Yash Tambawala

I'm Yash Tambawala, a technology professional based out of Bengaluru.

What's in a language?

Nov 14, 2024

Whenever debates about language in South India surface, uncomfortable questions flood my mind—questions that few want to confront.

Is language truly the core issue for people in Karnataka?

Or did this so-called “language conflict” emerge because of North Indians moving to Karnataka, pushing up living costs? Let’s be honest—is it really about language, or is it an exclusion tactic cloaked in the veil of cultural preservation?

And here’s a thought experiment: what if we all spoke the same language, and I moved to your state—would I still be unwelcome? Does language truly matter, or would my mere presence be the problem?

If your answer is “yes,” then let’s turn our gaze to a different part of the world. Take the United States, where countless Indians, who happen to speak English, settle. Do “natives” there have no issues with Indian immigrants just because they speak the same language? Or are they, in fact, worried about jobs being “stolen,” housing prices skyrocketing, and other social strains? Are language and culture merely scapegoats for deeper issues of economic and social friction?

Let’s pause for a moment. This article, after all, is written in English—not in Kannada, Tamil, or any other regional language. English was the language of the colonizer, the very power that exploited us, yet here we are, adopting it as the medium of business, science, and education. Why? Because it offers access to a broader world, to opportunities that our regional languages may not. If we’re willing to adopt English with such enthusiasm, why not extend that same openness to Hindi or any other Indian language?

The irony runs deep: even children born to Kannada-speaking parents in the United States are likely to be more fluent in English than in Kannada. Do we see a linguistic “purity” debate over that? Or do we accept that practicality sometimes trumps tradition?

This brings me to a larger question: Is language ever really the issue in any part of the world? Or is it simply a cover for issues of identity, economics, and power?

China is a prime example. To an outsider, it may look like China has a single language, but the reality is far more complex, with countless dialects and languages. Yet, the government’s political resolve to create a unified national identity led to the enforcement of a single language, Putonghua (Mandarin). No one in Tibet openly demands equal treatment for the Tibetan language—not because Tibetans don’t care, but because the state promotes national unity.

People may counter this with examples of countries like Germany, Japan, or South Korea. But let’s be real—was language truly the only catalyst for their economic rise? Was it because they spoke one language that they flourished, or could it be that their geographic positioning, historical alliances, and political decisions had more to do with it? Why, then, are countries like Nepal, where everyone speaks one language, not global economic powerhouses? If language alone were the key to success, why hasn’t every linguistically unified country achieved prosperity? The truth is that language is only one small piece of a much larger puzzle of development.

Consider this: is keeping people divided by language actually a strategic move to fracture any sense of unified national identity? Does this obsession with language reflect a deeper mistrust in the concept of a shared national identity that serves everyone?

To those in South India, or anywhere for that matter, I urge you to remember that language is often just a proxy for identity, economic interests, and power struggles. I’m not against any language, including Kannada—I respect its heritage and significance. But we must be practical about the role of language in a modern, interconnected world.

Take Tulu, for example—a language that gets sidelined in Karnataka’s focus on Kannada. Despite Tulu being native to the coastal districts of Karnataka, its speakers are often overlooked, with limited official recognition and support for the language. This marginalization contributes to the economic underdevelopment of the region, leaving Tulu speakers with fewer educational and job opportunities compared to Kannada-speaking areas. Ironically, wealthy Kannada speakers in Bengaluru are far more likely to communicate in English, the ultimate symbol of “foreignness,” than in any Indian language.

The hypocrisy within the state itself is striking. On one hand, there’s a push to preserve Kannada and sideline Hindi or other regional languages. On the other, urban elites prefer English in their daily lives, sending their kids to English-medium schools and building careers in multinational corporations. The “pride in Kannada” rhetoric vanishes the moment social mobility is at stake.

Let’s cut through the noise and look at the practical reality.

By brandishing language as a weapon, you don’t alienate affluent white-collar migrants—who will continue to adapt with or without Kannada—but instead, you harm the less privileged individuals within Karnataka and India, people who may not speak the same language but strive for a better life. Their path to social mobility becomes a dead end, strangled by narrow-minded linguistic chauvinism.

Let’s consider what a single national language could achieve—a larger economic pool and shared opportunities for all. If Hindi doesn’t appeal, then let English be the anchor. English offers everyone a foothold in the global marketplace and a chance to engage with science and technology. And yes, perhaps some people with high potential will emigrate. But let’s face it, they’re doing that anyway. The benefits of embracing English, or even Hindi, far outweigh the imagined threats. And for those in the North, Hindi will likely remain the cultural mainstay regardless.

In summary…