Tongue-fused
The dynamics of language is something that has fascinated me a great deal for the longest time. Growing up with a Sindhi-speaking father and an Urdu/Seraiki-speaking mother; who traces her roots all the way back to the (then) princely state of Patiala, India; expressing oneself was never a hindrance of any kind. There was a word in every language, for every emotion felt, for formal conversations and day-day to dealings; I was never limited to or had to use a specific one as a crutch to get by.
I had to, of course, learn the colonizer’s tongue to move around easily in the global community, along with Arabic the language of the land and the faith that I’ve grown up in. My mother made sure there was no disconnect or confusion between any of these languages, and at the same time, home-schooled my brother and I, in Urdu, so that we wouldn’t be dumbfounded when interacting with relatives back home or coming upon a signboard or two. To be honest, I think it was also mostly because my family is big on Urdu literature and poetry; which we have still not acquired the taste for completely, but are working our way up there.
No matter however many languages we could speak/read/write; the funny thing is how each one felt different on the tongue. Sindhi was sugary and sweet, yet it was also my road-rage language. Urdu was soft and ‘tameezdar’ (well-mannered), but it also had the tendency to be icy and straight to the point. Say you were caught sneaking out, or just in general involved in some mischief; Urdu was the perfect language to reprimand and make someone yield into obedience.
Although rarely ever spoken at home, snippets of Seraiki would drift into the conversation whenever we happened to be visiting Ma’s village, ‘Bhatti-Got’. It may sound very common initially if one is not familiar with the language at all. However to those familiar with its semantics will agree that Seraiki sounds almost as sweet as Sindhi; like a peppermint candy hard to bite, but softening with every chew and eventually melting onto the tongue. It is common knowledge that Seraiki differs from that spoken in the upper plains (Punjab), to the one spoken in the lower plains (Sindh). Thankfully, growing up around a plethora of Punjabi family-friends, understanding both the dialects was no feat at all, and perhaps gave us an upper-hand in interpreting all the regional songs with the utmost ease.
I think one of my biggest regrets will be not pursuing Arabic as actively, as I’ve pursued other languages. Taught from the age of four itself, by a visiting-Imam who would teach us the Quran, and then formally taught for all the twelve years of schooling; it was never the lingua franca of the country I was residing in and therefore in my head- it didn’t hold as much importance as the others. We were transitioning into a mixture of English-Urdu at home, spoke English fully among our peers and other platforms and would uphold everyone else to the standard of how well they spoke the colonizer’s tongue.
Arabic is guttural sounding, forcing one to regurgitate their ‘ains’ (ع) and their ‘ghains’ (غ) and differentiate between the breathy ‘hah’ (هـ) and the gentle ‘ha’ (ح). When spoken among friends (in my case, it is always the catchphrases and the bits and bobs collected from the formally-spoken Arabic), it sounds very street-savvy and ‘cool’. However, formal Arabic, which was never my strongest point, unfortunately; sounds very dreamy and poetic. Mahmoud Darwish’s works can testify to this.
The thing is, growing up within such a multicultural setting, with such a mix of different languages, one can end up feeling constantly lost too; perhaps at an odds with their true self as I often do. I am meek in Sindhi, attentive in Urdu, at ease in English, hesitant in Arabic and clueless in Seraiki. I am all these things, and yet I still fail to find the right words to express myself, perhaps due to the constant sparring of the identities related to each of these languages, in my head.
