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New Indian Express

The Great Indian mother tongue tango: Pride, slaps and salty tea

In Mumbai's latest episode of "Speak Marathi or Else", early July, some traders found themselves slapped, not with fines they can manage, but greasy palms slammed on their faces at the speed of xenophobia. For what? For choosing Hindi over the local lingo. While language pride is laudable, turning it into a nasty contact sport has been India's national pastime since... well, since Jawaharlal Nehru's reluctance to divide the nation along linguistic lines was overruled. So, while the globe hyperventilates over 'language' in a different way with their LLMs—Large Language Models—churning out Shakespearean sonnets, we Indians deploy our impromptu street language audits or every Som, Danish and Harish. I know, because I have faced it myself. It is Bangalore, 2007, my first day in Karnataka. Fresh off the bus, feeling unwell, I drag myself to a pharmacy. What I receive isn't just Paracetamol, but also a hearty dose of Kannadiga pride, served up by a sweetly smiling elderly uncle. "Why don't you speak in Kannada?" he inquires, like he's offering me sweet nakul dana from the latest aarti in the nearest temple. "I will," I reply, "if I stay here longer! This is just my first hour in your magnificent city!" I think that truth plus city-pride-hyperbole would end the matter. Silly me. Uncle now deploys his own kamikaze logic drone. He beams, radiating the positivity of a thousand suns (Now, I am become Death?): "Then it's the perfect day to start!" My expression? Pure, unadulterated, "Dude. Seriously?" Thankfully, my pills arrive, rupees change hands, and below a bewildered headshake, my legs carry me back to the hotel at Olympic speed to escape this linguistic conversion. And you know the irony? That uncle's well-intentioned ambush backfired. It, and other incidents reported in the media since, left such a bad taste that I developed an involuntary reflex to avoid Karnataka. I've since ventured there only with the enthusiasm of a cat facing bath time. And the tragic, personal casualty? Hampi. That glorious miracle of the Vijayanagaran Empire is firmly in my global top-five must-sees. Yet, while I travel the world – doing slow-tourism of Varanasi (Hinduism HQ) and Rome (Christianity Central) just in the last year, Hampi eludes. All thanks to one retired gentleman with more time for linguistic gatekeeping than, following our scriptures, to, you know, leave for Sannyasa ashram. Since then, every news flash about someone getting thwacked in Maharashtra (where I've now lived half my years), Karnataka, or frankly anywhere for linguistic reasons, instantly teleports me back to that Bangalore pharmacy. That cocktail of anger and frustration bubbles right back up. If our aan, baan, shaan, and our naam, namak, nishaan, is our nation, India, why let hyper-local supra-pride manifest as public humiliation? Will insulting someone in the name of your 'mother' tongue make your mother proud, or serve as an advertisement for the "greatness" of your language and culture? And does it come with a brochure? A free phrasebook, with the address to the nearest night school that teaches your language? Nope? Just a stinging cheek followed by decades of resentment. Those of you branding me an anti-lingo or anti-national, hold your horses, cause the truth is the opposite! Genetically hailing from the Far East (Assam), raised in the Far West (Gujarat), and having loitered all over the country since, I've become a linguistic chameleon. Gujarati, Hindi, Assamese? Speak, read, write. Hindustani and Urdu? Proficient enough to order biryani with poetic flair (even began learning Farsi as a kid, till a new Maulvi proclaimed me Hindu and banished me). Bengali, Punjabi, Marathi? Understand fluently, speak like a charmingly broken robot. Nagamese, Oriya? I catch the drift, generally. The glorious dialects and languages under Hindi: Braj Bhasha, Bundeli, Haryanvi; Awadhi, Bagheli, and Chhattisgarhi; Maithili, Bhojpuri and Magahi? Perfect comprehension, passable spoken attempts. I'm basically a walking, talking poster for national integration, or in today's lingo, for 'Bharat Mata ke bhasha ki jay'. My Achilles' heel? Total blackout on the Tibeto-Burman tongues of the North-East. And shamefully, the magnificent four Southern languages. Though, while living in Hyderabad for a bit, I did dabble in Telugu, enough to land myself in hot water with a client after calling him "hantakudu" (murderer) instead of saying "andagadu" (handsome). Honestly, why wasn't learning one South Indian language compulsory in school? I believe it's a national tragedy. And shame. So yes, I live in the Land of Loving Languages. So, all you passionate Kannadiga warriors, champions of the Marathi manoos, Tamizh thaai devotees – here's my suggestion: Inspire, don't require! Instead of unleashing the Slap Brigade, how about unleashing the "Adopt-a-Non-Local" initiative? Get your people to gently take a clueless outsider under their wing and teach them your language, word by glorious word. And guess what: No one will object! Why? Because it's ridiculously useful! Exhibit A: My dear departed father. Fresh off the train from Assam to Gujarat in 1974 (he hadn't even heard of a dhokla before), his Hindi was Bollywood-basic, Gujarati non-existent. At his first Gujarati home visit, wanting sugar in tea, he requested "meethu." While "meethu" sounds like it means sugar, it actually means salt in Gujarati. The bewildered host, assuming salty tea was an Assamese delicacy, obliged. Not wanting to offend, dad drank. Decades later, we blamed this incident for his hypertension. Jokes aside, my point? Most long-term residents, like my dad, realize the immense benefit of the local lingo and want to learn. The burning question: Who's gonna teach them? The slapperatti? Here's a still better suggestion for all you Bharatiya language lovers. March down to your state's tech startup district and inspire (please, no slaps) someone to build the next big thing: a hyper-local Duolingo rival! Storm your AI companies! Instead of forcing LLMs (Lots of Language Modes) down throats, demand they build actual LLMs (Large Language Models) in your language! Get tech to do the heavy lifting of preservation and promotion! And the other thing you can actively do: sharpen your culture. Because, despite the Bangalore Pharmacy uncle's unintended effect, my aversion to Kannada has been chipped away gradually by you know what: Karnataka's music, art, culture and most importantly, cinema. Films like Thithi, Kantara, the sheer operatic madness of KGF... they make me wish for a Matrix-style instant Kannada download jack at the back of my head! Plug me in, Morpheus, I need to understand this awesomeness properly! And then came the Booker's nod to Banu Mushtaq's writing? I read one of her short stories in English and it wrecked me with its prose. Imagine its power in the original! That's the pull. Wherever you are in this glorious, noisy nation, if you want to promote your language and culture? Make your art irresistible. Make your language a magnet, not a mallet. Build a pull economy where people crave to learn, not a push economy where you shove it down reluctant mental throats. So, as a tribute to the linguistic assortment I adore (and the many more I aspire to master before I abandon this mortal coil), here's a little… let's generously call it a poetic interlude… in my four beloved tongues: नयी भाषा सीखो, नई दुनिया देखो। (Nayi bhasha seekho, nayi duniya dekho.) શબ્દો એટલે પુલ છે, અંતરને જોડે. (Shabdo atle pul che, antar ne jode.) शिकलेली भाषा आपल्याला जगात नेते. (Shikleli bhasha, aapalyala jagat nete.) আৰু এটা ভাষা, নতুন বন্ধুৰ আশা। (Aaru eeta bhakha, notun bondhur aakha.) For the linguistically challenged amongst us – a.k.a. most normal people – here's a translation: Learn a new language, see a new world. Words are bridges connecting hearts. A learned tongue carries you into the world. One more language, hope for new friends. Build bridges with words, stop constructing walls with slaps. Onward, linguistic India! But with a cultural hug, not a slap.