A teacher I had in Madurai had one instruction. Delivered daily. With the confidence of someone announcing a natural law.
Pay attention.
I paid. Mostly because she was terrifying.
It took forty years to notice the instruction was strange. You pay taxes. You pay rent. You pay for mistakes you didn’t entirely make. Attention, apparently, belongs in that list.
Seventeen browser tabs later
A few months ago, I was reading Steven Pinker. Something about language and how it shapes thought. A small question snagged. Why pay? I looked it up. Then something else. Then it was an hour later and I had seventeen browser tabs open and a strong opinion about German.
Here is what I found.
English is the only major language that treats attention as a transaction.
In German, you gift it. Freely. No invoice.
In Irish, you bring it somewhere, like a person arriving with something tucked under their arm.
In Japanese and Chinese, you pour your mind into something. Slow, deliberate.
In Arabic, the root of the word means to wake up. To attend to something is to be alive to it.
And then there is English. Where attention is currency, the mind is a wallet, and a classroom in Madurai is apparently a debt collection agency.
Lakoff and Johnson wrote a book called Metaphors We Live By. The argument, simplified badly, is that metaphors are not decoration. They are the architecture. The way you phrase something tells you what the thing actually is, in the mind of the person speaking.
Which is worth sitting with for a moment
The bill, and what it assumes
If attention is something you pay, it can be paid reluctantly. Dutifully. Resentfully. You can pay attention to a meeting you hate, a speech going nowhere, a relative explaining their knee surgery in considerable detail. Obligation discharged. Ledger balanced.
If attention is something you bring, that changes. You had to decide to carry it.
If attention is waking up, reluctant attention barely makes sense. Either you’re awake or you’re not.
In Tamil, the word is kavanam. From a root meaning to watch over something carefully. Almost protectively. Less a school instruction, more something you’d say to someone you trusted with something precious.
My teacher never said it that way. She had twenty three children and a chalk duster she was not afraid to use.
But I have been thinking about her instruction ever since. About what it asked for, and what it quietly assumed. That attention was a cost. That a child in a classroom in Madurai had a payment to make.
The metaphor you grow up with becomes the instruction you carry. It tells you what you owe, and to whom, before you are old enough to question it.
Decades later, I am still paying.
Though I’m no longer entirely sure to whom.
