mother tongue
i wake to ammamma praying under her breath and dosas sizzling in the pan
i never know what she’s saying but i hear the pain in her voice every morning.
i offer my help in the kitchen only to get shunned away
you see, cooking is her way of showing affection.
they gossip around me as i eat,
in a language so familiar yet so far away.
sometimes i wonder what life would be like if my parents never said goodbye to this place.
i would speak with ammamma everyday.
i would help her peel mangoes and cut fish.
we would gossip about the neighbors and i would ask her about her day.
on indigo nights I would sit on the porch in the red plastic chairs soaking in the pale moonlight.
i speak to my grandmother in english but she only nods and smiles.
she speaks to me in malayalam, but i can only do the same.
i don’t think I’ve ever had a meaningful conversation with her since
my native language sounds like flowing water
but my stiff tongue sounds like crushed ice.
i feel like a stranger to my own heritage and
i’m terrified of my inability to give my child the gift of a second language.
Author’s commentary
“A person’s mother tongue is what most deeply connects them to their own culture. This piece demonstrates the struggles of not being fluent and at home while speaking your native language.”