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Time of India
10 hours ago
- Politics
- Time of India
Why states struggle to teach the 'third language': Dearth of teachers and lack of clear approach persist; amid confusion and muddled execution of NEP's mandatory three-language policy.
MUMBAI: In the corner of a school corridor in south Kolkata, a retired Sanskrit teacher quietly takes a class without pay. Down the hallway, a part-time Hindi teacher, paid just Rs 5,000 a month, juggles syllabi and student disinterest. These are not isolated cases — they are scenes repeating across campuses of India, where the three-language formula of the National Education Policy (NEP) is a muddled mosaic of politics, policy and pedagogy. The idea is simple on paper: every child in India should learn three languages — preferably the mother tongue, Hindi or English, and one more Indian language. But in practice, the 'third language' is often the orphaned child of the curriculum — chronically underfunded, sporadically taught, rarely enjoyed. NEP recommended three languages to promote 'multilingualism, national unity, and cognitive development.' The policy says: 'The three languages learned by children will be the choices of states, regions, and of the students themselves, so long as at least two of the three languages are native to India.' In essence, the policy is designed to 'balance local relevance with national cohesion and global readiness'. However, linguist Peggy Mohan says, 'Not only does it not help, we don't have teachers to teach it. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like Giao dịch vàng CFDs với mức chênh lệch giá thấp nhất IC Markets Đăng ký Undo They are already overstressed with understanding English texts. Language is not an intellectual accomplishment. People learn languages if demanded by their environment. As usual politicians are loading their issues onto children. ' Bengal: Disinclination and Honorariums In West Bengal, where the State Education Policy was introduced as a counterweight to the Centre's NEP, the third language begins in Class 5 — if schools can find someone to teach it. Hindi or Sanskrit is usually the choice for Classes 7 and 8, or in some cases Urdu, but few institutions allocate full-time teachers for them. So principals improvise. 'We employ a retired Sanskrit teacher on an honorary basis and a part-time Hindi teacher,' says Amit Sen Majumder of Jodhpur Park Boys' School in south Kolkata. However, the pay can be as little as Rs 5,000. Keeping students engaged and convincing parents is equally a daunting task. Anjana Dutta, whose son is in Class 7 at a south Kolkata school, said, 'Students are reluctant to study a third language, knowing it's only for two years. Govt should ensure proper teaching and offer language options that could be useful later.' Incidentally, Bengali is taught compulsorily from Class 1. And while ASER (Annual Status of Education Report) 2024 paints a picture of improvement in the state — 71.3% of Class 8 students can read a Class 2-level text — parents are not entirely impressed with the standards. Bihar: Ghost Classes, Silent Tongues In Bihar, the formula includes Hindi, English and Sanskrit or Urdu — but again, the approach smacks of lip service. 'Some schools have students without teachers; others have teachers without students,' admits ManojKumar, working president, State Primary Teachers' Association. It's not surprising, as sanctioned posts for language teachers has not kept pace with increase in students. Retired Patna University teacher and Sahitya Akademi Award winner Arun Kamal points out that studentshere mostly opt for Sanskrit as third language besides Hindi and English. Even as there is a facility for Bengali teaching in some schools, there are very few teachers for the subject. 'We don't offer enough options. There is no imaginative engagement.' Even Maithili, which is spoken in 148assembly constituencies and has been included in the 8th Schedule of the Constitution, is not taught in schools as yet. Linguist Bhairav Lal Das says Maithili is a popular language with a rich history but has not yet been made the medium of instruction even in the Mithilanchal (Maithili belt) of the state. 'The education system hasn't caught up with the linguistic richness of the state,' says Das. Yet, paradoxically, Bihar's reading outcomes have improved: 41.2% of Class 5 students can now read Class 2-level texts. Numbers rise, but the languages dwindle. Uttar Pradesh: Two Languages, Too Many Barriers Here, in the country's most populous state, Urdu and Sanskrit are taught from classes 5 to 8 in private schools and is mandatory for classes 6 to 8 in govt- and govt-aided inter colleges. In some, govt students can even choose to study Sanskrit till Class 12. Students opting for Sanskrit are limited though. Most tend to regard Sanskrit as merely a subject to clear in exams. Teachers, however, note that Urdu learning is more widespread because of its use in the literary world. 'In our college, we have 15 Urdu learners in a class of 40. They come from all communities,' says Mirza Shafiq Husain Shafaq, an Urdu teacher in Lucknow. His class sometimes drifts into poetry and shayari. Recruitment of teachers is hard, though. 'We get many science and commerce teachers,' says Anil Agarwal of St Joseph Institutions. 