Earth. The world I, and 8 other billion people, call home in more than 7100 languages.
And in those 7100 languages, with millions speaking in their mother tongues, it’s easy to find a culture to call our own. Or is it?
Before I moved to Australia at the ripe old age of three, I fluently spoke my family’s tongue konkani. Surrounded by the rich culture and constant chattering of a familiar tongue back in my home town Bangalore, it was only natural that I too would pick it up.
However, this skill went both ways.
After moving to Australia, it took just one week before I dropped my mother tongue and spoke English exclusively. Like many babies and young children do, I quickly learnt the language of the place I would soon come to call my new home. Fascinating as the development of the prefrontal cortex is, it was a complete cultural shock, even at three, to not hear the sweet melody of familiar words I heard back in India.
Instead, I adapted to the nature of Australia. Whether it was to fit in, consciously or subconsciously, I changed my ways, and parts of my three year old identity. Parts of my identity that now I wish I could have. Three year old Lian, just trying to settle into her new life, sacrificed parts of her culture in order to fit in with a different one.
But at what cost?
Watching the videos of two year old Lian that my uncle, like every Indian uncle, sent me on whatsapp, it makes sixteen year old me wonder of a life where I didn’t move to Australia. Now, thirteen years later, I wish I could go back and continue speaking my family’s natural tongue. The words that always seem to be there on the top of my tongue, but no matter how much I try, I can never get them out.
Ironically, although I grew up in a predominantly white environment, I never really felt uncomfortable or separated because of my skin colour, the food I ate, or the hints of an accent I dropped. In fact, it was only until I was in highschool, surrounded by a diverse community, that I felt left out. My new Indian friends spoke with heavy Indian accents, their mother tongues familiar but not the same. Their strong sense of culture and belonging was something that I realised I lacked in my own life, and I began to wish that I too could connect with such a rich culture. Words I used to say that sparked the interests of my white primary school friends now instead brought comments and laughter from my Indian friends who said I pronounced things weirdly.
During my trip to India last year, I reconnected with many family and friends that I hadn’t seen or met in a very long time. At every household I went to, I was asked the same question: “Do you speak konkani?” to which, I forced a smile and replied “A little, but I understand most of it.”
While I am proud of who I am and where I come from, I live with the constant reminder that I don’t fully fit in with either my Indian or Australian culture. I speak with hints of accents I never knew existed. I communicate through broken konkani and fluent english. I crave peanut butter on chapatis; an odd but one of my favourite combinations. And while some days are harder than others, I am grateful for the fact that I get to experience not one, but two rich cultures, while maybe not to the full extent of others, but experience it nonetheless.
The moral of the story? Language can unite us. Sometimes it breaks us. But no matter what, we still call Earth our home in our own mother tongues.