Lost in Translation: How We’re Slowly Erasing Ourselves

Sometimes, you don’t realise where you’ve picked up a lesson. A simple phrase that might seem insignificant to someone else can completely shift your perspective. It happens in an instant. You can’t quite explain it, but something inside you changes. And the funny thing? The person who said those words often has no idea of their impact.  

This reminds me of an experience that changed how I see language and identity. The person whose words struck me wasn’t a philosopher or a historical figure. He was just another diver on the boat, waiting, like me, to reach the next dive site.  

 

It was a bright, cloudless day, and the sea was restless. Huge swells tossed us and our bags onto the wet floor repeatedly. We clung to our seats, raising our voices above the roar of the waves.  

Among us was Anthony, a sixty-something Irishman who had explored nearly every dive site in the world purely for the love of it. The second was Narayan, an Italian Jew in his late twenties, a marine biologist bursting with energy. (Yes, his name confused me too.) And then there was me, the youngest, all 18 years of age, a human being by profession.  

 

As we talked about our cultures, comparing how things worked differently in our societies, I casually mentioned, “You know, man, I’ve been learning Irish, and it’s such an interesting—”  

Anthony cut me off and locked eyes with me. “How many Indian languages do you know, Mitra?”

 

I froze. I wasn’t expecting that. My mind raced. Was he impressed or disappointed? Was five languages enough? I suddenly felt unsure. I had been trying to sound cool, but Anthony hit me with a reality check.  

 

“I can understand about eight and speak five fluently,” I replied, but my voice felt smaller than before. Was that enough? Should I have known more? A part of me wanted to defend myself—learning languages was my passion, wasn’t it? But another part, quieter and heavier, wondered if I had been so eager to explore the world that I had overlooked my own roots.

He nodded but didn’t seem fully satisfied. “It’s good that you’re learning different languages. It’s great, with globalisation and all. But no other language can replace your mother tongue, right?” 

After a pause, he continued. “Until about seven or eight decades ago, Irish people spoke, wrote, and studied in Gaelic. Slowly, the posh schools started teaching in English. Other schools followed. Today, less than a century later, Gaelic is spoken by only a handful of people in Ireland. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t learn English. That would be stupid. It’s an international language; you need to use it fluently. But that doesn’t mean you cut your roots.”

Narayan jumped in. “I’ve noticed the same thing happening in India. My neighbour’s son is punished for speaking Konkani or Hindi in school. The logic? Since it’s an ‘English school,’ no other language can be spoken, which is hilarious. That boy speaks Konkani or Hindi everywhere else, but in school, he’s forced to delete that part of his identity. This way, the new generation isn’t just losing their language. They’re beginning to hate it. Hate their culture, their traditions… because it doesn’t fit their ‘English school’ ideals. If you think about it, it’s as if the colonists never left.”

 

For days, their words replayed in my head. At first, I brushed it off. But then, I started noticing it everywhere. People hesitated to speak their own languages.  

Somewhere along the way, fluency in English became a measure of intelligence, almost like a ‘good character’ certificate.

 

And let me be clear, just because I’m writing this doesn’t mean I’m part of some ‘anti-English club.’ I mean to ask, since when did we start deciding whether to respect someone based on how ‘fluent’ their English is?  

So often, we hear people from my generation say, “Oh my god, this is in Hindi (or Telugu, or Marathi)… I’m sorry, I only understand English.”  

Or teens rolling their eyes at their parents because of their South Indian or Gujarati accent.

 

Anthony’s and Narayan’s words still echo in my mind. Their realisation—that our linguistic heritage could soon be nothing more than history—is scary enough to jolt us into action.  

We, both you and I, have a lot of work to do. Many more observations to make. 

This isn’t just about language. It’s about identity. About how, little by little, we are being rewritten.  

 

But think about it. Are you still connected to your roots, or are they quietly fading?