![]() One-half of the music, the relatively urbanised (read mellow) notes, ended when my grandfather passed away in the early 2000s, leaving the more robust, 'uncorrupted' sounds of dadi to echo on. 'It's meant to be sung,' a pahadi-speaker explaining the terrains of the language will tell you. Together, they'd provide a perpetual melodic 'hilly' hum to the house. She, at 93, is the only natural Garhwali speaker left in my family. ![]() 'Grandmother tongue,' I whisper, then turn to him to state my case. The first page of links my memory throws up are all about dadi. A final 'botlike' mental Google search (in true millennial fashion): 'Mother+tongue,' I process. There in the office, crouched over the desk, still staring at the computer screen, I recollect all the main points in no particular order (I've done this a few times before). "What about your mother tongue?" I'm asked by a friend one more time.
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