Story by Jayati Ramakrishnan

En route to my first day of work in Mumbai, India, I stared out the window of my cab, feeling dwarfed by the city that would be my home for the next month. Trying to ignore the sporadic swerving of my taxi between the thousands of cars, rickshaws, motorcycles, and buses, I memorized the looming billboards at the end of every highway overpass to get my bearings for the trip home that night. When I told my driver the name of my workplace, he didn’t know where it was. Shrugging, he dropped me off in front of Phoenix Mills, a giant mall. After fumbling with my wallet to pay him the unreasonable 200-rupee fare, about five US dollars, I walked down the street, searching for my office. I asked some men on the street for help, faltering between broken Hindi and English, and somehow pieced together their directions. I finally found the spot, nestled in a dingy alley between towering buildings.
At the Asian Age newspaper office, I told my new coworker, Bijith, about the frustrating cab ride. Amused, he told me that the train was much quicker, and the station was close to our office. Eager to fit in, I promptly followed Bijith’s advice.
That evening, completely overwhelmed by my first day at the newspaper, I left the office mentally unprepared for the train ride home. I stepped out of my office and into the dizzyingly crowded alley, the stale air reeking from the nearby fish markets. It was monsoon season, and murky rainwater that filled the street came up to my ankles. Every road looked the same to me, and I realized that I had no idea where the train station was. The most troubling thing was that I couldn’t talk to anyone on the street in the language they were speaking to each other. I suddenly felt embarrassed that in the country of my family’s origin, I couldn’t even communicate with the people that made my daily commute possible.
My parents are from India, and every few summers we visit our relatives who live there. I was born in Oregon, and my knowledge of Hindi, one of India’s national languages, is elementary at best. Every time I visited as a child, I relied on my parents to communicate for me. My parents speak to me primarily in English with a few Hindi phrases mixed in. Apart from using it with my family, I had nowhere to apply the language, so I’d never had any interest or need to learn it.
On this trip to India, I was traveling alone to Mumbai to intern at the Asian Age daily newspaper. Mumbai, also known as Bombay, is India’s largest city. India’s major cities absorb many foreign trends, but I wasn’t prepared for the level of westernization that Mumbai had to offer. I went to restaurants that served delicious pasta and pizza and listened to Lady Gaga blasting on speakers when I went to bars with my cousin. During the week, my job required me to write in English, and everyone I worked with could speak it. Honestly, I could have managed in Mumbai without a word in Hindi. As I heard my coworkers bantering during that first week, I answered a question I had been asking myself since I was a left out child who couldn’t understand my dad’s Hindi jokes that would leave roomfuls of people helpless with laughter: I’m missing out here.
Despite India’s status as the world’s second most populous nation, visiting it can be truly isolating. I always felt like an outcast there—when people in India see something strange, they stare. Any time I opened my mouth and revealed my strong American accent, I found myself on the receiving end of many stares. Even if I did speak the language of whatever state I was in—there’s a different official language for almost every state—I would never be able to comprehend, let alone keep up, with everything that was happening on the teeming streets of India. I had come to India believing that as a young adult, I should finally feel at home in my native country. Instead, my feelings of detachment were disheartening.
The train ride home on my first day of work was a turning point. Instead of hoping that I would find someone who spoke English to direct me, I felt compelled to use my Hindi, despite my limited vocabulary. Mustering up my courage, I turned to some men standing on the street by my office. I knew my Hindi was laughable, but everyone I asked was eager to help me. A few hours later, I bounded into my aunt’s house beaming with pride and announced that I had taken the train all by myself.
Train rides became both my ticket to work and my daily language practice. Wedged between two other passengers, I grasped the metal bar above my head and peered out of the open door, looking past the trash-littered train tracks to the similarly adorned platform ahead. The conductor’s electronic voice called out the next stop in three languages: English, Hindi, and Marathi. Every day as I rode the Western Railway, I sat and tried to pick out the Hindi words I knew, both from the announcements and from conversations around me.
As I clung to my summer in India, I began to realize that feeling at home came down to my ability to accept India rather than India’s acceptance of me. Practically speaking, I wouldn’t even have to pick up a new language. But as I spent more time in India, I realized that the biggest mistake I could make in speaking a new language would be to not learn it at all.

