Essay 32
Essay 32
Essay 32
Essay 32
Mother tongue
Mother tongue
Mother tongue
Mother tongue
19 June 2024
19 June 2024
19 June 2024
19 June 2024
3 min
3 min
3 min
3 min
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I speak three languages - English, Hindi and Tulu. My parents speak four - Hindi, Tulu, Marathi and Kannada. Advaith speaks two - English and Hindi. When my parents visit us, they try to speak in Hindi for the most part. Most of it will be small talk like ‘khana khaya?’ or ‘Good night’. My family speaks in Hindi when we want to include someone else in the conversation. Hindi is the language of friendship, of politeness, of engagement with the world - but not of family matters. When something needs to be discussed or funny needs to be said, my parents will switch to Tulu again.
Tulu is my mother tongue. A language spoken by 2 million Indians mostly from the southern coastal region of Karnataka. It is not a dialect of Kannada. It is a different language with a different script which is not used anymore. When I was a child, my mother would spend the afternoon reading a 4-page Tulu newspaper which was printed in Kannada. I didn’t understand the business of script and language then, but now when I type ‘yencha ullar?’ (how are you?) in English to my mother on WhatsApp, I do.
Growing up, my mother and I fought in Tulu. If I ever screamed in Hindi or English, my mother would get upset. ‘Agaleg arta aapund’ (the neighbours will understand) she would say. With Tulu, there was no such worry. Tulu was the language of teenage angst and family drama. Even today, when I talk to my mother about a benign pointless matter, I have to be careful. Banter in my mother tongue can sometimes take me back to a childhood I no longer occupy. I find myself back in the corners of a language where the words ‘I love you’ sound made up, a language in which I remember being scolded, feeling unloved and hurt, a language in which I know how to fight. Not argue, fight. A language in which I know how to say hurtful things.
I speak three languages - English, Hindi and Tulu. My parents speak four - Hindi, Tulu, Marathi and Kannada. Advaith speaks two - English and Hindi. When my parents visit us, they try to speak in Hindi for the most part. Most of it will be small talk like ‘khana khaya?’ or ‘Good night’. My family speaks in Hindi when we want to include someone else in the conversation. Hindi is the language of friendship, of politeness, of engagement with the world - but not of family matters. When something needs to be discussed or funny needs to be said, my parents will switch to Tulu again.
Tulu is my mother tongue. A language spoken by 2 million Indians mostly from the southern coastal region of Karnataka. It is not a dialect of Kannada. It is a different language with a different script which is not used anymore. When I was a child, my mother would spend the afternoon reading a 4-page Tulu newspaper which was printed in Kannada. I didn’t understand the business of script and language then, but now when I type ‘yencha ullar?’ (how are you?) in English to my mother on WhatsApp, I do.
Growing up, my mother and I fought in Tulu. If I ever screamed in Hindi or English, my mother would get upset. ‘Agaleg arta aapund’ (the neighbours will understand) she would say. With Tulu, there was no such worry. Tulu was the language of teenage angst and family drama. Even today, when I talk to my mother about a benign pointless matter, I have to be careful. Banter in my mother tongue can sometimes take me back to a childhood I no longer occupy. I find myself back in the corners of a language where the words ‘I love you’ sound made up, a language in which I remember being scolded, feeling unloved and hurt, a language in which I know how to fight. Not argue, fight. A language in which I know how to say hurtful things.
I speak three languages - English, Hindi and Tulu. My parents speak four - Hindi, Tulu, Marathi and Kannada. Advaith speaks two - English and Hindi. When my parents visit us, they try to speak in Hindi for the most part. Most of it will be small talk like ‘khana khaya?’ or ‘Good night’. My family speaks in Hindi when we want to include someone else in the conversation. Hindi is the language of friendship, of politeness, of engagement with the world - but not of family matters. When something needs to be discussed or funny needs to be said, my parents will switch to Tulu again.
Tulu is my mother tongue. A language spoken by 2 million Indians mostly from the southern coastal region of Karnataka. It is not a dialect of Kannada. It is a different language with a different script which is not used anymore. When I was a child, my mother would spend the afternoon reading a 4-page Tulu newspaper which was printed in Kannada. I didn’t understand the business of script and language then, but now when I type ‘yencha ullar?’ (how are you?) in English to my mother on WhatsApp, I do.
Growing up, my mother and I fought in Tulu. If I ever screamed in Hindi or English, my mother would get upset. ‘Agaleg arta aapund’ (the neighbours will understand) she would say. With Tulu, there was no such worry. Tulu was the language of teenage angst and family drama. Even today, when I talk to my mother about a benign pointless matter, I have to be careful. Banter in my mother tongue can sometimes take me back to a childhood I no longer occupy. I find myself back in the corners of a language where the words ‘I love you’ sound made up, a language in which I remember being scolded, feeling unloved and hurt, a language in which I know how to fight. Not argue, fight. A language in which I know how to say hurtful things.
