* Languages: Gujarati
* Aditi is a high school junior and currently attends Livingston High School in Livingston, NJ.
Part I: Jamna (Birth)
Birth is akin to some class of a divine miracle, giving passage to the formation of a living and breathing being. The beauty of jamna is the precise yet chaotic unfolding of nature, paving way for an innocent life to be born into this corrupted world. Mine was sudden, or rather, to be gentler on myself, simply unannounced. Not once did my parents shy away from informing me my jamna was unplanned. Sweetie, taru jamna ni apeksha nothi (We didn’t expect your birth), they would hastily comment in Gujarati, their native tongue, whenever I whined with questions about my origins. Upon learning this, I added “jamna” to the Gujarati dictionary hidden in my mind. Then, they would make sure to tell me that their love for me was unconditional, larger than the oceans, in fact. Yet, I could visualize the fleeting sparks of tension race through my anxious mother’s hazel eyes when I questioned her about my jamna. My parents’ trivial battles regarding finances, raising me, and education dominated peaceful Sunday night dinners and graduation ceremonies. My unforeseen birth, was just, well, another burden, another reason for them to put on masks and act as a unified couple, another excuse to compromise despite their inflexible mindsets. They tried to do it because of my jamna.
Part II: Bharnvanue ane Vachvanue (Studying and Reading)
Although I spoke English with peers at school, my brain thought in Gujarati. Each word my parents spoke, or rather fought with, rolled off of their swift tongues, burning right through my forehead, forever embedding itself into my expanding mental Gujarati dictionary. English felt like my second language, yet my parents were insistent that my shelves were filled classic American children’s books like The Cat In The Hat. My mother tongue was still, however, Gujarati. I automatically used this knowledge to comprehend my parents’ bickering. Returning from school felt like a whirlwind most days. My mom would perpetually shift her gaze from the road to the mirror, where she’d eye me with a dejected expression I learned to associate with conflict in my household. When I would return from school, my first instinct would be to sneak behind the marble staircase with one ear glued to the proximate basement door. Although I hoped to hear exchanged words of peace, I was disappointed each day, overwhelmed with arguments about laundry and cooking.
I, being my obedient self, followed every direction by my teachers and parents. Although my parents could barely come to an agreement on any matter regarding their personal and professional lives, they did agree on one mantra: utilize and take advantage of the beauticious gift of knowledge. You see, they’d calmly say, Ayaa America ma tane bahu badha taka che. Tahne bahnuvu pardse caranke amare evu taka koi devas notu maryu India ma. (Here, in America, you have every chance you could possibly dream of. You will have to study hard because we never had this can in India). My immigrant parents, and thus being a first generation Indian, spurred my hard-working nature. Constant conversations with my future-engrossed parents enabled me to add “bharnvanue ane vachvanue” to my further spreading dictionary. Without having the constant motivation to please my parents and to pursue a degree, my work ethic would have suffered. I shake my head now, but at the time I imagined that me studying would somehow mend their already shattered relationship.
Part III: Nanpan (Childhood)
My mother’s artificially glossy lips would make their way to my rosy cheek as she dropped me off at my Dadi’s, or her mother’s place. I recall hanging onto the loose leather end of the belt hanging from her waist, entreating her to keep me bonded to her side. She, polite and gentle, would carefully pry my stubby fingers from her long silky arm, convincing me she would be home from work in no time. Then, we could go to the park, roller skate, and even get ice cream. Lured by her enticing words, I would reluctantly let go of her belt. Yet, each weekend I spent at Dadi’s ended in the same manner. Mummy would show up at Dadi’s, hours past her initial promise. She would coat me in faded lipstick, apologizing and attempting to restructure the expression of irritation and contempt on my face. Her careless demeanor and slurred speech hinted at her night of drinking, and I knew she turned to alcohol exclusively in times where she didn’t want to deal with a life she never wanted. Household duties, a job, paying bills, a husband who argued with her, and her child — these were all items she never asked for, but was simply expected to deal with as a “modern Indian woman.” Upon realizing this, I’d turn away from her foul-smelling breath, hiding the wells of tears ready to fall out. A su kare che? Tari ekaj dikri che (What is this that you are doing? You only have one child).
Dadi would yell at mother for letting me down, her only daughter. Evenings waiting for her to return would consist of Dadi and I staring out of the curtained dark windows, catching brief glimpses of fireflies that occasionally flashed a vibrant fluorescent yellow. Upon seeing the tricks the fireflies played on our eyes, Dadi would calmly chuckle, her dimples creating prominent wrinkles in her aged cheeks. You know, she would comment, your mother’s nanpan (childhood) was just like these bursts of yellow. Intrigued by her use of a new Gujarati word, I made a mental note of it. She continued: Teri mummy nu nanpan ma e bardha ne madad karti thi. Ave, kasu thayu che, ane e prakasa jati rayi che. (In your mother’s childhood, she would always have this glimmer to her, and help others. Now, something has happened and her light has gone away). My mother’s light was not like a firefly anymore. That sparkle, that glimmer from her nanpan, was practically nonexistent.
