Language lies at the root of human identity, and to tamper with that is either poetry or treason.” —Terry Eagleton
Over the last decade or so, there has been a seeming regression in political conversation. Issues that plagued India at the time of Independence had largely receded; debates had evolved not just in the ivory towers of academia and chatterati, but through the negotiations essential in a democratic, diverse and federal polity. The question of “Hindi imposition” is such an issue. It is ideological and political, and it will play out across those registers.
There is, however, another “language question”. It has been hijacked by a lumpen, empty politics that seeks to “impose” Marathi, Kannada, etc, through simplistic policies and violence against those who cannot retaliate – shopkeepers, migrant workers (rarely white-collar ones, though), minorities. The recent attacks by Maharashtra Navnirman Sena members are the most egregious examples of this parochial worldview. In the outrage against “imposition”, though, we might be losing sight of a deeper question: What does the migrant owe to the city that becomes a home and a workplace? More importantly, is learning the “local” language something that is, in and of itself, desirable?
It is easy to “profile” most migrants who come to India’s megalopolises. They are, in a very real sense, economic refugees. Labour-exporting states such as Uttar Pradesh, Jharkhand, Bihar and West Bengal are, as a corollary, the poorest and with some of the worst human development indicators in the world. These migrants form the vast army of labour that keeps our cities running. They are the security guards, the rickshaw drivers, the people who paint houses and make furniture. For the well-heeled, they cook, clean and raise children. In fact, the availability of this cheap labour allows upper-middle-class couples the luxury of two incomes.
For this category, whether or not to learn the “local language” is not a question of choice, but necessity. In cities like Delhi, where the lingua franca of the working class is Hindi, there is no question of imposition: Even the Bengaliest Bengali manages to communicate, a heavy accent notwithstanding. In Bengaluru and Chennai, learning the language is harder for those from the Indo-Gangetic plain, but often, they pick up the working knowledge needed to get by. Second-generation migrants, especially those who have gone through government schools, also tend to pick up the language of their cities.
The anger over “outsiders” not learning the local language — beyond crass politics — is the symptom of a deeper anxiety. Language is arguably at the root of the most important and primordial identity. Indian states and nation-states across the world are founded on that principle, and a perceived decline of language is connected to the sidelining of entire cultures. This is as true of France and Germany as it is of Tamil Nadu and Maharashtra. And while it is easy to blame the migrant at the margins for this decline, it is perhaps more important to look at the elite — the software engineer, the corporate executive, the college professor, the journalist.
The class that occupies the gated community, whose children go to “international” schools, who do not live in the city but above it, finds little use for the “local” (unless, of course, it’s local, organic, “produce”). This is not necessarily a wilful act. A confluence of economic, cultural and social factors is at play here.
Let’s start with a counterfactual. Why is there no politics around migrants, beyond the stray statement, in Kolkata? The city has its share of migrants from neighbouring states, and yet, Bengali continues to be the most commonly spoken language and the language of the workplace and marketplace. A likely explanation is that the city’s elite continues to speak Bangla, at home and in the workplace. That the city offers few opportunities at the top of the value chain post-liberalisation may also contribute to this. Bengali is not, at least in the minds of Bengalis, a “local” language. Most people (elite or otherwise) who spend more than six months in Kolkata end up with a passing fluency because it is in their interest to do so.
In Mumbai and Bengaluru, this is not the case. In offices, English and even Hindi are enough to make do. So too in bars, restaurants and airports. Does that mean, however, that people who live in these cities – particularly the rich – should remain aloof and unconnected?
In a recent article (‘The Millennium Village’, IE, July 16), Sanjay Srivastava argued that one of the reasons for Gurugram’s poor urban planning is that “urban life in Gurugram is largely organised through the idea that there is no public except that which belongs to one’s family, caste and class circuits”. This logic of separation applies as much to elite migrants as to the “locals”. The essence of this argument can be extended to language as well. If social and economic well-being is seen merely as a ladder, one that is more isolating with each rung ascended, the haves have no reason to engage with anything outside their bubble. Such a narrow life, however, impoverishes cultures, cities and economies.
No language should be forced down anyone’s throat. However, learning a language opens up a universe and a world. It makes you part of a people, not just someone who makes a living in a place. In turn, the migrants can participate in and expand the worldview of the people who consider themselves locals.
There are certainly challenges – logistical, of time and money – in learning a new language, especially as an adult. However, the notion that the many tongues that make up India’s tapestry are superfluous, of little value to the English-speaking elite, is a function of the gated-community ethos. But a gate doesn’t just keep people out. It boxes you in as well.
aakash.joshi@expressindia.com
