Nishitha Gopinath Week 14 - "Lost in Translation"

                                                                                     "Lost in Translation"

Languages have always fascinated me. Even as a child, I was drawn to the way words could dictate emotions, preserve memories, and build connections. The first language I ever spoke was Tamil, my mother tongue. I take immense pride in being fluent in it–not just because I regard my culture as an integral part of my identity, but because it holds some of my earliest memories: of my parents weaving extravagant stories for me late into the night, my grandmother’s affectionate scoldings, and of the playful fights with my cousins that filled summer afternoons. 

English was my second language. I started learning it when I was three, sitting on my mother’s lap as she patiently guided me through a labyrinth of unfamiliar sounds and phrases. Her kindness, her willingness to teach me with resolute patience, taught me the beauty of language beyond just its practicality. From my tentative speaking for the first time in preschool to the elaborate tales that I would entertain my friends with in second grade, English connected me to worlds beyond my own. 

My third language, Hindi, I picked up in school. Learning it was different, because it wasn’t tied to my home or personal experiences, but rather to teachers and textbooks. And yet, despite the difficulties, it fascinated me. The intrinsically natural flow and lilting tones of Hindi appealed to me in a way that Tamil and English didn’t, and I rejoiced in being able to converse with my family in the charismatic language. 

I have a long list of other dialects I hope to learn someday. Some are for sentimental reasons: like French, to fulfill my childhood dream of being able to speak the “language of love,” or Bengali, to keep a promise I made to one of my closest friends to learn her mother tongue. Others are just out of fascination: Korean for its poetic simplicity, Malayalam for my long-standing love of Kerala, or Greek for its rich mythology. 

Beyond just the words, however, what’s fascinated me the most is how language shapes the way we remember. Studies have shown that bilingual people remember memories differently based on the language they associate certain instances with. Some moments, like childhood summers spent in India, I recall in the warmth and comfort of Tamil. Others, like school achievements or late-night conversations with my friends, exist in a crisp and clear fashion in English. 

And then there are words that exist in one language but not another, the ones that hold too complex an emotion or ideology to translate. Tamil, for example, has azhagu, which is defined as something so beautiful that it transcends the physical, or thendral, which is described as the gentle, soothing embrace of a breeze that calms you to the point of nirvana. 

I like to think that’s the true beauty of languages, not just the words we speak, but the way they have the ability to subtly change our various perceptions of the world. Each language carries its own rhythm, its own poetry, its own way of capturing memories that would’ve otherwise slipped away.