Urdu versus Urdu and Hindi versus Hindi

All over the world, I believe, people make use of the name of some language alien to them in order to convey their displeasure when someone they are talking to doesn’t pay attention to or misinterprets what they say. Consider the following example.

Person X: I think I have a fever.

Person Y: Do you know there is a new restaurant just around the corner. Do you want to try it?

Person X: Was I speaking in German? I am not feeling well!

The language mentioned in this manner, is always a language that none of those involved in the conversation can understand.

One notable exception to this rule is India, where many people use the name “Urdu” to mean a language that is completely foreign to them.  “Was I speaking in Urdu yesterday?”, a schoolteacher might scold his class for having forgotten yesterday’s lesson. Ironically though, which language would many such conversations be taking place in? The answer is Urdu! Just think how ridiculous the last line of the conversation mentioned above would sound, if the word “German” was substituted with “English”.

Imagine a bunch of friends discussing Bollywood movies.

Person A: तुम ने सरफ़रोश देखी है?

Person B: नाहीं, मुझे आमिर खान अच्छा नहीं लागता.

Person C: ओये, सुनो. कल PK देखने चलें?

Person B: मैं ने क्या उर्दू मे कहा था? मुझे आमिर खान पसंद नाहीं.    

‘B’ assumes that Urdu is a language that none of her friends understand, without realising that the language she has just used to convey her message is nothing but Urdu. Of course, if you pointed this out to ‘B’, she would probably swear that she was speaking in Hindi. Failure to recognise that spoken Hindi and spoken Urdu are the same language masquerading as two different languages is a common mistake in India and probably more common among people whose native language is not ‘Hindi’, myself included.

Am I claiming that Hindi and Urdu are the same language at all levels of comparison? Certainly not! Take Qaumi Tarana (Pakistan’s national anthem) for example. The language doesn’t sound even vaguely familiar. Compare it with Bachchan’s Madhushala and it would be preposterous to say that the two works are in the same language. This distinction is perhaps clearest in the ‘standardised’ forms, most commonly found in government documents. Documents in Hindi excessively borrow Sanskrit-based words while shamelessly ignoring equivalent and perhaps more common words of Persian origin (“वर्ष” in place of “साल”, “प्रारंभ” in place of “शुरुआत”, “निर्णय” in place of “फैसला”,
“प्रश्न” in place of “सवाल”). In Urdu the situation is exactly reversed. Contrary to popular belief, however, the underlying grammar in both these standardised forms is nearly identical, based on Khari Boli, the vernacular of Delhi (which for all practical purposes is the lingua franca of most urban areas in the Indo-Gangetic planes and many in the Peninsula as well), with the only differences being the presence or absence of Sanskrit-based suffixes and Arabic plurals. The major difference between the two forms is not the grammar, but the vocabulary, with one relying heavily on Sanskrit and the other on Persian and Arabic. The other notable difference is the scripts used to write the two forms. However, including scripts in a discussion about languages would be incorrect, as the way languages are written and the way they are structured are two independent things. Theoretically it is possible, within certain limits, to write any language in the script of your choice.

So when and how did the Hindi-Urdu debate begin? Christopher King, in a very interesting article, points to the North-western Provinces and Oudh (present-day Uttar Pradesh). Before the British assumed power, the language of the court in the Kingdom of Oudh was Persian. In the 1830s, the East India Company replaced Persian with English and Urdu (written in the Nastaliq script). Little or no formal written Hindi existed before then in the Khari Boli dialect (ignoring, of course, the literary traditions in Braj Bhasha and Awadhi, whose grammar differs from that of Khari Boli). In the second half of the 19^th century, the advent of competitive examinations (for entry into the public services) stimulated large-scale production of text-books on various subjects. This prompted many in the eastern region of the province which had a rich Sanskrit-learning tradition (around Varanasi) to publish text-books in a highly Sanskritised version of Urdu written in Deonagari script, in addition to textbooks produced in Urdu. These two versions, one highly Sanskritised and written in Deonagari, while the other borrowing a large fraction of its vocabulary from Persian and Arabic and written in Nastaliq, became communal symbols associated with Hindu and Muslim identities respectively. Today, Urdu is the official language of Pakistan (alongside English), while Hindi is the official language of India’s Central Government, although Urdu does enjoy official status in some states. 

But is that all? Don’t languages exist outside courts, textbooks, poetry, formal government announcements and speeches made by Sadhus and Maulawis? Shouldn’t day-to-day conversations, actual words spoken by people be given more importance while comparing languages? It can be argued that literary texts and formal education influence the way people speak. It is certainly possible. But, literacy rates in the Indian Subcontinent have always been low, casting doubts on the extent to which texts could influence spoken language.  Also native speakers pick up their language before being formally schooled, while non-native speakers are influenced to a much greater extent by verbally interacting with other speakers than any amount of formal schooling in that language. Just consider improvement in the Hindi-speaking proficiency of non-native Hindi speakers at IISER Mohali. The fact that a few years in the company of native Hindi speakers can outweigh years and years of formal training in Hindi (12 years in the case of many students from Kerala) in terms of its contribution to a person’s Hindi-speaking skills demonstrates the independence of the spoken word from the written word. Therefore spoken Hindi and spoken Urdu should be examined without referring to either the scripts or the literature or even news-broadcasts.     

Once you take this approach, all differences between Hindi and Urdu appear to melt away leading one to conclude that formal Hindi and formal Urdu are merely two standardised forms of the same vernacular, Hindustani or Khari Boli.  Would an Urdu speaking person say “मेरी उम्र साठ साल है” any differently? I doubt it.

Does that mean there is no variation at all? Not at all.  Vernaculars which are recognized as Hindi today vary greatly, in terms of their accents, in terms of certain usages unique to them. All these variants are intertwined closely with variants of what is known as Urdu. An interesting exercise would be to record several day-to-day “Urdu” conversations in Pakistan and similar “Hindi” conversations in India and ask people to classify them as either “Hindi” or “Urdu”. I would be surprised if such a classification turns out to be a straightforward task, if at all possible.

An article I read a long time ago (the name of whose author I cannot recall) sums up the debate succinctly by pointing out that while Indians and Pakistanis have trouble understanding each other’s government broadcasts, they are thoroughly comfortable with each other’s movies.  

References:

1.        Christopher King, The Hindi-Urdu Controversy of North-western Provinces and Oudh and communal consciousness,  Journal of South Asian Literature, Vol. 13, No. 1/4, MISCELLANY (FALL-WINTER-SPRING-SUMMER 1977-1978), pp. 111-120Published  (http://www.jstor.org/stable/40873494?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents)

2.       http://www.dawn.com/news/1156166

3.       https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fl4xppek2gY