A Bookshelf in Three Languages
Language was just difference. A thousand different ways of seeing, of moving through the world. No; a thousand worlds within one. And translation ā a necessary endeavour, however futile, to move between them. Babel by RF. Kuang
There are three languages on my bookshelves: English, French, and Urdu. Each of them holds a part of me and says something about who I am. Some are easy to read. Some are still a struggle.
Urdu is the language of the place I was born.
From the streets of Old Delhi, it speaks of masjids, food stalls, a mixed culture, and the religious diversity of Shahjahanabad. When my parents moved to Europe, they both wanted me to keep my mother tongue. They always spoke to me in a mix of Hindi and Urdu. It's the language of home, of warmth and familiarity. The one I use with my family, the one that plays in the background of old ghazals, the one that colored my childhood through dramas and films. Itās a language woven from the cultural tapestry of the subcontinent, and every word feels like poetry.
But in recent years, with the rise of Hindutva in India, Iāve watched with a heavy heart as my motherland is torn apart by religious and fascist ideologies. Iāve also seen the language I grew up withāone of my deepest ties to the land where I was bornāturned into a political object. Urdu became āthe Muslim language.ā And Muslims like me, in this political narrative, apparently no longer belonged to India.
It made my heart ache. What about our ghazals? What about the beauty of this blended language? What about the stories whispered in homes and sung on radios? What about the schoolbooks we read, the handwritten letters, the film scripts that shaped generations? What about the political essays written in Urdu by intellectuals during the independence movement?
That rejection only made me hold on to Urdu more fiercely.
In 2021, I decided to learn how to read it. I felt the need to protect my heritage in a more active way. I started online classes on Preply with a lovely Pakistani teacher, and after a year, I was able to read simple childrenās books. Now, my goal is to read a full adult novel but honestly, itās tough. I struggle with pacing and often lose focus. Still, I donāt want to give up.
Lately, Iāve been thinking about trying immersive readingāpairing books with audiobooks to help build fluency. Itās slow progress, but itās something deeply dear to my heart.
French is the language that first said the word āimmigrantā to me.
But itās also the language I read my first story in.
When my parents moved to Belgium, I was schooled in French. It became the language I learned to read ināand the one I used to write my first stories, fanfictions, essays, and novellas.
Itās still the language I feel most at ease withāboth for reading and writing. I can read quickly, without losing nuance or depth. When I want to tackle long or flowery books, I often choose the French translationālike I did for The Priory of the Orange Tree or The Realm of the Elderlings. I also enjoy reading essays on French and Belgian politics.
Too often, the books Iām drawn to are either untranslated, badly translated, or left unfinished. And the French publishing world? Itās not very diverseāoften even less so than the English one.
Thatās what eventually led me to my third language.
English is the language of my colonisers.
Itās also the language that opened me up to more diverse stories. Ironically, itās in English that I first read Indian authors. It was the language my parents switched to when they didnāt want us to understand what they were saying.
I strengthened my English through school, the internet, and my English-speaking friends. I started reading novels around the age of 19, mostly YA at first, and now I read comfortably.
Sometimes I still need more focusāespecially with poetic or dense writingāand when Iām stressed, I definitely read slower than in French.
But I love reading in English, not because I want more American books, but because it gives me access to stories from around the world, including India. It brings more diversity into my favourite genres: fantasy and historical fiction.
Still, itās not a perfect language. Itās one that colonisedāand in many cases, erasedāothers. It tried to erase mine.
So Iāll always approach English with some caution. It isnāt mine. But itās a tool Iāve come to love using.
As a child, I dreamed of becoming a writer.
I used to invent stories and write them in WordPadānovellas, short stories, fanfictions. I dreamt of publishing a novel that would offer readers the kind of adventure books gave me.
But I havenāt written fiction in twelve years. Most of my writing since then has been essays, especially through my antiracist work. And yet, a part of me still dreams of telling stories.
Sometimes I wonder: if I were to write stories again, in which language would I want to do it?
Iād love to write beautifully in Urdu but Iām not there yet. Speaking and writing are two very different things. English would probably be my first choice, because I prefer the publishing world in that language. But since itās not my native tongue, itās hard to craft something fluid and beautiful without heavy revisions. I write more naturally, more lyrically, in French. But the publishing world there feels so white, so elitistāit really discourages me.
Still, I know itās a privileged dilemma to have. I feel deeply grateful for these three languages. Each one tells a different part of my story.
So thatās how I ended up with a bookshelf in three languages.
To Urdu, my heart belongs and my roots speak. To French, itās my comfort zone, the language I was raised in. To English, the language that opened me up to the world.
