Lingua Franca: An Autobiographical Odyssey

By Tracy Ambrosio

As I gaze out the window of the bus, the lush, verdant landscapes of rural India unfurl before my eyes. Winding roads, dotted with vibrant wildflowers, weave through a patchwork of emerald rice paddies and sun-kissed orchards. It is the familiar scenery of my childhood, a tapestry woven with the threads of my native Kannada language and the rich cultural traditions of my ancestors.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Ambrosio
• Release date: Jun 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227943552

Tracy Ambrosio

Tracy Ambrosio Graduated from the University of Toronto in Canada in English. Graduated in Porto at ISCAP - Instituto Superior de Contabilidade and Porto Administration, since 2007. PhD in Marketing and researcher at CEOS

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Chapter 1: Roots in Rural India

Chapter 1: Roots in Rural India

As I gaze out the window of the bus, the lush, verdant landscapes of rural India unfurl before my eyes. Winding roads, dotted with vibrant wildflowers, weave through a patchwork of emerald rice paddies and sun-kissed orchards. It is the familiar scenery of my childhood, a tapestry woven with the threads of my native Kannada language and the rich cultural traditions of my ancestors.

Yet, as the bus rumbles onward, I can't help but feel a growing sense of unease. For nestled within this idyllic setting, there lies a persistent challenge that has shaped the trajectory of my life – the struggle to master the English language.

My name is Arjun, and I was born and raised in the small town of Malur, situated amidst the rolling hills of the southern state of Karnataka. From a young age, I was acutely aware of the importance my parents placed on English education. They, like many others in our community, believed that proficiency in this global tongue was the key to unlocking a world of opportunities beyond the confines of our rural existence.

As a child, I would listen intently as my parents regaled me with tales of their own educational journeys, where English was the proverbial golden ticket to better jobs, higher social status, and the chance to forge connections that transcended the boundaries of our local community. They had witnessed firsthand how the ability to communicate fluently in English had transformed the lives of their peers, opening doors that had previously remained firmly shut.

It was with this conviction that my parents enrolled me in the local English-medium school, a decision that would ultimately define the course of my formative years. From the very first day, I was immersed in a world where the English language reigned supreme – in the classroom, on the playground, and even in the casual banter of my classmates. The familiar cadence of Kannada, the language that had once been the soundtrack to my days, was now relegated to the periphery, a relic of my home life.

At first, the transition was jarring. I found myself struggling to keep up with the rapid-fire exchange of words, my mind frantically searching for the right English equivalents to express even the most mundane of thoughts. The once-vibrant tapestry of my childhood now seemed muted, the colors dulled by the relentless demands of mastering a new linguistic landscape.

In the classroom, my teachers would often call on me, their expectant gazes fixed upon me as they awaited my response. Panic would rise in my chest, my palms growing clammy as I grappled to formulate the appropriate words. Invariably, my answers would come out stilted and halting, eliciting muffled snickers from my peers. I could feel their judgmental stares burning into the back of my head, a constant reminder of my linguistic shortcomings.

At home, the pressure to excel only intensified. My parents, brimming with pride and ambition for their only child, would quiz me endlessly on vocabulary, grammar rules, and the proper pronunciation of English words. Dinner table conversations that had once been filled with the warmth of Kannada now had an undercurrent of tension, as my parents gently (or not so gently) corrected my English missteps.

You must learn to speak like a _sahib_, my father would chide, his brow furrowing with concern. Only then will the world open its doors to you. The words stung, cutting deep into my fragile sense of self-worth. I yearned to please my parents, to make them proud, but the relentless demands

of English proficiency weighed heavily on my young shoulders. I began to view my native language, the very essence of my cultural identity, as a burden – a hindrance to my aspirations of ascending the social ladder.

As the years passed, I found myself caught in a perpetual cycle of self-doubt and determination. I would pour countless hours into memorizing