Part IV: Chuta Cheda (Divorce)
A miniscule stain on a shirt leads to it being put into an aggressive washing machine, where it is whipped and slapped against the sides repeatedly until it is completely wrinkled. The initial stain has no guarantee of coming off if the right detergent is not used. The primitive clashes between my parents heightened over the years, building on the already present tension. The right ingredients were simply not present in their once beautiful union: compromise, self-sacrifice, and understanding were mythical in their alliance. The splotch in their relationship, never properly washed off, created an imperfection within the entire garment — my shattered household.
The copious, salty tears drifted across my face as the attorney questioned me about which parent I would choose to live with. I frantically eyed both of them. Mummy’s neutral, blotched face stared back at me. Flashes of days at the park and shopping for cholis (skirts) in India dashed before my eyes. She placed her grip upon my bare shoulder, reminding me of all of the instances, at school, the mall, ice-skating, where her grip was the sole factor keeping me upright. My Papa cautiously inched closer to me, making sure to maintain a distance from Mummy. He gently smiled at me with his no-teeth showing grin. Through the years, I have learned to associate this delicate grin with assurance that all is well when it does not seem to be. His grin is present in the forced family photos that adorn our walls. He handed me a plain tissue, a blank slate, with no past or future, something that I long for in that instant. A ramata nathi, a mari zindagi che. (This isn’t a game, this is my life). I avoided the lawyer’s pressing questions for a while, but was ultimately confronted with the decision I had foreseen, yet was still fearful of. My parents were divided, separated through a chuta cheda (divorce). I was the sole being that kept them unified. There was no more marriage, no sacred agreement, that linked the two individuals I had learned so much from: both how to learn and fight.
Part V: Samjan ane Sukha (Understanding and Success)
The stunning nature of language is represented by the fact that it is universal. Individuals of copious backgrounds rely on words from their own native tongue to communicate their opinions, voice their ideas, and convey their emotions. My ears would continuously prick up during the countless afternoons spent at Dadi’s following the chutta cheda as she read aloud classical Gujarati novels to keep my mind distracted. Gujarati is one of many languages in India, spoken in a small rural section of the vast country. Yet, despite its origination in the meager but modest area of Gujarat, with its compliant speakers, Gujarati has been brought to numerous foreign locations. Although these speakers, like Dadi or my parents, often reside where English is the common method of communication, Gujarati is still preserved in their daily thoughts and minds. A language does not die out when one moves away, but rather dutifully follows those who choose to embrace it and explore the depth of its meaning. Language is not limited to being spoken in just one location. It can be universal if you choose.
Intrigued by the importance of languages in civilians’ lives, I focused on the study of communication and languages in college. I had experienced words, spoken in Gujarati, brutally tear a relationship apart. My parents’ non-stop fighting and bickering was always done in this language — this language which otherwise had so much hidden beauty that I was unable to see. Hearing them argue solely in Gujarati, spurred my mind into distinctly associating Gujarati with negativity, conflict, and destruction.
Scrolling through videos on my mother’s computer one night, I was shocked to come across a few films from vacations when I was young. My finger, curious, rushed to press the play sign. Bright images of Mummy, Papa, and I flashed up in a beach scene. They turned the camera towards themselves and whispered into each others’ ear, giggling immaturely afterwards. Then, they once again directed the video camera towards me, encouraging me in Gujarati to dance, swim, or to do something silly. What my parents hid from me were the stimulating memories of their relationship which also encompassed traces of Gujarati. Although they fought in that very language, they were likewise able to develop immeasurable memories in which Gujarati was not used to break, but rather, fortify their union.
Samjan (understanding) and sukha (success) were the next meaningful words which I copiously jotted down in my ever-growing mental Gujarati dictionary. Compromising to adjust to various ways of life is so utterly essential for one’s mental and physical well-being. Maintaining any relationship is not an effortless endeavor; however, any beautiful union undeniably comprises flecks of loving and fighting.
Meet the Writer:
Aditi: "I am a stem and humanities enthusiast! I have found that literature and writing opened up a unique door to an realm which I for so long left undiscovered. As an individual who continually uses the logical and scientific portion of her mind, writing has given me the chance to touch on my cultural heritage and background: something that I was once reluctant to disclose and cloaked."
HOW MANY PIECES LEFT?! Only time will tell. We promise we're almost there -- but there's just too many language-lovers who want to contribute to New Semantics. See you next week!
Photos:
Photo by chrissie kremer on Unsplash (laundry).
Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash Fika Cafe (books)
Photo by Arushi Saini on Unsplash Gujarat, India.
Photo by Val Vesa on Unsplash. A close-up of a candle lights line with blurry effects and a glass jar in foreground.
Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash. Port Stanley, Canada (Beach).
Photo by Janko Ferlič on Unsplash. Baby feet.
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