International Mother Language Day | Why Punjabi is Disappearing: The Politics Behind Language Loss in India

The International Mother Language Day celebrations reminded me of a conversation sparked by the cricketer R. Ashwin, who mentioned that Hindi is not India’s national language. Article 343 of the Indian Constitution designates Hindi in the Devanagari script as an official language for communication between the Centre and the States rather than as a national language. Following protests from South India and West Bengal against Hindi being the sole official language, English was added as the second official language.

This distinction between the official and national language, often misunderstood, has its roots in the historical debates on the Constitution. Professor Pritam Singh, in his paper “Hindu bias in India’s ‘secular’ constitution: probing flaws in instruments of governance” (Third World Quarterly, 2005), recounts how in 1949, a Hindu sanyasin fasted to demand that Hindi be declared the national language and India renamed Bharat. While Hindi never achieved national status, it has gradually diminished the importance of languages of non-Hindi regions. Punjabi is one of its victims.

The linguist Noam Chomsky analyses the evolution of languages and the construction of linguistic hierarchies. While his primary focus is on European languages, his insights resonate in the subcontinent, where power dynamics shape linguistic perceptions. In Pakistan, for example, the dominance of Urdu overshadowed Punjabi. However, a growing interest in Punjabi is now emerging in West Punjab.

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Although Punjabi has been the official language in East Punjab since 1966, raising the status of the language, Hindi is increasingly being used as a conversational language in some predominantly dominant-caste, Hindu-majority urban areas. This prompted me to explore the intersections of language, culture, and societal flourishing, deepening my understanding of Punjabi’s importance.

Gradual erasure of Punjabi

My appreciation for Punjabi grew as I explored how language connects us to our identity, history, and values. As a Punjabi Hindu Khatri woman raised in Dhanbad and worked in Delhi, I have often felt the weight of Hindi’s dominance and the gradual erasure of Punjabi in daily life. My friends, relatives, and a minority among my social acquaintances in Punjab, too, increasingly prefer Hindi over Punjabi. When I asked a 10-year-old child in my family living in Zirakpur, a small neighbouring town of Chandigarh, why she speaks Hindi instead of Punjabi, she replied: “Kyunki main Indian hoon” (Because I am Indian). This reflects how younger-generation Punjabi Hindus conflate Hindi with national identity, sidelining Punjabi.

The erosion of Punjabi is particularly stark among dominant-caste urban Punjabi Hindus and some Sikhs. In his paper “Globalisation and Punjabi Identity”, Prof. Singh provides evidence that Punjabi Dalits in Punjab and the diaspora remain enthusiastic users and supporters of Punjabi. After Independence, urban middle-class Punjabis increasingly replaced Punjabi with Hindi due to its association with nationalism. My 66-year-old mother, educated in Ludhiana, remembers Punjabi being taught for one year, while Hindi was mandatory throughout her schooling. Even today, in some schools in Zirakpur, Hindi is introduced as early as kindergarten, while Punjabi is often relegated to being taught only from the fifth grade onward. These policies, of course, vary over various institutions. Some schools often create an inferiority complex among students about their mother tongue.

Partition and the politics of language further contributed to Punjabi’s erosion. Punjabi identity, however, remains central to cultural practices. At weddings, my friends and relatives proudly assert their Punjabi heritage—ironically in Hindi—while performing giddha and bhangra to Punjabi songs. Yet, this cultural pride contrasts sharply with everyday linguistic practices. Wedding cards are printed in Hindi, and conversations do not commonly occur in Punjabi.

Generational shifts further exacerbate this disconnection. Urban millennials, spoken to in Punjabi as children, now primarily use Hindi with their kids, eroding the language’s presence at home. One of my close acquaintances in her sixties speaks Punjabi, while her daughter in her late thirties uses Hindi with her children.

Ironically, while proudly asserting their Punjabi identity, people in my inner circle of acquaintances simultaneously look down on people from Bihar, using terms like “Bihari” pejoratively, yet remain reluctant to embrace their own language. This paradox underscores the influence of linguistic hierarchies and societal norms in shaping identity.

How does a language survive?

The elite’s linguistic preferences further deepen this divide. My teacher, Professor Bhavna Dave at the School of Oriental and African Studies, argues that a language’s survival depends on its adoption by the elites. In urban Punjab, a section of the elite and upper middle class involved in business activities do not prefer Punjabi. However, the administrative elite has increasingly taken to speaking Punjabi. This is evident in everyday interactions.

In an upper-middle-class, dominant-caste Punjabi Hindu social gathering, a woman shared her experience: “Mere husband Punjabi bolte hain, par main Hindi bolti hoon, isiliye meri beti bhi Hindi bolti hai” (My husband speaks Punjabi, but I speak Hindi, so my daughter speaks Hindi). While the elites are often encouraged to converse in English, the middle and lower-middle classes speak Hindi, as they find English challenging to use.

In Chandigarh and Zirakpur, it seems that, unofficially, there is a ban on Punjabi in affluent areas involved in business activities. Hindi is less prominent in Malwa and Majha than in the Doaba region. In Doaba’s Jalandhar, many mothers typically speak to their children in Hindi. The strong pro-Hindi campaign launched by the Arya Samaj seemed to have influenced this different linguistic behaviour in Doaba. However, even in some cities of Malwa, such as Ludhiana, the dominance of Hindi is noticeable, particularly among urban Punjabi Hindus. In Ludhiana, the households of some of my close acquaintances receive a Hindi newspaper instead of a Punjabi newspaper.

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What is frustrating is the loss of a language and the erasure of a rich legacy. Punjabi is the language of Bulleh Shah, who preached divine love; of Waris Shah, who immortalised Heer, a feminist icon of her time; of Sant Ram Udasi, who challenged caste hierarchies; and of Shiv Kumar Batalvi, the most celebrated Punjabi poet of the 20th century. Yet a section of Punjabis fails to appreciate this richness. They are victims of a larger ideological project— which I term the “Hindi-Hindu-Hindutva” agenda—that equates Indianness with Hindi while disregarding regional languages.

I want to conclude with a profound line from Mera Daghitan (My Dagestan), a novel by Rasul Gamzatov in the Avar language, which itself teeters on the brink of extinction: “When people abandon their language, they lose their soul as well.”

I feel pity, anger, and frustration towards some of the people around me who live this rootless life, although I understand that they are victims of this erosion of their mother tongue. If circumstances changed, they would likely adapt. However, although Punjabi’s fate depends on active State government policies to promote Punjabi, a collective commitment by the people to reclaim and celebrate its rich heritage is equally important.

Nishtha Sood studies politics and international relations, specialising in Central and South Asia at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London.