The video, from the beginning of fall in 2012, features a toddler and his mother. He is two and a half years old. The video records them on a trip to Columbus, Ohio, his birthplace and residence until a year ago. In the recording, his mom is persistently trying to teach him “Amader Chhoto Nodi,” (Our Little Stream) a beautiful poem from Shohoj Path, one of her favorite books, and a childhood staple for Bengali children. She runs after him, trying to pin him down, repeating “Bolo, amader chhoto nodi” almost in a frenzy. The toddler sprints to all corners of the apartment, his words as electric as his steps. His little body is like a drawn bow, from which his words (everything but “Amader Chhoto Nodi”) and his steps launch like arrows – grouped, pointed, light, landing in a heap. His tongue is working overtime to keep up with his racing mind, picking up and applying words by the dozen every day. This afternoon, suddenly, on one of his sprints, he stops mid-track, looks at the camera and his pleading Mom, and with a mischievous grin, lisps, “Amader chhoto nodi – Olentangy!”

In a spontaneous reference to Columbus’s beautiful rivulet, which flows around the university campus and our former residence, and after which many of the city’s neighborhoods, businesses and buildings are named, my toddler son gave a prelude to how he would learn Bangla (Bengali), his mother tongue, in the years to follow. And how the language, and its linguistic and cultural manifestations, would be contextualized to his American existence.

Over the years, his verbal skills in Bengali have developed consistently, and even though his reading and writing endeavors have been initiated and terminated every year, his experience with the language has been an organic one. He speaks Bengali fluently and uses colloquialisms effortlessly. He also speaks without an iota of an accent, and rarely uses words in English when he is speaking Bengali. Anyone who speaks with, or hears of, him is mesmerized by his spontaneous use of words like “jhnuki” (risk), “smriti” (memory), “antbey” (will fit), “chit hoye showa” (lying on one’s back), even “kaathberali” (squirrel)! He is lauded in social circles, as our friends request him on phone calls to enact how he will order tea from a local tea shop in Kolkata. In an impeccable street accent and tone, he obliges, “O Kaka! Du-cup cha-bishkut diyo to!” (Uncle, get me two cups of tea and biscuits!) Friends routinely comment how he, who has not visited Kolkata in more than seven years, speaks better Bangla than many Bengali kids living in the city.

It’s fun, and very rewarding to speak with him in our mother tongue, and to hear him apply adages and idioms effortlessly in his conversations. My husband and I do not particularly gloat, though. Speaking with him in Bangla came naturally to us, since Bangla is the mother tongue of both of us. It was not an extraordinary endeavor or achievement at “teaching” him Bangla, and we would not have done anything differently if we lived in Kolkata, or in any other part of the world. The only thing we consciously have done is to continue speaking to him in his mother language even after he went to school. As I explain to friends and family, the reason he turned out to be quite a “speaking” white tiger of his generation, is because of two reasons. On the one hand we just let ourselves “be” around him, never changing our own conversations to fit his convenience or his comprehension. On the other hand, we took a mindful, consistent, and humorous approach to communicating in Bangla with him.

In the days and weeks leading up to International Mother Language Day, I am reflecting on how Bangla became and has remained my American son’s mother tongue. In declaring 21^st February as International Mother Language Day, UNESCO emphasizes the implications of languages as the crucible of cultures, and the need to sustain linguistic heritage and diversity in a world homogenized by globalization and communication technologies. This account is hardly a critical analysis based on theories and histories though. It is rather a very personal story of thoughts, processes, and a few small decisions that have permitted the organic and enjoyable coexistence of two equally-used languages in the life of a second-generation American child.

Communication and languages have been at the center of my husband and my personal, and my own professional, life. It’s ironic, almost funny, that I use the word center. Since the sociopolitical climate of our upbringing and the role of language in it can best be etched out in three concentric circles. The largest backdrop was that of a postcolonial India, where English was the operational language of the upper echelons of society, and the aspirational one for the rest. Against this was the relatively smaller backdrop of a communism-inspired state government that had branded English as the language of the “bourgeoisie,” and had thus practically banished it from the state’s primary education system. The most intimate, proximal backdrop constituted our respective families and the “English-medium” private schools we attended.

