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I am not much of a talker — never
been one. And my wife never lets an opportunity pass to rub it in.
While I read or endlessly flip television channels, her reproving
glances drill holes in my whole being, for both not talking and
not paying attention to whatever she’s saying. Lately, her focus
has shifted to the kids. She thinks even they have locked her out
of their universe, babble as they all the time do in that “stupid,
firangi language.”
She keeps “shush”ing them, imploring them to speak in Urdu, their
mother tongue. They reluctantly start off in the Deccani flavored
Urdu but trail off soon, unconsciously switching to Queen’s
English once again. It seems to come naturally to them. She keeps
lamenting the fact that our children cannot read, write or even
speak in the language that we are so proud of. I couldn’t agree
with her more although we seldom find ourselves on the same page
on most of life’s absurdities.
In fact, it’s an issue that has had me worried for years now. As a
student of literature and linguistics, I know that a language is
not just a language. Like one’s beliefs, it defines one’s culture,
identity and consciousness. It defines how we think, communicate
and express ourselves.
Considering Urdu’s blood ties to the Arabic and Persian and the
fact that most South Asian Muslims have come to know Islam by way
of Urdu, the kids’ alienation from the language that connects them
to the heritage of their parents and grandparents is disturbing.
My children’s disconnect with Urdu is all the more painful because
my own love for the language has been inherited from my father, an
accomplished poet and author of numerous collections of short
stories. I grew up attending “mushairas” (poetry sessions) with my
father and singing gazals with my uncles and cousins.
Defying the prevailing social trend, my father didn’t send me to a
convent but a seedy government “Urdu medium” school in the
neighborhood. There were few teachers available to “manage” a
class of over a hundred students. Prolific in both Urdu and
English and a translator of Shelley’s poetry, my dad believed that
you’ve got to know your mother tongue well if you are to master
any other language. By the same logic, when you approach a subject
in the language you grew up speaking at home, you learn it well.
Even though my “experiment” with Urdu education had to be
abandoned midway thanks to the appalling condition of my school
and I somehow ended up doing masters in English literature, my
heart still beats for the language that is easily one of the
finest and richest on the planet. For all my pretence to master an
alien language and make a living out of it, I am still hopelessly
besotted with Urdu. Yes, I love the language of Shakespeare, Keats
and Dickens and I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t
studied literature at university and taken to journalism. There
are times though when I feel as if I’ve betrayed my first love,
the language of Ghalib, Iqbal and Faiz.
This sense of betrayal only deepens when one sees the condition of
Urdu in the subcontinent and around the world. Abandoned by its
own and denied its rightful place by successive governments, the
language is dying in the land of its birth. One of the many
unintended consequences of the partition has been the total
marginalization of Urdu in India. The language that was born in
South Asia as a result of the extraordinary encounter between
Islam and Indian civilization has few takers today in the land
that was/is its home. Once the universal appeal of Urdu stemmed
from the fact that it was an ethereal and earthy blend of Arabic,
Persian, Sanskrit, Turkic — all rich, ancient languages — and the
Prakrit or khadi boli, the folksy dialect spoken and understood
across much of the undivided subcontinent.
Evolving as a spontaneous mode of communication between the Muslim
armies and native population (“Urdu” is derived from Turkish word
“Ordu” meaning army), it soon became the lingua franca of the
empire. As against more elitist Persian and archaic Sanskrit, Urdu
became the democratic choice of the people from Afghanistan to
Burma. Since the partition though it has come to be associated
with, rightly or wrongly, and condemned as the language of Muslims
even though vast majorities of all faiths spoke and wrote it until
the British left India. It’s nobody’s baby today. People quickly
dumped it for the more rewarding English and Hindi, actively
patronized by independent India’s rulers, over the years.
Even Muslims are turning their back on Urdu. You can’t blame them
considering the fact it gets them no jobs or social standing. Even
if some parents, weighed down by a sense of guilt, want their
offspring to learn it for identity’s sake, there are few
opportunities available. If there are schools that offer Urdu as a
second language, there are no teachers. Where teachers are
available, there are no students. As a result, the language that
had been the language of power and a symbol of prestige across the
vastness of South Asia, today finds itself limited to madrassas,
mosques and the Bollywood. (Even the Bollywood insists on calling
it Hindi!)
Today, Urdu has been confined to pockets and cities like old
Delhi, Lucknow and Hyderabad etc. I am not trying to take undue
advantage of my position but if Urdu still remains a source of
pride for both Hindus and Muslims anywhere in India today, it’s in
Hyderabad. Home to three of nation’s largest circulated Urdu
dailies and first Urdu university, the city remains faithful to
the memory of its founder, Quli Qutub Shah, who was also Urdu’s
first poet with an anthology to his credit. In the north, it finds
itself increasingly unwelcome in cities that had once been the
citadels of Urdu and culture that gave birth to it. It’s sobering
to see north Indian Muslims trying hard to erase all signs of
their association with the language that was once their identity.
They’re more at home with the heavily Sanskritized Hindi than the
language that gave the subcontinent the heart-warming “Sare Jahan
Se Achcha” and slogans like “Inquilab Zindabad” (long live,
revolution!) that shook the British Empire.
Urdu is missing from signboards even in predominantly Muslim
cities and towns and popular Urdu fiction is now published in
Hindi or Devanagari script. While one could reassure oneself that
official apathy cannot kill a living and vibrant language like
Urdu, government patronage, or lack of it, plays a crucial role in
promoting or undermining it. If English has become the global
lingua franca, it’s because of British colonial rule. People speak
the language of power, literally! And bereft of power and sans
association with bread and butter, Urdu finds itself increasingly
spurned by its own people.
Ironically, it’s not better off in Pakistan either. While Urdu is
the national language, it hasn’t exactly proved to be the glue
that it was supposed to be. Rather, it has ended up being
identified as the language of the Mohajirs, the people who arrived
from UP and Bihar. So what does the future has in store for this
magical language? Well, I am no clairvoyant. But if it has a
future, it lies in our hands. Maybe we could learn a lesson or two
in this respect from the Jews. They wandered all over the world
for nearly 3,000 years but never allowed their ancient language to
die, power or no power. They passed down the language, generation
after generation, regardless of their circumstances, teaching
their children to imbibe it still in their cradle. Not an easy act
to follow, I know. But there’s no other way to keep Urdu alive.
Courtesy
Arab News
Aijaz Zaka Syed is a
Dubai-based commentator.
Write to him at
aijaz.syed@hotmail.com
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