In 1980, shortly before my 11th birthday, I wrote my first essay

Host: The night hung heavy over the small café near the river, where the city’s hum faded into the murmur of distant trains. A single lamp flickered above the wooden table, casting a circle of amber light that trembled like an old memory. The rain tapped the windows with quiet persistence, like time knocking to remind them both it was still moving. Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes tracing the streaks of water. Jeeny, across from him, wrapped her hands around a cup of coffee, the steam rising between them like a veil of thoughts unspoken.

Host: It was late, and the quote lay on the table between them, scrawled on a piece of paper: “In 1980, shortly before my 11th birthday, I wrote my first essay in English.” — Pankaj Mishra.

Jeeny: “It’s such a simple line,” she said softly, eyes on the paper. “But there’s a whole universe inside it — the moment a child touches a foreign language and starts to dream differently.”

Jack: “Or,” he said, leaning back, his voice low and rough, “it’s just a kid writing an essay. People romanticize beginnings too much.”

Host: The rain intensified, smearing the streetlights into golden streaks. A bus passed, its tires hissing on wet asphalt, and the café seemed to shrink into its own silence.

Jeeny: “Don’t you see what that means, Jack? To write in a language not your own — it’s a kind of rebirth. It’s not just about words, it’s about becoming something new.”

Jack: “Becoming new, or becoming someone else?” His eyes sharpened. “You lose part of yourself when you start thinking in another man’s tongue. It’s how colonies are built — first in land, then in language.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t language the bridge, not the chain? Mishra didn’t become less of himself by writing in English — he became more. He could speak to the world.”

Host: The lamp hummed faintly. Jack’s fingers drummed the table, rhythmic, impatient. Jeeny’s voice trembled with the kind of faith that refuses to be silenced.

Jack: “The world?” He gave a short, hollow laugh. “You mean the world that rewards those who can write in its chosen language? English wasn’t his liberation — it was his passport. Without it, he’d just be another voice unheard.”

Jeeny: “You’re right, but that doesn’t make it less beautiful. Every essay, every poem written in a borrowed language is an act of courage. Like a seed growing through stone.”

Host: The air between them thickened. A waiter moved past, his shoes squeaking softly on the wet floor. The clock above the counter ticked, a slow metronome of memory and argument.

Jack: “Courage? It’s adaptation, Jeeny. Like an animal changing its color to survive. Mishra wasn’t free — he was clever. He saw the system and learned its code.”

Jeeny: “So you think all art in another language is submission?”

Jack: “Not all. But don’t fool yourself — it’s never innocent. Every sentence carries a history of power. Think of how the British Empire used English as its sword — then left it behind as its crown jewel. Now the colonized fight to master it. That’s not liberation. That’s inheritance of the conqueror’s tongue.”

Host: Jeeny looked out the window, her reflection faint against the rain, her eyes bright with hurt and defiance. The city lights flickered like stars sinking into puddles.

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, those same words have become weapons of truth. Look at Tagore, Rushdie, or Arundhati Roy — they turned the empire’s language against itself. Isn’t that poetic justice?”

Jack: “Or irony,” he said quietly. “They fight the master using the master’s voice.”

Jeeny: “But that’s how the world listens, Jack. Sometimes you have to speak in the language of power to challenge it. Otherwise, your truth never leaves the village.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His grey eyes drifted toward the window, following the train lights sliding across the bridge. For a moment, the rain softened, as though it too were listening.

Jack: “When I was twelve,” he said slowly, “my father made me learn German. He said it was the language of logic, of science, of progress. But every time I spoke it, I felt like I was erasing something of myself — like I was becoming a shadow of someone else’s idea of me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you were just becoming more of yourself — more complex, more layered. Maybe learning another language isn’t erasure; it’s expansion.”

Jack: “Expansion into what? A hybrid? A half-breed of thought?”

Jeeny: “A bridge, Jack. Between worlds that wouldn’t meet otherwise.”

Host: The clock struck ten. The rain subsided into a soft drizzle, the kind that leaves silver trails on the glass. Jack leaned forward now, his voice quieter but edged with fire.

Jack: “You’re talking about bridges, Jeeny. But bridges can collapse. Look around — the world is filled with people who don’t belong anywhere. Children of two languages, two histories, two selves — always torn.”

Jeeny: “Torn, yes. But also alive in ways the rest aren’t. To stand between cultures is to see both sides — the pain, the beauty, the truth of both.”

Host: A long silence followed. The light from the streetlamp caught the faint steam rising from their forgotten cups. Jeeny’s hair clung to her cheek, a single strand glinting like wet silk. Jack’s fingers stopped drumming. His eyes softened — weary, thoughtful.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally. “Maybe that’s what Mishra meant. That writing in English wasn’t just about language — it was about crossing into another self.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every language is a different mirror. When a child writes in a new one, they don’t lose their reflection — they find another angle of it.”

Jack: “But it’s still painful. You can’t fully go back once you’ve crossed that line.”

Jeeny: “True. But isn’t that the essence of growing up? You start in one world, you step into another, and you never completely belong to either. Yet, somehow, you belong to both.”

Host: The rain stopped. The night air turned still, almost tender. Outside, the river shimmered faintly under the streetlights, carrying its quiet reflections away.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what all art is — a kind of exile. A man trying to speak himself back into existence.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered, “and every word, no matter what language, is a step toward home.”

Host: The lamplight warmed their faces now. The storm had passed, but its echo lingered in the air, in the tremor of their voices. They sat there — two souls, both fluent in the same silence, both searching for the same truth through different tongues.

Host: As Jack looked at the quote again, he smiled faintly. The paper had soaked a small drop of coffee, its edge curling like a page of memory.

Jack: “Maybe,” he said, “the first essay we ever write — in any language — is the story of learning how to be heard.”

Jeeny: “And maybe,” she replied, “the last one we write is about learning how to listen.”

Host: Outside, a faint wind stirred the branches, carrying the smell of rain and something like forgiveness. The streetlights flickered once, then steadied. The camera of the night pulled back slowly — the café, small against the endless city, glowing like a single, quiet thought.