My Journey of Life – A Learning Curve
Episode 5: From Vernacular to Voice: My Journey into English
Not long ago, a young LinkedIn user remarked that he was probably not born when I first joined the platform — and yet, I am still here, still learning, still writing. It made me pause and ask: what keeps this journey going, long after I am “supposed” to be over the hill? The answer, I realised, is simple: a quiet, stubborn fire in the belly.
It began in the ninth grade. In those days, English-medium schools were rare in rural areas. Because my father had a transferable job, I studied in a vernacular-medium school. An option to shift to English medium was offered in the ninth, and I took it — unaware of how steep that climb would be. By then, I had already experienced double promotions, a practice no longer in vogue.
Until then, every subject except English itself had been taught in the vernacular. Overnight, mathematics, science, geography — everything — shifted to English. I could read and understand, but my vocabulary was limited. I knew the answers, but responding in English was difficult. The answers were trapped in another language.
Little did I know that, years later, I would stand before classes and teach in English — the very language that had once rendered me mute. Each hesitant student I encounter still reminds me of that young girl in ninth grade, standing with answers locked inside her.
From the vernacular to English as a thinking language, learning slowly became more than a pursuit. It became an act of resilience — quiet, stubborn, and lifelong.
I remember my geography teacher vividly. She would often pick on me and ask questions. I would stand there, silent — the answer clear in my mind, but trapped in another tongue. I had always been an achiever, and this sudden inability shook my confidence. Overnight, I became the child who could not speak.
I almost gave up. Then, somewhere inside, the little girl from Kallimar — the one who once stood under the bimbul tree, picking up fallen fruits again and again, engrossed in the task and refusing to give up — resurfaced.
I began listening to English news, reading newspapers, and devouring whatever books I could get my hands on. I owe a great deal to that geography teacher — even if, today as an educator, I can say with certainty that her approach was out of line. Challenge, however uncomfortable, became a turning point.
There were others who helped rebuild my confidence. The principal selected me to sing a song; to this day, I have a soft spot for singing. I am not a great singer, but I can hold a tune. My Kannada teacher drew me into a dance drama and a play — small roles, but big morale boosters. My mathematics teacher, compassionate and steady, anchored me further; perhaps numbers felt kinder because they demanded calculation, not language. There was no shortcut, no respite. Two years later, I scored 72% in my board examinations.
Yet my command over English was still not strong enough to secure a coveted seat in medical college after my pre-university exams. After completing an undergraduate degree, I finally managed to get in.
I graduated at eighteen. The joy of admission into medical college was short-lived. My mother had other plans. In a traditional Indian family, marriages were arranged early. Before I could say Jack Robinson, I was married and moved to Mumbai.
But the hunger for learning did not die.
Fifteen years into marriage, with two children to care for, I joined a teacher-training college. My husband often jokes that I studied continuously for the next fifteen years — and he is not entirely wrong. Balancing children, home, and academics was demanding, but the fire in the belly took care of it. A fringe benefit was that both my children became readers. Academic “push” was rarely needed. By 8 p.m., the kitchen would close, and mother and children would be at their tables, studying.
Grit and determination did the rest. One degree followed another, and eventually, I earned my doctorate. The most amusing part of that journey was that my son and I enrolled for our PhDs at the same time — he in the USA, and I in Mumbai. I did not become a medical doctor, but I became a doctor nonetheless.
I took up a teaching position and taught in English — the language that had once silenced me. Students considered me one of the better teachers, and I often reflected on how far that journey had come. From the vernacular to English as a thinking language, learning became not just a pursuit, but a quiet act of resilience.
Am I fully satisfied with my language competency? Not yet. There are still miles to go before I sleep. Meanwhile, I continue to share what this journey has taught me — in the hope that someone, somewhere, who feels “behind”, will recognise their own fire in the belly and keep walking.
Today, nearly sixty years after that ninth-grade classroom, many of my school classmates and I have found each other again — this time online, in a small group that bridges time and distance. We share memories, photographs, and stories of the very school where I once stood silent, answers trapped in another language. It feels poetic that we now meet in English, on digital platforms that did not exist then, and yet the warmth of those early years remains unchanged.
Looking back, “Vernacular to Voice” is not just a journey into English. It is a journey back to myself — and now, back to the classmates who witnessed those first steps.
Years later, when I was comfortably teaching in English, life brought me a reminder of that journey. My maid’s daughter had scored well in her board examinations — in the vernacular medium. She was bright, hesitant, and unsure whether she “belonged” in higher education. I gave her a pep talk and paid her fees for two years. She eventually dropped out, and it pained me. But I do not see that attempt as a failure. Not every seed sprouts when we want it to; our task is to plant where we can, knowing that some learning surfaces much later, in ways we may never see.
Have you ever felt your answers were trapped in another language — literal or metaphorical? Don’t lose hope; you are not alone.