Anandi Mishra on Navigating Language Barriers in “Learning Bengali”
By Anandi MishraOctober 6, 2021
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Before even feeling remotely confident in uttering the simplest Bengali words, I feared they would sound clumsy, awkward, even ridiculous coming from my untrained tongue. In my mind, I constantly drew comparisons between myself and the celebrated author Jhumpa Lahiri, who had so eloquently validated her passion for Italian by writing an entire book in the language, giving interviews, and confidently embracing her love for this new tongue on the global stage. Conversely, I had only just begun to tentatively explore Bengali after moving in with my partner in mid-2018.
My partner, M, an only child, was born and raised in Kolkata (formerly Calcutta). I, as my parents’ second child, grew up in the North Indian town of Kanpur (formerly Cawnpore). Beyond our shared colonial history, these two regions of India also share a significant Bengali population. As a child, I consistently spent at least two weeks of Durga Puja each year in the company of my parents’ Bengali friends. Even at a young age, I sensed a distinct quality to their existence, a kind of unique identity within the predominantly Hindi-speaking heartland. With the departure of summer, heralding the arrival of a pleasant spring, we would celebrate the Hindu festival of Durga Puja – nine days of festivities culminating in the final day, marking the triumph of light over darkness.
Bengali tradition celebrated it with even greater grandeur. There were elaborate pandals, representations of goddesses, Durga idols, fairs, food stalls, dance performances, literary readings, all unfolding throughout those nine days. My parents’ friends would take time off work, their children would miss school, all immersed in a distinctive festive atmosphere.
This felt unusual to me.
While we shared the same religious background, our celebrations were never as extensive. Whenever I was around them, I would try to eavesdrop on their conversations. I wanted to understand the true essence of these celebrations, and somehow, it seemed to me that their language was the key to unlocking that understanding. At my home, only weddings were celebrated in such a prolonged manner, sometimes stretching over a couple of weeks.
Bengali, to my naive ears, sounded like a vibrant, loud, and exuberant expression, a celebration of spoken words, of life, and of living in the present moment. Listening to people speak, it felt as if they were reveling in their ability to communicate. Its melodious quality filled the room with a gentle rhythm all its own. The intonation, their expressions, the shifting tones – I observed them silently, letting my ears absorb everything.
In mid-2018, when I moved in with my boyfriend, I didn’t anticipate that Bengali would re-enter my life. And this time, it was destined to stay.
Reflecting on the word “sondare” in her book In Other Words, Lahiri describes it as, “It means methodical, stubborn research, into something that remains forever out of reach.” She calls it “[a] well-aimed verb that perfectly explains my project.” This word resonated with me deeply and became a lens through which I viewed my own linguistic journey. I noticed striking similarities between my growing affection for Bangla (the Bengali word for Bengali is Bangla) and Lahiri’s fervent passion for Italian.
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My journey began with the sweetest, shortest, and most direct Bangla word: keno. It was a delightful inquiry, frequently used in casual conversation. I had heard it in the streets, in my neighborhood, at work amongst Bengali colleagues, with former flatmates who were Bengali sisters, and now with my partner. It zipped by quickly when spoken, the “o” sound at the end feeling inviting. I later learned it meant “why,” and promptly started incorporating it into my Hindi when speaking with my Hindi-speaking family.
I would listen to M speaking with his parents, debating with friends, politely chatting with colleagues, or bargaining with street vendors. Subconsciously, the language began to settle into the hidden spaces of my mind. Without any conscious effort, I found myself recalling words faster than my colleagues, demonstrating an insatiable eagerness to learn more.
“Tumi kicchu jaaano na (you know nothing at all),” became my first favorite Bangla sentence, a playful catchphrase. I would use it jokingly with friends who would tease my pronunciation, saying it sounded like someone from East Bengal. I took small steps like this every day, gradually moving away from my fear and anxiety about mispronouncing words. On our commutes home from work, M and I would discuss our day or a movie we had seen, and I would casually slip in a Bangla word or two. I didn’t want to attract attention; I wanted to immerse myself in the language stealthily, without the burden of performance, expectations, or appearing naive. Walking home from the metro station, amidst the cacophony of traffic, from behind my N95 mask, I would quietly utter “Taarpor (what else).” M would notice, but being the perceptive man he is, he never made a big deal of it.
In her essay, Lahiri describes how Italian captivates her. “Like the tide, my vocabulary rises and falls, comes and goes. The words added every day in the notebook are transient.” In a parallel fashion, by airing out my Bangla bit by bit, I was building my own collection of words, sentences, fragments, much like Lahiri. And like her, I began to integrate them into my daily life.
