Chai par charcha in Himachal

LANGUAGE has become serious business in our country. It’s a jingoistic badge of identity, a self-proclaimed sacred duty and, above all, a political convenience.

A case in point is Marathi, which may not be just a linguistic choice, it can be a tribulation. Speaking anything other than Marathi in public in Maharashtra has become a contact sport, occasionally a reason to get slapped before your vada pav gets cold. Perhaps Marathi is not just perceived as a language but a cultural compass, deeply tied to identity and politics. Hence, there’s a strong display of vocal pride in preserving and promoting it. Speak Marathi, especially in Mumbai or Pune, and you’re often met with a nod of approval — or at the very least, spared a passive-aggressive glare.

All this while, Himachal is quietly sipping its chai and wondering what the fuss is about. Here, language isn’t just a medium of communication — it’s an extreme sport. Every 20 kilometres, the dialect changes more dramatically than plot twists in a daily soap. It’s like stepping into a linguistic kaleidoscope. Here, it’s not one language but dozens of dialects — Mandyali, Kinnauri, Bharmouri, Sirmauri, Chambyali, Kulluvi, et al. and they don’t follow borders so much as the nearest curve in the road.

If Himachal were Maharashtra, you’d need inner line permits to cross from one tehsil to another, and every milestone would come with a dialect quiz and pronunciation checkpoint, lest one got ‘convicted’ and thrashed for linguistic ignorance.

No one in Himachal has ever started a language war because, perhaps, they’re too busy figuring out if they’re speaking Sirmauri, Mandyali, Kinnauri or what have you — just a very polite form of confusion. It’s the linguistic version of a buffet, everyone gets a little something, and no one’s quite sure what half of it is called, but it’s all delicious. Here, language is more like weather. It changes every few kilometres, no one fully understands it, and everyone just layers up and carries on.

You could start your morning over a cup of tea in Kullu, asking “kenda sa? (how are you?)”, swing by Mandi by lunch inquiring “kedha ha?”, and by dinner in Shimla, be confidently told in Pahari-accented Hindi, “sab theek hai, par aapka accent thoda alag lagda hai.”

In Himachal, language is about connection, not correction. If you don’t know the local lingo, someone will help. If you mispronounce something, they’ll laugh with you, not at you.

Folks here have mastered the art of nodding, smiling and responding in their version of the language, knowing full well that everyone else will do the same — and not many will understand everyone entirely. When you have five dialects per tehsil, you learn quickly that mutual confusion is the only common tongue — and that’s perfectly okay but the chai will still be served piping hot.

Musings