The bearded man raised an eyebrow. “ Kya kuch? ” (A lot of what?)
Bua-ji spotted her. “ Beta! Aao. Tumhari Hindi ab kaisi hai? ”
She didn’t understand. She understood nothing.
Her Hindi was broken. Her grammar was a war crime. But Meera smiled. hindidk
“ Main… samajhti hoon ki… ” she began. (I understand that…)
Later, Riya started a blog called Hindidk Diaries . She wrote about the shame of being a “bad Hindi speaker.” She wrote about the time she asked for chai mein namak instead of cheeni (salt instead of sugar) and her grandmother laughed until she cried. She wrote about the beautiful, violent poetry of Ghalib that she could only read in English translation.
“This is exactly how I feel with Tamil.” The bearded man raised an eyebrow
“ Beta, ” she said, “ tumhari Hindi se achhi tumhari imaandari hai. Chai lo. ” (Your honesty is better than your Hindi. Have tea.)
Bua-ji stared. Then she laughed—a real laugh, not the polite kind.
“My parents speak Hinglish at home and now I can’t do pure Hindi OR pure English properly.” “ Beta
Riya had never heard the word Hindidk until the day it saved her from a wedding.
“ Aapne sahi kaha, ” Meera said. “ Mushkil hai. Lekin aap koshish kar rahi hain. Woh bhi matter karta hai. ” (You’re right. It’s difficult. But you’re trying. That also matters.)
A year later, Riya returned to the same wedding venue. Same Bua-ji. Same gol gappe . But different Riya.
Hindidk wasn’t a real language, of course. It was a dialect of anxiety.