I am a product of a Eurocentric education system.
I am a citizen of a former British colony where “Angrez chaley gaye Angrezi chhod gaye” (the English left but left the English culture behind) is still a thing.
I did my initial school education in an environment that bred Hindi but praised English. So, English became the language of aspiration.
My parents, who couldn’t afford private English education, greatly valued learning to speak and write English. They also aspired in English.
My introduction to the world of books was mainly via the English language. The school and city library shelves were more English than Hindi. Did I overlook a lot that was written in Devanāgarī? I can’t say!
Selective amnesia is a good escape route.
I read my grandfather’s heavy dictionaries as a hobby. English as a second language filled me with thrill.
My neighborhood English teacher, my friend’s mother, Mrs. P read only English novels. She spoke no English at home. She lent me romantic fiction. From reading Agatha Christie and Enid Blytton, I got promoted to Mills and Boon.
My first friends who were also my neighbors for over two decades went to expensive private convent schools that fined students for conversing in Hindi. My beautiful friends were amazing at many things but they never spoke English at home.
I often wondered WHY! “They must! They have access to such posh Englishdom. If they converse in English, I would also benefit and make my parents proud,” I thought.
When the internet arrived and we began flocking to those dingy cyber cafes, English became the language of connection with the outside world. “ASL PLZ” (you wouldn’t know what this means if you aren’t a millennial) in Yahoo chatrooms excited me.
The computers were all American tech. English keyboard was the default. Hindi keyboard meant (and still does) additional effort.
As time passed, I discovered the world of books and movies so freely available on the web. I realized English could be my gateway to the unfamiliar world.
I devoured everything I could find. From listening to free lectures from Yale and Harvard to downloading films and books via dicey links I cannot even dare to click on now — I did it all!
So, did English now become my language of written expression?
I don’t know when and how did English make the actual switch.
Was it when I began journaling my feelings in that cute yellow-colored notebook?
Or when I wrote long childish letters to my boyfriend?
Or when I filled in slam books for my friends and classmates — ah, what millennial cringe!
Or when I participated in English elocutions and debates at school?
Or when I found an inspirational English teacher who told me my essay was the best in the entire school (well, if you knew my school, you would know the competition wasn’t all that tough). Anyway!
By and by, from being a mere aspiration, English began settling as something more natural in my life — a default setting.
From a master’s degree in English literature to a short course in Journalism to a degree in teaching, to a Ph.D. in English (American Studies, to be precise) — I earned degrees made possible because I could write in English.
Now when I think all big and small thoughts, the words flow through me in this language that’s not my mother tongue. It’s no longer a foreigner.
Postcolonial theorists would say I have been whitewashed. I won’t blame them.
In a country with 22 official languages, hundreds of mother tongues, and dialects that change every few kilometers, English often becomes the unifying force — albeit selectively. I will admit, it reeks of privilege.
It’s the language of the educated classes in India — which despite being a minority catapults the nation to being the second-largest English-speaking population in the world, after the United States.
I write in English because you might not read this essay if it weren’t written in English. 🙂
Ambika Singh,PhD 