It was a nerve-wracking process, demanding immense patience and filled with anxiety, yet I felt energized. I navigated it electrically, driven by an urge that seemed to originate from nowhere. I had to resist the natural inclination to give in, retreat, and succumb to laziness, but I persisted in learning.
Within my extended social circle, I was likely the only one who didn’t know more than three languages. The Indian equivalent of the stereotype of the linguistically limited, uncultured American. I disliked this and wanted to shed that perception. I also desired to impress, much like a friend from the Hindi film industry who boasted fluency in seven Indian languages, plus English. Ashamed, I hadn’t been able to meet his gaze then. In this way, learning Bangla became an attempt for me to connect with a larger community, to surpass my own perceived limitations, and to keep my language-oriented mind engaged.
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Reading and rereading the essays in In Other Words, I discovered a shared understanding. Learning a new language had become my way of making sense of a new chapter in my life, a new person, and their role in it. There were numerous parallels to Lahiri’s journey. Like me, her essays chronicle the experience of someone learning a new language. Similar to me, she is hesitant, lacks confidence, and initially struggles to comprehend much of the language.
However, there were also differences. While she was learning to not just speak, but also to write and read a new language, my focus was solely on spoken fluency. While she was immersed in the geography, with access to tutors, books, and the written word to guide her, I was largely self-taught, risking embarrassment and missteps. While she had a collection of essays, a home in Rome, and a network of friendships with Italian writers and publishers, I had nothing concrete to rely on except this book. Through In Other Words, I found companionship. Through her writing, I realized that Lahiri’s and my underlying emotions, motivations, and feelings were remarkably alike.
We were both anxious individuals, striving, failing, and stumbling in our love for a new language. An unfamiliar grammar both intrigued and challenged us, so much so that we were both willing to embrace intellectual discomfort to grasp it. And in both cases, the languages did not elude us. Just as Italian came to her in waves, Bengali washed over me in words, fragmented sentences, and fleeting phrases that surfaced in my subconscious. We both embarked on journeys, separated by time and geography, but driven by comparable motivations. They were both driven by personal passion rather than academic pursuit. They were both fueled more by affection, fondness, and a deep fascination. We drank deeply from these new linguistic wells, leaving behind our linguistic comfort zones, like seasoned lovers venturing into the unknown.
Colleagues and friends in my circles were preoccupied with more career-driven language pursuits, learning French, Spanish, German, Korean, and Mandarin. In contrast, my dedication to Bangla seemed small, even inconsequential. I wasn’t paying for classes, commuting to language centers, taking exams, or engaging in forced conversations in a foreign tongue. Instead, I found myself walking from my desk at work to the pantry, with the words “tomake chai (I’ll love you)” echoing in my mind. As the water dispenser filled my glass, I pondered the unique aspect of Bangla where one doesn’t drink liquids, but rather eats them. “Tumi cha khabo (will you have tea)?” Was my affection for Bangla any less significant than my friends’ ambitions?
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Regarding Italian, Lahiri writes: “It seems like a language with which I have to have a relationship. It’s like a person met one day by chance, with whom I immediately feel a connection, of whom I feel fond. As if I had known it for years, even though there is still everything to discover.” This sentiment strikingly mirrors my connection with Bangla. I didn’t grow up hearing it; Hindi was the first language to fill my ears. However, I remember its melodious tones from my childhood visits with Bengali friends. I recall feeling drawn in, as if it could unveil a new world to me. I felt a pull, an inexplicable tug at my heart, urging me to delve deeper, understand, and uncover what lay beneath the apparent foreignness of the language.
I dedicate weekend hours, either with M or alone when he’s working, to watching and re-watching Bangla movies. Initially, I watch them with subtitles, associating the audio with the English text below. Hindi words tend to take up more time than Bangla words when spoken, but I persevered. I made notes of words whose sounds I could recall. Weeks later, I would watch the same movie without subtitles, testing my knowledge like a diligent student. I asked M to give me a quiz of ten words that I should have known by then. Seeing my struggle to recall some, he reassured me, “It will come gradually; you shouldn’t force the language.”
Lahiri describes the intense emotions that accompanied her when she finally began to grasp Italian: “When I discover a different way to express something, I feel a kind of ecstasy. Unknown words present a dizzying yet fertile abyss. An abyss containing everything that escapes me, everything possible.” This perfectly encapsulates my own fascination with Bangla. I feel as though I tease words out of myself, letting them linger in the back of my mind, and coaxing them out only after a moment of thrilling anticipation has passed.
