Mother Tongues, Motherland – an ode to our many languages

What’s in a word? Sometimes, a whole world – of comfort, of connection, of memory carried gently through time. Indian languages in Australia

To mark India’s 79th Independence Day, we honour the words that raised us – whispers of home, echoes of childhood, syllables that carry us forward. 

They come in many tongues and from many corners, echoing across oceans and generations, surviving colonisation and migration. 

No matter how far we may wander, these mother tongues anchor us softly to the motherland. 

We asked our readers to share a word in their language that holds deep personal meaning. From language lovers to those reconnecting with their parents’ languages, each submission offers a glimpse into the rich and varied identities that make up our beloved India. 

These are words that do more than speak: they remember. 

And they return as a compass and refuge.

Konchi means “what” or “what is?” in Fiji Hindi – but to me, it means so much more. It’s a word I grew up hearing daily, a tiny thread connecting me to generations before me. Its roots lie in kaun (who) and cheez (thing), blended into konchi by a community of displaced Indians finding ways to understand one another. Tamil speakers, Bhojpuri speakers, Urdu speakers –  all folding their languages into one another to survive, to belong. Konchi is more than a question – it’s the sound of a shared history, of resilience and identity born in exile. It reminds me where I come from. Indian languages in Australia

Saanjh ਸਾਂਝ in Punjabi refers to a shared connection, a quiet light, a wordless bond. It’s the soft, knowing smile when a Doordarshan tune plays, or voices harmonising on “Washing Powder Nirma”. It’s sitting beside grandmother, shelling peas in silent, unspoken understanding. Saanjh is the glance across a crowded room that says more than a conversation ever could, the cultural echoes that make strangers feel like kin. The deepest connections aren’t forged in grand gestures or talks, but in the shared rhythms of everyday life – the ads, the songs, the slogans, the silences. In a world that rushes past, Saanjh slows time, letting connections take root in ordinary, sacred ways.

Sanskār means values or virtues in Sikkimese culture, rooted in the diverse traditions of South Asia’s northeast. In Sikkim, a truly multicultural state where languages, faiths, and customs intertwine, sanskār is more than manners. It’s about respect, resilience, and quiet strength passed through generations. It reminds me of folded hands, shared stories, and the humility we were raised with. Though we speak many tongues, this one word connects us all. Even now, far from the mountains, sanskār guides me in how I live, work, and serve with intention and grace.

In Sindhi, shukar means to thank or give gratitude. My earliest memories of my Nani are of her seated in front of Lord Ram’s picture with folded hands saying shukar. She said shukar not only in her prayers but throughout the day – before meals, looking at a sunset or walking in the garden. Having lived through two World Wars and Partition, my Nani’s resilience, positivity and grace came from her ability to give gratitude, a legacy that lives on in me. The power of gratitude is immeasurable; will you join me in saying ‘shukar’? Indian languages in Australia

Laadku means someone dearly pampered, the apple of everyone’s eye. It comes from the root laad, meaning affection or indulgence. In Gujarati homes, laadku is soaked in warmth. You can hear the soft pride in a grandmother’s voice when she says, “Maro laadko nanu che” — “My darling is still little.” Laadku carries a hint of mischief; it’s not just about being loved but getting away with it. The word doesn’t just describe the person, it explains the relationship: one of sweet, unconditional spoiling. Even now, when I go home after months away, I am still laadku, even if I have just walked in with my own laundry and groceries.

Irikkoo means please sit. It’s a welcoming word, spoken with a smile and twinkle in the eye. I’m taken 30 odd years back, to my time as a teen in Kerala visiting relatives, neighbours and friends’ places, respectfully waiting till the elders are seated — aunties, uncles, grandpas and grandmas. Then someone says irikkoo, often with the added endearment of mo-le (daughter) — irikkoo mo-le — which ushers me into their circle. This short, sweet word has heightened my awareness of whether people are seated and comfortable, and I’m eager to say irikkoo with a smile and twinkle in my eye.

