While Mumbai argues over who’s “Marathi enough,” I had a front-row seat to my own little language drama, cruising somewhere over the Pacific Ocean.
Just after boarding at a Pacific Island airport, I spotted a couple walking past my aisle seat speaking in Marathi. A rare treat! As someone from Mumbai, I thought, “Wah! Marathi folks this far out? After take-off, I’ll say hello; maybe find out where they’re from, what brings them here.”
But soon after take-off, the full Thane local energy arrived. Loud, sharp words started flying across the row behind me.
“Aik, tujhya mule sagla jhala!”
“Maza kai sambandh aahe ithey?” And so on. Not muffled, not whispered —this was unfiltered bhaandan.
Clearly, they assumed no one on board could understand Marathi. I did. Enough to realise this was not the moment for a cheerful “namaskar, kaay mhantaay?”
So I stayed silent. Not out of fear, but out of kindness. Because the horror of realising someone did understand their mid-air marital saga? That would’ve been worse than any turbulence.
Sometimes, not speaking a language, even when you can, is the most considerate thing to do.
And maybe that’s the most Mumbai thing of all: we understand everything, say nothing, and quietly move on — letting the drama play out like it always does, from Colaba to Kurla, or even 35,000 feet above the Pacific.
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