Understanding Humour, part I

Humour can find you in the most bizarre of settings - in school, in college (Ok, they are not bizarre for some), at work, in uniform (To use some clichés), et cetera ad nauseam.

I found humour, or rather, the humour found me in my French Language class. One of the tragedies of learning a foreign language at such a 'mature' age is that your consciousness defies the restrictive domain of knowledge, that is defined by a handful of words you manage to pick up at the start of a course, at every step. For example, what do you do when you have not been taught how to say that you are a 'consultant in UNICEF', and to multiply your woes manifolds, you are called up in the front to demonstrate your excellent French pronunciation to an intent audience that naively harbors a desire to excel in the most lyrical language on earth, in which nothing is purposely pronounced the way it is written, or the other way round? Well, it's quite simple, you say 'Je suis chanteuse de UNICEF', which, losely translated, reads, 'I am a singer in UNICEF'. Why-o-why, you may be tempted to ask. But of course, because a singer is the most respected of professions after a consultant, and it doesn't really matter whether being a singer at UNICEF sounds bizarre to the outside world or it is looked at with absolute shock within UNICEF.

Well, this is not the only flip side of things. Say you accidentally bumped into a stranger you met while you were stranded at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris - our very own French adaptation of 'The Terminal' - je suis à l'aéroport de Charles de Gaulle à Paris. How about asking for the stranger's name (or profession, or whatever)? Oh, I feel so terribly ashamed asking such stupid questions that have such ridiculously obvious answers. Naturally, you indulge in the most respected pastimes of all - playing ping-pong with the stranger. You start by saying 'Je m'appeles Aishwarya. Et vous?'. The stranger replies, 'Je m'appeles Salman. Je suis Indien. Et vous?'. And the ping-pong continues ad infinitum. Well, not actually. Once you have exhausted all your crammed-up starter sentences describing yourself, like your name, your father's name, your mother's name, your profession, your address, your nationality et cetera, et cetera, you switch to the most excruciatingly painful and immensely sadistic devise of asking the person, 'Vous parlez français?' (You speak French?). Duh!! As if all this conversation was taking place in Latin till now. The stranger (Sorry, Salman. Oh, is it Aishwarya now? Anyhow...) replies 'Je ne parle pas français.' (I don't speak French). Surprise! Surprise!! Aah. The weapon is as yet unused. Now the next shot - 'Vous parlez espagnol?'. 'Oui. Je parle espagnol.' And the stranger now takes initiative and gives you a taste of your own medicine. 'Vous parlez anglais?'. OMG!! What a duel of words, a battle of wits.

The first act draws to a close, and not without its due share of genuine, unforced laughter. You pick up your books and dig your heads deep into them trying to make sense of what is written in a seemingly familiar script, but a most definitely foreign tongue. I sometimes feel learning French is like solving a jigsaw puzzle or working on a math problem. You know all the rules of pronunciation, but can never perfect the art of pronouncing anything, unless of course, you are suffering from severe cold or chronic cough or both. Whatever. Exercise time. You are shown a picture of a lady sitting at a desk marked 'INFORMATION' and a gentleman approach her for some inquiry. Your task - to construct a dialogue that ensues thenceforth. Lo and behold! Your's truly is called upon to perform the role of his lifetime. And who better to give him company than his sweet and helpful neighbour, Miss Madame (What stroke of genius! Couldn't have thought of a more innovative name than that!! A perfect oxymoron!!!).

After the usual greetings of 'Excusez-moi. Bonjour' - 'Bonjour', it's time to get down to business. I am at the information desk for a purpose. I have to ask for 'INFORMATION'. Eureka!! The solitary tube-light in the dark cellars of my mind flickers, albeit after a long and embarassing (pregnant) pause, and I take charge - 'Je veut un coca cola' (I want a Coca Cola). Ooh la la!! I beat my own record for ingenuity. I have complete attention of a beautiful lady willing to give 'INFORMATION', all expectant eyes are on me (That they want me to screw up my chances with this lady is a separate issue. Not that I disappointed them, in hindsight.), and I come up with this brain wave of an idea to ask for a bottle of Coca Cola. What follows is not even worth mentioning. But the unabashed soul that I am, I think it is my moral duty to put it down for the record. The lady is aghast to see a man with such intellect and denies the possession of any coke whatsoever. I am far too adamant and bang at her information desk demanding coke with final outbursts of energy that reminds one of a drug-addict fighting withdrawal symptoms and trying to cling on to the last remnants of hope for survival. The final nail in the coffin is hammered when the lady threatens me with the Police and I have no option left but to back out. Sigh. A sad end to a promising start. Nonetheless.

The story continues and the third and final act reveals itself. It's time to learn how to respond to the question 'George Bush, veut rencontrer qui?' (George Bush, whom do you want to meet? - No prizes for guessing it is the ever-elusive Osama Bin Laden). Well, the smart fellow that our instructor is, this question is posed only to 'the mademoiselles of our class'. Many say Tom Cruise, some think of saying 'Your's truly', but make a last minute switch in favour of their pet dog. Anyhow. The point being, one madame asks the instructor, 'How do you say that you want to meet your husband?'. The instructor replies, 'son mari'. Très bon. The next lady in line wants to say the same thing, and when it is her turn, she very proudly replies, 'son mari'. Ooh la la!! (for the second time). 'Son mari' literally means 'her husband'. Our professeur played a little trick!! Damn clever, 'a la Monsieur de professeur' (I know it makes no sense, but so does French). The whole class burst out laughing.

Huh. Till the unsuspecting lot of us ignoramuses sort out our 'yours'(son) and 'mines'(mon), we will be in for some really fun times. Good humour, this.

(This article is inspired by this.)