The other day S and I were talking of languages. My earliest
memories were definitely of my mother talking to me softly in Malayalam. The
language of your mother’s womb is the language you will always go back to. As I
grew older and moved to Kuwait, my language of choice changed to English. I was
only three and all around me in school, there was English. There was English on
TV too. My parents only spoke in Malayalam so I knew both languages but once I
started reading, I began thinking in English and that was when I lost my
connection to my mother tongue. When your innermost thoughts are in one
particular language, that then becomes the language of your mind. English continues
to be the language that I think and write in.
S grew up in a little village in North Kerala. He grew up
with Malayalam, studied in Malayalam and knew only Malayalis. Everything was
simple and straightforward albeit very limiting. There was never a crisis of
not fitting in. It was his home, his parents’ home and his grandparents’ home
as well. His roots were strong and his language, beyond doubt could only be the
mellifluously beguiling softly rounded cadences that make up Malayalam. For two
people who were married solely because of parental interests, the language of
the heart is more important in learning to love – the language of the mind
comes later.
I look at my children and wonder why I went so wrong in not
steeping them in the language of their parents and grandparents. It always
seemed easier to talk in English – their friends talked in English – the school
demanded proficiency in it and I was very comfortable with it myself. I don’t
know why S didn’t insist on sticking to Malayalam – perhaps he just went with
the flow – but we both regret it strongly. The younger one is learning to read
and write her mother tongue now. Appu is of course Appu. I am glad he
understands the language – I wouldn’t go so far as to push him to write in it!
These thoughts on roots and mother tongues came to me quite
late in life. I know I only spoke and sang to my babies in Malayalam till they
were 2 or 3 years old. The deepest emotions I felt towards my loved ones, were
always expressed in Malayalam. The chord that binds together hearts has a lot
to do with the medium in which love is shared. Yes words can be superfluous in
bonds of great depth but we all know that sometimes words make all the difference.
When endearments are softly whispered, would you not like to hear them in the
language of your heart and soul? When you pick up a crying baby and soothe him,
do you actually sing ‘rock a bye baby’ or murmur some nonsensical rhymes in the
language you were brought up with? When you listen to a tender song in your
mother tongue, would you not associate it with someone you share the same
language with?
In the cities of this country, the vernacular has no place –
everyone wants to run after English alone. The homogenizing revolution is built
on the debris of regional languages. Soon everyone will sound the same in every
metro in India – that would be a shame indeed. I fear we will lose the melody
of our tongues if we allow the languages of our hearts to be forgotten ...isn’t
it time we bring back the beauty of our mothers’ words and pass it on to our
children?
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