping at
anything that moves. She keeps her perch on the entryway carpet warm, watching
for possible sidewalk intruders. Buttons has a very real sense of territory; unfortunate
considering the community mailbox is directly in front of our house.
For less serious threats, Buttons will emit a low, short growl. Like her belly is
an air bag and somebody just squeezed. The bark just pops out of her. Soft and
sweet. Office rush is prime time and her pops emit in rhythm.
“Grr. Rrr,” Buttons will say without a lift of her tiny head.
“Chup!” will come Nana’s high pitched silencing device.
“Grr. Rrr. Rrr.”
“Chup.”
“Grr. Rrr.”
“I said chup, Buttons!” every syllable pronounced to convey the seriousness
of her command, her voice trailing high from the kitchen.

kha•lass [ka•las] verb. (1) to say that something is finished (2) used in storytelling; can
indicate that something once hopeful has ended disappointingly or humorously

© Anahita Kalianivala
 2

“Khalaas,” Nana says flatly as she sits at the kitchen table knitting, listening
to another of Grandpa’s stories, a tangent off one that started about keeping the
books. At the moment she spoke, he had trailed off into another story about an
African American he couldn’t understand.
“They just talk so fast. And eat their words. You know Anahita, you eat your
words. Just like them. Don’t do that,” he would say.
I’d roll my eyes. “I don’t. eat. my. words.”
He’d continue on, ignoring my defiant defense. “Then I had to ask her, I said,
Excuse me, ma’am I just cannot understand what you’re saying,” he’d reenact with
mock innocence. “And she just kept on talking fast and swallowing her words.”
“Khalaas,” Nana said, meaning to mock the ill-fate of someone who
displeased Hormaji Kalianivala.
As my grandfather kept telling the story, his accent a mix of old age, Indian
descent and American residency, I thought He never lets it occur that perhaps that
woman couldn’t understand him either.

© Anahita Kalianivala