After a year, I felt a surge of life, a profound joy in being able to construct a complete, albeit short, sentence on my own. One August evening, while waiting for M at the press club, I called him. After several rings, when he answered, I blurted out, “Tumi kuthai thako (where are you)?” I could hear the smile in his voice over the phone. The lines of worry on his forehead seemed to smooth out as he responded in Bangla: “Aami office e aachi (I’m in office).” I would practice words on him, firing them in his direction, asking so many questions at night that he would simply tell me to go to sleep and let my brain rest.
What began as the discovery of a language was now evolving into slow, steady growth. I was creating a space for myself within the world of Bangla, a room of my own in a linguistic sense. With my imperfect, often incorrect Bangla, I continued to progress, gently molding my mind’s natural affinity for languages to yield more and more with each passing day.
Regarding her intense passion for her new language, Lahiri writes: “I don’t want to die, because my death would mean the end of my discovery of the language. Because every day there will be a new word to learn. Thus true love can represent eternity.” When I consider my own modest attempts to immerse myself in Bangla, it seems to me like a miniature replica of Lahiri’s skyscraper-like affair with Italian. It’s a long and challenging journey, but like Lahiri, I believe I too will eventually reach a point of fluency and comfort.
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“Learning a foreign language is the fundamental way to fit in with new people in a new country. It makes a relationship possible. Without language you can’t feel that you have a legitimate, respected presence. You are without a voice, without power.”
My struggle with Bangla arises when I try to force words out of myself in conversations with strangers. I feel like an imposter, as if I’m taking advantage of people’s kindness. People become impatient with my hesitant, stammering speech. They lose interest, interrupt me, and quickly switch to Hindi. In doing so, they seem to imply that the conversation itself isn’t important, but rather the speed and efficiency of exchanging ideas is paramount. And since Hindi facilitates that, they prefer to stick with it. I retreat.
I live in a small pocket of South Delhi populated by both Bengalis and Punjabis. Having dabbled in Punjabi more extensively than Bangla, my ears are more attuned to the awkwardness of my Bangla. Before the pandemic, I used to walk to the nearby market to buy groceries. There, feeling less self-conscious, I would bravely attempt to speak in broken but earnest Bangla. I would stammer out a list of items to the vegetable vendor: “Doo-to bell paper, pau kilo pyaaz koli, ek kilo notun aaloo (two bell peppers, 250gm spring onions, 1kg small potatoes),” waiting for him to fill in the gaps if needed. He would give me a look of disbelief, gather my order, and then tell me the price in Hindi.
Defeated, I reflected on Lahiri’s words: “There will always be something unbalanced, unrequited. I’m in love but what I love remains indifferent. The language will never need me.”
Exhausted and disheartened, I yield on such days, letting Hindi dominate the interaction, not interfering when the language seems to reject me.
¤
As time passes, I’ve learned to treasure the small victories. On some days, I feel a thrill in recognizing trendy Bangla words that are casually incorporated into English by bilingual speakers. Other days, I take secret delight in understanding the phrase “nikochikoreche (fuck this shit),” and smile to myself.
Currently, my comprehension of Bangla has reached a level where, when M speaks to me in Bangla, I can understand approximately 85 percent of it and respond in about 60 to 65 percent of the time, using a mix of hesitant Bangla and English. And for now, I feel content with this level of progress. During the lockdowns, I watched all of Satyajit Ray’s movies in Bangla (mostly without subtitles) to further immerse myself in the language. I listened to “Aaami Chini Go Chini Tomae” repeatedly, allowing the intonations of the words to settle into my mind. I eavesdropped on M’s phone conversations with friends and felt proud when I could understand most of what was being said.
Lahiri writes about accepting the slow pace of language acquisition, and it comforts me to know that in my own hesitant attempts and setbacks, she, too, is a kindred spirit.
As a writer, I can deconstruct myself, and I can rebuild myself. I can piece words together and craft sentences without ever being considered an expert. I am bound to make mistakes when I write in Italian, but, unlike my past anxieties about failure, this no longer torments or disheartens me.
For all of language learning is a continuous process, and Lahiri and I are, in a way, both navigating the same linguistic waters.
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LARB Contributor
Anandi Mishra is an essayist and critic who has worked as a reporter for The Times of India and *The Hindu***. One of her essays has been translated into Italian and published in the **Internazionale magazine. Her essays and reviews have appeared in *Public Books***, Electric Literature, LitHub, Virginia Quarterly Review, Popula, The Brooklyn Rail, and Al Jazeera, among others. She tweets at [@anandi010](https://twitter.com/anandi010).**
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