By Irfan Iqbal Gheta
Just a week ago, a troubling incident unfolded in Karnataka. A senior citizen visited her local Canara Bank branch to seek clarifications. The staff member attending her did not speak Kannada. She tried explaining in English, but the client didn’t understand the language. What should have been a routine interaction turned into a flashpoint. A video of the incident went viral, sparking outrage. Pro-Kannada groups quickly demanded that banks employ staff fluent in the local language. Canara Bank responded with a statement, echoing the sentiments of the Kannada-speaking community.
This wasn’t an isolated case. In May, the branch manager of a State Bank of India outlet in Anekal Taluka, near Bengaluru, faced backlash for reportedly refusing to speak in Kannada with a customer. The incident reached the ears of Karnataka Chief Minister Siddaramaiah, who publicly condemned the manager’s behaviour. SBI acted swiftly, transferring the employee concerned.
Similarly, in Maharashtra, those who do not speak Marathi—or refuse to—are facing growing hostility. Members of regional parties that champion the cause of “Marathi Manoos” and “Marathi Asmita” have allegedly resorted to intimidation and even violence against non-Marathi speakers. Viral videos of such confrontations are circulating widely, sparking heated debates.
But here’s the question: can love for one’s language justify taking the law into one’s own hands? Does someone’s inability to speak a regional language warrant abuse, threats, or mob justice?
India has always been celebrated for its unity in diversity. The world admires us as the land of Mahatma Gandhi, who upheld the principle of Ahimsa Paramo Dharma—non-violence as the supreme virtue. What we’re witnessing today in parts of our country is a betrayal of that legacy.
When individuals are humiliated and attacked simply for not knowing a regional language, it leaves deep, lasting scars—not just on their psyche, but on the soul of our nation. Since when did language become a weapon to assert identity through aggression? Since when did peaceful coexistence give way to vigilantism?
India is vast, dynamic, and mobile. People from different states migrate in search of better education, opportunities, and quality of life. If we begin drawing rigid linguistic boundaries around each state, we risk turning inward and stagnating. The free exchange of ideas, talent, and culture—the very essence of India—will begin to die.
Teaching someone your language is an act of generosity. It takes a big heart, time, and commitment. The result? A lasting bridge between cultures. It fosters understanding and respect.
In contrast, the coercive tactics used by some political outfits to impose language are temporary and hollow. They may serve a political agenda in the short term, but they eventually fizzle out. Once power is secured, the same leaders often abandon the very causes they once championed. The slogan “Our State Language First” becomes just that—a forgotten slogan.
What our nation needs right now is calm, empathy, and unity. We must reject hate in all its forms and remember the spirit of India—inclusive, tolerant, and proud of its diversity.
Let us remember the words of the Rig Veda:
“Sangacchadhvam Samvadadhvam Sam Vo Manaansi Jaanataam”
“Let us move together, let us speak in one voice, let our minds be united.”
That is the India we must stand up for—an India where our languages are celebrated, not weaponized.
