It all began with the simplest of things — the days of the week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and, as I pronounced it with innocent confidence, “Sachurday.” The moment those words left my mouth, laughter erupted. They all laughed in unison, their amusement echoing around me. I stood there, a little bewildered, not understanding what was so funny. For me, and for the people in my town, it had always been “Sachurday.” That was how we spoke it, how it was passed down in conversations, in classrooms, in markets, and on the lips of every vendor and teacher I knew. It was part of the rhythm of our speech, a piece of home.
But here, among strangers, in a new place far from the familiar lanes of my town, my words were met with laughter, not understanding. A wave of embarrassment flushed my face. I felt small, out of place, and suddenly very conscious of how I spoke. My grandfather, sensing my confusion and the sting of that moment, placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. With his kind eyes and soft voice, he explained the reason for their reaction. It wasn’t mockery, he assured me — not truly. They were simply surprised at the difference in pronunciation. In their world, in this new place I would have to call home after my summer vacation, “Sachurday” had no place.
From that day forward, I became painfully aware of the gap between my speech and what was expected. “Sachurday” was just the beginning. There was a whole list — a long, winding list of words whose sounds betrayed my origins, words that set me apart in classrooms and conversations. This list, this invisible barrier, stayed with me all the way to the twelfth standard. With each new word I mispronounced, the weight of my difference grew heavier.
As I grew older, I carried this burden into new chapters of my life. After completing my graduation, I enrolled in a coaching institute to prepare for the MBA entrance exams. My determination was strong, and I made steady progress in my studies. But beneath that surface of achievement, the old fear lingered — the fear planted by a single word, a single moment of laughter. It refused to die down, even as age and knowledge tried to smother it.
You see, I had always been a curious child. From as early as I could remember, questions filled my mind like stars in the night sky. But that laughter, that sting of embarrassment, made me hesitant. A question would form in my mind, stirring quietly, waiting to be voiced. But then came the hesitation — the fear that I would fumble, that I would mispronounce, that my words would betray me again. I would try to translate my thoughts into English, fumbling to find the right words, trying to shape my ideas into a form that would be understood and accepted. My heart would pound as I gathered the courage to speak. But too often, by the time I was ready, the moment had slipped away. The conversation had moved on, the opportunity lost. And I was left with my silence, my unasked question weighing heavily upon me.
In time, I succeeded. I earned a place in a respected MBA program. It was a triumph, a validation of my hard work and perseverance. And when I returned to my hometown during a break, the familiar streets and faces welcomed me back. There, in my old neighborhood, I met my aunt — now a grandmother, her hair silvered with age, her eyes still sharp and kind. She called out to her grandson, a little boy with bright eyes and eager energy. She encouraged him to show me what he had learned in school, proud of his progress.
“Say the days of the week for your uncle,” she urged.
The boy stood tall and recited with confidence, “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Sachurday.”
A smile spread across my face. The sound of that word, so familiar and once a source of pain, now felt like a gentle reminder of where I came from. I didn’t correct him. I saw myself in him — the same innocent certainty, the same echo of our shared home.
Years went by. I embarked on a new adventure: starting my own company. It was a challenging journey, but one that brought me immense satisfaction. As the company grew, we needed to hire talent, and I insisted on looking beyond polished accents and perfect grammar. We brought on a software developer — brilliant, resourceful, and driven. English was not his first language, but his skills spoke louder than any words. He quickly became one of our most valuable team members.
Our company followed a schedule where the first and third Saturdays of the month were holidays. One month, as the calendar presented five Saturdays, he approached me with a question. In his sincere, straightforward way, he asked, “Sir, is the fifth Sachurday off too?”
In that moment, I felt the circle complete itself. The word that had once filled me with dread now filled me with warmth. I didn’t correct him. Instead, I saw the determination in his eyes, the focus on what truly mattered — his work, his contributions, his growth. And I realized that language, while important, should never overshadow heart, effort, and integrity.
What began as a story of embarrassment and fear became a journey of acceptance and understanding. I learned that language is a bridge, but it is also a tapestry of where we come from. And sometimes, the way we say a word tells a richer story than the word itself ever could.
