Why do I write in English?

In the contemporary climate of India, where politics is often characterised by exclusion, writing has become an act of defiance. I write in English as it is the language of my internal exile. An exile from lies and half-truths that helps me to reclaim a sense of belonging, to challenge the status quo, and to assert one's identity in the face of adversity. I feel it is the language in which I can mourn the loss of my space and time, and yet hope to be heard by a reasonable reader, from far and wide. English is a language apt for such a land of denials and contradictions, where our most genuine questions are constantly ignored, and the future lies beyond the mediocre answers that are offered. English is also the language of technology and the digital age. It is the lingua franca of the virtual world that connects people from all over the world, thereby promoting understanding and empathy between different cultures.

There could be multiple other reasons why I chose to write in English. Maybe, it wasn’t a conscious choice at all. As with any creative expression, writing is a spontaneous act (at least, in the first draft). Debatably, English is probably the most powerful weapon that the colonists ever invented, and it has become the natural language of choice for the dreams, nightmares, and protests of many of us. Like a powerful programming language that has evolved and expanded to constantly address the changing requirements of a user, English has adapted well to imbibe the cultural flavour and life of many foreign shores. In managing to do so, English, as a language, has elevated itself to a genuine medium to express the true Indian self. Hence, it is only natural that many of us embrace English as a vehicle for our poetic quests. Also, it is predominantly the common language of choice for education, and academic and intellectual exercises in my land. Hence, the role of English in forming a modern individual cannot be ignored. As Derek Walcott mentions, "English is my language, but I don't feel that I own it. It owns me." Critics may point out that writing in English is a form of alienation from one's own cultural roots. They could contend that it is an act of self-betrayal, a rejection of one's heritage. However, I believe that English can be a powerful tool for cultural preservation. By using English to express my Indian identity, I am contributing to the creation of a new literary tradition that reflects the diversity of the Indian experience. In fact, we can pose a counterargument that English has positioned itself to be the best medium to capture and narrate the tales and songs of our indigenous essence. In doing so, it lets you celebrate the pluralities of our regional cultures in front of a global audience. It will be worthwhile to mention the contribution of prominent Indian writers, such as A.K. Ramanujan, and R.K. Narayan in demonstrating how our English could successfully bathe in the rural streams of Madurai or breathe the rustic air of Karnataka. Dilip Chitre took us for an authentic local train ride through the Mumbai suburbs. We went for a walk with Gopal Honnalgere through our soil of revolts, weary if his new pair of chappals could form a trade union. These literary giants have established a body of work that serves as an inspiring backdrop for contemporary poets and writers to blend their untold cultural landscapes into our English literature.

As a bilingual writer (who also writes in Malayalam), I write in English because it lets me speak to the world about my home (land) that I so dearly love. A home so unique, that I wish, the tales about it reach the last person on earth, that it is preserved in a script that makes it easier to consume for those to follow us. Also, as a bilingual practitioner, I would like to add that English is my natural language of poetry for what I write in English. I try not to use it as a tool to translate my inner poetic language. Hence, I believe that in choosing to write what I write in English, I am only allowing my deep affinity for the language to take precedence.
 

WRITINGS
 

1.     A Letter from Voice

Dear body, I am weary of this paid holiday in your muted throat. You arrived as a newborn, whimpering, seeking clarity. You were meant to age into the hum of an engine: noisier and more demanding with time. Yet, you fade into silence as naturally as a banana turns brown. You're more akin to a shoe sole that slips out by accident, not a tongue. A devoted admirer of the flavoured world, a captive chained within a cave. To manage groceries, repay EMIs, and get by, a stammer will suffice. At best, a sprinkle of single syllables—yes, ok, sure, left, right, and so on—for you to navigate, obey, and partake in life's riches. Keep a handful of emojis ready to survive in the realm of social media natives. Since signing up for you, I've removed singing, questioning, protesting, reasoning, and other such upscale skills from my repertoire. Release me from this underemployment—you have no interest in a one-on-one discussion; please respond via DM. Good riddance!

The shadow that grows,
Dissolves dread into the night—
Gagged, the tree of tongues.
 

   2.   From Grandpa's Wishlist
 

A bansuri, a gallery of blind gazes—
Kissed, caressed, eager to trace the path of its player.
Empty enough to drown in sound, once abandoned.
Tender enough to shatter, once overrun.

Yet, Grandpa shuts his lone eye
And weaves his way through a melody,
Brandishing it like a weapon of love
Against the blinding light.
 

  3.  Tandem Running

Without laughing, sighing or hoping for solitude,
How do ants survive among the same
Leaves, hills, and cities that surround us?
Probably, they merely crawl out of what
They confront—
The walls that we build and later demolish,
The towers that we erect and the
Blood that we drain.
Ants, lords of inches and voids that we cannot scale.
I tried convincing them that my football isn’t
A prototype of the globe - no use!
Across the soccer field, the dinner table,
The official treaty and your lover’s bed,
The ants march soldierly, quite the Sancho
That Don Quixote longed for.
Over the corpse of the exalted human,
Patiently crawls an ant, discontent and curious,
Just as it should be.