'But, for Sanskrit or Urdu, barely anyone applies.' According to educators and administrators in UP, the challenge is in recruiting postgraduate teachers for Sanskrit and Urdu, as few opt for higher studies in these languages. Agarwal says continuous professional development through workshops, conferences, and online courses would address the shortage. Mentorship programmes to connect experienced educators with newcomers and collaboration by govt bodies with academic institutions in creating policies, he said, would create a conducive environment for teaching these languages. Karnataka: Familiar Scripts, Fading Words In Belagavi, the children speak Kannada, Marathi, Urdu — but not Hindi. 'It feels out of place,' says award-winningteacher Hema Idagal. 'They can't grasp it because they don't hear it.' In Mangaluru, efforts to preserve Tulu and Konkani as third languages are an act of devotion, not policy. Tulu is offered in around 40 schools, but Konkani Academy, footing the salary bill, has no formal funding for it. Konkani's journey is steeper still — just four to five schools now teach it, mostly in Devanagari. 'People ask, why teach what they already speak?' says Joachim Stany Alvares of the academy. 'But if English speakers learn English, why not formalise our own?' Even students who love Tulu find no continuation in pre-university education, making the choice impractical. 'We offer it out of love,' says Dinesh Shettigar, Tulu teacher and drawing instructor, who worries what will happen after his retirement. Maharashtra: Compounding The Confusion Here, teaching the third language begins right from Class 1 — at least in policy. Teachers, however, are reeling from the shock. 'It was never in the original foundational education plan,' says Mahendra Ganpule, ex-vice president of the State Headmasters' Association. 'Then suddenly we were told it must be taught — but with no extra teachers.' In Marathi-medium schools, English is a challenge; in English-medium schools, it's Marathi. A third language, usually Hindi, simply compounds the confusion. The state recently made Marathi compulsory across all schools till Class 10. Hindi, initially mandated till Class 5, was made optional after protests. ASER data shows that in 2024, 50.3% of rural students could read a Class 2 text — down from 2018. English reading proficiency remains dire: just 12.1% of Class 5 students could read basic sentences in 2022. 'Hiring depends on how many students opt for a language,' says Zafar Khan, a headmasters' association president. 'No takers, no teachers.' The Language We Lose For a country that prides itself on linguistic diversity, our classrooms echo the opposite. Third languages are a constitutional promise, a pedagogical gift — but, increasingly, an administrative burden, experts say. Prof Madri Kakoti of Lucknow University offers a hopeful note. 'Multiple languages don't just build neural pathways. They connect us to each other. To learn a third language is to increase cultural understanding between our people, expose our children to the traditions of neighbouring states and their people, and encourage a whole new generation towards humanities and literature. ' But, for that to happen, it must first be taught with purpose — not as a policy checkbox, but as a bridge between a child's tongue and the the corner of a school corridor in south Kolkata, a retired Sanskrit teacher quietly takes a class without pay. Down the hallway, a part-time Hindi teacher, paid just Rs 5,000 a month, juggles syllabi and student disinterest. These are not isolated cases — they are scenes repeating across campuses of India, where the three-language formula of the National Education Policy (NEP) is a muddled mosaic of politics, policy and pedagogy. The idea is simple on paper: every child in India should learn three languages — preferably the mother tongue, Hindi or English, and one more Indian language. But in practice, the 'third language' is often the orphaned child of the curriculum — chronically underfunded, sporadically taught, rarely enjoyed. NEP recommended three languages to promote 'multilingualism, national unity, and cognitive development.' The policy says: 'The three languages learned by children will be the choices of states, regions, and of the students themselves, so long as at least two of the three languages are native to India.' In essence, the policy is designed to 'balance local relevance with national cohesion and global readiness'. However, linguist Peggy Mohan says, 'Not only does it not help, we don't have teachers to teach it. They are already overstressed with understanding English texts. Language is not an intellectual accomplishment. People learn languages if demanded by their environment. As usual politicians are loading their issues onto children. ' Bengal: Disinclination and Honorariums In West Bengal, where the State Education Policy was introduced as a counterweight to the Centre's NEP, the third language begins in Class 5 — if schools can find someone to teach it. Hindi or Sanskrit is usually the choice for Classes 7 and 8, or in some cases Urdu, but few institutions allocate full-time teachers for them. So principals improvise. 