I didn’t speak any English when we arrived in Britain from India, so my first week of nursery school was a bust. My teachers radiated sweetness, but that couldn’t traverse the fact I didn’t speak their language, nor they mine. I was mute and dispirited until that first Friday, when Mum asked how my day was. I looked at her, askance, and supposedly said, in English, “Oh! You no speak English?”
From that first sentence, my adopted language and I tumbled head-over-heels in love. Since then I’ve taken years of French, majored in Italian and started to study Spanish, forever chasing the high of that original linguistic click. But my favorite language in the world will always be my mother tongue, Kashmiri.
Kashmiri is a magnificent tongue-twister of a language. And it’s such a reflection of the core values of my people — so sharp, funny and specific — that I end up reaching for it in situations that can’t be described in English. I’ll call our toddler a “khin-metz,” a snot-smeared, wild-eyed child. “Na ho’t kun, te na lo’t” (“This has neither neck nor tail”) might sprout from my mouth over a meandering book, a toddler outfit or a friend’s new weird boyfriend. Then my favorite, “don ech’hin chhum kharan!” (“I hate it with both my eyes!”), which is useful in any circumstance, from decor choices to bad haircuts.
The language, like my family, is wildly affectionate. We might not have the words for “I love you,” but my mother greets our kids with a barrage of adoration. “Myon zuv!” (“my life!”) she squeals on FaceTime. “Shoosh myon, redhu myon, poot myon!” (“my lungs, my heart, my teeny-tiny baby chick!”)
But it’s not all smothering tenderness. As a culture that values achievement, we were raised with a high-drama approach to parenting: If a cousin didn’t feel like studying, my aunt might say “accha, tel’i dimmuv kitaa’bun naar?” or “great, so should we set the books on fire?” A messy teen, I was daily awarded a “gold medal” in “tsot vahravun,” or “carelessly tossing garbage about.” On our most maddening days, we might hear “khash kar’ai,” a warning which literally means “I’ll cut you.” (I swear it sounds much cuter and less murderous in person.)
Mind you, no one ever lifted a finger against us. With that kind of imagery they didn’t have to. In my own parenting, I admit that my native tone can sometimes alarm the children. “If you turn that corner, you’ll get kidnapped,” I toss out, casually. “What!? That’s terrifying!” screams my son, screeching his new bike to a halt. Is it? Not to a woman raised with imaginary textbooks aflame, or shrugging off threats of a knifing.
That said, I’m ashamed to say I don’t really speak a lot of Kashmiri at home. I understand it completely, but after multiple rounds of unrest and moving around to places with other languages, many of my generation grew up replying to our parents in Hindi or English. Also, because of our exodus, I was raised with a stronger-than-usual emphasis on preserving the culture, the food, the language, and I felt that duty deeply.
Of course this extended to marrying within the community, so I tried to meet a nice Kashmiri boy — I really did. Strangely, it wasn’t that easy to find one, working in entertainment, in Los Angeles, in the early aughts. So I met and married a wonderful guy from New York, who doesn’t speak one word of Kashmiri (although he’d probably love to), and we speak English together.
The joy of raising dual-culture children, for us, is about passing down the best of both worlds. My husband is Jewish, so when the kids are of age they’ll start taking steps toward their bar and bat mitzvahs, a proper training in their Jewish heritage. We’ve certainly got Kashmiri food, holidays and attire on lock, but I do feel the failure of falling so far behind on the language front — I’m now wondering how to build our children a bridge to the language that I adore.
Normally the kids, ages 2 and 6, could spend a chunk of the summer with my parents, who would immerse them in it. But this summer isn’t exactly normal, so any cultural lessons are on pause. In the meantime, I’ve been watching closely, collecting scraps of evidence that an inherent love of words — any words, even if they’re not Kashmiri — will blossom in both of my children.
Between their parents’ being writers and the miracle of DNA, I seem to be in luck. “A spectacular baby!” our son called our daughter when he was 4. He tears through his chapter books, bursting into the room, bushy hair on end, to ask for definitions: Perplexed! Secretary! Brassiere! We give him most, and fumfer around others, especially when he gets into the newspaper. He does that thing that all voracious readers do, where he knows how to read a word, and what it means, but not how to pronounce it (“BRACE-ee-uhr!”). I remember being embarrassed by that, because it turns out “misled” is not pronounced MY-zuld, but eventually recognized it as a proud badge of bookworms everywhere. He notices my delight at his verbal curiosity, and plays around with it.
“I need to tell you something the baby does when you’re not around.” he said to me, solemn, when she was 1. “She makes up long words, and says them in a clear voice.”
He knew nothing would make me happier, or more frustrated. There’s the sharp, funny and specific that I love.
He also may have willed something into being, because the toddler isn’t far behind. She shows a strong preference for the more toothsome parts of the dictionary. The standard “Hi!” and “Dada” quickly gave way to octopus (“oppodippo!”), helicopter (“hakaliko!”), and jalapeño (“jalapeño”).
We watch her roll a new word around in her mouth, use it in a brief, take-charge sentence (“Oppodippo, sit, watch me eat oatmeal!”), and then practice it in her crib until she falls asleep. Her bravery in the face of consonant clusters will serve her well, if and when she picks up Kashmiri.
She’s even invented her first joke, which you’ll have to grade on a curve, because she’s a baby:
Knocky Knock!
Who’s there?
OK!
In these moments, seeing them delight in using words in a way that is creative and quick-witted, I do feel some inner peace, knowing for sure that I’m raising Kashmiri kids after all. They may not understand the language yet, but there’s still time for grandparents and lessons and textbooks. And the other night, as we put the baby to bed, she lay down in her crib, smiled up at Dada, and said, clear as a bell, “Dishwasher.” Intention set, she cuddled in with her lovies, to practice her new favorite word. An affectionate, ridiculous chatterbox Kashmiri through and through. Myon redhu, myon shoosh, myon zuv.
My heart, my lungs, my life.
Priyanka Mattoo is a writer and filmmaker in Los Angeles.
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