Half the world speaks English. The other half wants to. I was no exception. Apart from being stylish, English was also an orphaned language- left meandering on the streets of our country, long after its parents had migrated to England. Half of India wanted to adopt it. The other half did not. I belonged to the better half. 

       It did not happen when I was five. In India Appa could not afford to send me to a school where they taught English. Like many of the settlers from the Indian mainland, where we did not have such a prosperous business, Appa decided to move to one of the far- flung chain of islands on the seacoast. There is always a thin line between optimism and stupidity. Appa proved to be lucky.      

     It did not happen when I was a teenager. Although they could afford it then, Amma believed English was a tongue a man could well do without. I was a child well marinated in her maternal love for almost fifteen years. And however juicy I had become, it did not make any sense to her to let me get barbequed in school.   
 

     It did not happen when I was twenty. The wife sniggered when I mustered enough courage to express my innermost desire. In the three years we spent together I had really dampened her spirits in the love department. Therefore she firmly believed I was no husband material. Or father material. In fact she thought I was no human material at all. To her I was like a buried seed in the sand. And after all my attempts of parleying her into a healthy discussion of marital involvements failed, I left her. You can’t love people in slices. There has to be a whole lot of passion involved in any relationship.    

      It happened when I was the father of a bright twelve-year old.  By now I had joined the ranks of the country’s expanding middle class. As one grows older the toys may grow bigger but the hope stays the same. With time on my hands I now realized that at last I could fulfill my own unaccomplished dream. And even though I actually did not attend the Convent school where Murugan, my son studied, it was through him that I finally adopted the orphan.    

     My English was not fluent. It never could be. The basics of education had rusted with age. But I was impatient to learn. Each day a new word would be dying to bloom on my lips. Murugan was the most wonderful child any father could have. He was clever and sharp. He was also the most intelligent teacher a student could ever have. He was a tiny little boy, too small in size for his age. But then even a stick of dynamite is small. He somehow knew that his father was trying to kill all his brain cells to be able to achieve what he had wanted all his life. And even though I was an irritatingly raw student, he gauged my deep thirst for a language totally alien to me. Therefore my child was always appreciative of me. He always encouraged me. And he was always patient with me.

    ‘Hey Muthuswamy’, my friends at work would ask eagerly. ‘What English word did you learn today?’ In a broken tongue and an anomalous diction, a proud father would then regale his son’s unlimited vocabulary.  

     Everything was fine. Until the Tsunami struck!   

      When the first tremors were felt, Murugan’s tiny eyes mirrored shock. ‘Earthquake Appa’, he said. Even though I had not learnt this english word it was quite familiar to me. I was watering the plants and we both rushed into the house even as the birds started to screech and fly in unison. Some time later my little boy ran to the beach. 

    I was having breakfast trying to say the word 'Urthquayka' the way my son said it. With panache! It was then that I felt another tremor. This time it felt different. Slightly ominous. The air was cool and damp. I never knew that a moment later it would also be heavy with history. 
 

     In the distant beach I could see Murugan running towards me. He had a scared look on his face. ‘A TIDAL WAVE Appa’, he screamed excitedly. He was panting and his hands were flaying like he was about to take off into the sky. Two new words in one day! But before I could ask for its meaning or grasp its pronunciation or gauge its geological implications, we were in the midst of the sea. 

     The moment itself was disconnected from reality. Somehow my throat made up its mind to swallow. I coughed out salt water. Even my eyes were devouring the entire scenario in gulps. I closed them forcing the pupils to dilate so I could picture better. When I opened them again our house had become a giant aquarium and we were both bobbing up and down like guppies. ‘Dear God’ I whispered, ‘if you ever consider interfering in human affairs, this time would be perfect’. But God’s answer was clearly visible in the unnatural order around us. Who says God doesn’t answer our prayers? It’s just that sometimes he says Yes and sometimes he says No.   

   Nothing made any sense. I somehow found Murugan and we clung tightly to each other. ‘F…f…f…flood?’ I sputtered, even in this moment of crisis, remembering a word I had learnt just two weeks back. Secretly I was amused and mighty proud that I could recollect it even in such a catastrophic situation.

     Murugan, my intelligent son, my bright and sharp-witted son, who probably had learnt in school about the deadly combination of the two new words Earthquake and Tidal wave, merely shook his wise little head. His eyes were round and wide with fright. Gulping down the saline water, he gasped, ‘Tsunami, Appa’. 

     That was the last English word my son taught me. 

     By now we were pushed out in the open. I could feel the limp body of my child and don’t know why but I immediately looked back. I wanted to take in the details of my dream house and frame it in my mind because by now my sixth sense had sharpened its claws. I somehow knew that my house and all my dreams would soon evaporate from the face of this earth. 

       Hours later, I sat on the rubble of my aspirations, trying in vain to amplify some of my memories. Of an event that had ravaged my life! Like a shrunken painting across the backdrop of a subdued wasteland, I sat still. The silent face of nature was now a whiter shade of pale because it was painted over with a layer of sadness. I wanted to be transported into a surreal world as the real world was now immersed in ugliness. I wanted to die but how do you kill something that isn’t alive? Even sleep, I realized, had become just a shallow, sarcastic illusion. Therefore I remained as I was, languishing in a stupor of inactivity.  

      Other people’s tragedies don’t discourage the wasps from gathering. In fact it encourages them. Days later, when an NGO group came towards me, the muscles in my mouth finally twitched. I realized I was smiling. I did not protest when they led me into one of the relief camps. I kept on smiling. When one of the volunteers kindly asked me the reason for my smile I continued to smile. When you are as helpless, as feeble and as vulnerable, you learn to cry with a smile.  

    Sister Agnes, the Convent’s nun welcomed me warmly. ‘Where is Murugan?’ she asked. I gave her a blank look. Although I was buried between layers of hunger, confusion, dread and fear I still had a smile plastered on my face. She probably understood because she did not question me any further. 

   After I was hydrated and nourished the tears no longer needed an invitation to come. The entire day I worked hard in the camp, hoping to hide my tears with my sweat. In the evening Sister Agnes sent for me. For some time we were both quiet. After what seemed an eternity, she finally cleared her throat, trying to bridge the awkward silence between us.

 ‘So......err....what new English words have you learnt... Muthuswamy?’ she approached gently. 

 A kind moment was born. The seconds ticked by and I realized that the moment was slowly growing old. Before it could die I croaked. 

    ‘Soonaami’.  

  I had spoken for the first time in five days. 

  That word had a paralyzing effect on Sister Agnes too. For the next twenty minutes she remained speechless. Finally she spoke. 

  ‘Soonaami’, she repeated with a whisper. ‘Haven’t we all learnt that?’