'We employ a retired Sanskrit teacher on an honorary basis and a part-time Hindi teacher,' says Amit Sen Majumder of Jodhpur Park Boys' School in south Kolkata. However, the pay can be as little as Rs 5,000. Keeping students engaged and convincing parents is equally a daunting task. Anjana Dutta, whose son is in Class 7 at a south Kolkata school, said, 'Students are reluctant to study a third language, knowing it's only for two years. Govt should ensure proper teaching and offer language options that could be useful later.' Incidentally, Bengali is taught compulsorily from Class 1. And while ASER (Annual Status of Education Report) 2024 paints a picture of improvement in the state — 71.3% of Class 8 students can read a Class 2-level text — parents are not entirely impressed with the standards. Bihar: Ghost Classes, Silent Tongues In Bihar, the formula includes Hindi, English and Sanskrit or Urdu — but again, the approach smacks of lip service. 'Some schools have students without teachers; others have teachers without students,' admits ManojKumar, working president, State Primary Teachers' Association. It's not surprising, as sanctioned posts for language teachers has not kept pace with increase in students. Retired Patna University teacher and Sahitya Akademi Award winner Arun Kamal points out that studentshere mostly opt for Sanskrit as third language besides Hindi and English. Even as there is a facility for Bengali teaching in some schools, there are very few teachers for the subject. 'We don't offer enough options. There is no imaginative engagement.' Even Maithili, which is spoken in 148assembly constituencies and has been included in the 8th Schedule of the Constitution, is not taught in schools as yet. Linguist Bhairav Lal Das says Maithili is a popular language with a rich history but has not yet been made the medium of instruction even in the Mithilanchal (Maithili belt) of the state. 'The education system hasn't caught up with the linguistic richness of the state,' says Das. Yet, paradoxically, Bihar's reading outcomes have improved: 41.2% of Class 5 students can now read Class 2-level texts. Numbers rise, but the languages dwindle. Uttar Pradesh: Two Languages, Too Many Barriers H ere, in the country's most populous state, Urdu and Sanskrit are taught from classes 5 to 8 in private schools and is mandatory for classes 6 to 8 in govt- and govt-aided inter colleges. In some, govt students can even choose to study Sanskrit till Class 12. Students opting for Sanskrit are limited though. Most tend to regard Sanskrit as merely a subject to clear in exams. Teachers, however, note that Urdu learning is more widespread because of its use in the literary world. 'In our college, we have 15 Urdu learners in a class of 40. They come from all communities,' says Mirza Shafiq Husain Shafaq, an Urdu teacher in Lucknow. His class sometimes drifts into poetry and shayari. Recruitment of teachers is hard, though. 'We get many science and commerce teachers,' says Anil Agarwal of St Joseph Institutions. 'But, for Sanskrit or Urdu, barely anyone applies.' According to educators and administrators in UP, the challenge is in recruiting postgraduate teachers for Sanskrit and Urdu, as few opt for higher studies in these languages. Agarwal says continuous professional development through workshops, conferences, and online courses would address the shortage. Mentorship programmes to connect experienced educators with newcomers and collaboration by govt bodies with academic institutions in creating policies, he said, would create a conducive environment for teaching these languages. Karnataka: Familiar Scripts, Fading Words In Belagavi, the children speak Kannada, Marathi, Urdu — but not Hindi. 'It feels out of place,' says award-winningteacher Hema Idagal. 'They can't grasp it because they don't hear it.' In Mangaluru, efforts to preserve Tulu and Konkani as third languages are an act of devotion, not policy. Tulu is offered in around 40 schools, but Konkani Academy, footing the salary bill, has no formal funding for it. Konkani's journey is steeper still — just four to five schools now teach it, mostly in Devanagari. 'People ask, why teach what they already speak?' says Joachim Stany Alvares of the academy. 'But if English speakers learn English, why not formalise our own?' Even students who love Tulu find no continuation in pre-university education, making the choice impractical. 'We offer it out of love,' says Dinesh Shettigar, Tulu teacher and drawing instructor, who worries what will happen after his retirement. Maharashtra: Compounding The Confusion Here, teaching the third language begins right from Class 1 — at least in policy. Teachers, however, are reeling from the shock. 'It was never in the original foundational education plan,' says Mahendra Ganpule, ex-vice president of the State Headmasters' Association. 'Then suddenly we were told it must be taught — but with no extra teachers.' In Marathi-medium schools, English is a challenge; in English-medium schools, it's Marathi. A third language, usually Hindi, simply compounds the confusion. The state recently made Marathi compulsory across all schools till Class 10. Hindi, initially mandated till Class 5, was made optional after protests. ASER data shows that in 2024, 50.3% of rural students could read a Class 2 text — down from 2018. English reading proficiency remains dire: just 12.1% of Class 5 students could read basic sentences in 2022. 