One morning, we got a message from one of my husband’s friends from India. He now lives in Perth, while we are in Melbourne. The message was simple: “In Melbourne today, let’s meet.” Naturally, a Haryanvi reunion cannot happen over Zoom or a casual coffee. It needs a proper setting, so we met in a bar.The moment we started speaking in Haryanvi, the atmosphere changed. Anyone who understands the language knows that Haryanvi is not just a dialect — it is a philosophy of life. It has a rare ability to find humour even in the most uncomfortable or tragic moments.We were laughing about this when our friend shared an incident from his life.A few years ago, his father passed away in India. As the eldest son, he flew from Australia to perform the last rites. At the cremation ground, surrounded by relatives and neighbours, he tried to light the funeral pyre. Unfortunately, things were not going smoothly. The fire would not catch. Someone in the crowd commented that he clearly did not know how to do it properly.Without missing a beat, he replied: “Mahare ke roj mara kara?” (Do people in our family die every day that I should already know how to do this?)That story reminded me of my own father. A few months before he passed away, I advised him, with the seriousness of a dutiful daughter, that he should start remembering God more often.“You should take God’s name regularly,” I told him.He listened quietly and then replied in his usual style: “Ab to mil he lenge… ab naam lene ka kya fayda?” (I’ll meet Him soon anyway — what’s the point of just taking His name now?)Such is the Haryanvi approach to existential philosophy: practical, direct, and slightly mischievous.As the evening progressed, our conversation drifted to the pros and cons of leaving India. We were very well established in India. Australia has also been good to us; professionally, we are settled and lead fulfilling lives. Yet sometimes I still feel an urge to return to India.When I mentioned this, our friend looked puzzled.“Why do you want to go back?” he asked. “You don’t even have a problem with English.” I wondered what English had to do with anything.He then narrated another classic Haryanvi story.A couple they knew in Australia lived in a house that desperately needed renovation. One day, their grandfather, visiting from India, asked the wife directly why they didn’t renovate.Her answer was perfectly logical. In a Haryanvi way.“Our children are well settled,” she said. “After retirement, we will go back to India anyway. What’s the point of renovating? We don’t want to die here.”But then she added with complete seriousness: “Mare pichhe bhoota se bhi angreji boleni paragi” (After death, we’ll even have to speak in English with the ghosts!)Perhaps that is the real genius of Haryanvi humour. Only a Haryanvi mind can worry about language barriers, even in afterlife. After all, if ghosts truly exist, one must at least ensure they speak the right language.— The writer is a professor at Deakin University, Australia