The Way People Speak Here

There are words and expressions in the villages that one rarely encounters in city life. They carry within them a depth and understanding, revealing how people here have settled into a slower rhythm of living, and how their vocabulary has shaped itself around that ease.

One such expression that has always intrigued me is the way people refer to the past, especially the idea of ‘परसों (the day before yesterday).’ In most languages, it points rather precisely to a fixed day. Beyond that, we rely on dates, weeks, months, and years carefully measured and neatly arranged. But in the local dialects here, the word stretches far beyond its literal meaning. When a villager says he met someone ‘परसों,’ it may well have been two days ago, or perhaps a fortnight, or even a few months in the past. The expression is less about marking time and more about placing something gently behind the present moment. It simply belongs to the past, and that seems to be enough. There is something rather comforting in this looseness of time. Life here does not move by calendars pinned to walls, but by seasons, by harvests, by festivals, by important happenings by the coming and going of familiar faces. What matters is not when something happened, but that it did. The memory remains, untroubled by the need to be exact.

Another difference lies in how moments are remembered and spoken of. In the cities, a child is born on a precise date, neatly placed within a calendar year. But here, life is tied less to numbers and more to happenings. A child is born in the days after a heavy snowfall, when the roads lay closed for a week. Or just before Holi, when people were out in the courtyards, moving in slow circles, singing old folk songs. Or perhaps during those rain-soaked days when the early apples were being gathered, hands working quietly despite the drizzle. Time, in these hills, is not counted so much as it is felt. It is woven into seasons, festivals, and shared moments. And in remembering it this way it seems to me that each event carries with it not just a date, but a story, a feeling, and a place within the rhythm of life.

Another expression one hears often is the way the elderly are addressed as ‘सयाने लोग (wise people).’ It is a simple phrase, and yet it carries a dignity. Age is a gathering of understanding. The villagers do not separate growing old from growing wise; the two seem to walk hand in hand. And so, the elderly are not just respected out of habit, but regarded with an unspoken trust in the wisdom their years have gently bestowed. They are the wise old folk. Sadly, in the present generations this feeling is diminishing.

There is also a certain assurance in the way tasks are spoken of. In the cities, one often hears ‘ठीक है (it’s fine or it’s okay),’ as though to brush things aside. But here, the words carry a different weight. When something is done, or needs to be done, the expression gently suggests that it has been taken care of, or that it will be, in its own time. They say – ‘ठीक हो गया (theek ho gaya)’ It feels like ticking something off a list, a reassurance that it was always something to be completed. It carries a sense of completion, or maybe an unspoken promise of it. There is trust in the doing, and patience in the waiting. The task has been done or will be done.

An extension of this is – ‘आराम से हो जाएगा (it will be easily done)’, the villagers say, with a reassuring smile. It is not laziness, but a faith that things will find their moment. The hills have taught them this, that rushing a sunrise or a ripening fruit serves no purpose. This is slow living.

Another common greeting one hears in these parts is, ‘आप कब आए ? (When did you come?)’ I must admit, it used to unsettle me at first. It felt as though I was being gently reminded that I did not quite belong, that I was someone who had arrived from elsewhere, perhaps only temporarily. But over time, as the hills began to feel like home, my response softened. I no longer searched for meaning in the question, nor did I resist it. I just answered, and in doing so, allowed the exchange to remain what it was meant to be, a small moment of connection. I feel that the question itself comes from an older rhythm of life. For years, many from these hills would leave for the cities in search of work, returning only once in a while. Their arrivals were events of significance, and so the question became a natural way of marking their return. It stayed, even as times changed, and is now offered to almost anyone who comes to settle here. If one looks beyond the literal meaning, there is often a note of concern hidden within it. It is less about marking one as an outsider, and more about acknowledging one’s presence, about taking notice. Of course, in some moments, it may still carry a faint reminder of distance, a subtle distinction between those who belong and those who visit briefly, like migratory birds who come and go with the seasons. But more often than not, it is simply the village way of saying, “I see you have come,” and in its own unspoken manner, “I am glad you are here.”

Another interesting question one often hears is, ‘आप कहाँ के ठहरे ? (Where are you from?’, or more accurately where did you stop?”. It carries a shift in perspective. One is not defined by origins, but by where one has chosen to pause, to stay, to belong. Perhaps it, too, comes from the old patterns of migration, when people moved in search of work and a place became home not by birth, but by settling into it. To have ‘ठहरे (stopped)’ somewhere was to have accepted it, and in time, to have been accepted in return. I have come to like this way of asking. It now feels less like an inquiry into the past and more like a recognition of the present. And having found my own quiet corner in these hills, I sometimes think that, in years to come, I too might answer with a certain contentment, that I stopped here. I have often felt that the villagers here belong to the region. I have noticed in young generation that goes out to the cities to work and often say ‘पहाड़ अपना सा लगता है (the hills feel like our own)’. It carries a deep affection, as though the mountain is a companion, an old friend who has watched over generations.

Even the end of life is spoken of in a manner that feels quite different. When someone passes away, people here often say that the person has ‘निकल गए (exited).’ The first time I heard it, it felt unsettling. I was not used to death being described in such a way, and the word carried a certain abruptness. But with time, it began to reveal a different meaning. In their own unassuming way, the villagers hold an understanding that is both simple and profound. To exit is to step away from this world. It may be an exit from the material world, or from the body itself as spoken of in the Vedas and echoed in the Gita. Or perhaps it is simply a departure from the daily rhythms of life, a release from its burdens, and a journey onwards, wherever that may lead. An exit from the Matrix if you want to term it in that way. In this single word, there is an interesting balance. It does not dwell in death.

Perhaps that is why such expressions feel so rich. They are not imprecise, as one might first think, but quietly philosophical. They remind us that time, after all, is not always meant to be counted. It is simply meant to be lived, and remembered. To be thankful for the past, and to be grounded in the present. I am learning to become more mindful here, even guided by the language spoken around me, to some extent.

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