Axiom to Ardor: Cultivation of an Immigrant’s Affinity for Languages
Necessity is the mother of invention — some conceited theorist.
But a self-motivated, inventive form of cultivation is the art of an unconstrained genius — your boy.
The cause of an immigrant’s affinity for a non-native language may seem almost self-evident — the need to grow and stay relevant in a persistent and promiscuous state of globalization almost mandates it. I, however, found a more composite cause for my pursuit of prose and poetry alike. I, subliminally, but imprecise all the same, did the same — I accredited my minimal skills in languages and dialects that I indulge in, to precisely that — a mindless urge to move among the masses, only to learn of my impropriety.
Handling Hindi
As far as I can remember, the following incident was the first that underlined my linguistic languishes. I very vividly recall the time — I must’ve been seven or eight — when my parents and sister visited on Diwali night (I spent my childhood and early teenage years with my grandparents). I was stoked, as every year I would get to light my double share of fireworks. And that made me as close to a pyro as a kid could be. I was titillated by the notion of fire.
Now, we had just begun the worship routine that’s due before the fireworks. My mom and sister were talking about where to place the idols of Lakshmi, the goddess of good fortune. And I couldn’t have been more apathetic, because, at this point, I wasn’t exactly a devoted Hindu, nor was I ready to give the idea of Gods the finger. I was dubious, because a Christmas or two before, I had realized that Santa Claus — very conveniently — had been leaving money and gifts in an envelope under the comfortable side of the pillow.
That got me curious, to say the least.
In retrospect, I think my doubts about the infamous, jolly, fat man may have planted the secular seed that gravitated me towards skepticism.
They were anything but done with the pre-festive chatter, but I couldn’t hold my excitement. I had it all planned out — sparklers go first as I entertain the ladies; fire flowers to set the mood; bottle rockets to let everyone know ‘what’s up.’; followed by the big-boy, borderline passing-for-a-bomb, air-blasting, ear-deafening bangers, that came as close to a climax for this post-pubescent brown boy as it could be. Wait; post?! Aha! You read past that.
The worship routine had run its course, and I should’ve been over the metaphorical, and under the literal moon to get down to business; if only. Something had me bogged down as I started thinking about the feeling of insufficiency. Although I wasn’t sure of it at first, I had found it — it was about the chatter. But it wasn’t the topic of the conversation that stumped me, but the medium the language. My sister and mom were talking in Hindi. It’s known that Hindi and Punjabi — my first language — are the closest of all the Indic languages. Any Punjabi speaker, who also doesn’t classify as a dimwit, can usually understand Hindi. The spoken aspect, however, requires skill, if one is to indulge in a natural conversation. The lack of that skill renders some restrained, and that’s exactly how I felt on that night — restrained, just the same, but more so. But I think I needed that.
My inability to talk to my own sister, made me feel like a lesser part of the family. And that, as a result, made me a lesser part of the family. I had to pick up the language to alleviate that anguish of, quite possibly, however-justified, my first F.O.M.O. Something had to be done. I had been told that I had a good reading voice, so I started volunteering for reading texts in all my Hindi classes. I started scoring better in tests, and before I knew it, I was acing it all — verbal and written. A year or so later, I could finally hold a conversation.
I had a similar experience with the language Dogri, because one of my sisters/aunts was married in the area that spoke the language and I took interest in the nearby chatter. Also, I had a roommate who spoke Urdu, so I picked that up a bit. My skills in these are basic, so I won’t delve deeper.
Now this gives you an insight into what a brush with an emotionally impassioned fight-or-flight response did for my linguistic lacking. But the self-designed journey to phonetic, syntactic, and semantic understanding of another language — this one — is what propelled me to write about it all — learning a, however globalized, but an alien language altogether, all the same.
