The language

My mother tongue is a beautiful language,
It has its words and aphorisms where
Some sing-song and some speak with abruptness.
Its my first language and in times of anguish,
And in times when I lose words to express difficult emotions,
In a sea of English, a spoken word of Tulu will emerge.
Its the language I share with my parents and ancestors,
With my dog, in times of reprimand.
It has words for the sun, moon, the stars and dew drops.
It has words for rice, rice pudding and chicken curry.
I can say, with shaky fluency,
that I like the sun, moon, the stars and dew drops;
that I like rice, rice pudding and chicken curry,
but, preferably, not in that particular order.
And yet, I feel like my mother tongue is inadequate.
It won’t tell me what the word for love is.

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