My Tongue is Twice Removed

I’m waiting for the bus one day during my undergrad. My headphones are in, my mind buzzing with the numerous things I’ll need to get done by day’s end, week’s end. I keep checking my phone, peering into the road to see if the bus will come into view. I barely register the presence of someone near me. It is a young brown woman, about my age. She says something, but I can’t hear her. She repeats her question when I pause my music and remove my headphones. She inquires in melodious Hindi. She is asking for directions; I know this because I understand her. Years and years of watching Bollywood films, dancing to the beloved classics at parties and in my room late into the night, have made me a seasoned veteran. This hallmark of art is ingrained in my culture; it forms us as surely as blood and bone, becomes the soundtrack of our joy and sorrow. But that is as far as it goes, grammar and syntax will pass me by. 

 I give her directions in English, and she smiles gratefully, but I see the slight confusion in her gaze— I look like her— but we are not the same. I am removed from the things that piece together her culture: once, twice. The languages of my ancestry escape me. Earthy, steadfast Bhojpuri, and the sharp, tang of Tamil— inherited through my grandfather on my mother’s side— was lost in three generations. Even the Hindi spoken by the girl who looks like me but is not me will never find ease on my tongue. People will criticize me for mourning something that may no longer have relevance, that is lost, that belongs to people who often will not make space for their brothers and sisters taken oceans away. We are crude, fake, pretenders. But I mourn regardless, because it is my birthright. The hyphen joins, but it also separates. There is an ocean between us.

I mourn connection and possibility, but never do I disrespect the resilience of my people. They say our English is broken. They’re wrong. It’s whole. We borrowed words and speech patterns from India, West Africa, the Arawak, and the Dutch. Our tongues have stitched together our past, our suffering, our resilience. We shout, sing, and cry our identity with pride. We give voice to our present and our future.

My name is Sanskrit in origin. It means salutation or divine offering with both hands. My name has two pronunciations: when a South Asian person says my name and when an Indo-Caribbean person says my name. The former rings of tradition. It is beautiful to my ear. There is a sweetness— a glimmer of connection and camaraderie— something I struggle not to crave. When the latter happens, the syllables are emphasized differently. Some might say it is mispronounced, but they would be wrong. My name is mine. It was gifted to me with love, intention, and the promise of good, bright things. When I hear the syllables spoken in that familiar way, I come home to the people that love me, and there is nowhere else I’d rather be.

When the girl leaves in the direction I point her, I replace my headphones and switch the song. I let Kes belt out lyrics about life and finding love; there is joy in this, not just because it is Kes, but because I understand.