Thoda-Thoda, Across Languages

“How much Marathi do you know now?” someone from my girlfriend's extended family asks, halfway through a function that exists purely because everyone was free on the same weekend. We’re in Pune. There is no agenda. Maharashtrians, like Bengalis, don’t need one.

“Thoda-thoda,” I say, with confidence that exceeds accuracy. Everyone laughs, then pauses to reassess me like I’ve just submitted a resume. Thoda-thoda means a little bit. It also means please don’t follow up.

I’ve been meaning to learn Marathi properly for years. I can understand it. I can survive it. Speaking it requires courage I don’t consistently possess. “Someday,” I tell myself. My girlfriend, meanwhile, has started understanding Gujarati. This feels unfair. Or efficient. Possibly both.

I’m at a friend’s house. His mother asks me to sit because he’s still getting ready. “Zara vel lagel,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen. I scan the living room and choose the least judgmental sofa. It’s Pune, but the house believes it’s still the early 2000s. Every wall is aggressively occupied. Photos, certificates, decorative plates no one eats off. The TV stand is full of things except the TV, which is somehow also there.

Aunty returns with tea and snacks that look homemade but feel ceremonial. “Ata settle jhala ka Ahmedabad madhe?” she asks, opening a conversational window designed to close quickly. “Ho aunty, barich varsha zali,” I say. She mixes Marathi and Hindi with the confidence of someone who has lived through several eras and survived all of them.

I tell her she doesn’t need to adjust her language for me. “Tumhi Marathi madhech bola. Samajhta hai thoda.”

She laughs and says she doesn’t even speak “proper” Marathi anymore. “He sagla mix aahe. Pure kahi rahila nahi,” she says, sounding very pure while saying it. Forty years in Pune will do that to you.

“Saadhe saat la parat yeshil ka? Aath vajta zala ki baba chidtil.” Will you be back by 7:30? If it gets too late, your father will get annoyed.

My mother used to say this when I was fourteen and heading out in the afternoon. I grew up in Gujarat, but Gujarati entered my life embarrassingly late. At home, it was mostly Hindi. If English had been easier, it probably would’ve been that. My mother tried to teach me Gujarati, but there was no incentive. My friends spoke Hindi, English, or whatever passed for both.

It wasn’t until I travelled across, Gujarati arrived properly. Different area, different version. Kathiyawadi here, Surti there, Ahmedabad somewhere in between, each one confident that the others were doing it wrong. I did what any reasonable person would do: picked the easiest parts of all of them and built my own Gujarati. It’s structurally unsound, but functional. I’m proud of it.

Language fascinates me, mostly because I’m bad at committing to it. I’ve promised myself I’ll learn Marathi properly. I’ve told myself I’ll learn Gujarati well enough to stop apologising mid-sentence. I’ve even flirted with the idea of learning Urdu properly, instead of understanding it emotionally and pronouncing it incorrectly. I don’t want to pause Ghalib to check meanings. It feels disrespectful. Like stopping a song to Google the lyrics.

But my brain has limits. It learns just enough to get by. Just enough to feel included. Never enough to be fluent. A friend of mine speaks Urdu terribly. Grammatically, spiritually, violently wrong. Purists would struggle. I don’t care. He’s my only access point. A language without speakers is just typography.

Languages survive through misuse. Through mixing. Through people like my friend’s mother, whose hybrid Marathi keeps the household running. Through people like me, who will one day teach their kids a confused version of Gujarati-Pune-Hindi and call it heritage.

At night, my girlfriend and I solve crosswords together. Hindi is the one language we both pretend to have known. One night, I ask her if I’ll ever learn Marathi beyond thoda-thoda.

She replies in fluent Gujarati, “Mane khabar nathi,” switches off the light, and goes to sleep.

It means “I don’t know.”

Neither do I.

I open my Kindle. Tonight, I’m reading something in Hindi. Not because it’s superior. Just because it doesn’t ask me to translate myself while reading.