THE LURE OF THE MOTHER TONGUE

 
Amazon.in

There are so many advantages in being an Army brat, but the one main disadvantage is that, if one is from the Southern states, one does not get a chance to learn one’s mother tongue. That is exactly what happened to me, because my father who was in the Madras Sappers, was posted in the north most of the time. Places like Jammu, Delhi, Panagarh and of course, two tenures in Bangalore.

While my sisters and I lived in a house filled with books from the very start, most of them were in English. While reading became an intrinsic part of our routine, it was only when we came to Kerala for our annual break, that we got a chance to hear and speak Malayalam. Of course, we had our wonderful Parvathy Amma, who was not only the most efficient homemaker that I have ever seen, but the one person who managed to keep us talking in Malayalam. Of course, she would, occasionally, amusingly drift into her version of English. She would call a refrigerator a ‘bridge’ and lapse into a cocktail of Malayalam and Hindi when talking to the vendors and the Army batmen. Despite her tiny frame, she would browbeat them all, and get the freshest vegetables and the juiciest chickens.

Her cooking was par excellence. Many were the guests who would go away after having savoured her delicious ‘sambar’ and crisp paper dosas. Years after, when we would meet them, the first thing they would ask was about Parvathy Amma.

                                                                                                 Shutterstock

When I was in Class eight, my father got posted in Panagarh which was a small little town with not many schools at that time. My parents spoke to me about sending me to Kerala to my paternal grandparents to complete my ninth and tenth. I was reluctant because my grandfather was a stickler for timing, having founded a Boys High School in a place called Shoranur. He was known as a holy terror. However, being his eldest granddaughter, he had a soft corner for me, as did my grandmother. I remember him allowing me to sleep in in the morning because my father requested him to let me do so.

Shoranur was a whole new kettle of fish. I remember going to the Convent school with my shirt tucked in, and shoes and socks. A whole class of girls giggled when they saw me, looking outlandishly different from all the others. They chattered away in Malayalam, and luckily, I could understand all of it. There was this girl who took a full circle around me, pointing to my skirt, and shoes, and laughing uproariously. Though the first few days were tough, I learnt to blend in, and the very same girls who laughed initially turned into my best friends.

                                                                                                          VectorStock

Since I had joined school only in Class nine, I was given an exemption from doing Malayalam. Instead, I had Special English and Additional English. I will never forget those days in Shoranur, when I picked up how to chatter in Malayalam, crack jokes and generally have fun with my friends. Malayalam was all around me, be it in school or at home, where my grandparents ran a Boys’ Hostel. Every evening, the hostel boys would troop upstairs to the prayer room, that was populated with idols of all the deities possible. They would sit in neat rows and sing bhajans. Of course, I was never part of the scenery, being a girl, and I would sit, hidden away, while I sang along in my room.

It was when I got to college in Thrissur that I began to sit down and pick up Malayalam on my own. I felt a sudden urge to be able to read, and write in my mother tongue. I persevered, and even though it was painstaking to read, I managed. I would read all the names on milestones, the posters around town and short story books as well. That is how I came across a children’s writer named Sri. P. Narendranath. My mother and I had gone to meet him, and when he heard that I loved to write, he offered me four of his books.

“Will you be able to translate them into English?” he asked me.

I nodded hesitantly, secretly excited about the project. When I reached home, I delved into the first book which was titled ‘Mandan Kunju’, which translated to ‘Foolish Kunju’. It was a story about a naughty young boy who lived with his grandfather, and from the start I was entranced. Though it took me a while to read the book, and decipher it, I did translate it as best as I could. Unfortunately, before I could hand over the manuscript to the author, he passed away. I lost touch with his wife and the three other books are still at the bottom of a trunk. I sometimes look at my manuscript, which has now turned yellow with age, and I think of redoing it so that I can get it published sometime in the future.

CHMK Library Stack

The best way to learn a language, apart from reading, is watching movies in the language. When we were children, my mother, uncle and aunt would take us all for a Malayalam movie on Fridays. Three adults and five children… we loved those outings, though sometimes we ended up watching some dreadfully gory movies. I remember a movie called ‘Lorry’ which dealt with a protagonist who maimed and blinded children to turn them into beggars.

However, most of the time, we watched hilarious movies which left us holding our stomachs in mirth.

                                                                                                 Alamy

Today, of course, everything is available on OTT. We watch Malayalam movies sitting at home, but there is no doubt that watching a movie on the silver screen does have its moments. As a family, we have our own ‘Mallu’ jokes, which we use whenever we are all together. My better half, who was born and brought up in Delhi right through and knew hardly any Malayalam earlier, now speaks fluently enough and meets umpteen friends on his morning walks, each of whom addresses him in pure Malayalam.

Knowing your mother tongue is a definite advantage. It brings you closer to people, and gives you that special insight which otherwise, you would miss out on. Living in a town like Thrissur which is called the cultural capital of Kerala would be very different if we did not speak the lingo. For there is no doubt that we, in Kerala, have what we call “a humour sense” which is different from that of others.

Think about it! Why, on earth, would we want to miss out on all that fun?

This post is a part of 'Embrace the Native Blog Hop' hosted by Sukaina Majeed and Manali Desai  - #EveryConversationMatters

1140 words