海角大神

Teaching someone to drive can be nerve-
racking under the best of circumstances. The experience of offering instruction from the passenger seat while a new driver is at the wheel is not a formula for peace of mind, especially when, as happened to me recently, the student鈥檚 first language is not English.

My good friend Prakash is from southern India. He grew up speaking Telugu, a language that, until I met him, was unknown to me. (Wikipedia notes that Telugu is spoken by some 75 million people, making it anything but a minor tongue.) Prakash is self-conscious about his English, even though I think he speaks it quite well, with a charming, somewhat staccato Indian accent.聽

Under the pressure of driving instruction, however, his facility sometimes abandons him 鈥� especially when it comes to the difference between 鈥渞ight鈥� and 鈥渓eft.鈥�

There is an old Abbott and Costello routine, in which Costello is behind the wheel and Abbott is giving instructions from the back seat. As they try to pull out of a space, Abbott tells Costello, 鈥淭urn left.鈥� 鈥淟eft?鈥� echoes Costello in a bid for verification, to which Abbott replies, 鈥淩ight.鈥�

Get the picture?聽

During our inaugural drive, with Prakash gripping the wheel for dear life and staring dead ahead, I told him to turn left onto a side road, whereupon Prakash asked, 鈥淟eft?鈥� I replied, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 right.鈥� And so, without looking, he cruised to the right. 鈥淟eft! Left!鈥� I commanded, which alarmed him. He straightened the car, composed himself, and politely reminded me that I had said 鈥渞ight,鈥� which, of course, I had. I apologized for the outburst and explained the context of what I had said.聽

But a few minutes later, when I told him to turn right, he turned left.聽

We pulled over. 鈥淧rakash,鈥� I probed, ever so gently, 鈥渄o you understand the difference between 鈥榬ight鈥� and 鈥榣eft鈥� in Eng颅lish?鈥� He smiled pleasantly and assured me that he did. I realized that he probably did, but simply had trouble responding to my directives under duress.聽

And then a solution occurred to me.聽

鈥淧rakash,鈥� I asked, 鈥渉ow do you say 鈥榬ight鈥� and 鈥榣eft鈥� in Telugu?鈥� The answers (which I鈥檝e transliterated and phoneticized): 鈥渒udee鈥� and 鈥測edama.鈥�

We set out again into the flow of traffic. I attempted to chat amiably with him to put his mind at ease, assuring him that he was doing a good job and that there was nothing to worry about so long as he followed the rules and watched out for the drivers who didn鈥檛.聽

Our turn approached. 鈥淕o right,鈥� I advised. But we sailed on. 鈥淩ight! Right, Prakash!鈥� He became flustered, his eyes darting about. And then I recalled my newly acquired Telugu. 鈥淜udee! Kudee!鈥� I erupted. That did it. We arced to the right and found safe harbor on a quiet side road.

We went on like this for a while. 鈥淕o kudee here, Prakash,鈥� I鈥檇 say with practiced ease. 鈥淥K, now you want to go yedama. Good. And then kudee again.鈥� My inquiries brought other critical words into my burgeoning Telugu vocabulary, among them 鈥渘ehruga鈥� (straight ahead) and the indispensable 鈥渁pu!鈥� (stop!), which I was soon employing with 茅lan. I learned that, armed with these four precious fragments of Telugu, I was able to ensure that Prakash and I would live to drive another day.

As we headed down the approach road to his apartment, I felt like a harbor master guiding a freighter into port. 鈥�Kudee, Prakash. Now nehruga. Yedama here. Nehruga. OK. Apu!鈥澛�

Prakash was laughing. 鈥淲hat?鈥� I begged. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 so funny?鈥�

鈥淵our Telugu,鈥� he said.

Feigning indignation, I demanded, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 wrong with my Telugu?鈥�

鈥淣othing,鈥� smiled Prakash. 鈥淵our Telugu is perfect.鈥�

鈥淲ell,鈥� I conceded, 鈥淚 have a good teacher.鈥�

鈥淎s do I,鈥� said Prakash in his self-effacing way. 鈥淎s do I.鈥