In Tongues
How we make sense of the fleetingness of affection, through words and time.
There are five tones in the Thai language. The middle tone is neutral, bereft of any force. The low tone is stern and brash, almost a mindful nudge. The rest are convolutions of air, a sigh, a whimper, confounding to the untrained ear. They say the complexity of a language is a reflection of its peoples’ aversion to the other. The Thai tongue pulls one in, then in broken lines, it demarcates.
In Thai, mai in a vacuum, means ‘mile’. With forceful intent it becomes ‘new’, in almost ululation it is ‘not’. The language is as wondrous as it is alienating.
I had Thai lessons once a week when I lived in Bangkok. The language center was inside a quaint mall along the city’s side streets. From where I sat during Sunday morning classes, I could see shrines and smoke, the devout whispering prayers into stones, in sentient gestures and rituals. It was a sight that always brought comfort.
My teacher was a patient man. Listening to him was an exercise in stillness. His exhalations were precise, the o’s and e’s of his lips exacting. And on every mistake I made, he would offer a chuckle, like he was the one ought to be embarrassed for all my lapses. He taught with spiritedness, a flick of the hand and swishes in the air, as if to learn…
