My fascination with Mandarin

Last September, I arrived in Shenzhen to pursue a master’s degree at the local campus of Harbin Institute of Technology. The city greeted me with its modernity and dazzling pace: flickering neon lights, electric bikes whizzing past, and students effortlessly switching among Mandarin, English, and a local slang I had yet to decipher. I came here to study; unexpectedly, I found a second home.

Toting my passport and books, I arrived with a long-cherished passion for Chinese culture and language. Chinese, which I first encountered at the Confucius Institute in Faisalabad, Punjab, Pakistan, now unfurled before me like an ancient scroll.

My teachers did more than correct my grammar; they guided me through the essence of the language and the culture behind it. Every lesson felt like an invitation into this fascinating world. When I began studying Confucius, something resonated deeply. I recognized values familiar to my own culture: humility regarded as strength, and a profound respect for tradition. I wasn’t just learning a language — I was absorbing a worldview.

The language I studied in books came alive on Shenzhen’s streets. The announcements on the subway, the casual chatter in teahouses near the Civic Center, my classmates effortlessly switching between Mandarin and Cantonese in student cafés — Chinese enveloped me like the air I breathed. Even the campus posters adorned with idioms and local slogans became invitations to engage with the language.

In my early days, Mandarin’s tones turned my life into a comedy: the slightest slip of the tongue could turn mā (mother) into mà (scold), or “I want sugar” into “I want soup.” It felt like walking a tightrope with my tongue.

During those first few months, I made many funny mistakes. Trying to tell a street vendor “I’m scorched by the heat,” I instead blurted out “I’m hungry” — and received a steamed bun instead of sympathy. Late one night, when I mixed up shuìjiào (sleep) and shuǐjiǎo (dumplings), my roommate muttered, “Do you fancy a bowl of dumplings now?”

But these were not merely amusing mishaps — they were invitations from the Chinese language itself, welcoming me into a learning process built on trial and error.

Just as Shenzhen transformed from a fishing village into a tech metropolis, my Mandarin evolved through constant deconstruction and reconstruction. My professor once told me, “Shenzhen didn’t become the ‘Silicon Valley of the East’ overnight — it swallowed failure for breakfast.” Those words touched me deeply. The first time I correctly pronounced nǔlì (try my best) with correct tones, it felt like winning a small battle of my own.