India, the only country where a signboard can trigger a national crisis, is again embroiled in its favourite pastime - the Great Indian Language War. If you thought cricket was divisive, wait till you see what happens when someone paints a word in Urdu, Hindi, Marathi or Kannada on a public wall.
Let’s start with Hindi, the language that keeps popping up like that one relative at every family function - uninvited, but impossible to ignore. With its three-language formula, the New Education Policy (NEP) 2020 has Tamil Nadu seeing red (and not just on its signboards). The state’s leaders swear by their two-language policy, convinced the NEP is a sneaky plot to smuggle Hindi into classrooms under the guise of “linguistic freedom.” After all, nothing says “freedom” like being told what to learn.
The Centre insists it’s all about choice, but if you believe that, you probably also believe that “One Nation, One Language” is just a catchy slogan, not a fever dream of uniformity. Tamil Nadu remembers 1965, when anti-Hindi protests set the state ablaze - literally. Since then, “Hindi imposition” has been the political equivalent of a spicy sambar: always on the boil, and guaranteed to make eyes water.
Meanwhile, Maharashtra has decided that if you can’t beat the language imposition game, join it. The state’s new Marathi-only policy ensures that all government communication, from official memos to the “chai ready” announcement, must be in Marathi. Outsiders and Adivasis? Sorry, you’ll need Google Translate (or maybe divine intervention). The policy, meant to preserve Marathi pride, has left linguistic minorities feeling like uninvited guests at a very exclusive Ganesh Chaturthi party.
Karnataka, not to be left behind, is now lobbying for a two-language policy - Kannada and English. The Kannada Development Authority wants to keep Hindi at arm’s length (preferably farther), arguing that the language burden is already heavy enough. Why should Kannadigas learn Hindi when no one in Delhi is queuing up for Kannada lessons? And let’s not forget the regional languages like Tulu, quietly wondering if anyone remembers they exist.
So, here we are, a nation where every language wants to be the only child and every policy is a potential custody battle. As the Supreme Court wisely put it, “Language is not religion. Language belongs to a community, to a region, to a people, and not to a religion.” But try telling that to the politicians, for whom language is the sharpest tool in the shed.
Language in India is sacred, but also weaponised. Instead of celebrating our multilingualism, we routinely turn it into a zero-sum game. As if elevating one tongue requires stabbing another in the back.
And while we’re busy fighting over whose alphabet should appear first on a highway sign, our kids are growing up in English-medium schools, dreaming in Hinglish, watching Korean dramas with Hindi dubs and texting in emojis. The future isn’t choosing sides. It’s blending them.
