A Portal to Past Life: How My Journey to Revive Marathi Speaking Skills Transported Me to Mumbai 

Rumi said, “Speak a new language, so that the world will be a new world.”

Last year, the day after Thanksgiving, I had an unfortunate encounter with the sidewalk. Gravity won, and I was left with a swollen knee, a broken wrist, and a bruised ego. As I nursed my injuries, self-pity loomed — until I shook myself out of it. Yoga was out, but physiotherapy was in. Who better to call than Asmita, my mother’s physiotherapist from Mumbai?

I half-expected her to be retired by now, sipping chai on a breezy balcony. But no — she was still at it, fixing creaky joints. Seeing her face on my screen transported me back to Mumbai, a city of dreams, predictably unpredictable monsoons, delicious Alphonso mangoes, and relentless energy.

“I started working with you again because it reminds me of my visits to Mumbai,” I admitted, stretching under her firm but warm instructions. Her face softened as we reminisced about my mother. Once, she had scolded Asmita for missing a session, only to forgive her upon learning she had lost her son. “Be a better mother,” she had admonished.

Meanwhile, Asmita’s life had evolved —divorced, remarried, now a mother to two little girls who peeked curiously through her phone camera at me, watching me attempt pushups and stretches—so far away, and yet so close. As Asmita chided them in Marathi, an idea came to me.

“Talk to me in Marathi,” I requested, eager to revive my ninth-grade vocabulary.

Marathi is not my mother tongue, but I have heard and spoken Marathi on and off during my stay in Maharashtra. My Marathi tutor was an eleventh-grade high school student from a Marathi vernacular school who lived in the slums in Chembur. My aunt found out about her and requested her to come to her house to take Marathi tuitions. She would teach my cousin and me for an hour every other day. She made us read out loud, do reading comprehension, and converse in Marathi.

I already knew the script because it was the Devanagari script — the same one we used for Hindi — except for one alphabet: “gya,” which was pronounced as “nya.” For example, the thirteenth-century commentary on the Bhagavad Gita, “Gyaneshwari” in Hindi, was pronounced Nyaneshwari in Marathi. But thanks to my excellent tutor, I scored high marks in Marathi in the ninth grade and went on to learning French in the tenth through the twelfth grade in school. But my association with Marathi remained and was helpful while interacting with patients in medical school.

In the last four decades, my conversational Marathi had dwindled. But as I started my online classes, the words sleeping in the recesses of my mind tumbled out: Doka (head), pathi (back), ajeebat (never), ushir (late), bhinti (wall), savkash (slowly).

Marathi came naturally to Asmita, she was able to instruct me fluently. As she spoke, memories flooded back — bus rides filled with girlish banter and gossip, professors reciting poetry, street vendors hawking their wares, dense government notices I once struggled to decipher. In those days, even the squelch of monsoon puddles under my gumboots sounded like it was in Marathi. Marathi wasn’t just a language — it was a portal to a past life.

Random phrases came to new life:

• Can we get there by public transport?
   आपण सार्वजनिक वाहतुकीने तिथे पोहोचू शकतो का?
   (Apana sarvajanika vahatukine tithe pohocu sakato ka?)
  
• What time does the bus/train/plane leave?
   बस/ट्रेन/विमान किती वाजता सुटते?
   (Basa/trena/vimana kiti vajata sutate?)
  
• What time does it arrive?
   किती वाजता येते?
   (Kiti vajata yete?)
  
• How long will it be delayed?
   किती दिवस उशीर होईल
   (Kiti divasa usira ho’il)
  
• Is this seat free?
   हे आसन मोफत आहे का?
   (He asana mophata ahe ka?)
  
• I want to get off here.
   मला इथून उतरायचे आहे.
   (Mala ithuna utarayace ahe.)

Historically, Marathi evolved from Maharashtri Prakrit and Apabhraṃśa, with the earliest records dating back to the 3rd century BCE. Inscriptions from the 11th century show Marathi in conjunction with Sanskrit and Kannada. Learning Marathi is compulsory in Maharashtra. 

As my stiff joints and tight muscles surrendered to Asmita’s nuanced instructions in Marathi, my mind stretched too. Back-bends, twists, knee extensions, squats, pigeon poses, hamstring curls, calf raises, bridges. 

We laughed as she eyed my daily workout outfit. “Red color suits you,” she said, grinning. “You remind me of Vyjayanthimala in “Main kya karoon Ram, mujhe buddha mil gaya,” from the 1964 Bollywood movie “Sangam.”

I gasped. “Are you saying I’m doomed to be with an old man?” Or that I’m dressed in a makeshift outfit for the famous dance number?

She giggled. “No! Just the fashion flair. But hey, if a charming Buddha comes along, don’t rule him out!”

By the time we ended our call, I felt lighter — not just in my limbs, but in my spirit. My world was expanding, my brain buzzing, and my body —miraculously — felt better. I felt confident and grounded.

Rediscovering a language is more than just an intellectual exercise. It is a way to connect with the past, to preserve culture, and to enrich our minds. Language is memory, identity, and a gateway to cognitive vitality. I had resolved: I would revive all my forgotten languages — Bengali, Gujarati, French, Italian, and Spanish. Why stop at Marathi? My desire to revive multilingual abilities was not just about reclaiming words — it was about reclaiming the power of communication, the richness of history, and the joy of lifelong learning.

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With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home, India, and a heart steeped in humanity, Monita Soni writes as a contemplative practice. She has published hundreds of poems, movie reviews, book critiques, and essays, and contributed to combined literary works. Her two books are My Light Reflections and Flow Through My Heart. You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner, WLRH 89.3 FM.