Gerititish

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.