No Fullstops For Hindi...Yet

RECENTLY, I was at the Book Fair in Delhi. Five halls were occupied by familiar publishers: Penguin, OUP, Macmillan and many Indian publishers in English. Only one hall was set aside for Indian languages. Near to where I live in Delhi, there is a market, which has a lot of English bookshops, but not a single one selling books in Hindi. In fact, it’s quite difficult to find shops selling Hindi books in Delhi. The Times of India Group’s Hindi daily, Navbharat Times, has far greater circulation figures but its advertising rates are considerably less.

All this merits mention for a simple reason. Hindi is one of the five most widely spoken languages in the world. On the other hand, only about five per cent Indians can manage English adequately; some would argue it’s as low as two per cent. Of course, even two per cent of 900 million is a sizeable number of people—18 million—which explains all the publishers at the Book Fair. But that still leaves a huge number of Indians who can’t speak the language which dominates so much of the life of their country. I believe this dominant role of English vis-a-vis Hindi and other Indian languages is not just an unhealthy colonial hangover, but also a means of continuing the suppression of Indian thought, and of preserving an alien, elite culture.

In the UK, I’m often asked with incredulity: "Surely you don’t want to rob Indians of the gift of English now that it’s the language of international business, science, publishing, and computers?" Or, I am told "it’s essential to keep English as the link language", as though the notion can’t be questioned. I’m told I am an inverted snob, or that I’ve gone native (the very survival of this colonially-loaded phrase is revelatory). The merits of these arguments apart, what I’m opposed to is English on top of Indian languages. For, I doubt Indian culture can survive sans its languages.

Let’s begin from the beginning. In 1813, in the renewed 20-year charter of the East India Company, an annual sum was set aside for "the revival and improvement of literature and for the encouragement of the learned natives of India, and for the promotion of knowledge of sciences". The question of language, left ambiguous here, was settled beyond doubt with Macaulay’s recommendations of 1835. His views were crystal-clear: "I’ve never found one who could deny that a single shelf of a good European library was worth more than the whole native literature of India and Arabia." Governor-General William Bentinck accepted the "great object" of such education was "imparting to the native population a knowledge of English literature and science through the medium of English language". The real objective, it’s said, was to create an army of clerks—the foot soldiers of the British administration in India—and in that they were superbly successful. The baburaj still survives—not as ‘interpreters’, as Macaulay hoped, but as oppressors, proud of their status as brown sahibs.

Macaulay also hoped Indian English speakers would enrich what he called vernacular dialects, not dignifying them with the title ‘language’. But English language teachers and linguists acknowledge that the most significant sociological consequence of sustaining English in India is the gap between the posh English-medium public (that’s to say, private) schools and the ordinary government schools. In theory, the position of Indian languages became stronger with the ‘three language policy’ in schools. But in India, there is a wide difference between what the law says and what actually happens. The route to power, prestige and riches still lies through English. Rajiv Gandhi, who studied in one of India’s most prestigious public schools, the Doon School, was self-admittedly weak in Hindi. And the theory I’ve heard most often about his ultimate failure in politics is: "He wasn’t educated as an Indian, he didn’t understand India." A deep knowledge of a culture can only be obtained through the knowledge of the language(s) of that culture. Solutions to Indian problems require, firstly, an Indian education.

Economist Amartya Sen argues that India is a particularly elitist society and that’s why the problems of the vast hinterland receive little attention. In a recent book, he and Jean Dreze produce copious figures to show that India’s economic backwardness is attributable to the failure of its education and health policies. How does that concern English? Well, the status of English is directly related to the failure of the Indian education system. English medium schools have the ‘best’ teachers, the most modern facilities, and the brightest pupils—rather, those with the home backgrounds that enable them to make good use of their natural ability. Those with the influence to improve education don’t send their children to Indian language schools, so they take no interest in the education provided there—and this mass remains ever beyond the pale. Perhaps the most damaging effect of English is to promote the snobbery of the English-speaking elite. 

The problems are heightened by the way English is taught. The traditional texts are still studied. I’m often ashamed by my Indian friends’ knowledge of Shakespeare etc., which is rather better than mine. But, in relation to this, N. Krishnaswamy and T. Sriraman write: "Those who know English are ignorant of vernacular literature, and those who are pundits in our regional literatures can’t express their ideas in English. Unless we end this exclusion...our English studies will be rootless and solitary." If English must be taught, it must be linked to India as well as to international culture and not to an archaic concept of British culture. 

What would happen if an attempt was made to make English a genuine link language, rather than one exclusively for the elite? Firstly, I don’t believe the enterprise would succeed (partly for political reasons). And it would mean robbing generations of students full access to their own language, and culture. Surely, it can’t be right to build Indian nationhood on the foundation of a foreign language. India is not a linguistic tabula rasa as you might argue America and Australia were. It’s a civilisation with languages, with ancient roots, which have survived colonialism.

The question of a link language is indeed a difficult one. Maybe, if the votaries of Hindi had not given the impression that they wanted to impose their language on the rest of India, the problem could have been solved. It’s not too late. There could still be a natural spread of Hindi, provided every effort is made to encourage regional languages too, so that no one could say English imperialism was being replaced by Hindi imperialism. A major barrier here is that Hindi seems to attract the most scorn from the elite. It’s all right to be proud of Bengali, Tamil or Gujarati, but not Hindi—perhaps because Hindi is the greatest threat to the elite’s beloved English. The present status of English in India gives them enormous power and they have yet to show they are willing to shed that power and share their knowledge with fellow Indians.