Growing up, I was embarrassed of the things that were the most familiar to me.
The bright, maximalist patterns across bedsheets, curtains and towels that fought to catch your eye, my parents’ unbelievably large CD collection that played an unmistakable role in my morning routine, and the screenings of movies and plays that I was forced to sit through every weekend — no matter how bored I was.
All my childhood, I was raised surrounded by media in my first language, Marathi. My affinity for music began with nursery rhymes from Jingle Toons, and I hoped for friends like the ones from my favorite TV shows. The familiar tune of "Ekati Ekati" gently ushered me to sleep on nights when it failed me most.
While I clutched these rituals close to my heart at home, I was always ashamed to admit their role in shaping who I was. All I knew was that it was not a part of the world I wanted to belong to.
My father bought us a family computer when I was in the third grade. To me, this computer was the epitome of coolness. It carried the blueprint of everything my friends and I wanted to be.
English was the third language I learned, but I worked the hardest I ever have to be fluent in it. My familiarity with English opened a number of online avenues for me, paths that were not available to anyone in my family for generations before.
The internet showed me a number of truly essential things: The lyrics to Disney’s "Let it Go," the simulation game "Barbie Fashion Show" and role models in LaurDIY and Rclbeauty101 — cultural touchstones for kids growing up in the 2010s.
I caught myself proudly admitting to liking everything the internet had to offer. I would sit on the steps at school with my friends and duplicate DIY tutorials that never turned out like the videos.
On the bus back home, we would sing lyrics to American pop music. I’d put Taylor Swift posters on my wall and watch "Adventure Time." Finally, I would feel as if I had nothing to be embarrassed about.
Marathi is a language spoken predominantly in the Western region of India and is the official language of Maharashtra, the state I am from. The language is spoken by over 97 million people across the country and is the medium for some of the greatest film and music I have been exposed to in my life.
Language, after all, carries more than meaning. It carries humor, emotion and sentiment that is often blurred by translation.
Marathi theater, with its quick-witted dialogue and relevant themes, was one of the first places I noticed the power of language as a medium. The actors on stage executed their parts with the same intense detail that echoed in every other aspect of the play.
You didn’t even need to speak the language to understand the performance.
One of my favorite movies in Marathi is called "Elizabeth Ekadashi." The movie captures the textures of childhood with striking authenticity. The story brings everyday childhood experiences to the screen, highlighting how the things that feel monumental to kids are often brushed off by adults.
I felt represented in these movies beyond just seeing characters that looked like me; the world they inhabited felt deeply familiar. From the rhythms of their neighborhoods, the cadences of their voices, to even the way they navigated the world around them. Their priorities, worries and small triumphs mirrored my world as a kid.
The familiarity of this language and its connection to the concept of home is not something everyone in my family shares anymore. My cousin, who grew up in India and the United States surrounded by the same songs and movies, can’t really speak Marathi anymore.
What I took for granted for so long — a medium that connected me to one of the most important parts of our culture — is slowly turning into a shameful inconvenience yet again, but for someone else this time.
When our extended family visits, jokes don’t land, conversation halts. Words are repeated and translated until the pun doesn’t make sense anymore. Phrases that came so naturally before now require effort — or stop entirely. The gap between generations deepens.
Linguists warn that this loss is not limited to Marathi, or even Indian languages. This is a loss seen universally, across the globe. I’ve witnessed several conversations within the community about how our language is dying. In fact, it is my grandfather’s favorite dinner-table conversation topic.
Even though regional languages are parts of the curriculum in schools across the country, when students are given the opportunity to learn a second language, they are often strongly encouraged to do so by their families.
According to the World Economic Forum, almost 1,500 known languages may no longer be spoken by the end of this century.
This realization is only amplified when I visit India every summer and find myself reaching for the English version of a word that I used to know in Marathi. In those small pauses — in the split second when the right word refuses to occur to me — I am reminded of how much has changed in the last year.
At the same time, though, I have found myself shedding the shame that was attached so intrinsically to language. I have learned to make peace with the messy, complicated reality that is my identity.
In some ways, then, I try to further my connection to my language.
From forcing my American friends into a culture exchange movie night, to trying to stick to one language when I talk, the shame is slowly getting replaced with an unfamiliar pride.
This is my new favorite part of growing up.
I have learned that the colorful bedsheets and loud, old music is as much a part of who I am as "Barbie Fashion Show" is. Just like it is for my cousin.
Edited by Leah Mesquita, Natalia Jarrett and Abigail Wilt. This story is part of The Culture Issue, which was released on March 25, 2026. See the entire publication here.
Reach the reporter at ktale@asu.edu and follow @KasturiTale on X.
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Kasturi Tale is the Echo desk editor at the State Press. She has previously worked on her own blog and has a background in creative writing.
