This week, language and identity have taken center stage in India’s political and cultural landscape, as two seemingly unrelated events—one in Uttar Pradesh and the other in New Delhi—have sparked debate and reflection on the power and politics of words. At the heart of both stories is the question: How do languages shape our sense of self, and what happens when their significance is misunderstood or misrepresented?
On August 9, 2025, Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath set the tone for Sanskrit Language Week with a striking gesture. He released a video message delivered entirely in Sanskrit, urging citizens to renew their commitment to preserving and practicing this ancient language. According to The Times of India, Yogi described Sanskrit as “not just a language but the soul of Indian civilization,” and called on schools and families to bring it back into daily life. “This week is an opportunity not only to celebrate but to take concrete steps toward its revival,” he said, emphasizing the state government’s “full commitment to supporting the language’s growth and relevance in modern India.”
Yogi’s message was more than ceremonial. It echoed a broader, ongoing push in Uttar Pradesh to make Sanskrit a living, breathing part of everyday life. The government has distributed over ₹5.8 crore in scholarships to nearly 70,000 Sanskrit students this year alone, granted recognition to 73 new Sanskrit colleges, and launched vocational diploma programs through the Sanskrit Education Council. Since 2020, official press releases and government communications have been issued in Sanskrit, and traditional debates known as ‘Shastrarth’ are being promoted in Sanskrit institutions to foster intellectual engagement.
On social media, Yogi doubled down, posting in Sanskrit and Hindi to call the language the “voice of the sages” and the “eternal source of Sanatan knowledge.” He urged citizens to “take a pledge to promote, protect, and use Sanskrit in their daily lives,” according to NDTV. The message resonated especially during Sanskrit Week, which is observed annually across India through literary programs, awareness campaigns, and public events that encourage exploration of Sanskrit texts and everyday conversation.
But as one language was being celebrated, another was at the center of a political storm. In New Delhi, a seemingly minor bureaucratic error snowballed into a major controversy with national implications. An inspector in Lodhi Colony, tasked with processing detained suspected Bangladeshis, sent a letter to Banga Bhavan—West Bengal’s state guest house in the capital—requesting the services of a translator for the “Bangladeshi language.” The phrase itself was a faux pas; as The New Indian Express pointed out, there is no such language. Bengali is spoken both in Bangladesh and in West Bengal, India.
West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee was quick to seize on the error, calling it “scandalous, insulting, anti-national, unconstitutional.” She posted the letter on X (formerly Twitter), lambasting Delhi Police and, by extension, the central government, for what she saw as a deliberate slight against Bengali identity. “See now how Delhi police under the direct control of Ministry of Home, Government of India (read Amit Shah aka BJP), is describing Bengali as ‘Bangladeshi’ language!” Banerjee wrote, igniting a fresh round of political sparring between her Trinamool Congress (TMC) and the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP).
Instead of addressing the mistake as a simple error, BJP leaders attempted to justify it. Amit Malviya, a prominent BJP spokesperson, argued on social media, “Delhi Police is absolutely right in referring to the language as Bangladeshi in the context of identifying infiltrators. The term is being used to describe a set of dialects, syntax and speech patterns that are distinctly different from the Bangla spoken in India. The official language of Bangladesh is not only phonologically different but also includes dialects like Sylheti that are nearly incomprehensible to Indian Bengalis. There is, in fact, no language called ‘Bengali’ that nearly covers all these variants. ‘Bengali’ denotes ethnicity, not linguistic uniformity. So when the Delhi Police uses ‘Bangladeshi language,’ it is a shorthand for the linguistic markers used to profile illegal immigrants from Bangladesh—not a commentary on Bengali as spoken in West Bengal.”
This explanation, however, did little to calm the storm. Many in West Bengal viewed the defense as further proof that the BJP misunderstood—or worse, disrespected—the deep emotional and historical significance of the Bengali language. As The Hindu noted, Bengali is the second most spoken language in India after Hindi, the seventh most spoken in the world, and the language for which an entire nation—Bangladesh—fought and won independence in 1971. The 1952 Language Movement in Dhaka, where around 30 people died in police firing during protests against the imposition of Urdu as Pakistan’s sole national language, is commemorated every February 21 as ‘Bhasha Dibash’ or Language Day. The United Nations later recognized this date as International Mother Tongue Day.
Bengalis in India have their own language day on May 19, marking the 1961 protests in Assam’s Barak Valley, where 11 Bengali speakers died in police firing while resisting the marginalization of their mother tongue. These episodes, along with the legacy of Rabindranath Tagore—Asia’s first Nobel laureate for literature, who wrote in Bengali and penned both the Indian and Bangladeshi national anthems—underscore the pride and passion Bengalis feel for their language.
“Dialects are defined as ‘sub-forms of languages which are, in general, mutually comprehensible’,” The New Indian Express explained, comparing the Sylheti dialect to Cockney English—distinct, sometimes difficult for outsiders to understand, but still part of the same linguistic family. For many, the BJP’s attempt to distinguish “Bangladeshi language” from Bengali was not just technically wrong, but a political misstep that played into the TMC’s narrative of the BJP as outsiders—bahiragata—alien to Bengali culture and sentiment. This narrative has worked for the TMC in previous elections, and the latest controversy may well shape the contours of the 2026 campaign.
Meanwhile, the events in Uttar Pradesh offer a contrasting approach to language politics: one that seeks to revive and celebrate a classical language as a unifying force, rather than a source of division. The state’s investment in Sanskrit education, scholarships, and institutional support is an attempt to reconnect modern India with its ancient roots—an effort that, while not without its critics, is framed as inclusive and forward-looking.
Both stories, in their own way, highlight the enduring power of language in India—not just as a means of communication, but as a marker of identity, pride, and belonging. Whether through the revival of Sanskrit or the defense of Bengali, the week’s events remind us that words matter. Sometimes, a slip of the pen can reverberate far beyond the page, stirring passions and shaping politics in ways no one could have predicted.
In a country as linguistically diverse as India, the stakes of getting language right—or wrong—are never small. The lessons from Uttar Pradesh and New Delhi serve as a timely reminder: language is more than grammar and vocabulary. It is, quite literally, the soul of a civilization.
