I lost my first language at three years old.
There’s a Technicolor video with me, gabbling in German.
Bald head buzzing with cultures colliding into fireworks and ferocious first
words.
I lost my own accent at nine.
I practised my vowels so that the Irish “ gypsy scum” didn’t
float through the air. Till my constants became consistent with those around
me, and teachers praised my elocution . Like a sponge I glugged it up, leaking
the lilt out in drizzles.
The rest of my life, I will tread on words as they sink to
my chest. My breath pushing words through. Broken and bruised. Till the words
buzz on my tongue, like curry I can never learn to love despite my Indian name
– chosen to be international.
And I will swallow them. Even if it burns.
