'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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