Can you forget a language you grew up with?

Time of India

2 days ago

I never thought multilinguality—this gift, this badge I wore so casually—could turn into something like guilt. Or grief. Or both.
I've always floated between English, Hindi, and Marathi. Like air, water, and soil—each one elemental in its own right. I didn't think about it much. These were just languages I knew. That I spoke. That I lived in. Until one day, I started tripping on words I've always known, like stumbling on a flat street you've walked a hundred times. You don't see it coming. And suddenly, you're not walking—you're falling.
It's a strange ache, forgetting familiar things. Searching for the right word and finding only static. My mouth moving slower than my thoughts. My thoughts moving slower than memory. It's frustrating. Disheartening. Upsetting in ways I didn't know language could be.
Sometimes I envy the monolinguals. I really do. You only need to be excellent at one language. One way to speak. One set of books. One cultural context. One kind of milk packet. Even your coffee bag comes with instructions tailored to you. No switching. No code-mixing. No fumbling. No forgetting.
Sometimes I think: maybe it's better to have a language as a barrier than a language that becomes a stutter.
Back at Columbia Business School, it was all English all the time. I didn't have a choice, really. Most of my Indian friends weren't from Maharashtra or North India—they didn't speak Marathi or Hindi. They spoke Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Kannada—beautiful languages that felt like distant cousins. And so I stuck to English. Clung to it, even. Like it was the only thing holding me up.
There was this one pharmacy store on 125th Street, run by a Telugu family—stocked with snacks, paracetamol, canned beans, cleaning spray, and nostalgia. My friend's relatives owned it. We went there often. Telugu songs playing in the background like a soundtrack I never asked for but eventually grew to love. I picked up words. Phrases. Rhythms. I tried. I gave myself credit for that.
But a few lyrical lines aren't fluency. They're just echoes.
And speaking of echoes: yes, Columbia. But not the university. Let's be clear. I was at Columbia Business School—the other Columbia. A 15-minute walk from the famed Morningside Heights campus. Which, in the elite ecosystem of Ivy Leagues, might as well be a lifetime away. We weren't the 'real' Columbia, not in the eyes of the undergrads with their tote bags and blue hoodies. But that's the thing, right? This obsession with being the 'real one.' The original. The authentic. It happens everywhere. Even sweet shops in India slap on 'The Real XYZ' because the copycats moved in next door.
It's all so performative. This scramble for verification.
And yet, none of it matters. Not really. Life doesn't issue blue ticks after you die.
Back to English. My English has always been good—until I got bored of it. Or maybe burnt out by it. Or maybe I just woke up one day and realised I didn't want to be speaking like everyone else. Tom, Dick, and Harry have colonised English anyway.
Learning Punjabi and German changed everything.
Punjabi, especially. It's not just a language anymore. It's how I argue. How I cook. How I love. At home, it's been over a year now—Punjabi is my primary language. And cooking? Don't even get me started. Everyone thought I hated cooking. I didn't. I just never had the right space. Never had the emotional safety to enjoy it. These days I find myself making midnight salads with Mumbai-style twists. I blend spice the way I blend syllables now: with flair. With feeling.
And Hindi? It's my go-to when everything else falters.
English? Honestly, I could leave it behind. Dump it like an old winter coat that doesn't fit anymore. I don't need to sound like Shashi Tharoor or Sudha Murthy. I just want to sound like myself. And that self is changing. Morphing. Choosing.
Now, as I pursue my PhD at the University of Zürich, German is the language of nuance, of lecture notes, of inside jokes I don't always understand. My classmates laugh on WhatsApp, and I smile along, pretending. But Google Translate isn't a real friend. It's a crutch. And you can't dance with a crutch.
So yeah—my Hindi is rusty. My English stumbles. My Marathi hides behind curtains. My Punjabi is vibrant. My German is clumsy. My mouth is always catching up to my brain, and my brain is always adjusting.
But here's the thing: I would rather explain what chaunk is in Punjabi than try to impress anyone in English. I would rather read Hermann Hesse in his mother tongue than sit through another email chain about 'synergies.'
So yes, I'm choosing. Choosing imperfection. Choosing warmth. Choosing complexity. Choosing regional over universal. Spices over syntax. Depth over fluency.
And I think that's the most fluent I've ever felt.
Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author's own.