I did not learn Urdu as a political act. I learned it as a way of being.
Before language hardened into identity, before accents were weaponised and scripts scrutinised, before words were asked to prove allegiance, Urdu entered my life quietly —without explanation, without defence. It came as inheritance, not instruction. It arrived through ritual, not rhetoric.
Every year, on Dussehra, my grandfather performed Kalam Puja — the worship of the pen. Among Sanskrit invocations, marigolds and quiet prayer lay the Dussehra scrolls. Each year, he would add a few lines — reflections, acknowledgements, invocations — written in Urdu. No one paused to explain why. No one asked what faith the language belonged to. Urdu did not arrive as a guest. It was already home.
Only later did I understand the lesson embedded in that gesture: that language, at its most humane, is not a marker of identity but a medium of meaning. It is how thought learns tenderness. How law learns restraint. How grief learns grammar.
Urdu, in my childhood, was also the language of the kacheri — the court. It was how grievances were articulated, how justice was petitioned, how pain was recorded with dignity. It taught me early that clarity does not require cruelty and formality need not be devoid of feeling. In Urdu, reason met rhythm; authority met empathy.
Much later, listening to a nazm by Javed Akhtar, I felt that inheritance speak again. In that poem, Urdu speaks not as a slogan or a symbol, but as a woman — self-aware, resilient, wounded, proud. Akhtar does not invent this voice; he restores it. He reminds us that Urdu was never meant to be confined to one nation, one religion, one politics. It was always a human language before it was a cultural one.
That truth matters now — globally.
Because we live in a world being torn apart by language, by labels, by lineage. Borders are no longer just lines on maps; they have moved into mouths and minds. Accents invite suspicion. Skin colour demands explanation. Faith is interrogated. Ethnicity is essentialised. Language — once the bridge — has become the barricade.
English fractures into privilege. Arabic often into fear. Hebrew into conflict. Spanish into migration. Urdu into misunderstanding. Everywhere, language is forced to carry the burden of identity, when its real gift was always connection.
Urdu’s history offers another way.
It begins with Amir Khusro, who lived at the confluence of worlds and refused to choose between them. Khusro braided Persian with Prakrit, courtly refinement with street song, devotion with delight. His riddles were not puzzles meant to exclude; they were invitations to think together. He understood that language, like music, survives not through purity but through play.
If Khusro gave Urdu its laughter, Mir Taqi Mir gave it its ache. Mir wrote as though the world had already broken and only feeling remained. His genius lay in making sorrow intimate without making it accusatory. In Mir, Urdu learned how to mourn without making enemies of grief. In a world addicted to outrage, Mir’s restraint feels like a moral lesson.
Then came Mirza Ghalib, who taught the language how to think. Ghalib distrusted certainty. He doubted dogma without abandoning wonder, mocked ritual without mocking belief. His poetry is a sanctuary for contradiction, a home for questions that refuse easy answers. Ghalib reminds us that complexity is not confusion—it is conscience.
Later, Muhammad Iqbal urged selfhood, dignity, ethical awakening. Often reduced to politics, Iqbal’s deeper project was metaphysical: he believed that civilisations must constantly interrogate themselves or risk spiritual exhaustion.
Around these giants moved quieter, sharper voices. Fani Badayuni, whose melancholy was not despair but depth — proof that sorrow can be a form of clarity. And Akbar Allahabadi, who used humour as a moral scalpel, cutting through hypocrisy wherever it strutted—religious, colonial, or modern.
Together, they shaped Urdu into something rare: a language that does not demand allegiance, only attention.
I learned this not just from poetry, but from people. My Phupaji, Hargobind Prasad Bhatnagar, was born in Lahore and served our nation called India with unshakeable devotion. As Director General of the Border Security Force, he guarded borders with resolve and restraint. Yet his inner life moved to the cadences of Urdu. It was his mother tongue—the language in which he read, reflected, softened.
Alongside my father and my Bhua, he became my teacher — introducing me to nazms and ghazals, to Mir’s sorrow, Ghalib’s irony, Iqbal’s spine. From him I learned something the modern world seems desperate to forget: that patriotism and plurality are not opposites. That a man can stand firm at the frontier and still carry poetry in his pocket. That language does not weaken loyalty — it humanises it.
This lesson matters far beyond India.
Because the global crisis today is not merely political or economic—it is civilisational. We have forgotten how to sit with difference without demanding dominance. We have lost the ability to hold contradiction without turning it into conflict. We speak louder, listen less, label faster.
Language, like music, like food, like art, once taught us how to be civil. A meal does not ask where you worship before nourishing you. A melody does not demand your passport before moving you. A painting does not interrogate your ideology before offering beauty.
Urdu belongs to this family of human expressions. It insists on being a mother — feeding all without asking lineage. It insists on being a lover — seductive, shared, never owned. It insists on being a refuge — for grief, for doubt, for longing. It insists on being an inheritance — one that grows when passed on.
This is not an Indian idea alone. It is a human one.
When languages are reduced to weapons, societies fracture. When languages are allowed to be bridges, humanity breathes. The world today does not need more purity tests; it needs more shared tables. It does not need louder identities; it needs deeper listening.
Urdu offers a grammar of coexistence. So does jazz. So does sourdough. So does shared silence in a museum. These are the spaces where we remember how to be together without erasing one another.
To turn a language into a target is not correction — it is amputation. It cuts away our capacity for complexity, for compassion, for coexistence.
I did not learn Urdu to make a statement.
I learned it because my grandfather wrote his prayers in it.
Because my Phupaji guarded borders while carrying ghazals in his heart.
Because language, like love, works best when it is unconditional.
In answering the poem that lets Urdu speak, the present moment must say this back—globally, urgently:
You were never alone. You were never foreign. You were never a faith.
You were — and remain — a way of being human.
And in a world tearing itself apart over who belongs, language — like music, like food, like art—still offers us a chance to remember how not to fracture, how not to fear, how not to forget that we are more alike than we are apart.
I did not learn Urdu to make a statement. I learned it because my grandfather wrote his prayers in it. Because my Phupaji guarded borders while carrying ghazals in his heart (Illustration credit: Suvir Saran) 
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