On a muggy evening at a railway platform in Mumbai, I watched a middle-aged man struggle to ask the chaiwala the price of tea in Hindi. He fumbled, flustered, before another passenger stepped in to translate. “New to Mumbai,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “Only Tamil.”
I thought of how different my own experience had been. By fifteen, I navigated three languages without needing a translator. At school, I learned English, Hindi and Marathi - my teacher spoke was nothing like what my paternal grandparents used - as if they were two entirely different languages masquerading under the same name. It was my first lesson in the great Indian paradox: not only do we speak multiple languages, but even one language refuses to be just one thing.
At home, we spoke Kannada, a language steeped in family and tradition. My best friend’s household was Gujarati, and after countless hours at his home, I absorbed it without effort.
In Mumbai, a train ride was a linguistic symphony - Marathi banter between vendors, passengers humming Hindi film songs, a rush of Tamil or Kannada in hushed phone calls, and the rhythmic chatter of Gujarati traders. To grow up in the city was to be multilingual by default.
I never thought of it as learning multiple languages. It was as natural as breathing. And yet, despite its practical benefits, the idea of learning more than two languages is fiercely debated today.
The Three-Language Formula in India’s National Education Policy (NEP) 2020 has reignited debate, particularly in Tamil Nadu, where it is seen as a veiled attempt to impose Hindi. While most states embrace the policy as linguistic enrichment, Tamil Nadu remains defiant, convinced that an additional Indian language is a burden. But is a child speaking three languages really at risk?
Or is the real fear that they might forge connections beyond their borders?
A close look at the policy reveals that it does not impose any particular language - unless, one believes, that ‘having a choice’ is a form of coercion. In reality, the policy gives states and students the freedom to pick their languages, stating: ‘The three languages learned by children will be the choices of states, regions, and of course, the students themselves, so long as at least two of the three languages are native to India.’
The Three-Language Formula is in line with a child’s natural ability. It simply ensures that at least two of the three languages they learn are native to India (hardly a sinister plot) while also preparing them for a globalized world. And if that weren’t enough freedom, the policy even allows children to switch one of the three languages in Grades 6 or 7.
In a country as vast and diverse as India, learning at least two Indian languages is more than just an academic exercise; it is an act of reaching out, an attempt to engage with a nation that speaks in many voices, dialects and traditions. It is a way to understand rather than just coexist amidst all the complexities and contradictions India displays.
The NEP 2020’s approach to multilingualism is about broadening horizons and not forcing uniformity. The idea that learning just one more Indian language is some kind of existential threat to Tamil identity could do with a little less drama. After all, if millions of children across India can juggle three languages without spiralling into a cultural crisis, one would think Tamil Nadu’s young minds might survive the ordeal, too.
A few years ago, I watched my ten-year-old niece at a park, switching effortlessly between languages - shouting in Hindi to a playmate, responding in Telugu to a street vendor, then turning to her mother in flawless English to ask for ice cream. She didn’t pause, didn’t fumble for words, didn’t collapse under the burden of multilingualism. She just spoke.
Meanwhile, in Tamil Nadu, politicians insist that learning a third language is a Herculean task. One can only assume my niece hadn’t yet been informed of the supposed trauma she was enduring. Perhaps if someone had told her how oppressive it was to know three languages, she might have dropped her ice cream in shock.
I look back to my childhood in Mumbai, where languages flowed like the tides of the Arabian Sea. They didn’t confuse me; they made me more confident. They didn’t overwhelm me; they gave me freedom.
And in the end, isn’t that what education is supposed to do?
(The author is a learning and development professional. Views personal.)
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