I Speak English

I Speak English But I Think in My Mother Language

I scroll through my feed, and everyone sings the same jingle. The subtitles are English, the jokes are global, and the trends happen faster than thought. I speak the same language, but somewhere between it all, I catch myself thinking that I still think in my mother language.

My culture doesn't align with the aesthetic grid. I might fantasize about Harvard, but my feet are rooted in the cracked sidewalks of the local university down the street. It's the noise of chapals crashing into hot cement floors, the smell of haldi and ghee wafting through the kitchen, the elders' raised hands rather than their voices. It's not filtered. It's loud. Messy. Real. But it's mine.

But sometimes it didn't quite feel like mine. Sometimes I wasn't so certain about which "me" was real—the one narrating in immaculately pronounced English at school, or the one who prayed in Dhatki and ground spices with her grandmother in silence. I recall a day at school when my teacher asked us to retell a childhood memory. I instructed mine, but halfway through I substituted the word "Bai" for "grandmother." One of my classmates corrected me, gently, with no spite—but it lingered. I understood that I had fallen out of the "acceptable" tone unintentionally.

It was like tiptoeing across a tightrope. English was something more than a school subject—it was a credential. It signaled that you were intelligent, studious, and liberal. But in the house, English was a visitor. Courteous. Far away. My native tongue, by contrast, was part of the ordinary. It was in the sound of my mother's voice when she called me to the table for dinner. It was in my father's silent prayers. It was in the bedtime stories my grandmother read, stories not in books or internet searches but in memory and song.

As a child, I believed I must decide. I attempted to shrink aspects of myself that were "too local." I would ask my mom not to put paneer curry in my lunchbox because I was afraid the smell would seep into the classroom. I would pretend to understand American slang to fit in. I would laugh on cue. Nod when I did not exactly get the joke. Slowly, I was caught doing a rendition of myself that I felt was more acceptable to live with.

But even when I was caught in those well-rehearsed moments, something insignificant would slip up. I'd automatically say "haan" instead of "yes." I'd sing a folk tune unconsciously. I'd hear the azan being called out and freeze in the middle of a sentence. There were dimensions to myself that would not iron out.

One of the first instances when I realized the burden of my dual identity was during a wedding. I was with cousins who were abroad. They spoke English like locals, danced to foreign music, and cracked jokes about how "extra" desi customs were. I joined in, eager to blend in. But as soon as the dhol began and the old people started singing wedding songs—songs I had grown up listening to—I felt something change. I knew the beat. I knew the lyrics. They didn't. For that instant, I didn't feel behind. I felt anchored.

That was the first time I witnessed my culture not as something that weighed me down but as a treasure. Not something that I had to cut out, but something I had to learn and bear.

Ever since, I've seen how much we attempt to translate ourselves into something digestible. Our subtitles turn to English. Our celebrations are photo opportunities. Our narratives are truncated because they don't "relate" to everybody else. Language is more than words—it's memory. Feeling. Instinct.

There's a reason why I think in my native language. It is the language that I learned empathy for the first time. It is the language my grandmother spoke when she wrapped her arms around me and recounted stories of our village. It's the language my parents spoke when they calmed me after my first broken heart. It is where I learned to distinguish sorrow from patience, pride from ego, and silence from peace.

Even today, when I'm angry, I argue in English. But when I weep, the words escape me in my mother tongue. When I laugh hysterically, it's the local words that burst out first. When I'm afraid, I pray in the language that influenced my childhood.

It's not that I don't cherish English—I do. It's provided me with access, opportunity, a seat at global tables. But it hasn't provided me with the feel of home. It hasn't nurtured me when I'm bruised. It hasn't instructed me in the soft power of my forebears.

And yet, occasionally I still do feel the pressure to be "global." I still feel like I need to flip between selves based on location or who I'm around. I think we all do that. We censor our thoughts so we can sound smarter. We mute our accents. We take away the "too desi" aspects of ourselves for fear of being seen as behind the times.

But what if those aspects are precisely what make us rich?

My grandfather once instructed me, "Don't forget your shadow, even in the brightest light." I reflect on that a lot. I reflect upon how simple it is to forget our past when we are repeatedly instructed to rise, to succeed, to become modern. Yet, what is modernity without memory?

At other times, I think about a different me, one who never knew her native language. One who spoke only in refined English, ate only with a fork, knew only one national anthem. She would be simpler to explain to others, perhaps, but she would lack substance. She would be cut off from the know-how of generations, from the family customs, from the cultural jokes that can't be translated.

Because certain things don't translate. The gravity of the word "beta." The familiarity of being addressed as "jaan." The pride in being told "Shabash." The warmth of being greeted with "Namste" at the end of a call.

These aren't words. These are inheritances. They are recipes learned by heart, bedtime stories without books, and love in non-verbal gestures. They are what make us feel rooted in something larger than us.

I recall a cold winter evening during a blackout. No Wi-Fi. No screens. Candles and words. My family huddled together, and for hours we shared tales—of childhood, of immigration, of lost places and people who forged us. Each tale in our native tongue. Each laugh, each sigh, each prayer. At that moment, I understood: this is what legacy feels like. Not just blood, but words. Not just tradition, but being there.

And so, today, I chose both. I choose to write essays in English but feel them in Urdu. I choose to see the world but take my culture with me like a passport which never runs out. I choose to be proficient in multiple languages but faithful to the one in which I grew up.

Because being modern doesn’t mean abandoning what shaped you. It means being aware. Being able to switch codes without losing your own. Being able to exist in both Spotify and Sufi, in both cinema and surahs, in both independence and interdependence.

The world teaches us to do—to commodify ourselves into consumable narratives. But the actual narrative is much messier. It's in mismatching accents, lost idioms, spicy food, bewildering traditions, and a heart that beats to the rhythm of places you've never even been. It's in the instant when you understand that you don't have to apologize for your accent or clarify your rituals. You simply need to exist with them.

I still talk English. I still read books written by people on other oceans. I still watch television shows with subtitles and scroll through memes in a language that isn't my own. But when I stop—when I think—when I ache—when I hope—I still think in my home language.

Because it's the language of my dreams I never knew I possessed. The one I prayed with when I first learned to pray. The one that taught me how to love without ever speaking the words.

 

And perhaps that's not something to keep hidden.

Perhaps that's precisely what makes me complete.

Khushwant Maheshwari is a 13-year-old aspiring mechanical engineer, computer scientist, and writer from Pakistan. He believes that passion shouldn't be limited to one profession—while he dreams of studying engineering and computer science at MIT, he’s equally devoted to storytelling and the power of words. Through his writing, he explores identity, culture, and the emotional lives of people navigating change. He hopes to one day build both machines and stories that make the world better

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