'Hiring depends on how many students opt for a language,' says Zafar Khan, a headmasters' association president. 'No takers, no teachers.' The Language We Lose For a country that prides itself on linguistic diversity, our classrooms echo the opposite. Third languages are a constitutional promise, a pedagogical gift — but, increasingly, an administrative burden, experts say. Prof Madri Kakoti of Lucknow University offers a hopeful note. 'Multiple languages don't just build neural pathways. They connect us to each other. To learn a third language is to increase cultural understanding between our people, expose our children to the traditions of neighbouring states and their people, and encourage a whole new generation towards humanities and literature. ' But, for that to happen, it must first be taught with purpose — not as a policy checkbox, but as a bridge between a child's tongue and the world. With inputs from Poulami Roy Banerjee, B K Mishra, Mohita Tewari, Ravi Uppar, Deepthi Sanjiv, and Abhishek Choudhari
Scroll.in
02-05-2025
- Politics
- Scroll.in
Hindi: The ‘national language' that marginalises its own
Two centuries of discourse around language and identity in India have culminated in Hindi emerging as a nationalist symbol – as the language of the Hindu nation. Nearly 150 years ago, the essayist Pratapnarayan Mishra coined the slogan 'Hind, Hindu, Hindi', an early articulation of the majoritarian refrain 'Hindi, Hindu, Hindustan'. It is, therefore, unsurprising that such a language would encounter regional resistance. The languages that Hindi now seeks to dominate in its role as the Hindu language exceed it in literary maturity and historical depth. The history of Hindi extends back no more than two centuries. This is why, particularly in the context of South India, Hindi often appears as a language of imposition and cultural zealotry. Consequently, every Hindi speaker who steps beyond their regional or linguistic comfort zone is viewed with suspicion. In academic settings, this suspicion intensifies – at times, being manifested as outright rejection or resistance towards Hindi speakers. However, this ignores a deeper truth: students and scholars who enter higher education through Hindi do not do so from positions of privilege. More often than not, they are women, Dalits, the rural poor, or working-class families from small towns for whom the only real choice was between under-resourced Hindi-medium schools and no schooling at all. The region commonly called the 'Hindi belt' is inhabited by communities who rarely use Hindi in their domestic lives. In this context, Hindi functions primarily as a language of work – an acquired language rather than a mother tongue. Their native languages have distinct linguistic traditions such as Bhojpuri, Maithili, Braj, and Awadhi. For them, Hindi has never been a symbol of dominance but a domain of exclusion. First, because of their mother tongues and now, ironically, because of Hindi. Contemporary discussions often attempt to explain this history of Hindi's rise to dominance through the lens of the Hindi-Urdu divide. This important frame becomes limiting when the split is seen merely as an administrative accident. In an article in The Indian Express, linguist Peggy Mohan suggests that the division between Hindi and Urdu was primarily the result of a government classification of scripts issued in 1900. However, this interpretation flattens the longer, more complex history of linguistic struggle in North ideological separation of Hindi and Urdu began much earlier, with the establishment of Fort William College in Calcutta in 1800. Under the direction of John Gilchrist and other British orientalists, the spoken khari boli of North India was divided into two standardised forms: one, written in the Nagari script, became Hindi; the other, composed in the Arabic-Persian script, was accepted as Urdu. This linguistic division certainly hardened when the colonial state passed the 1900 order granting official recognition to Nagari Hindi alongside Urdu. However, to locate the roots of this conflict solely in colonial administration is to fall into an overly simplified reading of history. Poetic compositions in bhākhā – a premodern register of Hindi used in devotional and poetic traditions – had existed alongside the world of Urdu poetry well before the interventions of Gilchrist and Fort William College, and they confirm the long-standing practice of writing Hindi in two distinct stylistic traditions. What did shift, however, was that in the aftermath of the script conflict in the United Provinces, the cultural claim over language became so deeply internalised that Hindi began to see itself as the language of all Hindus in Hindustan. Hindi first claimed authority over its neighbouring languages, whose ancient literary traditions were appropriated through a nationalist ideology. In doing so, Hindi activists carried out two simultaneous moves. First, by presenting Bhojpuri's Kabir, Braj's Surdas, Awadhi's Tulsidas, and Apabhramsha's Chand Bardai as part of an ancient literary reservoir, they strengthened Hindi's historical legitimacy vis-à-vis Urdu. At the same time, by invoking these figures from other regional languages, they positioned Hindi as the people's language – the authentic vernacular of India – while casting Urdu as the language of foreign Muslims. All