The classicism dilemma

Kannada is now a classical language. It's time to rejoice, but perhaps we should also give some thought to what classicism means to those of us who have no connection with the scholarly life.

The Kannada we speak in Bangalore is full of English, and the Kannada we read in official documents is full of Sanskrit. Sadly, every time a new word needs to be created in Kannada, our official translators go for inspiration not to Kannada (or its Dravidian roots) but to Sanskrit and Hindi. If that's how we understand classicism, we are heading towards disaster!

Sankritised words mostly fail to make it to our spoken language because they are difficult to pronounce. Kannadigas in the more Westernised southern districts reach out for English when they encounter awkward Sanskritised Kannada. (Policemen trying to catch drunk drivers Anglicise their question and ask, 'Drinks maadideera?'. Please note that they never use the Sanskritised 'Madyapaana maadiddeera?' But why do they feel the simple Kannada 'Kudididdeera?' isn't good enough? Is it because such easy expressions are scorned by official circles and our morningers?)

Like English, which they say is torn between Anglo Saxon and Latin, Kannada is torn between its Dravidian roots and Sanskrit. Again like English, Kannada borrows generously from several other languages. Hindi words (but again quite a few Sanskritised) coined by the central government find an easy entry into Kannada, or at least into Kannada officialese, thanks to our officials' linguistic laziness.

Independence Day is swaatantrya dinaacharane. An eye hospital becomes netra chikitsaalaya. Why can't we say bidugadeya habba and kannaaspatre instead? To a Kannada mind, a word like saalnadige can conjure up a parade better than the heavily Sanskritised pathasanchalana. Why do we say dhwajaarohana when we can say baavuta haarisuvudu? Many people think there is no Kannada word for 'colony'. Have they forgotten keri?

The Kannada tabloids prefer the familiar Kannada word to the weighty Sanskrit one. They do not shy away from street language, often more picturesque and expressive than the bookish terms that officials think up.

The morningers paraphrase police hand-outs and talk of "miscreants" which in Kannada officialese becomes dushkarmi. Strangely, the newspapers have forgotten that wonderful Kannada word for trouble-maker: punda.

The Sanskrit obsession is very strong in government offices, but it is not just an establishment malaise. Even Udupi restaurants struggle for new names for dishes with familiar Kannada names. So the common uppittu becomes an erroneously named khaara bhaat. (Khara means spicy-hot, and bhaat in Marathi means rice, but no rice is ever used in khaara bhaat!) Similarly, what is called sajjige in Kannada is given the name of kesari bhaat. But why?

Kannada, like other Indian languages, owes a lot to Sanskrit. Cultural historians tell us how it has held its own against that mighty language.

Purandaradasa (16th century) knew more Sanskrit and classicism than anyone else (he is considered the father of south Indian classical music), but he wrote in a Kannada that remains delightfully accessible to this day. If there's one scholar who could balance the classical with the popular, it's him. He ought to be the contemporary Kannadiga's style guru!

(Parts of this article are borrowed from another I wrote in 2002).