When the Centre floated the idea of Hindi as a third language in schools, a predictable linguistic tempest erupted. Tamil Nadu, the perennial first responder to any mention of Hindi, raised the battle cry. But this time, it wasn’t marching alone. Maharashtra and Karnataka, otherwise busy quarrelling over Belagavi, suddenly found common cause in opposing the so-called ‘imposition’ of Hindi.
Unity in Indian politics now begins with opposing the national language. The irony? These same states have no problem embracing English, an actual foreign language introduced by colonial rulers. But Hindi? That is a bridge too far, despite being homegrown and widely spoken.
Politics, not pedagogy
Let us not pretend this is about education. It is about politics – identity politics, to be precise. Tamil Nadu’s Dravidian legacy has always viewed Hindi through the lens of cultural domination, and Maharashtra’s ruling alliance sees opposing Hindi as a stand for regional pride. Karnataka, fresh from a bout of linguistic nationalism of its own, doesn’t want to be seen lagging in resisting Delhi’s diktats.
The fear being stoked is that Hindi will erode local languages and dominate cultural spaces. The reality is that regional languages are far more threatened by short-video apps than by a textbook chapter in Hindi.
The default language of communication
Hindi is not just the official language of the Union – it is the default language of communication for millions. Bollywood made sure of that long before any government policy tried to. A Bengali in Bhopal or a Malayali in Meerut may not know the local tongue, but a smattering of Hindi gets them through the day.
In workplaces – be it banks, defence units, or Central government offices – Hindi serves as a link language. It is not perfect, but it is practical. When people from different states gather in the same room, they do not instinctively switch to Tamil, Marathi or Telugu. But chances are, they will find a way in Hindi.
Hindi is fine until It is in a schoolbook
This is where the whole argument turns comical. We watch DDLJ on streaming platforms. We cheer for Hindi-speaking cricketers. We lip-sync to Hindi songs on reels. But when it comes to learning the language formally in school, it is suddenly an affront to our identity?
We are fine with Western attire, global cuisine, and Netflix content. But one line of Kabir in the syllabus, and we are clutching our cultural pearls. And look at the film industry – where real India lives and breathes beyond subtitles and state boundaries. Several Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, and Malayalam actors have not only acted in Hindi films but built their fame on them, right from the South, without needing to shift base to Mumbai. The legendary Sridevi, Hema Malini, and Rekha spoke fluent Hindi and ruled the Hindi screen for decades. Kamal Haasan, who now wears his Dravidian credentials with pride, was once a regular in Hindi cinema.
Even Hindi and Marathi-speaking stars like Khushboo and Rajinikanth (born Shivaji Rao Gaekwad) chose Tamil Nadu as home – and were embraced by its people as their own. They did not just work in Tamil, they lived it. Where art flowed, language followed. No friction, no outrage, no cultural panic. If artists can cross linguistic lines and thrive, why must schoolchildren be fenced off?
The multilingual truth
Most Indians are multilingual by default. A child in Hyderabad grows up hearing Telugu, Hindi, and English in varying doses. A child in Mumbai knows Marathi, but hears Hindi in markets, Urdu in the neighbourhood, and English in school. Instead of resisting this natural plurality, why not formalise it a bit?
Hindi is no longer just a north Indian language. It has become a working language of business, cinema, travel, and increasingly, daily life. Even pan-Indian films in Tamil, Telugu, or Kannada realise this. Without Hindi dubbing, they would not be pan-Indian – they would be state-bound.
Let the people decide
The real tragedy here is that this is not a debate led by parents or teachers or students. It is driven by politicians trying to score cultural points and activists eager to be offended on behalf of others. The people whose children will be learning these languages are not the ones objecting.
And so, the demand should be simple: keep the politicians and linguistic chauvinists out of it. Let the common man’s pulse be the deciding factor. Give students the freedom to choose. Offer Hindi as a third language – not as a compulsion, but an option. Many will embrace it, not because of New Delhi, but because of New Dreams – of mobility, opportunity, and national belonging.
A working knowledge of Hindi helps
We need to stop behaving as if language is a zero-sum game. Learning Hindi does not erase Tamil literature. Picking up Marathi does not endanger Kannada. And teaching Hindi as a third language will not reduce the number of Murugan temples or Lata Mangeshkar tributes.
India is many things, but mute should not be one of them. If a working knowledge of Hindi helps a farmer from Karnataka navigate a mandi in Madhya Pradesh, or a student from Chennai feel less lost in Chandigarh, isn’t that worth something?
When art knows no borders, why should language? If we can speak in the language of cinema, cricket, and commerce, surely, we can afford to speak in the language of each other, too. (To be concluded) (The author writes tongue-in-cheek commentary on culture, politics, and people.)
