Touchstones: The sweetest of languages

Since my last column, when I spoke of languages and the complex relationship they share with people and power, I have been reading with great interest what several eminent writers and public intellectuals have to say about a determined campaign led by right-wing Hindu gangs (this is what they appear to be, for they have nothing but hatred for Muslims and their tongue as a weapon in their arsenal) against Urdu. They seem determined to drag out one of the sweetest and most civil languages of this country and flog it to death. For someone who has grown up in Uttar Pradesh and admired the gentle tones of public speech and the terms of address that Urdu brought into everyday street-speak, I am aghast at the crudeness with which this language is being attacked.

Renowned writer and poet Javed Akhtar has often pointed out that languages do not belong to one region or country. Since Urdu, and its many variations, is spoken by people who may not practice Islam, it is laughable that the language fundamentalists are now trying to project Urdu as an Islamic (or Pakistani) tongue and Hindi as a pure Bharatiya language which evolved from Sanskrit, the language of the gods. If this is their line of attack, then why do we not apply the same logic to English (widely spoken across every part of India) that was equally a foreign tongue and thrust upon us by the British?

Truth be told, English has wiped out more local languages and bhashas than any other and yet, we all admire and try to speak it to prove how well-educated we are. Its vocabulary and grammar are completely alien to any Indian language, unlike Urdu, that has the same rhythm, grammar and sentence structure as most Indian languages, particularly Hindi. Urdu celebrates the syncretic ethos of this country in ghazals, qawwalis and dohas and is understood by many more than the kind of Sanskritised Hindi that is being tried to be placed in its stead.

Look no further than the Bombay film industry. All of you will agree that the songs of the 1950s and 1960s are undying and our go-to choice when we wish to hear good poetry and divine music. And why was this? Because most of the lyricists were poets who drifted to the Bombay film industry as their royal patrons were unable to sustain court poets. The rise of the left-leaning Progressive Writers Association was another reason. So, we had an effulgence of superb love poetry, set to beautiful musical scores, and magic was created. Sahir Ludhianvi, Shakeel Badayuni, Kaifi Azmi, Shailendra, Gulzar, Javed Akhtar… I could go on.

Let us come now to Punjabi and how different and sweeter it is, especially the Punjabi spoken across the border. Here again, poets and writers who were educated in Urdu-medium schools and who composed their poetry in the Urdu script, composed songs and love-poetry in the ghazal tradition. Contrast this with the crudeness that has now become a necessary part of the Punjabi music industry, particularly in India and you will see how the gradual decline of Urdu has resulted in the rise of a kind of writing that is devoid of soft registers and the sweetness of pain.

Let me relate a small story here. One of Lucknow’s most respected personalities, an erstwhile nawab who was also an eminent physicist and taught at Cambridge for many years, fell in love with a Hindu girl who belonged to an equally distinguished Rajasthani family. When I met her many years later, her head was covered with a dupatta. Taken aback at this surrender to purdah by a woman who had studied at some of the most liberal schools and universities abroad, I couldn’t help asking, ‘Tumhain purdah karna parta hai?’ (Do you have to follow the purdah system?). Her reply, in the gentlest voice, was, ‘Humare yahan zubaan ka bhi purdah hota hai.’ (Loosely translated, this means that in our family, even the tongue is restrained). This kind of civility is exactly what we have lost as we have allowed Urdu to recede from public dialogue. Listen to the crude slogans and even cruder language used to run down those who speak it. The zubaan ka purdah that prevented the use of abusive slurs while arguing in courts and workplaces, extended to neighbourhoods and the street.

I can still hear the sing-song voices of hawkers who sold vegetables and fruit in Lucknow, or the rickshaw-puller asking, ‘Kahan chaliyega?’, instead of ‘Kahan jana hai?’

This nazaqat (grace) was quintessentially the Lucknowi andaaz (style) that is still celebrated in period films and missed by all those of my generation who grew up hearing it. It instilled in us a deep respect for the Other, and never did we ever use words or refer to customs that separated us. We shared our tiffins and hearts in schools and have kept in touch throughout these years, even though some of us may have embraced different ideologies now. Yet, we never forget to wish each other on festivals and zealously preserve that core of humanity that binds all of us who live in this country.

Remember that the kind of Urdu we speak here is unique: it is not a tongue spoken in any other country. No, not even in Pakistan where languages and linguistic identities have riven the country asunder. Do we need to follow them to perdition?

— The writer is a social commentator

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