Language No Bar, Rashtriya Bhasha Har Baar

There is a woman on the road. A few feet between us. A glass wall. And much else. I know something about her that she doesn’t. How shall I tell her? She doesn’t look into this airconditioned coffeeshop & I know she doesn’t speak English. Being a people tourist, window-shopping human beings Is only for those with English in their throats. I’m in a city that speaks the language of money. And in the wallet of my tongue, there are many currencies Which shall it be?

Unga mundaani tarraiya kootudu.
Apka dupatta zameen ko choo raha hain.

Hindustani suggests subtlety, a mere touch on the ground. Understatement. Diplomacy. In the taimozhi, non Brahminical Tamil of my tongue is a brusque commitment to fact. The impatient voice of mother saying, your clothes are sweeping the floor, are you a jamadarni?

But restraint and lihaaz are not the sole property of Lucknowale. I could have said instead,

Unga mundaani tarraiya worrasuddu.

Your clothes brush past the ground. They sweep but with music, with rhythm. Yes, that’s better. After all,

Addakam, maanam irukkunum oru pennuku.

Restraint & shame, the jewels of womanhood Well, the Tamil doesn’t mention jewels We like our women unadorned, plain & invisible Unlike the people across the nation who would say,

Sharam aur hayaa, ek aurat ke gehne hote hain.

My home state however, stays closer to my Dravidian roots.

Tuzha padar aanganala pusto aahe.
Tuzha padar jhaadoo martoy.

The speedy slide of zz instead of the jerky jj of Hindi And a universe of familiarity in tu. In my city, you’d be taken aback if I distanced you with tumcha, the Marathi aap. Tumcha is for paraye, tuzha is for apne.

And by now the woman has walked away leaving me trailing words & languages I could have built so many bridges to her I didn’t extend a single one I was too busy measuring language currency. Weighing my social class, my gender, my jaat-paat by the words I didn’t say.

I only speak full English to myself, when I read a book. English, the least exclusive of languages, with staircases from Greek & Latin kacche raste to the bazaars of Urdu, pagdandis leading to Hindi’s baramde. Trading ideas with the cash kaasu of Dravidanaadu. Into my speech & politics flows a tributary, from one of the origin languages in the world – the only Indian tongue not descended from Sanskrit. Living concurrent to it, then outliving it. In my history is a fight against erasure of identity. My elders called it Hindi imposition & fought back. They won. Hindi vozhiga, Tamil vazhuga.

In my geography is the father of Indian unrest, Lokmanya Tilak convening resistance against the British with a shout of Ganapati bappa moraya Pudhcha varshi laukar ya! My adoptive land of charismatic satirists – cartoonists turned leaders – also birthed the author of India’s constitution Babasaheb Ambedkar. I navigate what it means to be Indian in his words & in the musical winds from the East, Jai he, jaya jaya jaya Robida whispers aamar shonar Bangla. The national anthem of two countries across our borders, as well as my own He would have told that woman,

Tomar odhna matite lutoche.

Your garment tastes dust. And now in my tropical, coastal tongue is the heat of mustard oil, the smell of machher jhol, a connection to nalla yennai and meen kozhambu.

Even as I hear these flavours, taste these sounds, make my choices from the feast of languages, savour the diverse histories of my land, I am told Rashtriya bhasha mein baat karo Angrez chale gaye, tumko chodd gaye.

My multi-hued history is whitewashed with the binary of Unfair & Gori-chitti. My patriotism is measured & found lacking My tongue is washed clean of its spices by a zubaan, a bhasha that can’t decide between Brahminical & Persian and carries the metallic tang of partition blood. The angry Hindustani in my head demands to know, should we have let go of English, along with the English? Sent it back to the Queen, no thank you your highness, wapas karo hamara Kohinoor?

The language I think in has the guns & swords of my colonisers. But also the wounds they left behind in this land. Or maybe, it’s the afterbirth of a linguistic child born to an oppressor father, embraced by its torn mother. The U.K. has a population of 59 million. India has 125 million English speakers, There is more English in Indian tongues. And everyday, there’s more Indian in English.

Avatar, Bandana, Cheetah, Gymkhana, Bazaar, Guru, Jungle, Khaki, Pajama, Shampoo.

Legacy (Latin etymology) is a Stiff (German etymology) Elder (Old English). But the family of language is every tongue that speaks it Our ideas of food, clothing, shelter occupy English with chutney & curry, bangle & shawl, bungalow & verandah. English, that painful Indian legacy. But India plants a firm flag in its joint history.

Aii shapath, mother promise! father promise!
Rab di sau, by God!
Let us prepone this discussion!
Tumhake bhalo naam ki? What is your good name, sir?
First class! Boss, hundred percent!

My identity pulses on, language no bar. Words transcend their origin story. English, we have claimed you & set you free from your own legacy. Like we say, where I’m from, we are like this only.

Aur bacha kya hain kehne ko? Naan ippo peysa kooda aryumkele. Aur bacha hi kya hain kehne ko? Amhi toh ekone kicchu bole shuru-o korina. Aur bacha kya hain kehne ko? Hindi, I have not yet begun speaking. Language no bar, rashtriya bhasha har baar.