Most of my family speaks fluent Malayalam.

Host: The evening light slanted through the glass walls of a Los Angeles recording studio, painting streaks of gold and violet across the hardwood floor. Outside, the sky pulsed with the last glow of sunset — a slow surrender of color. Inside, cables, microphones, and scattered lyric sheets covered the room like the traces of a half-built dream.

Jack sat near the mixing console, his fingers absently drumming against a coffee cup, the blue glow of the monitor reflected in his grey eyes. Jeeny stood by the window, her hair catching the dying sunlight, her voice humming softly — a melody from somewhere far away, a language that seemed to remember more than it could explain.

From the speakers, a voice played in rehearsal — Vidya Vox, singing in two languages, English blending with Malayalam. The track faded, leaving behind a quiet echo.

"Most of my family speaks fluent Malayalam," the interview clip on the screen said. "But I grew up in the U.S., so for me, it’s like being between two songs — I can hear both, but I don’t fully belong to either."

The words lingered. The studio seemed to hold its breath.

Jack: “That’s the modern curse, isn’t it? Being from everywhere and nowhere at once.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s a bridge. You call it being between — I call it belonging to both.”

Jack: (shrugs) “A bridge still gets stepped on.”

Jeeny: “And yet it holds worlds together.”

Host: The hum of the computer filled the silence. A strand of Jeeny’s hair fell across her face, and she brushed it back, her eyes glimmering with that mix of tenderness and fire that always unsettled Jack’s calm.

Jack: “You don’t think it’s exhausting? Living in translation all the time — not just between languages, but between selves? One version at work, another at home, another when you visit the old country?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not exhaustion. Maybe that’s evolution.”

Jack: “Or fragmentation.”

Jeeny: “Why can’t it be both?”

Jack: “Because one breaks you. The other builds you. They’re not the same thing.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes breaking is how building begins.”

Host: Outside, the first city lights flickered to life — small stars in reverse, glowing upward from concrete instead of falling from heaven. Jeeny crossed the room, sitting opposite Jack. Between them, the microphone waited, silent and silver, like a witness.

Jeeny: “You ever hear your mother tongue in a place it doesn’t belong?”

Jack: “You mean like hearing Tamil in a New York subway?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You turn around instinctively, like you’ve heard a ghost from home. That’s what language is — a memory that still breathes.”

Jack: “I wouldn’t know. I only speak English. The language of convenience.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The language of forgetting.”

Jack: “Forgetting what?”

Jeeny: “Where you came from. Who you were before the world taught you to fit in.”

Host: Her words struck softly, like rain tapping glass. Jack looked down, his reflection caught in the console’s surface — fractured by buttons and faders. The light flickered across his face, half in shadow, half in flame.

Jack: “You think a language defines who you are?”

Jeeny: “I think it defines how your heart remembers.”

Jack: “Then what about people like Vidya? Like you? People who live between languages. Are we half-remembered?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re bilingual in soul. We can dream in one tongue and love in another.”

Jack: “Sounds romantic until you realize neither side fully accepts you.”

Jeeny: “That’s the price of bridges, remember? They don’t belong to any shore.”

Host: The studio lights dimmed automatically — it was late. The room was cast in amber, soft and intimate. The hum of the recording equipment softened, replaced by the faint sound of rain beginning to fall outside.

Jeeny leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her voice quieter now.

Jeeny: “When I was ten, my grandmother tried to teach me Malayalam. I’d sit on her veranda, the smell of curry leaves in the air, the sound of monsoon rain on the tiles — she’d tell me stories. I didn’t understand half the words, but I understood the rhythm. That rhythm is still in me.”

Jack: “But you lost the words.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But not the heartbeat.”

Jack: “What good is rhythm without meaning?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes meaning hides inside rhythm. Like music. Like memory. You don’t have to translate what you feel.”

Host: The rain outside grew steadier, a low percussion to their conversation. Jack stood and paced to the window, watching water snake down the glass.

Jack: “You talk about belonging like it’s a melody. But what if some of us are just static? Noise. Not enough of one thing to be real in either world.”

Jeeny: “Then make the static part of the song.”

Jack: “You think that’s possible?”

Jeeny: “That’s what art is. That’s what Vidya does — blending East and West, Carnatic and pop, memory and invention. She’s proof that identity doesn’t have to choose sides.”

Jack: “You think that’s brave?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s revolutionary.”

Host: Thunder rolled faintly in the distance, like applause from the sky. Jeeny stood now too, the energy between them shifting — tension, admiration, something unnamed.

Jack: “You really believe you can belong to two worlds?”

Jeeny: “I believe the heart’s big enough to hold more than one home.”

Jack: “But every home asks for loyalty.”

Jeeny: “Then loyalty must evolve too.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say until someone calls you an outsider — there, and here.”

Jeeny: “I’ve been called worse. You know what I say?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “If being an outsider means I can see the beauty of both sides, then I’d rather stay outside forever.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like the last note of a song — trembling, complete, irreversible. The rain softened into drizzle, the city exhaled steam, and from somewhere in the building, another artist began rehearsing — a faint melody weaving through the air, blending with the night.

Jack turned back to her, his expression less guarded now.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe language isn’t just speech. Maybe it’s survival. The way memory hides from extinction.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every time you sing a word your grandparents spoke, you’re keeping them alive.”

Jack: “But what if you forget the words?”

Jeeny: “Then hum. The heart still knows the tune.”

Host: A quiet smile touched Jack’s face — the kind that comes not from comfort, but recognition. He walked to the console, pressed a button, and the earlier track began to play again. Vidya’s voice filled the room — smooth, layered, moving effortlessly between two worlds.

Jack: “You think she ever feels torn?”

Jeeny: “Probably every day. But she turns the tearing into art. That’s what resilience sounds like.”

Jack: “And we just listen.”

Jeeny: “Listening’s its own kind of fluency.”

Jack: “Fluency of what?”

Jeeny: “Of empathy.”

Host: The song reached its final note — a long, sustained vowel that faded into silence. Jeeny closed her eyes, her face lit softly by the last glow of the monitor.

Jack’s voice came low, reflective, almost reverent.

Jack: “You know, I used to think language divided us. But maybe it just reveals the hidden chords between us — like harmony and melody. Each incomplete without the other.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of being bilingual, Jack. You don’t just speak — you echo.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The city shimmered under the streetlights, washed clean, reborn. In the distance, a faint sound of temple bells mingled with the far-off thump of bass from a nightclub — two worlds playing the same rhythm under one sky.

Jeeny looked up, whispering almost to herself:

Jeeny: “Maybe we’re all just translations of love.”

Jack: “Different languages. Same meaning.”

Host: The studio lights dimmed completely now, leaving only the gentle glow of the monitors — two small suns in a universe of sound. The city’s pulse outside matched the music within.

For a moment, there were no borders, no sides, no lines — only connection.

And somewhere between silence and song, between homeland and horizon, between memory and modernity — they found a fluent peace.