Written piece
Mother Tongue
Salman Ali Khan A
India
About this piece
An immigrant mother silences her mother tongue so her daughter may belong, only for it to be later revived by the same daughter, revealing the enduring ties of heritage and identity that bind generations.
Mother Tongue
Salma made her decision the week Mariam was born.
English only. No exceptions.
She had seen other immigrant families in London do it differently — children switching mid-sentence, parents answering in one language, grandparents in another. It looked exhausting, belonging halfway to two places and fully to neither. She wanted something simpler for her daughter. One world. Solid ground.
So her mother tongue, Deccani, stayed inside her, sealed like a room she no longer entered.
The years passed. Salma’s calls to her family back in Bangalore grew careful, formal, always in English. Her mother’s voice would linger on the line, waiting for something more. Salma filled the silence with practical things.
She never called it loss.
*
Mariam grew up entirely English. Her slang, her jokes, even the pauses between her sentences belonged to the place she was born.
Salma watched with relief.
Sometimes she stood in the doorway while Mariam spoke to her friends. At certain words, certain rhythms, Salma’s hands would go still on whatever she was holding. She would look down, find something else to do with them, and move away.
*
One evening, the argument was ordinary.
Mariam’s voice rose; Salma’s patience snapped. Words came fast and sharp.
Mariam yelled, “Wo manje nakko!”
Salma went still. “Where did you learn that from?”
“Videos. Articles.” Mariam shrugged. “I wanted to learn my mother tongue.”
Salma said nothing for a moment. Then her mother tongue returned to her — the words unfamiliar in her mouth, but not lost.
“Meri bachchi, teri koshish dekh ko manje bauth khushi hui.”
Mariam smiled.
Deccani had always been there, Salma thought. Just waiting.
***