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Published
in Gulf News, November 21, 2006
There's plenty
in a name
Bangalore
recently enjoyed a festival of Kannada plays in English. There was
excitement in the theatre community because, for the first time,
the Karnataka government, specifically the Karnataka Nataka Academy,
was sponsoring English theatre.
During
the festival, one of the English-speaking organisers telephoned
a Kannada newspaper to check if they had received a press release.
The editor came on the phone and was outraged that the person wasn't
speaking Kannada. He carried a bitter article the next day, wondering
what the Academy had come to. He displayed an attitude in complete
contrast to the spirit of the festival: one that was praised by
the arts community and rest of the press as a big first step in
uniting the previously disparate worlds of Kannada and English theatre.
Meanwhile
however, other sections of the Karnataka government were machinating
Bangalore's big name change. It's now Bengalooru, quickly outmoding
Bangalore's second entry into the English dictionary, as a verb
meaning to lose your job to outsourcing. (The first dictionary entry
was for a 'bangalore', an explosive device used in battles to clear
obstacles from a distance. They were designed and manufactured in
Bangalore and used, notably, in both World Wars. You can see them
in action during the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan.)
The
ostensible reason for the name change is to wipe away memories of
our colonial past. Names of cities around India are being returned
to their non-Anglicised forms. But for Bangalore, the reasons run
fresher and sharper than British rule, now 60 years behind us. The
name change has a powerful connection with chauvinism for the lost
language of the city: Kannada. 'Lost', because Bangalore is the
only Indian state capital in which the local population is in a
minority. Unlike, say Kolkata, where it would be impossible to get
by without Bengali, Bangaloreans can get by on the street with English,
Hindi, Tamil, Telugu or Kannada.
The
result is insecurity about the language with some aggressive Kannada
speakers. Recently, the government tried to close down 2,000 schools
because they didn't teach in Kannada. Every shop and restaurant
in the city has its name written in Kannada as well as English -
not by law, but because the shop fronts may be defaced by protestors.
Walking down the famous shopping street, Brigade Road, you can still
see black paint that was hurled years ago onto English-only signs.
But
forcing a language down people's throats is not exactly effective
or sustainable, especially not in the surge of change that's sweeping
Bangalore. From the outraged editor, to an increasingly desperate-seeming
government, to the autorickshaw driver whose degree of friendliness
all depends… Bangaloreans are going to have to let go of everything
they've held dear. As with most things, the harder one tries to
grasp, the faster they slip away.
Nurturing
a language through troubled times is perhaps best served by a soft
touch. It may have been a festival of plays in English, but so many
people, both artistes and audience members, went away with new respect
for Kannada playwrights, and resolved to read and buy more of their
work. The Academy members were delighted with what support of the
arts, irrespective of language and provenance, can do.
Can
this recognition of the power of cross-pollination be applied on
a larger scale? Think of how much you could do for a language by
focusing on a vibrant arts and culture scene, something that so
easily trickles down to all-important areas such as education. That's
so much better than splashing black paint around, closing down schools
and changing the name of a city - hoping for something, anything
to stick.
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