Is Urdu dead?

Poor Urdu.

I didn’t care much for Urdu growing up. It was just something I had to do in school, not “learn”, but cram just enough to clear the exams. Even though I was schooled in the FSc system, and took urdu literature, my  reading proficiency was so poor that Amma had to read chapters to me prior to the exam, in the hope that I would remember enough to scribble something half meaningful in my broken handwriting. I eventually  triumphed with a glorious D.  I would never have to look at Urdu again.

After escaping the torture of Urdu language, when I entered university in suburban Punjab (PIEAS), I was horrified to see  “Urdu medium” students – y’know the type who actually read Jang?  To rescue them from their lingual misfortunes, I set up, along with three urban kids, an English Literary society to teach the masses the joys of English conversation. And everybody gladly enrolled; part of the reason of course was that 2 of the 3 girls on campus where in my little English-speaking clique. We had one language to rule them all. But the real reason is that the “Urdu medium crowd”,  as we disparagingly called them, despite their high grades, and smart minds,  felt less capable. Urdu was the burden they carried, a scar too obvious to hide.

Fast forward 10 years.

I now realize how grave our mistake really was and how dangerous is the precedent that we set. I see parents whom we would deride in the immaturity of youth, as being “urdu medium”, now only speak to their toddlers in English. I see an entire generation, not recognizing the beauty of their language, struggling to speak where I once merely struggled to read and write. I know a case in which the son of an Urdu teacher grew up not knowing the language that was supposed to be his. In cafes and restaurants,  radios and TVs, all I hear is either English, spoken in a plastic accent meant to impress, or a vile form of Urdu adulterated and abused.

What have we done!?!

During my travels, I have occasionally been complimented “…your English is really good”. The 18-year-old me would have been joyous, but I now cringe  because I have only recently begun to understand the sub-print: “…(as your second language)”. But where is my first language? My stamp of identity?

It is in tatters, dying a painful death from neglect, from discrimination and from the shame of defeat, not at the hands of its erstwhile colonial masters, but us, its supposed saviours.

Is Urdu dead?

-Adnan

ps. Sabeen and Zak, thank you for your efforts to trigger the reawakening of our generation. One Ghalib event is more inspirational than years of bland classroom instruction.