The Language That Raised Me: Why Our Mother Tongue is Our Deepest Root

Whenever I return home after a long college day, exhausted by lectures, presentations, and an overload of “corporate English,” there’s a soft voice that brings me back to life.

“Jevli ka g tu?” (Did u eat?)

It’s not just my mother’s voice—it’s my mother’s words. Familiar. Grounded. Real. And instantly, I’m not in some city apartment anymore. I’m back in that tiny kitchen of our old house in Gangapur, stealing pieces of fried kanda bhaji before they made it to the plate. That’s what mother tongue does. It doesn’t just communicate. It connects. It binds. It roots.

And the more I travel, grow, work, and evolve, the more I’ve realized: my mother tongue isn’t just a part of me. It’s the first version of me. The unfiltered, raw, emotional, instinctive version. The version that still thinks in Marathi even if I speak English all day.

What Is a Mother Tongue, Really?

Technically, linguists call it the “first language acquired from birth.” But we know it’s more than that. Mother tongue is not just vocabulary and grammar—it’s the voice of home, the rhythm of childhood, and the soul of identity. It’s the background score of every memory: lullabies sung by aaji-aajoba, bedtime scoldings from aai, and that mischievous teasing from cousins during summer vacations in the village.

For most of us, it’s the first language of love we ever understood—even before we learned what “I love you” meant in English.

When Words Are More Than Just Words

There’s a reason why we don’t say “I’m upset” when something hurts us deeply. We say, “mala thik nahi vatat.” That ache of the heart doesn’t always find a home in English. It needs the poetry of our mother tongue. It needs the softness of those syllables we heard in our cradles.

Have you noticed how certain words don’t even have proper English equivalents?

• Laaj isn’t just “shyness”; it’s cultural dignity.

• Manogat is deeper than “thoughts”; it’s the inner dialogue of the soul.

• Shraddha is not simply “faith”; it’s faith infused with emotion, tradition, and action.

There are entire worlds in these words. Worlds shaped by generations, by rituals, by lived experiences. And when we speak our mother tongue, we don’t just express—we inherit. We carry forth the emotional architecture of those who came before us.

The Root Beneath Our Wings

In a world that’s obsessed with being “global citizens,” we often confuse being worldly with being rootless. Knowing English fluently is undoubtedly a superpower. It gives access to education, career, and global conversations. But what gives us character, what gives us clarity of self, is our own language.

Here’s the thing—they say you can take the person out of the village, but not the village out of the person. I’d go further and say: You can take a person across the world, but you can never take their mother tongue out of their heart.

When I am studying in Delhi, I met a bengali girl who barely spoke any English. But she carried Bengali pride in her tone, her manners, her food, her music. We didn’t share a language, but we shared something more profound: we were both carrying our mother tongues inside us like tiny pieces of home. That’s when I realized—fluency in a foreign language may open doors, but fluency in your own language opens your heart.

Do you remember the first lullaby your grandmother sang to you?

“Angai geet” in Marathi still echoes in the minds of many Maharashtrian kids. That melody doesn’t just comfort—it carries history. Culture. Emotion. Our mother tongue is the library of our people. It's where folktales live, where rituals are passed down, and where moral values are embedded into proverbs.

Take this one for example:

“Udyaache kaal koni pahile aahe.”
(No one has seen tomorrow.)

It’s a simple line, often heard in village kitchens over cups of chaha, yet so rich in wisdom. These are not just sayings. They are philosophies disguised as everyday language.

When we let go of our mother tongue, we don’t just lose words—we lose generations of inherited intelligence.

The Cost of Letting Go

There’s a strange sense of pride some people wear when they say, “Oh, I understand Marathi, but I can’t speak it.” As if not speaking one’s mother tongue is a sign of progress.

But is it really progress if we’re losing our linguistic inheritance?

Think about it.

• A generation of kids who only speak English at home won’t be able to understand their aaji's tales.

• Cultural jokes, sarcasm, and wordplay will fall flat in translation.

• Traditional songs, poems, and festivals will feel like performances instead of experiences.

Language is not just a tool; it’s a container. If we don’t pass it on, the container gets emptier with each generation until all we have left are stories about stories we used to know.

We don’t just speak our mother tongue—we comfort, heal, and restore through it.

A Bridge Across Generations

There’s a gap forming between us and our grandparents. Not just because of age, but because of language. When a 10-year-old can’t understand nath, pangat, or saaripaat, the cultural bridge weakens.

You know what’s ironic?

We’ll spend hours learning French on Duolingo or attending German classes after work. But we hesitate to speak our own tongue at home. Why? Because it’s not “cool”? Because it’s not “career-relevant”?

But heritage isn’t always profitable. It’s precious.

Speak your mother tongue—not because it’ll look good on your resume. Speak it because it’ll look good on your soul.

Multilingual Doesn’t Mean Motherless

Loving your mother tongue doesn’t mean rejecting English or other languages. In fact, being multilingual is a blessing. It’s like having multiple keys to different worlds.

But while we chase new keys, let’s not lose the one that opened our very first door.

That door where our father told us stories of Chh.Shivaji Maharaj in vivid Marathi. That door where our mother warned us with “thapad maarin” but melted the next second. That door where the scent of bhakri and thecha mixed with the sound of the evening aartis.

That door should never be shut.

How to Reconnect with Your Mother Tongue

If you’ve been feeling distant from your maa-boli, here are some gentle ways to bring it back into your life:

1. Speak it at home, even if it’s just one sentence a day. Start small. Speak from the heart.

2. Read regional literature—short stories, poetry, old children’s books. They carry magic.

3. Watch regional films and plays—you’ll rediscover emotion in its rawest form.

4. Teach your kids—don’t let them miss out on their roots. Make it fun, not forced.

5. Celebrate your language days—International Mother Language Day (Feb 21) is perfect reminders.

6. Write in it—even if it’s just a diary entry. Let your mother tongue hear your thoughts.

In the End…

There’s a reason we call it mother tongue. Because just like a mother, it:

• Nurtures us,

• Corrects us,

• Comforts us,

• Never leaves us—even if we drift away.

So the next time you feel a little lost in life, try this: close your eyes, take a deep breath, and say something in your mother tongue.

Maybe something as simple as “Mi aai la khup aavadte.” (My mom really loves me.)

Feel how your heart softens?

That’s not just nostalgia. That’s you returning to your roots.

Because no matter where we go, what we become, or how far we fly—our roots speak a language. And it’s time we listen. 🌱

“Mati sodli tari chalte, pan mool nahi.”