Exploring English
As someone who attended convent schools all his life, I should have been passably good at English by the time I was done. But the ones that I attended, did their bare minimum to enforce the language of communication. Don’t get me wrong — our school assemblies, lectures, and all the preaching were all said and done in the Queen’s tongue. But I always felt that wasn’t enough, and its conversation and narrative-inducing effects were nominal. I still remember when the recess bell would ring, the pin-drop silence that arose from facetious rumination over Shakespeare’s plays, would turn to a fish-market-like ruckus in a language that couldn’t be more different in expression — Punjabi. Honestly, their dichotomy was hilarious, but I couldn’t have loved it more — the crude but lyrical recess banter and fights. I almost liked it to the point that I wouldn’t call it an eventful day at school if I hadn’t indulged in one. So, until grade 8 — believe me — the extent of my English was limited to asking to enter the classroom. Yea, they made you do that. That is the only English phrase I ever remember speaking until much later. Picture that — one phrase.
Now cut to 2011 — I had about 6 months to kill after finishing grade 12. That was when I explored my learning curve. Although not realizing this until much later, I always knew that I had to pen this piece to make sense of either the perceived, cultivated genius or to uncover my place among the ranks of the ever-so-expanding spectrum of normalcy. Brilliance or normalcy?
Alright! To pass Indian grades 10 and 12, you write “board exams”, so every decision I could take after was contingent on how well I’d scored. So, after finishing high-school education in a system that had around 12–14 subjects until grade 10, and 7–9 until grade 12, I may have, for the first time, felt a true sense of relief. I felt liberated but didn’t know what to do with the time.
I thought of ideas and settled with the first one. I knew I had been a solid winger ever since I discovered the adrenaline-inducing joys of soccer in grade 9, so I resorted to that. For the first month, I don’t remember days turning to nights. But I remember waking up; brushing my teeth; not taking a shower; packing about 5–7 protein bars; hopping on my motorcycle; and riding straight to the closest stadium. I remember playing at my fullest until dusk — until I couldn’t — because of a 15-minute delay in stadium lights turning on.
No one could ever figure out why!
But I think it was in these breaks — waiting for lights — when I started craving more than the feelings of raw adrenaline and ego that wingers seemed to treat themselves with. I looked around; everything seemed normal — talks and acts. I really was an innocent, naive, and free-spirited boy. I think a part of that still lingers; however, without consent. But that allowed me to take a step back, and not care about what anyone else thought (which is especially rare in the culture driven by how you’re perceived by the people around you), so I could do whatever I wanted to. And the thought began, as my routine continued making me feel like a dunce dancing for the possession of a ball that mostly never made it through the posts. Now that’s just to state the statistics of the game; I may be biased, but I was really f****** good.
One night, I went home and did the only thing I could — I rested my weary body. After a quick power nap, I woke up to food in bed. My mom has always been caring, and I don’t think I give her enough credit, because I’m still trying to figure and do more. And that urge to explore the shores of more, still, to this day, makes me somewhat oblivious to the idea of — however minimal or extravagant — celebration. But her taking care of me was very conducive to me doing what I decided to do next.
I decided to do nothing! Yes — nothing!
What does one do when they think that for a limited time, time is to be taken for granted? Absolutely anything! It was in those days — for about 6 months — that I became what I would now describe as a couch-potato. I watched anything and everything that came on TV.
I started with the most available option at the time — Indian soap opera. I quickly got over their hyperbolic and melodramatic devices. The only other thing up until that point I had cultivated a liking for was action movies. I still remember the channel that seemed to have a monopoly over all that was good in Hollywood — UTV Action. I remember watching all the movies they played, dubbed in Hindi. I couldn’t have asked for any better; I was ecstatic.
And that’s when it started — my self-directed passion towards understanding what it is that the actors said when they weren’t doing the action, for a lack of a better phrase — when they were doing drama. As I went with my routine, I noticed that their actions didn’t match the words sometimes. Most of the meaning got lost in translation, and some of it was criminally incorrect. So, I started watching English channels and renting original Hollywood movies. I don’t know at what exact point, but I started getting half of what was being talked about, about half-way through my six months of linguistic exploits. To realize and get through the other half, I had to do something most of us that struggle with a language, don’t do.
