The frequent code-switching between unfamiliar Indian languages and English fogs my stream of thought. I lose my focus in a daydream – distracted by concerns of languages not my own.
In a nation with a diverse array of languages and an increasingly interconnected world with seemingly boundless opportunities restricted to those who know English, it is easy to see how and why English plays a pivotal role in many lives. I am in a constant state of hope that it is not at the expense of other languages.
The gatekeeper at my apartment greets me with an unintelligible urgency. I nod and smile while walking away as his Tamizh instructions sail over my head.
At a meeting, my coworkers are instructed to speak English. One struggles to do so while reading his presentation and is told sternly that he should have practiced beforehand. I am convinced he would have spoken seamlessly had it been in Tamizh. I cringe at knowing they have been momentarily prohibited from speaking their mother tongues. I am simultaneously conflicted as this action accommodates my needs.
A harmless misunderstanding at a restaurant is resolved once the language barrier is crossed, but leaves me anxious about my lack of Tamizh skills.
I ask a colleague if she speaks only Tamizh and English. She corrects me revealing her native language is Saurashtra. It is not the first time I have made an incorrect linguistic assumption.
Sitting at a Punjabi restaurant, I hear a father speaking to his son in Tamizh. His son responds only in English. Their conversation proceeds this way. It reminds me of the time a Telugu friend explained as a matter of fact that he did not expect his grandchildren to speak Telugu at all, adding that he spoke pure Telugu only to his grandparents. Another past interaction comes to mind where a local journalist estimated that 40-50% of his speech in his native language is actually English. He does so, he explained, to avoid ridicule from other Indians.
A fellow recounts the story of her uncle who is fluent in English, but refused to speak it for about one decade. He chose instead to speak only Hindi. Without knowing anything more, I envision him as a revolutionary before his time. Another fellow expresses her desire to improve proficiency in her heritage language so she and her descendants can stay connected to it.
At a resource and education center just outside Madurai, the garland-draped portrait of a foreign white woman smiles at me. Does she smile in English? Did she take the time to learn how to smile in Tamizh? After some research I discover she is Swiss, as were my patrilineal forebears. Which of the four languages of Switzerland belongs to her remains a mystery, but I speculate it is German from her name.
Why do these languages and their speakers weigh on my mind? It is not my place to decide their fate. Perhaps it is the part of me that dreams I had a linguistic connection to my own heritage. A dream I fade into often.
In the dream I meet my great-grandmother – my last ancestor to speak German natively. She speaks to me in an indecipherable plea. Is she warning me that without linguistic diversity we lose a piece of our cultures and the human experience? Is she imploring me to take up what she and others failed to pass on to me? Or does she request that I let it all go?
I cannot know – I do not speak German.
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