Finding Language

My earliest memories of childhood have me thinking that i was a white boy trapped in a dark-skinned body. Whenever people asked me what my mother tongue was, I would nonchalantly reply English. People would snicker and mutter amongst themselves and gently correct me. “You’re Indian, you mother tongue must be Tamil” Naturally I rebelled against such a notion.
Tamil was as far as I was concerned for lower class people. Only the uneducated spoke Tamil. People of higher stature such as me spoke English. When I went to school I purposely sought out friends who spoke nothing but English usually eschewing Indian friends because I was class conscious and they didn’t speak as good English as I did.

Now when I look back, I’m astounded by the ideas that I had created, the illusion I perpetuated for much of my youth. I partially blame my parents for not inculcating in me the love for my mother tongue. Both mum and dad spoke to me in English all the time. There was hardly a moment where Tamil was uttered to me. I’m not clear on the facts now but I suppose among themselves they spoke it. Just not to me.

My paternal grandparents live in the estates. All they understood was Tamil and smattering of Malay, the type that uneducated speakers would converse in. In fact it sounded like the Malay that Chinese speakers would communicate with. “Lu pigi mana”? would reflect the sort of Malays spoke.

I loved my grandparents unconditionally but I thought it was rather silly that they didn’t speak in English. A typical encounter would involve me speaking in English and they replying in Tamil. I couldn’t articulate to save myself but I had picked up smidgins of Tamil along the way and was able to answer and respond to basic questions.

I’m not sure when but at some point in time during my late teens I became acutely aware of who I was. I think growing up in Malaysia, you don’t really realize that there exists a racial boundary. As kids we have no trouble mixing with friends of different races but our parents have negative stereotypes about the different races. You can’t help but listen as elders talk and you routinely pick up statements that they make and you can’t help being influenced by them. The underlying philosophy was that Indians should stick with other Indians. Only your fellow Indian would help you, a Chinese or a Malay would share a similar ethnocentric sentiment and refuse to help you.

It was only when I began to interact with people and seek out fellow Indians that I was aware of how pathetic I was. I eagerly craved the sustenance that cultural imperialism had brought me but I was severely deficient when it came to my people and my heritage. My increasing closeness with paternal grandparents was the defining factor in my introspection. My failure as grandson to communicate with them about the most simplest of things awakened in me a desire to reinvent and redefine myself. I am not a person to indulge in meaningless rites and rituals but my culture is paramount and it and language are inextricably linked.

It cleaves my soul that till today I can’t have a normal conversation with my grandparents. I’ve never felt sadder then when unable to think of the word in Tamil, I speak in Malay to find out things that happen to them. My grandparents recognize this but they’re still proud of me and what I have achieved. But what I have achieved means nothing if I can’t connect with people who are of my blood. Old people have a lot to say, and I love to listen to my granddad talk. He has all this wonderful stories of his youth and his struggles to survive Japanese-occupied Malaysia. I listen but I can respond beyond the casual “yes, yes,” in Tamil. I want to know more details, dates, people involved, I want to know everything! When grandparents finally leave shed their mortal coil, all I will have is memories. These memories should nourish me and fill me with love, not fill me with shame and stigma that I have failed in the simplest of tasks.

I have many cousins and most of them don’t speak English. An invisible barrier exists between us, one that I try my very best to surmount. A family gatherings, I play the role of an objective participant, listening and aware but never taking part. Deep within me I laugh at the jokes and I envy the simple joys the take from each other’s company. Every now and then one of them will speak to me in halting English, asking about what I’m doing and stuff. That is as much as the conversation would flow. Someday when my Dad is long gone, I fear I might lose this side of my family. And I can blame no one but myself.

I truly understand why it’s called “mother-tongue”. It’s not just a medium of communication. My language has a history stretching back 2000 years and more. All the memories, emotions and philosophy of the Tamil people are encapsulated in it. My language defines me, it provides with a sense of purpose and identifies me culturally with the people who have the same values and beliefs that I do. It transcends the space time continuum, bridging the past with the present and shaping my future.. My name and my appearance reflect who I am. My mother tongue provides me with instant access to the world shared by the same speakers as myself.

I will never feel complete until I have some mastery over Tamil. To that end I try my best to pick it up and to converse with people. I realize that I sound like a foreigner speaking Tamil but I persist anyway. I endure the taunts and the laughter because there is a price for neglecting something so intrinsic to me. I gladly pay knowing full well that someday I will be whole. Someday I will be able to sit down with family and feel at home knowing that the barrier exists no more.