My husband spent eight years in a residential Hindu missionary school that did not teach or treat languages as symbols of sociocultural capital. His love for literature in English was incubated at the school library, and at home his mother and he competed over books in Bangla. He grew up to be strangely adept in the puns and fun of both languages, while being entirely unconscious of their relation to power and prestige. I, on the other hand, went to a school where the structural and functional intricacies of our mother and adopted tongues – including spellings, grammar, pronunciation, and usage – were meticulously taught, while age-appropriate literatures in both languages were read, enacted, and intrinsically woven into our school day. At home, my father, a leading poet of his generation, and my mother, an avid reader, introduced me to traditional and contemporary Bangla literature and music.

In short, there were no shortcuts. Deep respect for both languages was instilled in school, and further consolidated under the august tutelage and mentorship of several professors, who were scholars of English, and wrote regularly in leading Bengali literary magazines in impeccable Bangla. In class we were enchanted by their teaching of Macbeth or Paradise Lost, whereas in the hallways and college canteens, we collectively marveled at their latest critical analysis or translation. Their effortless crisscrossing of linguistic boundaries inculcated the belief that those who are confident in one language can easily master another. This has been the primary reason why, as parents, we never felt threatened that our son would not “learn to converse in English” if we spoke to him in Bangla. Before my son uttered his first words, I remember joking with a friend that I would be as proud of my son speaking fluently in Bangla as many Bengali mothers are of their children’s “spoken English.”

It did not come easy, though. The first decision was to “name” the language. At two, my son had no concept of a language. As such, Bangla and English were mere names for him. We addressed this by naming the languages as “barir kotha” (words of home) and “ittuler kotha” (words of school). Associating the language with the locale it was used in helped him situate it and distinguish between the two. Once that distinction was made, we stuck to Bengali at home. Our son could also make the connections quickly, often switching spontaneously between English and Bengali in a group where both our family and others were present.

The next step was expanding his vocabulary. Before and around the time he was born, we were close friends with our Bolivian neighbors with three children. I had noticed how the children did not use a single word in English when they spoke in Spanish, to the extent that a non-Spanish-speaking person could not even deduce the topic of the conversation from one or two keywords in English. I turned to my friend when my son started speaking. She explained how she expanded the children’s vocabulary. “For you or me, who know both the languages, it’s a matter of choice. We can use the Spanish or Bengali word, or the English one. Our children will resort to the word in English often because they just don’t know its Bengali or Spanish counterpart. When my kids were learning to speak, I always told them the Spanish word for everything, even if it was a word not in common use. We need to give them the choice at least, and if we don’t, who will?” I followed her advice. When my preschooler and then school-going child used English words that are commonly used in Bangla, we paused him and shared the Bangla word for it. Gradually, words such as “aalo” (light), “rong” (color), “byabohar” (use), “kothin” (hard), “shohoj” (easy), among thousands of others, became part of his everyday speech. In the process, my husband and I began consciously using complex words we had ourselves overlooked for years. We also did not take his interest for granted or let his vocabulary slide, expanding it consistently, giving him a soft nudge when he got stuck, or an inconspicuous pat when he expressed himself well.

We also realized that we needed to make the process and concepts fun. Merely being a stickler for pure, unadulterated language use would soon feel like a punishment, and was not going to be sustainable. As our son began to occasionally give in to the ease of inserting common English words in conversation, we began to call it “salad language,” a mishmash. Soon a haphazard and lazy use became “stinky salad.” As he crunched his little nose in mock disgust with the “stink,” he also refrained from using a combination of English and Bengali words in sentences. Then came the day he crunched his nose and corrected me, “Ota shirt noy, jama,” (It’s not shirt, it’s jama) while I was speaking to my mother on the phone!

We also developed a supportive community around him. His daycare teachers were the first to remind me that while he was surrounded by opportunities to learn English, we were the only sources of Bangla for him. In response to my concern that he might not be able to follow instructions in English at a time when he only spoke at length with us, they quickly assured me that a child always finds a way to communicate if he needs to. We insisted all our Bangla-speaking friends converse with him, and tell him stories and jokes in Bangla. Even our American friends enthusiastically became his “Mashi”-s (Aunts) and “Kaku”-s (Uncles).

