Published 1/29/2025 by Praniti Gulyani
पंछी नदिया पवन के झोंके
कोई सरहद ना इन्हें रोके
सरहदें इन्सानों के लिए हैं
सोचो तुमने और मैने क्या पाया
इन्सां होके…
– जावेद अख्तर (रेफ्युजी)
Like specks of sparkling dust that settle into the walls of a lived-in house depicting the comfort and ease that one would only expect from close family and friends, these lyrics— which are a part of the song पंछीनदिया पवन के झोंके— have merged into the back of my mind. I find myself pursuing them with increased intensity, absorbing them, understanding them, and above everything else, answering them. In the last sentence of this stanza, the songwriter, Javed Akhtar, reminisces about the freedom of animals and birds as opposed to human beings. He says, with demonstrated elegance, that gusts of wind and sea are relentless and conquer all manmade boundaries. This makes them superior to human beings, and Akhtar continues to urge mortals to question the purpose of their existence, with a focus on what they’ve gained by simply being mortal.
Here’s where my tuppence of thought comes in.
As human beings, I do agree that we’re guilty of creating boundaries. Right from fences between countries to linguistic divides, we are eager to build walls wherever we can. However, as a result of this unusual affection for boundaries, we’ve also created languages that allow us to co-exist and retain our authentic selves. After completing three years of undergraduate studies at UC Berkeley, I’ve grown to see languages as coiled golden wires that embody true connection. All of us are constantly holding tender portions of these golden wires between our fingers, and the skill lies in knowing where and how to join them. Once connected to their counterparts, these languages are capable of conquering— or wrestling—with everything that resists their path.
And an interaction with Professor Harsha Ram, who teaches at the Slavic Languages and Literature Department at UC Berkeley, helped me re-affirm my belief in the fierce and unstoppable nature of languages that sweep through our lives like a fast-flowing current of water. As we sit down near Dwinelle Hall, where Professor Ram’s Slavic 131 class takes place, I begin by talking to him about his journey, with an increased emphasis on how languages shaped the course of his career. Before Professor Ram begins to speak, I am transported back to our class, where he gave us a powerful and deeply personal example that depicted the difference between the writing self and the written self, based on our discussion about the life and work of Leon Trotsky. “I remember being on a bus in Calcutta with my mother, when some students began protesting and our bus was almost set on fire. I can still smell the smoke. But as a child, I did not know what that was. I did not know what a revolution was,” he says.
As a child, Professor Ram describes himself as a deeply perceptive and curious individual. “I was a South Indian living in North India,” he says, as I nod with a familiar smile at the mention of my home. “We were speaking one language inside the house, and one language outside the house. For me, this cultural construct was like Lego, something that I could take apart and put back together,” he adds. I’ve never heard of language being compared to Lego, and Professor Ram’s innovative analogy immediately alters my thought process about languages, enabling me to realize how, like a Lego construction, it is a constant and brightly colored work in progress.
As our conversation progresses, Professor Ram tells me about his family immigration to Australia. “We were one of the first families from North India to move to Australia. Now, every other family there is Indian. Back then, however, I remember how my mother came back one day describing how she figured out where to get dal,” he says. Soon, our interaction tenderly enters the almost cyclonic nature of culture shock, a force that everyone who leaves home experiences. “Our immigration to Australia was in the 1970s, and we were still figuring out the little things such as where to get those Indian spices and finding that one Indian store. This is why I felt disconnected,” he explains.
“But, to deal with this sense of disconnection, I began retreating into the world of my imagination. I began reading a lot, and learning all the languages such as Latin and Russian amidst others,” he says. As Professor Ram talks about Russian, I observe a flicker of familiarity on his face. I realize that Russian is clearly more than just a foreign language for Professor Ram. However, just like his classes, everything that he says begins in the heart of history. “Back then, India was shaped by two cultures. The first one was obviously British or English culture, and the second one was Russian culture. These were the two cultural poles that existed. And I remember going up to my mother, who was a great linguist herself, and telling her that I wanted to learn Russian. My mother responded by saying, Beta, they don’t teach Russian in schools here,” he says, describing his association with the language that is so integral to his life and career with the same warmth and affection that one would adopt while talking about an old friend.
“So, I attended a school that was on the other end of the town in Australia. Soon enough, when I began attending college in Sydney, I was placed in classes with the Native Speakers,” he says, giving me an inspiring glimpse into the ambitious student that he was. As we talk about the intersection between languages, and the importance of pausing with every word, Professor Ram describes how the present world is so much more different as compared to the world he lived in. “In today’s day and age, communication is so much easier than what it used to be. And here’s where the question arises, what is the point of learning a foreign language? What is the point of memorizing a poem, or a work of literature that you like instead of watching a 30-second TikTok video?” he asks, before launching into a description of what he labels as the art of cultivating attention.
“For you, young people, the most important thing you need to learn is the art of cultivating the practice of attention. It’s so important to slow down. I think that in addition to greater problems like climate change, one of the most significant troubles that this generation faces is a crisis of attention. Learning a new language teaches us to pay attention to little things such as form and pattern,” he says. “It’s almost like cooking a meal,” I interject, pleasantly overwhelmed by the ‘homely’ nature of this specific interview.
“Yes! Especially an Indian meal. It takes anything between 60-90 minutes, and you have to be very mindful and aware of what you’re putting into your meal, such as the spices, the jeera and the like,” answers Professor Ram. With this, our conversation comes to an end. As I thank Professor Ram for his time and consideration, I contemplate over everything we’ve talked about. In addition to being a deeply intellectual process, learning a new language also promotes personal growth and shows people that you care about their identities. This is particularly prominent in an institution that is as diverse and widely-spread as UC Berkeley, where one class usually consists of individuals from all walks of life.
On the first day of Slavic 131, during roll call, I observed how Professor Ram was able to pronounce each student’s name with the right accent and dialect that it deserved. “Tell me if I get it correct,” he instructed. The smiles that appeared on the faces of the students as their names were enunciated with linguistic sincerity were some of the brightest grins that I have seen in a long while.
इंसान होके, हमने भाषा को पाया है
भाषा से, एक दूसरे के दिल को अपनाया है–
एक दूसरे के दिल को पाकर, हम फूले-ना-समाये,
इस ख़ुशी को महसूस करने के लिए ही तो
हम इंसान बन के आये ।