It was 1989. My spouse and I were in Madurai, stepping out of our hotel to visit the Meenakshi temple, when we were surrounded by cycle-rickshaw drivers vying for our attention. One voice cut through the din — “Aao, aao Beso” (Come, come, sit — in Gujarati). The phrase was so unexpected — we understand Gujarati but aren’t Gujarati ourselves — that we promptly chose his rickshaw.
In a region known for its political resistance to learning other languages, Sundar — our semi-literate, Tamil-speaking driver — had picked up a smattering of Gujarati, along with bits of several other languages.
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