Most importantly, we have tried to contextualize Bangla words and idioms to his American life. Pretty early on, we realized that he had no sociocultural reference point for literatures or music, and that it would be futile to impose them on him. He is shy in a crowd, and loathes being in any kind of limelight. We refrained from making a specious attempt to teach him serious songs and poems that he would not understand, but could parrot and perform in front of others. Instead, we kept his learning simple – Bengali modern songs play at home in the background, and I shift to colloquial Bangla when I read Sukumar Ray[1]’s short stories to him. My husband tells him stories of “Pintu-Da and “Jhontu-da,” two apparently real-life adventurers who missed the Titanic and survived, because they were busy eating “ek thala alu ar machh bhaja” (a plateful of fish and chips) as the ship sailed away. The other day we caught our eleven-year-old singing “Jeeboney ki paabona[2],” by himself, applying it to his need for a laptop, making words up as he goes. Purists over words and grammar, we are complete non-conformists when it comes to cultural appropriation. We do not have the unrealistic expectation that he would ever watch “Tin Bhuboner Paarey[3],” the movie, or read Rabindranath Tagore in the original. Instead, we want him to make Bangla real and his own, appropriating it to his reality. Our greatest joy is when he is able to spontaneously and effortlessly describe an event, analyze a situation, or express complex emotions in his mother tongue.

Gradually, Bangla, which he was never “taught,” but just used, has become an identity, an environment, a reality for him. Even as he advanced to elementary and now middle school, we have not given in to the convenience of resorting to English. We respect and encourage his choice of words – even when he sometimes thinks in English and speaks in Bangla (“Tui banali amakey eta kortey” <– You made me do this)! Comprehension is key to any language use, and we do not shirk from explaining a use to him when he draws a blank, or asking him to explain when his use is unclear.

In my opinion, literary diversity is not under threat. We believe that children are smart beings, and have the amazing ability to “figure things out,” including the nuances of several languages.

The UNESCO map for endangered and extinct languages and dialects reveals appalling statistics regarding several hundred mother languages all over the world. Walls have gone up at borders and within people’s minds, and yet, the world has dissolved into an amorphous heap of disappearing linguistic and cultural boundaries. New channels of communication seem to erupt around us every day, and yet languages are becoming extinct at an alarming rate. There are academic and public discourses around the positive and negative implications of social media platforms, news (and fake news) outlets, the online-offline dichotomy, and even linguistic and literary unanimity. Communication has broken free of distance, prohibitive costs, and has landed in a world of languid ease and the convenience of instantaneity. And yet, against the cacophony of incessant conversations, the homogeneity of the language we converse in stands in stark relief.

As I assimilated my thoughts on my personal experience with raising a Bengali-speaking American son, I also wanted to listen to other immigrant voices. Two Chinese American friends – from one of the largest immigrant communities in the US – spoke of Chinese schools and classes that are available for language lessons and acculturation (similar schools and classes are also offered in several Indian languages, and multiple European languages as well). One of them had not sent her sons yet (since her family speaks a different dialect than the typical Mandarin or Cantonese) and the other dropped out as it is “such a difficult language to learn (since there’s no alphabet).” She rued, “After a few years of it, I felt that the amount of time required to keep up in class began to outweigh the benefits.” She also felt that a global economy necessitates commonality of certain languages with other countries. She does not feel any threat to the Chinese spoken language, “although the older ‘traditional’ style of writing characters is heading that way because mainland China does not teach it that way anymore.” This is also exacerbated by handwriting becoming obsolete, especially as voice dictation becomes more widespread.

For some, languages are mere means of casual communication, while for others they are a medium for experiments and intellectual exercises. Some think of them as their exclusive communal legacy, while others think of them as a convenient bridge with others. It is true that regional languages and dialects are being replaced by a few international linguistic giants, and sometimes words and phrases from one language are assimilating into another. And yet, there cannot be a uniform relationship between languages and their users, nor can their uses be mapped into a standardized template.

Like civilization itself, languages undergo shifts and transformations, and yet, we each have our unique relationship with our mother tongue. They help us connect to others, and also let us travel inward to process our emotions and our realities. Resembling a meandering river, languages tell personal stories, and carry and contain those of a community.

And thus, a nameless river in a sweet Bengali poem can become Hudson, Danube, or Olentangy!

[1] Sukumar Ray is a much loved and celebrated Bengali humor writer and limericist.

[2] Translated to English “Jeeboney ki paabona…” is “what I will not get in my life”. This is a line from a famous song in a Bengali movie, Tin Bhuboner Paarey.

[3] Tin Bhuboner Paarey is an enormously popular Bengali movie