Growing up in an English-medium school meant that “good grammar” was more than just a skill—it was a badge of intellect. It was a measure of how polished, cultured, and well-educated we were. Teachers corrected us when we slipped into Hindi, Tamil, Bengali, or any of the languages that felt like home. “Speak in English,” they reminded us, as if our mother tongues were a mistake. A distraction. A habit to be unlearned.
And so, we obeyed.
We polished our accents, learned to roll our Rs, and trained our tongues to twist around words like entrepreneur and bourgeois. We memorized phonetics, practiced the silent letters, and learned the difference between “advice” and “advise” with the precision of a surgeon. We watched American TV shows and repeated dialogues under our breath, mimicking the cadence of native speakers, hoping that one day, our English would sound as effortless as theirs.
Fluency became our currency—the thing that set us apart from those who fumbled with tenses or mispronounced Wednesday. The better we spoke, the more respect we earned. English was more than just a subject in school; it was our ticket to a better future. It opened doors, won approval, and—whether we admitted it or not—made us feel superior.
But then we went home.
The language of home
Home, where conversations flowed in a language that didn’t need dictionaries or Google Translate. Where grandmothers told stories in voices thick with the weight of the past, their words soft like well-worn sarees. At home, English felt stiff, like new shoes that hadn’t been broken in yet.
There was a comfort in our mother tongues, a warmth that English could never quite replicate. It was in the way our mothers called us for dinner—not with a robotic “Dinner is ready,” but with an affectionate “Khaane aa jao, beta.” It was in the way our fathers scolded us, their frustration laced with love, their words carrying an untranslatable weight that no English phrase could ever match.
We didn’t think about it much as children, but there was a sacredness to these words—the playful insults between siblings, the old songs our grandparents hummed while making tea, the affectionate nicknames we were given that had no English equivalents. These weren’t just words; they were home.
And so, we learned to switch.
Two languages, Two worlds
We became bilingual in more ways than one. English for the outside world, our mother tongue for the spaces where we could be soft. At school, we wrote essays on Shakespeare, but at home, we laughed over old Bollywood dialogues. We spoke in English to be taken seriously, but we fought in our mother tongue—because anger and love, we realized, needed the comfort of familiarity.
Over time, we also realized that some things could never be translated. The simple “Arrey yaar” carried a frustration that “Oh man” never could. There was no English equivalent for jugaad, that uniquely Indian knack for finding clever solutions. And no matter how many words we learned, English would never capture the nostalgic sweetness of nani ke haath ka khana.
A language is not just words. It’s a culture, a tradition, a unification of a community, a whole history that creates what a community is. It’s all embodied in a language.
Rabindranath Tagore
We were praised for our fluency in English, for speaking “properly.” Aunts and uncles smiled approvingly when we used big words, their compliments tinged with pride: “Beta, your English is so good!” But sometimes, we fumbled when speaking our mother tongue, our words slipping between the cracks of forgotten grammar. We hesitated, second-guessed ourselves, laughed nervously when we got something wrong.
The shame of it stung—how could we forget the language of our own home?
The Cost of english
There’s a strange loneliness in realizing that your mother tongue doesn’t rest as easily on your tongue anymore. That when you speak to an elder, your sentences are fragmented, your accent betrays you, and you have to search for words that should have been second nature.
It’s the guilt of having to ask your parents what a certain word means, the hesitation before speaking in your native language because you’re afraid of getting it wrong. It’s the quiet ache of knowing that the language that once carried your childhood is slipping away, syllable by syllable.
We see it everywhere—families where English has taken over dinner table conversations, children who answer their parents in a different language than the one they were spoken to in. Fluency in English is a currency, and many of us trade away something precious to earn it.
It’s not just about language. It’s about identity. About how language carries culture, history, and memory. About how our mother tongues are tied to who we are.
the silent conflict
So where do we belong?
Are we betraying our roots by speaking English with ease? Or are we just adapting, as generations before us have? Can we truly claim a language if we struggle to find words in it?
Perhaps the answer lies not in choosing one over the other but in finding balance. In remembering that knowing English doesn’t mean we must forget our mother tongues. That we can speak in English and still dream in the language of our childhood. That we don’t have to let go of grandma’s words just because we’ve mastered the Queen’s English.
Because fluency is not just about speaking—it’s about understanding. It’s about remembering that language is more than just words; it’s the sound of home, the echo of our ancestors, the thread that ties us to the ones who came before us.
holding onto our mother tongues
Maybe the solution isn’t as complicated as we think. Maybe it’s as simple as speaking more to our parents in their language, as listening to old songs and repeating the lyrics. Maybe it’s in reading poetry in our mother tongue, in laughing at the wordplay, in taking pride in how rich our languages are.
Maybe it’s in passing those words forward—teaching younger siblings and cousins the lullabies we were once sung, making sure they know that their heritage is not something to be hidden behind perfect English pronunciation.
If the olive trees knew the hands that planted them, their oil would become tears. And if language knew the ones who abandoned it, it would become a lament.
Mahmoud Darwish
Because, in the end, language is not a test we must pass or a side we must choose. It is a bridge—one that connects who we were as children to who we are becoming. It is the laughter of friends who switch between tongues mid-sentence, the comfort of a mother’s words after a long day, the quiet pride of understanding a poem in the language of our ancestors.
We are not losing one to gain the other; we are carrying both, letting them shape us in different ways. And maybe that is the real gift—to belong to more than one world, to speak in many voices, and to know that, no matter the language, home will always understand.