Lost in Translation

Language, Taxis, and Silent Panic

This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group. This month, each of us examined the concept of ‘LANGUAGE’. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.

There are two kinds of people who want to learn a language:

Those who think it’s enough to learn just enough to communicate, and those who want to dive deep to appreciate the uniqueness and beauty of its literature. I believe I fall somewhere in between.

When you travel to a country for short periods, it’s good to pick up a few key words and phrases, just enough to get by. But with the language spoken at home, or the one learnt in school, it’s best to explore its vocabulary, nuances, usage, and literary works more deeply.

Let’s not talk about the third kind: the people who don’t want to learn anything at all. They’re probably still asking for ketchup in Florence.

READ ON

🚕 Taxi Tales from Eastern Europe

The moment of truth for any foreigner is not the visa counter.
It’s the taxi ride.

🇵🇱 Poland:

In Poland, “radio taxis” would ask a set of questions over the phone like a strict school teacher:
Name. Number. Address. Confirm. Wait 5–7 minutes.

My colleagues had memorised this script like it was the climax of a Shakespearean play. I still remember fragments of it:

"Tak, Sugam. Novisko: Vikram. Telefon numer: 123456789. Adres: ulica cośtam cośtam. Dziękuję. Pięć–siedem minut."

They eventually discovered that my name Vikram worked beautifully on the phone. Clear, unambiguous, exotic but not threatening. So everyone started booking cabs using my name.

At one point, multiple taxis were arriving at different addresses , all asking for Vikram.
I’m pretty sure the taxi company thought every Indian in Poland was called “Vikram” .

If they had a loyalty program, I’d be a platinum cardholder.
Or a suspect.

Eventually, someone just gave up and used the name “John.”

---

🧠 When the Taxi Driver Knows Where You Live

One night, four of us got into a cab. Before we could say a word, the driver casually reeled off where each of us lived.

We didn’t know whether to be impressed or alarmed.
You know you’ve overstayed in a country when taxi drivers know your drop points better than you do.

That was our sign. It was time to leave.

---

🥶 Friday Night, No Key, No Money, No Plan

One Friday night, I got home only to realise my key no longer opened the door. The grooves were worn out. The lock, like me, had given up.

It was late. It was cold. It was Poland.
And absolutely nothing was going to get fixed until Monday.

I had just a handful of coins. I flagged a taxi, hoping to crash at a colleague’s place, and watched the meter tick with the anxiety of someone watching a stock market crash.

Just before I ran out of both money and hope, I told him to stop. I paid the fare with every coin I had like some weird ritual offering.

He smiled.
I smiled.
No words were exchanged. It was beautiful.
Turns out, silence and small change are also universal languages.

---

🖐️ Kannada, Tamil, and Improvisational Sign Language

Our Polish was awful. Our English didn’t help. So naturally, we defaulted to sign language mixed with Kannada and Tamil.

“Seedha hogappa!”
“Inga left poenga!”

The drivers didn’t understand a word. But they appreciated the performance.
Honestly, if we’d just added music , we could’ve made reels and topped charts.

---

🇧🇬 Bulgaria: Nodding the Wrong Way

In Bulgaria, the head nods are reversed.
Yes means no. No means yes.

We asked a taxi driver if he’d take us somewhere. He nodded, so we got in.

Big mistake.

He exploded in anger. We had apparently just hijacked his cab with a misinterpreted nod.
He did not find us funny.

Turns out, even body language isn’t universal. Especially when you look like a confused quartet of off-duty mimes.

Languages are wild.
Words fail.
Taxi meters are relentless.

And sometimes, all you really need to get by is:

• A few good friends

• A backup couch to crash on

• And the universal ability to smile through the madness.

Worst case?
Just say your name is John.

Here’s a list of other flash essays by fellow Bangalore Substack writers

• Loss of a language By Rakhi Anil, Rakhi’s Substack

• Beyond Words and Dialects by Aarti Krishnakumar, Aarti’s Substack

• In search of my lost mother tongue by Siddhesh Raut, Shana, Ded Shana

• The language question by Rahul Singh, Mehfil

• Geography & Language by Devayani Khare, Geosophy

• The Dance of Languages by Haridas Jayakumar, Harry

• Poetic Silence - From Anand Bhavan to 3039 and back by Amit Charles, @acnotes

• No Garam Aloo in Tamil Nadu by Ayush, Ayush's Substack

• I’ve been thinking a lot about tongues, again. by Ameya, (Always) Ameya

• The Language Beneath Words by Mihir Chate, Mihir's Substack

• What does this mean? by Nidhishree Venugopal, General in her Labyrinth

• I love the Language of, by Shruthi Iyer

• The Language of Murder by Gowri N Kishore | About Murder, She Wrote.

• I have no words by Richa Vadini Singh, Here’s What I Think

• Jal-Elephants, Thread-Navels, and Other Sanskrit Beasts by Rajat Gururaj, I came, I saw, I Floundered

• Of Language, Love and Longing: Politics, Mother Tongue and Loss by Aryan Kavan Gowda, Wonderings of a Wanderer

• The Bengaluru Blend by Avinash Shenoy, Off the walls

• An Ode to Languages, by Lavina G, The Nexus Terrain