To adopt a language, I opened myself to a different culture. That hurled me across the basic lexical barriers.
I learned that language is intrinsically related to culture.
What we eat and do, practices we follow, and the people we hang with, all define who we are. All of these aspects (and more) are basically dictated by the cultures we live in. And we like to talk about who we are, which is facilitated by language. So, culture directly defines all aspects of a language.
No wonder, if you want to learn a language, experts advise you to immerse yourself in a culture. While some cultures are emphatic, some are subtle, overall. I struggled a bit because of the dichotomy in the usage of the language that came from a drastic difference (however globalized) in cultures. I used to wonder, “why is the word linear not pronounce as ‘line-ur’, instead of ‘lin-ear’?” And there were many more perceived discrepancies in the language. In English, nouns become verbs, and slangs make it into the catalog of words much easier. I found that English is a language that rewards experience over adherence, which makes it the most versatile language on the planet.
I love that. But the globalization of the language has led to crass, glib monologues, and dialogues of conversations that get squawked out the moment they’re experienced. Contrived experiences encourage that dialogue, and to facilitate themselves of instant gratification, those dialogues, in turn, mandate those contrived experiences. And the futility of this experience-dialogue loop avails itself of its, well, availability. Is it all fair? Yes — it kills monotony. Is it all worth doing? No — it kills creativity. In an effort to evade all that is uneventful, talking about daily misfortunes has become a common conversation-starter.
Does this reductionist use of language have — for the first time — the power to change the culture itself? Is the global culture morphing into a state of idiocy? Can we afford to pay the price of not being bored?
I’m sure we have our answers. And if we’re on the same page, you might wonder how to address it. By learning to express in more than one way — by opening to more than one language and culture.
Now, what might that do?
It’s sort of like that movie Limitless — you’re never bored; always focused; when not focused, self-indulging; and open-minded. That leaves you with a penchant for new and relevant experiences, not because of an empty sense of extroversion but a full and driven sense of purpose. Because you don’t feel fulfilled with a mere (however lucrative or rewarding) sense of routine, you tend to learn and do things as if there was no economy (not just a hypothetical; doable) and cultivate pure talent. You do things because you want to, not because you must or because someone said so. You ask “why?”. By learning to respect different forms of expressions, you grasp the importance of challenging your comfort zone. And above all, you become a practical and thinking skeptic.
You understand things the way they are. You don’t try to control things that you can’t; feel indignant about them; and end up craving nothing but better. Better what? Better anything. When you try to control what you shouldn’t or can’t, you end up disappointing yourself and/or people around you (even if you succeed) and become prone to living a cursory lifestyle, craving nothing but ‘better’…
…never really asking what it is that you want to do.
I don’t know if learning — rather, adopting — a new language and culture will do all that for you, but it did all that and more for me. Perhaps there’s a sense of perspective at play as well — what you make of things immediate to you.
We have the right to pick and use the tools at our disposal, at our discretion, however we see fit. And in an unfair world, this prerogative of discretion evokes a sense of fairness. But is something fair, but flippant, worthy of being acted out? We all have our opinions, and you’ve guessed mine. But not choosing to pick up the tool that could make it for you would be a shame.
I believe the essence of an effective language is to facilitate expression. But how far can a singular sense of expression take you? I’m glad to be able to draw from more than one. Now, I won’t leave you with an impractical, imposition-inducing sense of closure. Most of us have skimmed too many books, movies, and social media posts to be genuinely inspired that way. Instead, I shall leave you with an explicit call to action.
I know. How do I come up with such inspired ways to sell & solicit? But here it is:
Spark yourself and the people around you with the idea of multilingualism. Galvanize conversations with more than one language. And watch what happens!
