International Mother Language Day
“Kannada barutta?” the young cashier asks at the supermarket.
I nod, because explaining that I speak Tulu but understand Kannada is too much effort when all I want is my bill. Besides, does it even matter? Kannada, Tulu, Byari, Koraga—languages in a delicate pecking order, all gasping for breath under the weight of something bigger.
Matsya Nyaya, the law of the big fish eating the small fish. An apt metaphor for survival, not just in nature, but in language too. The Koraga language—once vibrant, full of stories, wisdom, and a worldview unique to its people—is nearly swallowed whole. By Tulu, which is slowly being digested by Kannada, which in turn is being nibbled away by English, and now, even English is beginning to feel the pressure from Hindi. It’s like a linguistic food chain, and at the very bottom, the smallest fish are disappearing without a trace.
And today, on International Mother Language Day, I can’t help but think about how this very day began as a protest for language survival. It was in Bangladesh, in 1952, when students gave their lives fighting for the right to speak Bengali—a reminder that language is not just about words, but identity, history, and resistance. If people could die for their mother tongue, the least we can do is keep ours alive.
Dr. Ishita Banerjee, the academician from Brazil, once spoke about how nationality is a concept built in language and geographic expanse. I wonder, then, if a language dies, does a piece of our nationality die with it? It isn’t just words that fade—it’s knowledge, ways of thinking, traditions, and the very essence of a people.
Take Koraga, for instance. The language belongs to the indigenous Koraga community of Karnataka. The Koragas had their own wisdom, their own way of viewing the world. But what happens when a language is squeezed out of existence? The herbal knowledge once passed down through songs, the oral histories, the identity—it all disappears, swallowed up by bigger, hungrier languages.
And who is to blame? We, the well-meaning, upwardly mobile, English-medium-loving, IB-school-pushing generation. Our children learn English and Hindi, dabble in a little Kannada, and maybe pick up a word or two of Tulu from their grandparents. But Koraga? No chance. The language isn’t in textbooks, isn’t on Duolingo, isn’t trending on social media. If a language isn’t used, it dies. And we’re the ones pulling the plug.
Meanwhile, the push for Hindi as a unifying language tightens its grip. When I dialed for an ambulance in Bangalore, the operator could only speak Hindi. Every sales vendor, every government communication leans towards Hindi under the guise of ‘One Nation.’ But language isn’t just about unity—it’s about identity. So when my medical representative spoke fluent Konkani because he was born and brought up in Goa, I was taken aback—just like I was when Chang, who was born and brought up in Gulbarga, spoke fluent Kannada. It was a moment of realization: language isn’t tied to ethnicity alone; it’s shaped by experience, by the soil one grows in.
But does it have to be this way?
Revival isn’t impossible. Israel revived Hebrew. The Irish are trying to keep Gaelic alive. The Maori have reclaimed their language with pride. Maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for Koraga, too. Maybe it starts with documenting the stories, creating children’s books, integrating it into local schools, encouraging pride in speaking it. Maybe it starts with us acknowledging that the small fish in the linguistic pond deserve to live too.
And maybe next time, at the supermarket, instead of just nodding, I’ll either say, In Tulu: “Enka Koraga barpuji, pan Tulu artha madapundu, Kannada matadapundu.” or In Koraga (approximate, since Koraga has multiple dialects and is highly endangered): “Yan Koraga jānande, pan Tulu artha mādini, Kannada pānini.”
Because isn’t that where it all begins?
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