THE LOVE LANGUAGE - A SHORT STORY

“Come again, Nani. What did you just say?” I asked my Nani, who had already repeated it for us thrice.

“That your Mumma has left for laapis already,” she repeated confidently, making me and my cousin roll on the floor, laughing. 

“What’s a laapis, Nani? It’s called o-f-f-i-c-e.” My cousin corrected her while I was still holding onto my stomach to stop it from hurting from laughing so much. 

“Yes, yes. Same thing.” She said unperturbed. She was definitely amused at how her grandkids were laughing their hearts out. My innocent Nani didn’t mind being the center of the joke at all. And for two twelve-year-brats, intimidating someone her age didn’t feel like an offence at all. 

“And…and what’s the place called where you go when you fall sick?” I wanted to show my cousin that there’s more.

“Opithal?” She asked, and another uproar of laughter reverberated in the air.

“Opithal? Nani, that’s h-o-s-p-i-t-a-l.” I spoke between bouts of laughter. 

“Yes, yes. Opithal, aaspithri, all the same.” She blurted. But aaspithri again! How come people never learned to pronounce better, I wondered. Whatever it was, it was time to prepare for my annual exams, and after sending off my cousin, I went back to study.

 

Two weeks after the exams, when the holidays were done, it was time for the report cards to be distributed, and I was anxious to collect mine because I knew I had done well in most subjects, but Tamil was something I never mastered.

Nani had come to stay with us for a few days after battling loneliness for long. Nani didn’t go to school, so she didn’t know how to write or sign. But she knew how to read time on a clock and add 2 and 2 to make 4. She was content with it. That’s why I was surprised when she turned up for my parents-teacher meeting instead of Mumma and Papa. Didn’t they promise they would take leave from office early? But neither of them remembered. And I was left with no other option than to take her with me. I felt weird as my friends glanced sideways at us while we walked to our teacher. A few of them chuckled among themselves, and others threw nasty looks at Nani. Maybe it was the way she wore her sari, or how her rubber slippers creaked as she walked. 

 

I felt shame pass like a current through my body. My whole being shrunk. I did not look at my teacher the entire time, and none of their voices reached my ears. I came home, flung the report card on the floor, and yelled at no one in particular. 

“Why couldn’t you guys come?” I looked at my parents while my Nani started walking away already.

“And you had to send poor Nani just to make me look like a joke in front of everybody.”

Mumma tried to reason with me, but I was not in the mood to listen. 

“And you know what she addressed my teacher as? She said Missy. Who’s Missy by the way? It’s ‘miss’. What would she have thought of me?” I shrieked. Nani didn’t utter another word and left for her room. 

 

A few hours later, I heard Mumma and Nani speaking, but in a language I couldn’t comprehend. Their voices were buttery as if their tongues were tied midway before the words could be delivered. But they sounded adorable, though they seemed to have a serious conversation. I could hear familiar words that Nani often used, like ‘Lopital’. Nani left home soon after.

 

After a few days, I asked Mumma what they were speaking about and why Nani left because I felt guilty. And that’s how I learnt my history. My Nani was apparently half-French and half-Tamil. She was raised by her grandfather, who wanted to take her back to their country. But Nani’s love for her hometown bound her to it. She had learnt Tamil because she fell in love with it. Mumma said people constantly criticized her accent, but she was never bothered. She gave up sophistication for the sake of her purpose. Mumma said Nani could have lived better if she wanted to. She was now heading back to her home, where she belonged. Not because she hated or wanted to punish us. But because she did not want to forget her roots. Whatever that meant. Mumma said she would soon enroll me in special classes for Tamil so I don’t forget mine, either. 

Months later, when I met Nani, I told her how ashamed I was for behaving that way and that now I could write better Tamil than before. She asked me to scribble a few words for her. When I couldn’t decide whether to use a single or double curve for ‘na’, she held my hand in hers and completed the letter with three smooth curves. I was stunned into silence. I never knew Nani could write.

 

 

This is a part of ‘Embrace the Native’ Bloghop hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed.

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