En route to my first day of work in Mumbai, India, I stared out the window of my cab, feeling dwarfed by the city that would be my home for the next month. Trying to ignore the sporadic swerving of my taxi between the thousands of cars, rickshaws, motorcycles, and buses, I memorized the looming billboards at the end of every highway overpass to get my bearings for the trip home that night. When I told my driver the name of my workplace, he didn’t know where it was. Shrugging, he dropped me off in front of Phoenix Mills, a giant mall. After fumbling with my wallet to pay him the unreasonable 200-rupee fare, about five US dollars, I walked down the street, searching for my office. I asked some men on the street for help, faltering between broken Hindi and English, and somehow pieced together their directions. I finally found the spot, nestled in a dingy alley between towering buildings.

 At the Asian Age newspaper office, I told my new coworker, Bijith, about the frustrating cab ride. Amused, he told me that the train was much quicker, and the station was close to our office. Eager to fit in, I promptly followed Bijith’s advice.

That evening, completely overwhelmed by my first day at the newspaper, I left the office mentally unprepared for the train ride home. I stepped out of my office and into the dizzyingly crowded alley, the stale air reeking from the nearby fish markets. It was monsoon season, and murky rainwater that filled the street came up to my ankles. Every road looked the same to me, and I realized that I had no idea where the train station was. The most troubling thing was that I couldn’t talk to anyone on the street in the language they were speaking to each other. I suddenly felt embarrassed that in the country of my family’s origin, I couldn’t even communicate with the people that made my daily commute possible.

My parents are from India, and every few summers we visit our relatives who live there. I was born in Oregon, and my knowledge of Hindi, one of India’s national languages, is elementary at best. Every time I visited as a child, I relied on my parents to communicate for me. My parents speak to me primarily in English with a few Hindi phrases mixed in. Apart from using it with my family, I had nowhere to apply the language, so I’d never had any interest or need to learn it.

On this trip to India, I was traveling alone to Mumbai to intern at the Asian Age daily newspaper. Mumbai, also known as Bombay, is India’s largest city. India’s major cities absorb many foreign trends, but I wasn’t prepared for the level of westernization that Mumbai had to offer. I went to restaurants that served delicious pasta and pizza and listened to Lady Gaga blasting on speakers when I went to bars with my cousin. During the week, my job required me to write in English, and everyone I worked with could speak it. Honestly, I could have managed in Mumbai without a word in Hindi. As I heard my coworkers bantering during that first week, I answered a question I had been asking myself since I was a left out child who couldn’t understand my dad’s Hindi jokes that would leave roomfuls of people helpless with laughter: I’m missing out here.

 Despite India’s status as the world’s second most populous nation, visiting it can be truly isolating. I always felt like an outcast there—when people in India see something strange, they stare. Any time I opened my mouth and revealed my strong American accent, I found myself on the receiving end of many stares. Even if I didspeak the language of whatever state I was in—there’s a different official language for almost every state—I would never be able to comprehend, let alone keep up, with everything that was happening on the teeming streets of India. I had come to India believing that as a young adult, I should finally feel at home in my native country. Instead, my feelings of detachment were disheartening.

 The train ride home on my first day of work was a turning point. Instead of hoping that I would find someone who spoke English to direct me, I felt compelled to use my Hindi, despite my limited vocabulary. Mustering up my courage, I turned to some men standing on the street by my office. I knew my Hindi was laughable, but everyone I asked was eager to help me. A few hours later, I bounded into my aunt’s house beaming with pride and announced that I had taken the train all by myself.

 Train rides became both my ticket to work and my daily language practice. Wedged between two other passengers, I grasped the metal bar above my head and peered out of the open door, looking past the trash-littered train tracks to the similarly adorned platform ahead. The conductor’s electronic voice called out the next stop in three languages: English, Hindi, and Marathi. Every day as I rode the Western Railway, I sat and tried to pick out the Hindi words I knew, both from the announcements and from conversations around me.

As I clung to my summer in India, I began to realize that feeling at home came down to my ability to accept India rather than India’s acceptance of me. Practically speaking, I wouldn’t even have to pick up a new language. But as I spent more time in India, I realized that the biggest mistake I could make in speaking a new language would be to not learn it at all.