Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
– Kamala Das in An Introduction
It is difficult to describe Kamala Das (1934–2009): accomplished fiction writer, acclaimed poet, dilettante politician, devoted social worker as well as a provocative person who not only defended the right to wear the burqa but also waxed eloquent about the supposed merits of the discriminatory dress code of Islam. Sans superlatives, it is impossible to make sense of a person who was torn between the conflicting desires of being a conformist and an iconoclast. Born in Malabar, Kerala, brought up in Calcutta, West Bengal, she breathed her last in Pune, Maharashtra on 31 May and was laid to rest back in God's Own Country – Kerala. In between, she became Madhavikutty to her readers in Malayalam, Ami to admirers of her memoirs and Suraiyya to the Maulvis of Palayam Juma Masjid in Trivandrum. Kamala Suraiyya wrote about politics, patriarchy and passion with equal felicity. But if an epitaph has to be chosen, a line of the poem "An Introduction", from the collection Summer in Calcutta, best describes her dilemmas: "I speak three languages, write in two, dream in one."
The 'Three Language Formula' first devised in 1949, and revised in 1968 and 1986, has institutionalised Lord Macaulay's prescription of monopolising the formal space in the Indian Subcontinent for the English language. Hindi has since evolved as the language of the marketplace; dominant regional languages masquerade as 'official languages' in different parts of Southasia. But whatever happened to the language of the heart, the medium in which Kamala Suraiyya dreamt even as she wrote in English and Malayalam – the formal and official languages respectively of the places of her birth and burial? If indeed there was such a language, it would unite torn minds. Meanwhile, language games played over and over again in Southasia continue to create bitterness, reinforcing the belief that true love – or truth – can be expressed only in absolute silence.
Hindi hegemony
Hindi is widely understood even in the high Himalayan states of the Indian Union. From Itanagar in Arunachal Pradesh to Baramulla in Indian-administered Kashmir, soldiers from Malabar or Marathwada can conveniently do their shopping in the local bazaars by speaking what passes for Hindi in these distant outposts. Without anybody noticing the demise of Kumauni or Garhwali, Hindi has displaced these two languages of the western Himalaya, from the government as well as the marketplace. Perhaps it is no surprise that the speakers of Kumauni and Garhwali, along with Bhojpuri and Maithili speakers – those whose languages were appropriated by Khariboli (which was to become Hindi) during the Indian independence struggle – dominate all Hindi publications in New Delhi.