Language in India has never been a neutral matter. It is a marker of identity, a tool of aspiration, and, often, a lever of politics. This reality is evident once again in the recent statements by Union Home Minister Amit Shah, who declared that “those who speak English will soon be ashamed,” even as he clarified that the Centre is not opposed to any foreign language. He further urged Indians to “glorify one’s own language.”

These remarks set off a predictable storm. Opposition leaders accused the BJP of trying to impose Hindi by stealth. The controversy reflects a deeper question: What should be the place of Hindi—and English—in India’s multilingual landscape?

The stakes are high because India’s linguistic diversity is astonishing. According to the 2011 Census, over 520 million people reported Hindi as their first language, followed by Bengali, Marathi, Telugu, and others. But language is not just about numbers; it is about identity and belonging. In Tamil Nadu, the memory of anti-Hindi agitations of the 1960s still shapes politics. In Maharashtra, recent moves to introduce Hindi instruction from primary classes have sparked protests from those who see it as an encroachment on Marathi pride. Across southern and eastern India, many communities view Hindi as an instrument of northern domination rather than a neutral medium of communication.

Yet Hindi’s rise is hardly the only trend. English, too, has become part of India’s linguistic reality. Though only 259,000 people reported English as their mother tongue in 2011, about 83 million said it was their second language. These figures reveal something deeper: for much of urban India, English is not merely a colonial relic but an aspirational language—one associated with education, economic mobility, and access to opportunity.

Consider the higher education sector. From the IITs and IIMs to central universities, English remains the primary medium of instruction. In the Supreme Court and most High Courts, English is the working language. In the corporate sector, proficiency in English often determines career prospects. For many families, especially from Dalit and OBC communities, English is seen as a ticket to break out of entrenched hierarchies. Dalit thinkers such as Chandrabhan Prasad have described English as “the language of liberation.”

Seen this way, the idea that English is a threat to Indian languages is overstated. India has long been a multilingual society where people switch between languages depending on context. A young professional in Mumbai might speak Marathi at home, Hindi with colleagues, and English in meetings with clients. This flexibility is not a sign of cultural decay but of remarkable linguistic competence.

This does not mean that concerns about preserving Indian languages are unfounded. It is important to celebrate and strengthen Hindi, as well as regional languages, in public life and education. But there is a difference between promoting a language and imposing it. In Tamil Nadu, for example, decades of resistance to Hindi imposition have created strong safeguards for Tamil. In Karnataka, Kannada is promoted in schools without banning English instruction. These models show it is possible to nurture linguistic pride without turning language into a zero-sum game.

Policy should be guided by this recognition. The National Education Policy (NEP) 2020, with its emphasis on multilingualism and mother tongue instruction, is an important step. But implementation must be flexible and respectful of local identities. One-size-fits-all solutions will almost certainly provoke resentment.

It is worth recalling that the original vision of India’s founders was not to create a monolingual nation but a multilingual federation. The Constituent Assembly debates reveal deep disagreements over whether Hindi should replace English as the sole official language. Ultimately, the compromise was clear: Hindi would be the official language of the Union, English would continue as an associate official language, and states would be free to use their own languages for administration and education. That compromise has held for over seventy years because it respects India’s diversity.

Today, policymakers should not lose sight of that wisdom. India needs policies that balance cultural pride with practical realities. Encouraging people to take pride in Hindi should not require making them ashamed of English. Nor should efforts to promote Hindi come at the expense of Marathi, Tamil, Kannada, or Bengali. Language thrives when it is associated with opportunity, inclusion, and dignity—not when it is forced upon people.

In the end, the real question is whether language can be a bridge rather than a wedge. India’s multilingual heritage is one of its greatest strengths. At a time when globalisation has made English indispensable and regional identities remain powerful, the challenge is to celebrate all languages without turning any of them into instruments of exclusion.

Language will always be political in India. But it does not have to be divisive. With sensitivity, respect, and a commitment to pluralism, India can build a future where every child grows up with the confidence to speak many languages—and the freedom to choose which ones.