My tongue is not practiced in the yoga of my mother’s tongue.

It does not bend its back to salute the sun, does not curve its spine to whisper to the uvula of പഴം [pazham] and മഴ [mazha].
It does not bend its back to salute the sun, does not curve its spine to whisper to the uvula of bananas and rain.

My tongue does not hop, hitting its head against my palate, to call for അരി [ari] or talk to മരങ്ങൾ [marangal].
My tongue does not hop, hitting its head against my palate, to call for rice or talk to trees.

My tongue does not lie flat, opening its vowels to welcome ബന്ധുക്കൾ [bandhukkal].
My tongue does not lie flat, opening its vowels to welcome relatives.

My tongue does not barrel into a tube for surfing Os, confusing a മൂത്ത [mootha] for a മുത്ത് [muthu].
My tongue does not barrel into a tube for surfing Os, confusing an elder for a pearl.

My tongue sits stiff and thick, swollen with defused plosives and vowels unsure of their own identity.

My mother’s tongue is lithe and graceful, slinking, sliding, summersaulting through sounds.

My tongue disciplines dogs.

My mother’s conjures cats, sings of magic and myth, warms like whisky on a cold winter’s day.

My tongue and my mother’s travel on parallel paths – always together, always apart.