Ali Nadim sails through mistakes with a grin, as we saw in his story. Ranjit Singh, famous for his constant “a thousand apologies,” brings his own flavor in his post, while Jamila Ranjha simply holds her ground—not ready to give up her own language just yet.
This marks the third chapter in our ongoing exploration of Mind Your Language’s unforgettable classroom.
Jamila Ranjha walks in, already questioning her life choices: “Haaye… toh main yahan kaahe ke liye aayi hoon?”
If there were ever an ESL Hall of Fame, Jamila Ranjha would be standing calmly near the edge—saree perfectly pleated, high bun unshaken, and knitting needles resting like tiny sceptres in her hand.
She wouldn’t be saying much—just watching, absorbing, and waiting for the moment when someone asks her something… in a language she doesn’t speak.
And when they do? She replies with the confidence of a woman who has stitched a few sweaters, and is now here to stitch together a few sentences too.
The Scene
Mr. Jeremy Brown asks each new student for their name. Simple enough. But Jamila Ranjha does not believe in oversimplifying life. She believes in doing things with tehzeeb and formality, while putting her entire face and hands into every English sentence she learns.
Mr. Brown: Your name?
Jamila (confused): Hanji!
Mr. Brown: What is your name?
Jamila: Kya kaha?
Mr. Brown: Me Jeremy Brown. You?
Jamila: Pata nahi ji kya keh rahe ho aap…
It’s not that she didn’t understand the question.
It’s that she didn’t understand the question in English.
Which, ironically, is exactly why she’s in the class.
Mr. Brown (pointing to other students): Max, Anna Schmidt, Giovanni Cupello… You?
Jamila: Ohho… aap naam puchh rahe ho? Achha main likh deti hoon, likhti hoon ek minute, fikar na karo ji, likhna padhna aata hai mujhe.
And then—without flinching—she does what any well-brought-up, fully literate Urdu-speaking woman would do.
Jamila writes her name—in lovely, unapologetic Urdu.
You should have seen Mr. Brown’s face—he pursed his lips and gave a subtle smile that clearly said, “I’m definitely going to need a dictionary for this one.”
“No Urdu?” – The Clash of Scripts
Mr. Brown: No good… I need your name in English.
Jamila (scandalised): No Urdu?
Mr. Brown: No Urdu.
Jamila: Haaye… toh main yahan kaahe ke liye aayi hoon? Angrezi aati hoti to main sikhne aati angrezi koi…
In one moment, she says what every adult learner has wanted to scream in every badly planned language class:
Don’t expect me to know the language I came here to learn.
And also—don’t act surprised when I bring my own alphabet.
When Paper Speaks Louder Than Words
So finally, the only thing that speaks clearly is a government document.
Not her voice. Not her handwriting. Her certificate of registration.
Because when everything else fails, bureaucracy always speaks fluent English.
She may not have spoken much English.
But she understood something deeper:
Aap samjha ke dekhiye toh sahi.
From ‘Gaudd ’ to ‘Hefening’: A Journey in Six Frames
Just when she thinks she’s done, he says, “Now say evening.” She stared at him as if to say—“Bachhe ki jaan loge kya?” Still, she gives it her all, says “hefening,” and when it’s done—oh, the joy. You’d think she just won a medal.
Jamila Taught Us To Put Our Whole Being Into Every Word
What Jamila teaches us is simple: language learning isn’t about flawless speech—it’s about showing up and giving it your best shot. Whether you say “gaudd” or “hefening,” what counts is the heart and hustle behind it. She also shows us that learning a language is not just about words—it’s a full-body experience, involving your mind, your voice, and your spirit. So don’t stress the mistakes; embrace them. Because sometimes, those funny little moments make the whole journey worth it.
Here’s to every awkward moment on the road to fluency.
Gaudd hefening!
Harleen Kaur
Nice story…