Summa (Tamil) is very convenient, giving different meanings and emotions depending on the context. It can mean idle, silent, casual, free, without reason; there is no equivalent word in English. As children we were told ‘summa irungo’ – meaning ‘be quiet’ if we pestered our parents. A distant relative would turn up without any reason saying ‘summa vanden’ – visiting you ‘just like that’. If we were shy to sing a song, we were encouraged with ‘summa padu’ – ‘just sing, don’t be afraid’! While buying vegetables at the market my mother would ask the vendor ‘curry leaves summa kudu’, meaning ‘give me some curry leaves free’. A versatile word indeed! Mother tongue

My favourite Konkani term is susegad – a word that gently captures the essence of life in Goa. It speaks of calm, contentment, and the quiet joy of living in the moment. For me, susegad is more than just a cultural expression; it’s a personal anchor that brings a sense of peace and nostalgia, especially during moments of stress. Whenever life feels overwhelming, I find comfort in this word – it reminds me to pause, breathe, and embrace a slower, more mindful rhythm, just like the one I grew up with back home. Indian languages in Australia

Pata (ପଟ) means cloth or canvas and Chitra (ଚିତ୍ର) means picture or painting. So, Patachitra literally means “picture on cloth.” It is a traditional form of scroll painting from Odisha, known for its intricate details, mythological themes, and rich natural colours. Patachitra is more than just an art form – it’s a spiritual offering, and a cultural heritage that continues to thrive in villages like Raghurajpur. Jagannath culture is in our blood. During my wedding I received a Patachitra painting from my father as a gift. The fine art is also like storytelling in Aboriginal art, so whenever I roam Sydney, I’m reminded of my state and culture. Indian languages in Australia

The Bengali word apoorva or aupurbo means rare or unique, something which cannot be described in words. For example, a beautiful picture, a natural scenic beauty, a piece of music or dance which Bengalis like so much that they are lost for words to adequately praise it. One of my close relatives was called Aupurbo – a gentle soul who was good in looks and personality. Recently I visited Goa and while watching the sunset on the beach, I said to myself, ‘aupurbo sundor’. I couldn’t describe the feeling of admiration. Indian languages in Australia Mother tongue

Baajel is a beautiful word in the Tulu language, used when a guest arrives home. The host often asks, “Baajel boda?”, meaning, “Shall I offer you a drink of water?” The word carries a dual meaning: it refers both to thirst and to the water (or drink) offered to quench that thirst. I love this word because it reflects a deep-rooted tradition of hospitality in Tulu Nadu. Offering baajel is more than a gesture – it is a cultural symbol of warmth, respect, and welcoming. It reminds me of the values I grew up with, where caring for others, even in the smallest ways, is second nature.

The Marathi word sahya vaguely means a memory. But more than mere memory, sahya is the tender ache of longing. A soft, emotional pull towards people, places, and moments that once made life whole. It’s the aroma of a mother’s cooking, the laughter echoing in childhood lanes, or the silence of a favourite hilltop at dusk. For a person living away from home, sahya isn’t just remembrance; it’s a living connection to roots, culture, and love that distance can never erase. It is both comfort and a quiet pain of belonging. Indian languages in Australia

Xewali Phool, known as Night-flowering Jasmine in Assamese, is a delicate white flower with an orange stalk, scattered like stars beneath the tree at dawn. For me, it’s the scent of childhood. I remember tiptoeing out early in the morning with a little basket, collecting them, hands scented with its gentle fragrance. It marks the arrival of autumn and the festive season – the golden skies, and the first breeze of Durga Puja. Xewali is a feeling – of sacred silence, quiet joy, and deep-rooted tradition. Even now, the sight or scent brings back memories wrapped in tenderness and the warmth of home.