On such days, I am happy to have English. A language untainted by memory. A language with a structure for expressing love and saying sorry. In the mornings when I wake up, in the liminal space between sleep and sunlight, I speak to myself in English. I swear in English. I write in English. It is the language I now share with my partner. The language I whisper sweet nothings to my dog in. In English, I find myself calmer, less prone to anger, more wise, capable of quoting an author. In English, I am grown up.
But I still pray in my mother tongue. When I was a child, I thought gods only understood Tulu, that they were locals and not educated in the ways of the British. Where I come from in coastal Karnataka, gods dwell in many things. In idols yes, but sometimes in stones, trees and forests. Now I think they prefer Tulu, something ancient and shared.
I don’t know how I learnt my mother tongue. From my earliest memory, I speak it. Sometimes, a second before speaking a sentence in Tulu, I wonder if I know the words and if I sound strange or accented. But when the time comes, I know what to say. My mother tongue is a store of memory and identity. Something to hold on to and something to let go.
On such days, I am happy to have English. A language untainted by memory. A language with a structure for expressing love and saying sorry. In the mornings when I wake up, in the liminal space between sleep and sunlight, I speak to myself in English. I swear in English. I write in English. It is the language I now share with my partner. The language I whisper sweet nothings to my dog in. In English, I find myself calmer, less prone to anger, more wise, capable of quoting an author. In English, I am grown up.
But I still pray in my mother tongue. When I was a child, I thought gods only understood Tulu, that they were locals and not educated in the ways of the British. Where I come from in coastal Karnataka, gods dwell in many things. In idols yes, but sometimes in stones, trees and forests. Now I think they prefer Tulu, something ancient and shared.
I don’t know how I learnt my mother tongue. From my earliest memory, I speak it. Sometimes, a second before speaking a sentence in Tulu, I wonder if I know the words and if I sound strange or accented. But when the time comes, I know what to say. My mother tongue is a store of memory and identity. Something to hold on to and something to let go.
On such days, I am happy to have English. A language untainted by memory. A language with a structure for expressing love and saying sorry. In the mornings when I wake up, in the liminal space between sleep and sunlight, I speak to myself in English. I swear in English. I write in English. It is the language I now share with my partner. The language I whisper sweet nothings to my dog in. In English, I find myself calmer, less prone to anger, more wise, capable of quoting an author. In English, I am grown up.
But I still pray in my mother tongue. When I was a child, I thought gods only understood Tulu, that they were locals and not educated in the ways of the British. Where I come from in coastal Karnataka, gods dwell in many things. In idols yes, but sometimes in stones, trees and forests. Now I think they prefer Tulu, something ancient and shared.
I don’t know how I learnt my mother tongue. From my earliest memory, I speak it. Sometimes, a second before speaking a sentence in Tulu, I wonder if I know the words and if I sound strange or accented. But when the time comes, I know what to say. My mother tongue is a store of memory and identity. Something to hold on to and something to let go.
On such days, I am happy to have English. A language untainted by memory. A language with a structure for expressing love and saying sorry. In the mornings when I wake up, in the liminal space between sleep and sunlight, I speak to myself in English. I swear in English. I write in English. It is the language I now share with my partner. The language I whisper sweet nothings to my dog in. In English, I find myself calmer, less prone to anger, more wise, capable of quoting an author. In English, I am grown up.
But I still pray in my mother tongue. When I was a child, I thought gods only understood Tulu, that they were locals and not educated in the ways of the British. Where I come from in coastal Karnataka, gods dwell in many things. In idols yes, but sometimes in stones, trees and forests. Now I think they prefer Tulu, something ancient and shared.
I don’t know how I learnt my mother tongue. From my earliest memory, I speak it. Sometimes, a second before speaking a sentence in Tulu, I wonder if I know the words and if I sound strange or accented. But when the time comes, I know what to say. My mother tongue is a store of memory and identity. Something to hold on to and something to let go.
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It will be a reminder to stop scrolling and read something fun.
FEEL FREE TO REACH OUT IF YOU HAVE ANY THOUGHTS OR JUST WANT TO SAY HI.
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Get a mail everytime a post goes up.
It will be a reminder to stop scrolling and read something fun.
FEEL FREE TO REACH OUT IF YOU HAVE ANY THOUGHTS OR JUST WANT TO SAY HI.
Design/dev by @itsiddharth
Get a mail everytime a post goes up.
It will be a reminder to stop scrolling and read something fun.
FEEL FREE TO REACH OUT IF YOU HAVE ANY THOUGHTS OR JUST WANT TO SAY HI.
Design/dev by @itsiddharth