In the 1980s, when I was coming of age, the tongue of my family and community was not English. Though our words were sufficient for the requirements of offices and schools, they were not employed in the daily intercourse of life. English was a subject to be studied, a skill to be acquired, but not a medium of natural expression.

Yet, very early in my teenage years, a curious desire took root within me to master the art of conversing in English and set myself apart from those around me. I borrowed fiction titles from a distant library, rented American movies and strained to understand the songs broadcasted on the precious two hours of MTV we received via government television. The internet, with its instant access to lyrics, was not yet a thing, and I later learned that I had been singing many of those songs incorrectly. But the movies, they did teach me the nuances of slang and helped me find a sense of ease in spoken English. It was the books, however, that had the most lasting impact, enriching my vocabulary and shaping my storytelling abilities, despite the lack of practice in pronunciation.

But time moves on, and with it, the world around us. Now English is the default language in the corporate workplace, my family and I converse in it more than half the time, and the majority of media we consume- the books we read, the movies we watch and the songs we listen to, all are in English. I find myself having to actively make an effort to write in Hindi, my mother tongue. And it pains me.

I wonder, will there come a second teenage, where I will again desire to set myself apart by choosing Hindi over English? Only time will tell.

And yet, as I reflect upon these thoughts, I am reminded that even now, I sometimes read "heart" as "hurt" before correcting myself and realize there's not much difference between the two.