Gelupu in Telugu means winning, not just in competition but in life. I grew up hearing phrases like gelichi choope and chesee choope – don’t talk, just win and show. It stuck with me. Gelupu isn’t about making noise. It’s about the outcome. Whether it’s exams, sports, or now in work and ambition, that word reminds me that success doesn’t need explaining. You chase it, earn it, and let results speak. For me, gelupu isn’t about beating others. It’s about proving to myself that I’m capable. Indian languages in Australia 

Bawli means mad – but in Haryanvi, it’s mostly used in a fun and loving way. If someone says it with a smile, it means “you silly but sweet person!” If they say it with a headshake, it means “what crazy thing are you doing now?” That’s the thing – bawli means silly, not dangerous. Parents say it when they’re pretending to be angry, friends use it for fun. Say it quickly, and it’s more of a cheeky scolding. Either way, it feels like being lightly teased – with lots of love behind it. Indian languages in Australia

Sehanta in Maithili means liking, or passion. It is a word that breathes depth beyond translation. To me, it is not just inspiration – it is the sacred spark that sets the soul in motion. Sehanta is the quiet pull toward purpose, the invisible thread that ties my poetry, my pursuits, and my heritage together. It reminds me of the first time my first verse on an underprivileged child moved me to tears. It also caused my spirit to act on a desire deep hidden in my heart. Sehanta takes me home – to Mithila, to its language, its soil, and its stories – whispering what moves us and defines us. Mother tongue

Lariti means one’s own roots and heritage. In the Khasi language (spoken in Meghalaya), “la” means “one’s own” and “riti” means “roots” / “heritage”. This word holds the weight of ancestral memory and belonging – it speaks of our Indigenous ways of life, our philosophies, and cultural grounding. As a Khasi woman on a journey of decolonisation, reclaiming Lariti is a return to Riti – to reconnect with the knowledge, kinships, and land-based wisdom that colonial systems attempted to sever. To speak Lariti is to honour where I come from – to walk forward with rootedness, pride, and connection in the ongoing journey of reclaiming, protecting, and valuing my Indigenous identity, culture, and knowledge. Mother tongue

Guru means guide or teacher. This word is commonly used in Hinduism to refer to someone who takes us from darkness into light. In this word Gu (गु) means darkness and Ru (रु) means light. In one’s spiritual journey, a Guru is essential in helping us gain liberation (moksha) by ensuring we stay on the right track – the path of righteousness. I chose this word because it plays a big role in my life! My Guru, His Holiness Param Pujya Mahant Swami Maharaj, has influenced how I live my life and who I am as a person. Due to his blessings, I am able to learn this beautiful language of Sanskrit! I managed to memorise many texts and shlokas in Sanskrit which creates the basis of my moral compass. So my Guru is my life.

Indian languages in Australia
Garima in Hindi means dignity, but could also mean greatness. It denotes excellent qualities and high position of a person. It could also refer to respect, expressing high regard for a person. Taken as a whole, these meanings symbolise “prestige.” Garima is also my name. As I discovered its meaning, the name began to unfold a deeper essence. I am proud to be called by this name. It encourages me to live a dignified life with dignified behaviour. Like my name, I aim to give dignity to everyone in a dignified manner.

Malegaalada Dinagalu means monsoon days in Kannada. Adelaide’s rainy days gently bring back childhood memories of the monsoon in my coastal hometown, where rain seemed endless. Together with my siblings, we’d walk to school beneath shared umbrellas, splashing along water-filled roads. Our uniforms and books became damp, yet we found joy in lessons and play. When heavy rains led to power cuts lasting two or three days, candlelight and kerosene lamps became the backdrop for studying, and my mother’s warm meals offered comfort. Celebrating Independence Day in the monsoon – dressed in white, marching, shouting “Jai Hind” and “Vande Mataram,” followed by flag-hoisting, music, speech, sweets – was a touching, proud moment. Those simple joys feel distant today, cherished dearly in memory.

Maharah is a term used to show respect, often when addressing elders, and can be loosely translated as “Respectfully…”. It is used by Kashmiri Pandits/Hindus globally. “Namaskar Maharah” are the words we use to greet – irrespective of whether we are addressing a male, female, friend, parents, grandparents, youngsters or elders. It is also used to get somebody’s attention too, albeit respectfully! On another note, if we replace the last letter H with Z and make it Maharaz, the meaning of this Kashmiri word completely changes to “Groom”.

