The Moment My Child Couldn't Talk to His Grandmother
And the quiet grief that followed me home.
It happened over a video call.
My mother was on the screen, her face lit up the way it always does when she sees her grandson. She asked a simple question in Tamil — “Enna pannra?” — what are you doing?
My son paused. Looked at me. Then answered in English: “I’m just playing, Paati.”
My mother smiled. Nodded. Said something back in Tamil.
My son looked at me again. “What did he say?”
And I translated. In my own home. Between my mother and my child.
I kept it together on the call. But when we hung up, I sat there for a long time. Not angry.
Not even disappointed. Just... hollow.
Because I realised: somewhere along the way, without anyone meaning for it to happen, the thread had frayed. My son loves his Paati.
But he can’t really talk to her. Not the way I talked to my grandmother. Not the way my mother talked to hers.
I know I’m not alone in this.
I’ve heard versions of this story from so many Tamil parents in the UK. The cousin who visits from Chennai and the kids can’t keep up. The great-aunt who sends voice notes that go unanswered. The grandparent who quietly stops trying to speak Tamil because it’s “easier for the children” in English.
We all told ourselves the same thing: They’ll pick it up. There’s still time. They understand more than they speak.
And some of that is true. But understanding isn’t the same as belonging. Recognising a language isn’t the same as living in it.
Here’s what I’ve learned: Tamil doesn’t survive by accident. Not here.
Not surrounded by English all day, every day. It survives because we make space for it; not as a chore, not as guilt, but as something worth protecting.
I don’t have a perfect system.
I’m figuring it out like everyone else. But I’ve started small.
Fifteen minutes a day where we only speak Tamil. Tamil songs on Adhavan Radio, in the car.
Letting him struggle through a sentence instead of jumping in with English.
It’s not fluent. It’s not Instagram-perfect. But last week, my son said “Paati, eppadi irukke?” — unprompted, on his own — and my mother’s face lit up in a way I hadn’t seen in months.
That’s what I’m holding onto.
If you’ve felt this — that quiet grief, that creeping guilt, that fear that the language might not make it to the next generation — I want you to know: you’re not failing. You’re just navigating something impossibly hard without a manual.
But we can figure it out together.
If this landed, share it with another Tamil parent who’s felt the same thing. Let’s stop pretending we’ve got it all sorted.
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