The language debate is here again. It started with the Tamil Nadu government refusing to implement the National Education Policy (NEP) 2020, saying it was a tactic to impose Hindi, even as the Centre has maintained that no specific language would be imposed on any state.
Then, a controversy erupted in Maharashtra when senior RSS leader “Bhaiyyaji” Joshi remarked, “Mumbai does not have a single language… There is no requirement for people coming to Mumbai to learn Marathi.” Several arguments followed, with Shiv Sena (UBT) chief Uddhav Thackeray calling it “a ploy to break Mumbai”.
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I studied my mother tongue, Malayalam, as one subject at the English-medium school where I studied in Thiruvananthapuram. With what I studied till Class 10, I could delve into the rich vastness of Malayalam literature with ease. Whether it was Vaikom Muhammad Basheer’s down-to-earth writing that stays close to one’s heart, the deeply profound works of Anand or O V Vijayan, M T Vasudevan Nair’s poetic prose or Madhavikutty’s empowering lessons, I lapped it up all with my academic exposure to the language till Class 10. Just because it was my mother tongue.
The language also enabled me to stay rooted, enjoy its classic films, laugh my heart out with jokes that feel like jokes only in Malayalam and enjoy the unique Malayali way of sarcastic humour without losing its essence.
I studied at a convent school where the medium of instruction was English. At one point, we were made to pay a small fine for any word uttered in a language other than English, with relaxations being provided only during Malayalam and Hindi periods.
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After classes, the school bus took me to my mother tongue in the evenings. It was indeed like my home, where I could jump, scream and do somersaults, where no past participles, conjunctions or interjections frowned upon me. I could express myself, upholding my identity.
But Malayalam never fetched me a job or a livelihood in the land where I grew up. English did provide me a job and helped me adapt well to various cities where I lived for work. Still, I couldn’t call myself an expert in the foreign language as I would stumble upon at least a word or two that were new to me every day.
Hindi was my third language in school and second language in college. Besides these, I did certification courses run by the Kerala Hindi Prachar Sabha. I was kind of forced to choose it as the Hindi syllabus in Kerala was light and helped students get good marks. The classes did equip me to read and write the language well but did not make me fluent in speaking.
Years later, when I landed in the Hindi heartland for a job, I searched for what I had learned in school and college. A shocking revelation dawned on me: That with mispronunciations and mugging up just for marks, Hindi had remained the most foreign language to me. This, despite studying it and scoring above 80 marks without exception for 11 years. I had to start my lessons afresh.
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The migrant population that constitutes a fair share in any city will learn the local language by using it. If they want to have a better life by being able to converse with a cabbie or a vegetable vendor, or to reach out for help when in distress, learning the language becomes inevitable.
In Chennai, where I lived for three-and-a-half years, I had to learn conversational Tamil as one cannot escape it, while in Bengaluru, where I lived for eight years, I could survive with the languages that I knew. In Delhi, using Hindi was unavoidable and I conformed to it. But language never defined my love for the city I lived in. If Chennai impressed me with its culture, Bengaluru made me feel at home with its cosmopolitan nature, while Delhi made me the most independent.
Live and let live. Learn and let learn. If the language warriors’ intention is to uphold the pride of their language, the only way to do so is to not impose. Love for the language and state will follow.
Yamini.nair@expressindia.com
