Who needs plain language?

Published on July 15

Anjum leafed impatiently through some school textbooks. “Look at these! No matter what the subject, it’ll be in language kids can’t understand. Sanskritised terms a mile long. Why can’t they coin plain, everyday words?”

“Because ours is the wonderland of gobbledygook,” said Deb. “Mantra-muttering Indians see no need for clarity. Look at our laws - in 18th century gibberish that people don’t understand. Or government notifications, or any communication in any sphere.”

“Exactly,” said Anjum. “Bank and financial contract documents are gibberish. Worded by goofy lawyers who worship a fossil language. Municipal corporations print notifications for the ordinary person. In language no ordinary person ordinarily uses. They scan dictionaries and come up with atikraman for shopkeepers dumping their goods on pavements. Just what in hell goes wrong the moment an Indian says anything formal?”

“May be it’s got something to do with feudalism,” Deb said. “The closer a people is to its feudal past, the more ludicrous its ‘formal’ language. And it’s got to do with democracy too. Democracy demands plain, transparent language.”

“Perhaps Christianity too,’ said Anjum. “The Christian world leads the plain language movement. Anything Sweden’s Parliament passes must first go through a plain-language cell before it reaches the people. Plain Dutch is the language of the Netherlands government. Ditto with Australia, Canada, New Zealand, the UK, the USA. Why do we loll in prehistoric gibberish?”

“Can’t say for sure,” Deb said. “A vast difference in attitude. Remember William Tyndale, the Protestant preacher in England? Was killed for it in 1536. He vowed to translate the Bible from Hebrew into the language of England’s peasants. And think of Akbar, 40 years later, trying to coax Hindu pundits to translate the Ramayana and the Mahabharata from Sanskrit into regional languages. The pundits refused; said it’d be heresy to translate what was in Dev Bhasha into the language of mlechchas. Mean anything to you?”

“If you mean feudal ideas,” Anjum said, “Tyndale’s England was feudal too. What inspired Tyndale to strive for the Bible in plain language? A democratic urge in feudal times?”

“Was the evangelical spirit,” Chhanda suggested. “Brahmins were never evangelical. They sought only their stranglehold on scriptures, on knowledge - to keep it all away from the people.”

“That’s it!” said Deb. “Buddhists were India’s first evangelists. And they made India’s first bid for plain language. They rejected the Vedas and Sanskrit, and strove for plain Pali. Language that was closer to the grassroots. The drive for Pali was a rebellion against the use of Sanskrit -just as Buddhism was a rebellion against Brahminical Hinduism.”

“But why did Sanskrit have to mean obscurity?” asked Anjum.

“Don’t blame Sanskrit,” said Chhanda. “Blame the Brahmins. They wouldn’t let non-Brahmins learn Sanskrit. They spread ignorance and darkness. They were the first Taliban. Killed anything they touched. They killed Sanskrit too.”

“We call ourselves a democracy,” said Deb. “But we still don’t understand that all citizens have the right to clear communication. The Brahmins stamped out that Buddhist concept.”

“And,” Anjum said, “we’re just following the Brahminical tradition in neglecting plain language for the masses.”

“Maybe the truth is,” said Deb, “we’re plain confused. Indians never give serious thought to what should concern them the most.”

“That’s easy to understand,” said Anjum. “We think through language. And if our language is muddled, so will our thinking be.”

“You’re right there,” said Deb. “Maybe that’s why Indians tolerate gibberish. They can’t think clearly. And so they see nothing wrong in unclear communication.”

“And so school textbooks get written in gibberish;” said Anjum, “our laws are worded in gobbledygook, and our government blathers muck.”

Deb sought to probe deeper: “But why do you think that happens? Because Sanskrit polluted our regional languages. We’re schooled to learn the far-fetched Sanskrit term for everything around us, rather than the everyday word.”

“You mean,” Chhanda tried to help out, “the educated Indian’s a schizophrenic, with a ‘formal Sanskrit’ memory, and a separate colloquial-language mind.”

“You hit the nail on the head,” said Deb. “The average Indian’s brainwashed into believing he must rummage for the big Sanskritised word or phrase. As though the everyday expression can never do for anything important. Guess the entire world clung to such feudal notions once. That’s how formal language became cant.”

“And so,” added Chhanda, “if the Indian thinks colloquial, he’ll feel gagged expressing it. He’ll fumble for some ready-made Sanskritised expression bundled in his memory. Never spontaneous language.”

“Exactly. Though I must say,” Deb clarified, “creative writers in our regional languages are changing all that. We see this effort in modern Telugu writing, don’t we? Telugu, Malayalam, and Kannada are so Sanskrit-ridden. But Telugu writers now consciously replace the formal Sanskrit with the colloquial Telugu.”

“But are schoolteachers encouraging their pupils to write everyday language?” asked Chhanda. “That’s what’s needed across all schools. A rejection of Sanskritised language. A switch to plain spontaneous language.”

“Exactly,” said Deb. “Ditto with the teaching of English. Indians mug up only the cant that 18th century British merchants used in their hideous business letters. The moment an Indian sets out to write English, he scrounges around in his store of idiotic Latin-laden mumbo-jumbo, just as he does with the Sanskrit-laden jumble in our regional languages.”

“So where d’you think hope lies?” Chhanda asked.

Deb shook his head. “Maybe there’s little hope for India,” he said sadly. “If you talk about the need for plain language, Indians will say we have more pressing needs than language. Only, because they lack clear language, they can’t think clearly about sorting those pressing needs either.”