The Word Amma Taught Her

Priya had two lives. School life: English. Fast. Loud. The language of lessons and lunch queues and the jokes everyone laughed at except sometimes Priya who laughed a half-second later having translated in her head while the moment was already moving on. Home life: Bengali. Soft. Round at the edges. The language of Amma's kitchen and Baba's stories and the phone calls to Kolkata that happened every Sunday and lasted two hours and made Amma laugh differently than she laughed in English — bigger. Freer. Like a laugh that didn't have to fit anywhere.

At school nobody knew about the Bengali. Not because Priya hid it. Because nobody asked.

This was fine. Mostly fine. The kind of fine that sits quietly in the corner of a room and doesn't cause trouble and doesn't take up space and doesn't remind anyone it's there.

Then came the poetry lesson.

Mrs. Okafor stood at the front of the class. "Today," she said, "we are going to write about love."

A groan from the class. The specific groan of eleven-year-olds confronted with a feeling they have and refuse to discuss.

"Not romantic love," said Mrs. Okafor. Who had anticipated the groan. "The love you can't explain. The love that doesn't have a simple word. The love that sits in the chest and has no name in English."

Priya looked at her paper.

The love that has no name in English.

She thought about Amma. About Sunday mornings when Amma made luchi — the small fried bread that puffed up perfectly when it hit the oil — and called Priya to come and watch the exact moment it puffed — dekho, dekho — look, look — as if it were a miracle that happened every Sunday and was still a miracle every Sunday.

She thought about the word Amma used when she stroked Priya's hair at night. Amar shona. My gold. Except it wasn't just my gold. It was — the gold that is mine and precious and irreplaceable and held and warm — all of it in two words that landed differently than any English words landed.

She thought about আপন — aapon — which meant: your own. But also: belonging. But also: the specific warmth of someone who is yours and knows it and you know it and no explanation is needed. There was no English word for aapon. She had looked.

She picked up her pen.

She wrote: In English I can say I love you. Three words. Plain and true. In Bengali my mother calls me amar shona — my gold — and it means: you are the most precious thing I carry. In Bengali there is a word — aapon — that means: you are mine and I am yours and we both know it without saying it. English doesn't have this word. I looked. I think English was in a hurry when it was made. Bengali took its time.

She put her pen down.

Mrs. Okafor collected the papers.

The next day Mrs. Okafor read some of them aloud. Not all. Some.

She read Priya's.

The class was quiet in the way classes are quiet when something lands that they didn't expect.

Then a boy called Sam said: "What does aapon sound like?"

Priya looked at him. "Aapon," she said. Sam tried it. "Aah-pon." "Almost," said Priya. "Softer. Like you're not trying to grab it. Like you're just — holding it."

Sam tried again. Softer. Aapon.

Priya nodded.

Mrs. Okafor looked at Priya. "Does Bengali have many words like this? That English doesn't have?"

Priya thought about it. Bhalobasha — the love that is a practice not just a feeling. Akash — the sky but also the specific feeling of sky — its openness its endlessness — held in one word. Ananda — a joy so deep it becomes peace.

"Yes," said Priya. "Many."

Mrs. Okafor smiled. "Then you are lucky," she said. "You have more words for the world than most people in this room. And the world is large enough to need all of them."

Priya looked at her paper. Aapon. Her word. Amma's word. Kolkata's word. Two hours of Sunday phone calls. Luchi puffing up in oil. Hair stroked at night. Amar shona.

All of it sitting quietly in the corner of her life not causing trouble not taking up space — and full all along of words for things English was still looking for.

She wrote aapon at the top of her notebook. Underlined it.

Not hiding it. Not explaining it. Just — there. Hers. Taking up exactly the space it deserved.