I’ve recently been pondering on my mother tongue quite a bit. Maybe it has something to do with my being older now and open to things I’d previously thought of as ‘uncool.’ Because, really, what’s with the definition of ‘cool’ anyway? I say this now because I’d never thought that there’d come a day when I’d actually be upset at my gradual and subconscious loss of my mother tongue. Much like a lot of other things, I guess. If you were to ask my 17-year-old self if she ever thought about the possibility of me being who I am a decade later, she’d say no.
I surprised myself, you could say. Maybe, at the end of the day, that’s the only person you can surprise to their very core – yourself. This is in lieu of the current ongoings at home – I’m finding myself having very difficult conversations about my personality and my life with others.
Anyway, yes, my mother tongue – Urdu.
It’s funny, actually. Growing up, I always had the impression that speaking in your mother tongue was ‘uncool.’ My father also attempted to bring us up speaking English at home – one of the many things he has succeeded in. I was horrible in Urdu as well, overall. Coupled with Art, Urdu was the subject I scored badly in for most of my school years. I hated the subject too, asking myself why we’re even taught it in school. We didn’t need it, after all. The English language was far superior.
But now, I find myself in a position where I’m embarrassed at my Urdu skills. Where I can’t seem to hold a full conversation with Urdu; I can’t understand Urdu music and even movies sometimes (uff, if only I could truly enjoy Coke Studio!).
11 years can make a lot of a difference. After we left Pakistan, I don’t think it was a conscious decision to adapt to English more; to have it as my reflex. During those 11 years I rarely spoke to people outside of my house in Urdu. I just didn’t interact with people of the same language enough. And it is only now when I’m asked to speak in Urdu that I fumble over words, where I don’t grasp the meaning, the diction as well as other Pakistanis can. I’m embarrassed about it; and that is the feeling I never thought I’d ever encounter. I’ve given so much thought to this that I realised this as one of the many reasons why I wouldn’t really be suited for a Pakistani man either. What if we have a communication barrier because I can’t or don’t speak Urdu much? And good lord, what about meeting his parents, his side of the family? Me, my accent and my grasp of Urdu would be an absolute joke. Which, honestly, is what I deserve. But really, I’d just have never thought that I’d be in this position. My plan was to be exceptional in English, it being all I would ever need.
But I’m at a loss. A loss of my mother tongue. You really can experience mourning in so many different areas of your life simultaneously, heh.
I don’t think I really recognised this as a real feeling up until I saw a poem somewhere, the gist of which was, how can you judge someone for their English when they could be vastly more intelligent than you in a spectrum of other languages?
Update: Found the poem! It reads as below:
Listen:
my father speaks Urdu
language of dancing peacocks
rosewater fountains
even its curses are beautiful.
He speaks Hindi
suave and melodic
earthy Punjabi
salty rich as saag paneer
coastal Kiswahili
laced with Arabic,
he speaks Gujarati
solid ancestral pride.
Five languages
five different worlds
yet English
shrinks
him
down
before white men
who think their flat cold spiky words
make the only reality.
I was horrified at myself for realising how invested I was in the idea that your English directly correlates with your level of intelligence. Ridiculous. Now and again I still catch myself looking down at someone whose English isn’t up to par. The fact that it’s actually become a force of habit, and having to now unlearn it.
Something similar comes up when I think about culture, about tradition as well. Along with not speaking English, wearing traditional clothes made you ‘uncool.’ So, for the longest time, I found myself running away from culture. To not be thought of as ‘too Pakistani.’ But now, I’m on the path of trying to embrace it instead. Of marvelling at its beauty and at its very presence – apart from the downsides, of course.
Going back to language, seeing as how the new generations are coming along (wow did I just sound like a boomer), it’s sad to consider that mother tongues, lesser spoken languages are too disappearing. It’s happening slowly, but what if, a few generations from now, many of our languages just…fade away? While I may be very vocal on moving past some traditions, I don’t like the idea of our cultures and languages just fading away like that either. It would be an utter loss, if so.
Which is why I recently came to the decision that when – if – I choose to procreate (lol, atm I really don’t like children) my children would know the Urdu language. Not only in speaking, but in reading and writing as well. My own skills in reading and writing in Urdu have declined over the years, and I’m not really down for the effort of putting them back together. However, it is still a language I believe is integral be passed on, along with certain aspects of our culture.
***
The second thing I’ve been thinking about when it comes to language is this: why do we tend to romanticise people who speak more Western languages, as compared to Eastern ones? Why don’t we look down on those who can’t speak English well but are fluent in Spanish, French German, but not those who are fluent in Hindi, Mandarin, Korean? This occurred to me recently when I was sat down with an acquaintance who couldn’t communicate with me in English easily, but I brushed it off as ‘cute,’ since he spoke Spanish fluently instead. When I was back home, I thought back to him. Why didn’t I mind our communication gap as much as I would’ve if he were, for example, Pakistani, instead? If he spoke Urdu more as compared to English, I probably would’ve been annoyed. See what I meant earlier, about catching myself guilty of such prejudice? And this was barely a week ago.
It led to a spiral in which I began questioning if it was wrong for me to refuse potentials partners solely based on their weak English skills. It was only when a friend told me that no, it’s not wrong to want someone who can speak a language you can both communicate in effectively that I breathed a sigh of relief.
There are so many behaviours, thoughts and actions I find myself having to unlearn now, at 27. Such ridiculous notions I’ve been harbouring since childhood, for one reason or another, whether through experiences or expectations.
I’m assuming this thought process initially began brewing in my head after I made a group of friends who – for the first time in my life – speak in the local language over English. Sure, when I’m around, they attempt to keep the conversation in English. But I feel guilty for them not being able to use a language they’re more comfortable in. Which is why I don’t really say much once the conversation has slipped away from English. I don’t get annoyed anymore, since now I’m more aware that it is my fault for not knowing the local language (more so since I had 11 years to learn it), not theirs. I’m in their country, after all. (What does annoy me, however, is when they suddenly turn to me and ask me why I’m so quiet, which only spikes my anxiety levels and I don’t really have an answer to because…I don’t understand the conversation?)
Which leads to another thing…I’m nostalgic. I’m nostalgic for those moments where I’m surrounded by people speaking in languages I know; Urdu or English. This time last year when I visited Pakistan, my first stop was a supermarket, and it felt so overwhelmingly good to hear people conversing in Urdu around me, to have the salesperson approach me in Urdu. It put a smile on my face, and for that moment – just that moment – I felt peace. Until, of course, I stepped outside the door to the leers of creepy men, horrendous noise pollution, beggars on the street and no sense of safety. Because that’s just Pakistan.
Sometimes, I like to imagine an alternate universe (AU, as the cool kids call it). Nothing drastically major – just my life, myself if I’d never left Pakistan. The idea is not pleasing at all – I’m beyond grateful for my parents having left – but some aspects, I yearn for. Such as this: understanding the language everyone around you speaks. Never feeling left out of conversations, never being frustrated at a grocery store because the salesperson doesn’t understand ‘powder’ in English, never standing, waiting in a queue, only to reach the front and be told you’re in the wrong queue.
Best not to wonder too much on the what ifs of life, I guess.
Writing Better 