India, English is British English.
Colour. Analyse. Fulfil. Centre. Catalogue. Mediaeval. Cheque. Licence. Judgement. Excelling. Pyjamas. Spoilt. Aubergines.
It’s not weird, it’s refreshing. For 1.2 billion people, American spelling, and words, and -in the end- language count nothing. And the language has a nice vintage and classy feel. Just like vests. Or polo. Or a gentleman (he’s not a man, nor a guy).
British English – of fifty years ago- just makes people sound nice, and polite. Just like /zɛd/ sounds so much better than /ziː/. It’s more proper, in a way.
Of course, the truth behind this /zɛd/thing is that I have nothing to say about Z.
Z for nothing. No ending. No closure. Call it imperfection. I call it potential.
It took me almost one year, and the whole alphabet, to walk my way to a scary, wonderful love for India. A love that’s lucid and fool at the same time.
I should have known better. Yet here I am, thinking this place is just beautiful, in a way that has nothing to do with pretty.
And I am glad, oh so glad, that there’s no Z. That my India is still open ended.
Just like this: