Being bilingual has gifted me with the power of overhearing gossip
Former colleagues were unaware I was fluent in two languages, so I was the first to hear when the best pastries arrived in the staffroom and could eavesdrop on the juiciest stories
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In my early 20s, before entering the world of screenwriting, I worked behind the reception desk of a London hotel, an international hub where most employees — myself included — spoke more than one language. The front-of-house team was made up of people from all over the world, so slipping into Polish, Italian, Spanish or Urdu was second nature to us. I found it endearing to hear my international peers search for the English word for “cucumber”.
I’m not sure if it was my Scottish accent or my affinity for sad-boy music that had a few senior colleagues convinced that I, however, was monolingual. I was too nervous to correct them and tell them I spoke Punjabi. And, after a while, I’d heard too much.
At that point, admitting I understood everything would have been more awkward than just keeping quiet. By openly chatting in front of me as if I didn’t exist, they’d unwittingly invited me into their own personal soap opera where the characters were petty, the narrative thin and stale, but where the occasional plot twist kept the background chatter from completely fading into white noise.
The thing about knowing Punjabi is that it makes understanding Urdu and, to an extent, Hindi, much easier. I’m not sure why my supervisors, Suraj and Priya, never thought to check if I understood more than English, but their error in judgment made for a mildly interesting year, handing me a steady stream of shaky intel without having to move from my wobbly stool.
I was the first to get a heads-up about the good pastries in the staffroom before the masses descended. More often than not, I managed to evade the nightmare of being stuck behind the desk with the hotel’s most tedious guest just minutes before the end of my shift. I would strategically place a call to housekeeping, successfully foiling my superiors’ dastardly plan to palm the headache and his bulky luggage off on me.
In the hotel, gossip was currency and I was getting it twofold. I was among the first to learn that Jane in housekeeping was having an affair with Hugh from the restaurant after they were caught in a dirty room. I was present when a ding was discovered on the formidable manager’s BMW, and heard the culprit’s confession take place just two stools down from me. When the mystery guest who pooped in the bathtub was finally caught but the sensitive information kept private, I still managed to glean all the gross details. I finally understood why power was alluring but also a burden to bear.
My adventure as the world’s most boring spy ended, quite fittingly, in the most anticlimactic manner. About a year into my job, Suraj asked Priya for the time in Urdu, and, without thinking, I answered in English: “It’s a little after two.” The silence that followed was strained. I could feel eyes boring into the back of my head. I slowly turned to see their jaws slack, the realisation dawning: I’d heard everything.
The next few shifts were awkward as they pressed for information. What did I know? Who have I told? Why hadn’t I said anything? When their interrogation revealed the mundanity of my intel and, more importantly, how little I cared, Suraj and Priya finally relaxed, but they never slipped into Urdu in my presence again.
As an adult, I’m grateful my parents instilled both English and Punjabi in me — and not just for the gossip or colourful collection of swear words. It’s a useful barometer for their anger. If they’re telling me off in English, I’m in minor trouble. Punjabi means I’ve messed up. A mix of both? I’m truly screwed.
However, as many bilingual children and children of immigrants will know, it often comes with an identity crisis. Growing up in Scotland as a young British Asian kid in the 1990s, speaking anything other than English felt like slapping a target on my back.
While people now fawn over bilingualism as an enviable skill, back then it was just another thing that made me different. And at that delicate tween stage, all I wanted was to be the same as everyone else. Every time my parents spoke to me in Punjabi in public, I’d inwardly cringe, convinced everyone was staring in disdain.
Over time, my appreciation for my parents and their efforts has only grown. My dad and I share the same languages. We’re both bilingual, his title earned as he learned English as an adult, whereas mine was inherited. I’d been given the cheat code as a baby — the aeroplanes carrying peas and carrots that flew into my toddler mouth spoke many languages.
Now, the sound of my parents’ voices as both languages melt into one fills me with a familiar warmth. My unwarranted shame is abandoned to the past, rightfully replaced by acceptance and celebration for what I once naively took for granted.
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