of this occurred around 1880, well before the aforementioned government order. This history makes it strikingly clear that the category of 'Hindi speakers' is itself a fiction. What census reports and public discourse describes as 'Hindi' is, in fact, a collection of highly diverse languages – Bhojpuri, Maithili, Braj, Magahi, Awadhi, Chhattisgarhi, Bajjika, among others – each of which is linguistically distinct and has a long literary and oral tradition. However, these languages have now come to be absorbed into what is called the history of Hindi. Stripped of their own literary traditions and historical identities, they have been reduced to mere dialects of Hindi. In the regions labelled within English-speaking academia as the Hindi Belt (or the derogatory 'Cow Belt'), there are still tens of millions of people who, in their entire lives, have never spoken what is officially called Hindi. However, for most people counted among these so-called Hindi speakers, language is not a seat of power but a narrow corridor of access – the only path left open when all others are shut. If someone from this background eventually reaches an elite university and enters the academic world, they encounter a second wall of exclusion. The Hindi-medium education that once enabled their survival becomes the very reason they are no longer taken seriously. They are viewed as provincial, lacking in theoretical understanding, and incapable of participating in the real work of critique and research. In the Hindi literary field, upper-caste men continue to dominate the canon. When women, Dalits, or scholars from other backward classes question canonical texts or challenge prevailing literary values, they are often dismissed as insufficiently refined, lacking in literary sensibility, or lacking theoretical training. At times, they are accused of politicising culture. In this way, Hindi becomes the means of their academic entry and the reason for their double exclusion. They cannot renounce it because it is their intellectual home. However, English – an elite world to the point of being alienating, even colonising – stands on the other side. Both spaces continually remind them that neither truly belongs to them. In today's academic discourse, a strange fantasy circulates – that the answer to Hindi's nationalist politics is to abandon it, adopt English, stop teaching or writing in Hindi, and embrace 'modernisation'. Some critics even argue that because Hindi is marked by Brahminical dominance, it should be entirely boycotted by Dalits. However, one must ask: how is the Dalit student from a village, especially a girl, meant to access education? Should she boycott education itself in order to boycott Hindi? Moreover, what about the woman writer who learned to intervene through Hindi – should she stop reading and writing altogether for fear of being labelled a supporter of Brahminism? This elite demand fails to acknowledge that switching linguistic gears is difficult and impractical for those who grew up in Hindi and often had no access to English. It is not a socially just solution. It also erases the decades of struggle through which they made intellectual life possible in Hindi. Language is not just a medium: it is a memory of resistance. To walk away from it is not liberation. It is the erasure of a history of struggle. The Hindi public sphere has been undergoing a slow but profound transformation over the past two to three decades, especially since the 1990s. Women, members of the Other Backward Classes, Dalit and Muslim writers, critics, artists, and readers are actively reconfiguring what counts as literature and criticism and who has the right to speak in and through Hindi. These interventions are not merely linguistic or stylistic. They question the norms of Hindi literary tradition, challenge gender roles, confront the silencing of caste, gender and Muslims, and directly face the exclusions that have long been celebrated as part of Hindi's literary canon. These voices are not rejecting Hindi. They radically inhabit it – demanding that it make space for questions and perspectives that have long been suppressed or ignored. At precisely this moment, attempts to purge Arabic-Persian vocabulary, construct a South-North binary and invoke cultural nationalism through the state-sponsored promotion of Hindi risk undermining this emerging democratic space from within. Across the country, arguments about so-called Hindi hate or Hindi resistance are increasingly used to silence the voices of those already marginalised. In the Hindi literary world, writers, particularly women, Dalits, and those who dissent, are pressured either to assimilate into the existing hierarchical framework or risk erasure altogether. This forced consolidation threatens to undo decades of grassroots transformation. If we fail to recognise and protect the diversity within Hindi, we may lose the very possibility of a democratic Hindi public sphere. Hindi today is not a unified tradition but a site of unresolved tensions. Preserving this character of Hindi is essential to preserving democracy in this country. Moreover, this cannot be achieved through elite anger, impulse, or resentment. It can only be accomplished through a nuanced understanding of the present moment and a deep commitment to the diversity within Hindi itself.
