This article is the second part of Chinti’s introductory post When Languages Meet, People Do Too.

Many say they wish they could return to childhood, when things were freer and happier. I’d rather not. Even if you bribe me with chilli paste (which, for the record, is usually a guaranteed win), I wouldn’t want to go back. I don’t have many good memories from that time. But there’s one I’ll always cherish: the hours I spent under my grandfather’s giant wooden desk.

‘Languages Are Where Her Calling Is’

He was a quiet man with an enormous desk with many drawers packed with old reading glasses, palm-leaf manuscripts, stamps and coins from around the world, fountain pens, and ink bottles. His study was surrounded by bookshelves filled with literature, astronomy, and astrology. There were rows of encyclopedias too, gifted to him by a British expat in the early 60s after seeing his fascination with them at a book exhibition. I never fully understood what he did at that desk all day — speaking to people in unfamiliar languages, or why so many came to see him or wanted to buy his books he wrote or what they were about. But I loved sitting quietly under the desk, snooping through drawers, or tapping away imaginary words on his typewriter — and he would let me.

He rarely spoke to me, and I was a quiet child, too. I mainly lived in my head. But when I pointed to a picture in one of the encyclopaedias, he would stop what he was doing to explain not just what it was, but what it meant. That was the coolest thing in the world: reading and explaining something so that another person could understand. I wanted to be like him — to read the big books, help someone else understand them, and know many words.

He taught me Hindi phrases, Sanskrit and Pali words, and even a few in Thai, saying these languages were like family and were always connected. He encouraged my mum to steer me toward a future career in languages. She wasn’t sure and said there weren’t many opportunities for that in our small hill station town — and she wasn’t wrong. But he was adamant. ‘Languages are where her calling is,’ ‘That’s where she’ll be happy,’ he would say. 

I was too young to understand what ‘language’ meant, but now I know he was right. After all, he was a researcher who studied astronomy and astrology, wrote books on them, and calculated numbers to find the positions of stars, birth charts, and so on — and me, who is bad at numbers and still thinks that A in my O Levels Maths was a mistake — wouldn’t argue.

He passed away just before I turned seven, and most of my early language learning ended with him. I followed a more popular education path, but my love for languages — and for the people who spoke them — never left. 

After school, I’d sit in front of the TV to watch Hindi films with a book to write down new words I learn. I didn’t speak English until I was 17 or 18, but then I got internet access and started watching films and series. Immersing myself in the language helped, and English slowly became my comfort language. So I wanted to become a translator. But by then, I had already chosen a different academic stream for my university education. I didn’t know anyone in the translation field, and the few people I asked discouraged me. But I kept translating Sinhala texts into English and vice versa to help with my studies. It was the only way I could turn studies into a passion. Eventually, my lecturers began asking me to translate for class. It helped me cope — but that was it.

How the ‘Language’ of Music Saved My Mental Health

At the time, I was already struggling with stress and a growing lack of passion for my studies. That’s when I discovered a music group whose songs spoke openly about mental health and self-love. I started translating their lyrics for myself, which quickly became the most peaceful, grounding thing I did. I spent hours getting each line just right. It brought me joy. It helped me fight off depression. Those lyrics taught me to be gentler with myself.

Eventually, I discovered a community of fans who were volunteering to translate those lyrics and related informative content into dozens of languages. So, I began sharing my translations too, hoping they’d bring others the same comfort. Readers — both kids and adults — started writing to me about how they used the lyrics to cope. That’s when my world view changed: everyone carries invisible struggles — mental health challenges, child abuse, domestic violence — often wrapped in silence and loneliness, without access to vital information, especially in cultures where these topics remain taboo. Their messages also gave me the confidence and motivation to translate for others. I began to believe that maybe translation didn’t have to remain a hobby. I could do more with it. I wanted to do more.

How I Ended Up Joining OLI

So, while continuing my admin career, I began volunteering as a translator with humanitarian initiatives. I went back to university to formally study human rights and translation. Eventually, I met Andrew Morris, OLI’s CEO, who offered me a volunteer role that combined language and admin, and it later became a programme administrator role where I could grow and challenge myself.

That’s what led me to OLI, a place where my passions align, where my team and community constantly inspire me, and where I’m given the opportunity to grow, and contribute to something larger than myself.