Strained would be the word I would use to describe my relationship with my motherland. Even more strained would be my connection to my mother tongue. With English at school and bits of Malayalam here and there at home, the latter became secondary, maintaining a peaceful coexistence with the former.

Raised by Keralite parents abroad, I was not pressured by them to learn my mother tongue in its entirety. To me, and to them, I would learn the language when I wanted to, and this was agreed upon. As I became more familiar with the English language, Malayalam was backed into a corner. It was evident; the comfort with which I spoke English was lacking when it came to my mother tongue.

It did not help that I would only visit Kerala once every year. Communicating (read: trying to) with family using the minimal words in my vocabulary, always nudging my parents to explain to me what everyone was saying, I was a frustrated child.

My relatives weren’t so supportive of my late admission into speaking Malayalam. I began to hate every trip to Kerala, whining to my father about how everyone makes fun of me for not speaking in Malayalam. So I did the next best thing to tackle the teasing – the silent treatment. I was determined to not react to any sore phrases aimed at me. Disgruntled, I’d go up to my parents and sit with them, refusing to give my relatives the satisfaction of my repressed anger. But of course, I had still wished I knew Malayalam, considering everyone around me knew.

I believe it was more of a cultural expectation rather than a cerebral requirement. It was as though my ineptitude at Malayalam was withholding me from becoming a part of the Keralite society. Looking back, I do not think my incapacity at Malayalam hindered me much, only that it estranged me from my relatives. While my parents did not make a fuss out of it, I was forced to believe that I would only be a ‘good’ Malayali if I knew the language.

Cut to the fifth grade – I have now taken on the challenge of teaching myself Malayalam. Even though my school offered it as a subject, I didn’t go for it because French seemed way more interesting than a language that I could study any time from the comfort of my home.

Beginner’s Malayalam writing books and the news headlines on TV were my guides. My parents would spontaneously quiz me on the letters and ask me to read a few phrases, and for every sentence I got wrong, we’d laugh it off. There was no pressure in studying at my own pace and no stress from making mistakes.

A year later, I had learnt the basics of the Malayalam alphabet, reading and writing. Speaking, however, did not come easily as I was still used to English, but believe me, I was trying.

Coming back to the present – it has been almost a decade since I began learning Malayalam. Even though it takes me a while to read the daily newspaper, and I stutter and make phonetic mistakes while speaking it, I’d like to think that studying Malayalam brings me closer to my family and relatives.

Malayalam, more than it is a language, is a culture. With different accents and variations of Malayalam across the state, it specifies certain cultures. However diverse it may be, it is also coalescent.

A beautiful language, sometimes I’m afraid I’ll butcher the rhythm of Malayalam with my unforgiving pronunciations. Regardless, you can find me trying my best to speak my mother tongue because the culture dictates it as such. And besides, the pleasure in cussing out a person in Malayalam is something else.