Kamai means earning, but to me it’s what gives anything real value. Growing up, I’d hear my elders say, “apne kamai ke roti sabse meetha hot ha” – this means the roti you earn yourself is the sweetest. I didn’t fully get it back then. But now, every time I save up, pay rent, that line hits different. Kamai isn’t just about earning money, it’s a pride, it’s giving your 1000% by staying far away from your family and working hard to satisfy your needs. It’s also tired feet after a long shift, it’s saying I earned this without owing anyone. In Bhojpuri families like mine, kamai isn’t about showing off. It’s about standing on your own feet so everyone is proud of you. Mother t

Ema Leibak Manipur means Motherland Manipur (Ema ꯏꯃ for mother, and Leibak ꯂꯩꯕꯥꯛ for land). To me, these words mean than just motherland, or where I am from. They mean belonging, love, and home. The term brings back memories of the hills, rivers, customs, and all those people who help to define who I am. I get emotional when I hear these words. Manipur is not just my place of origin; it is who I am. Ema Leibak is my land – but also my past, my soul, and my protector. She carries our history, shapes our identity, and shelters us like mother’s love. Indian languages in Australia

Jeeman means a meal in Marwari; it’s an event, a celebration, and a glorious feast. For me it’s an emotion which connects me to my family and loved ones where we would all get together on special occasions, sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a dozen different dishes, guilted into having “just one more” by the aunties until our buttons threatened to stage a protest. It’s not just ‘eating’, it’s a sacred ritual. The word captures the essence of Rajasthani hospitality: an endless supply of food, a hearty welcome, and the unspoken expectation that you’ll leave feeling like a perfectly stuffed, happy sack of potatoes. It’s the ultimate food experience, Marwari style.  

Aama means grandmother – a word filled with love, care, and gentle wisdom. I spent most of my childhood with my Aama, learning the Kumauni language, music, traditions, and vibrant festivals from her. Kumaun, the eastern part of Uttarakhand, shaped so much of who I am, and she was my guide to it all. She studied only till Year 3, yet always ensured I gave top priority to my own education. Her simple life, stories, love, and encouragement are woven into everything I am today. Indian languages in Australia
Mother tongue

Mwla means thoughtfulness in Nyishi (a language spoken in Arunachal Pradesh) but it carries much more – remembering kindness, holding others in your mind with care, and letting gratitude shape how you move through life. Growing up, whenever someone gave me money or gifts, my mother would softly say “mwla to”. She was instilling in me a way of being: to remember these moments, to remember who showed me kindness, and, when I grew older, to give back. To be mwla of someone means carrying them with you – not just in memory, but in your actions. It is a quiet ethic I was raised into, and one I return to, even now.

Tlâwmngaihna is a Mizo word that describes the spirit of sacrifice and chivalry with the utmost sense of altruism. That does not quite capture the meaning in its entirety – it is known to be an untranslatable Mizo word! Some would say it is the essence of what it means to be a Mizo, and is arguably the noblest virtue in the society. For someone, especially a young man, to not display the spirit of “tlâwmngaihna” is considered anathema and is heavily frowned upon. And so every young lad is expected to be a modern Tâitesena, a legendary warrior whose name is synonymous with this much-treasured Mizo word. Indian languages in Australia Mother tongue

Etihad (اتحاد) means “unity”, “strength” or “solidarity” in Urdu. I strongly believe in the power of etihad as the foundation for meaningful change in society. Whether it’s through my work as a health professional, my involvement in migrant and regional community projects, or my role in research and education, I consistently strive to bring people together around shared goals. Unity inspires collective strength; solidarity ensures that no voice goes unheard. I see myself as a connector, someone who fosters inclusive environments, bridges cultural and regional gaps, and uplifts communities by encouraging cooperation, mutual respect, and shared purpose. Mother tongue

Tasoli means “land of birth” in the Ao language of Nagaland. It may be just one word, but it holds deep meaning. It’s your roots, your sense of belonging, and the comfort of always having a home. This word takes on even greater significance when you live away from home and grapple with your sense of identity. To me, Tasoli is Christmas with my grandparents, people singing in the streets, lights dotting the hills at night, and beautiful sunsets. It’s a reminder of where I come from and who I am, no matter where I find myself. Indian languages in Australia
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