Edited by: Shivani Panigrahy
It’s ironic that I am writing this article in a language that is not my mother tongue. Thaimozhi. That’s what it is called in Tamil. Mother’s language. Speaking multiple languages is like having Google Translate inbuilt in your brain. Though yours does a way better job than Google, it is still annoying to constantly re-check your words when expressing your thoughts. It is tiring to switch between languages and still make sense. But, it’s terrifying when you lose touch with your native language, when you feel a part of you being slowly torn away.
It’s scary watching yourself get a little too comfortable with your second language and forgetting a really common word in your native tongue. The answer arrives a bit too late these days.
What’s the word for curiosity in Tamil? Aarvam.
It’s scary realizing that your subconscious has slowly started to speak up in English. In a heightened state of excitement, panic, anger or sorrow, the first word that we express is often in one’s native language.
Why did I hear the voice in my head saying, ‘Oh God’ instead of ‘Ada Kadavule’ when I heard disappointing news last week?
It’s scary that sometimes I am able to translate Tamil to English faster than I can translate English to Tamil.
When did I begin repeating a sentence in both the languages instead of sticking to one? ‘Avan enna sonnan – what did he say?’
It’s scary that in formal speech, I am more fluent in English than Tamil.
Greetings. ‘Vanakkam’.
Which day was it when I chose one language over another instead of learning both?
It’s scary that I have almost stopped expressing my feelings in my native tongue even when I am just thinking in my head.
‘Enakku romba santhosama irunchu’ is not what I think. ‘I was so happy,’ is what I think.
Who am I translating my feelings for?
But, it took time to find places where I can pick pieces of my language to stitch back my identity.
I take comfort in my English accent that is tinged with the way I speak Tamil. A little slip of that native language lilt in my voice and they recognize where I am from. Then, a quiet pride seeps in your chest for your identity.
I take comfort in the fact that I am funnier in my native language. One perfectly delivered dialogue from a Tamil movie when things go wrong, a ridiculous idiom to brighten my friend’s sob story and a wise saying – ‘Yaanaikkum adi sarukum’ – to console people.
I take comfort in explaining Tamil song lyrics to friends who hear it for the first time. Though a lot is lost in translation, the essence remains the same as I try my best to set the dramatic and poetic tone right.
I take comfort in the realization that I speak at a measured, well-thought pace for speeches delivered in my native tongue- right pauses, the calming letter sounds and the more impactful emotional connection created with the audience.
I take comfort in knowing that when I finally feel something in my language is when I know it’s true. When I feel something and acknowledge it in Tamil, that’s when it is momentous. That’s when it becomes real.
Today, I am writing an essay in Tamil. My handwriting is still the same. Neatly written letters properly curved and between the lines. I have my sixth grade Tamil teacher to thank for that. I hope she is proud of me.
And then I write the first word.
Amma.