Urdu beyond stereotypes: Rakshanda Jalil on identity and politics of language

In contemporary India, Urdu is often narrowly cast as the language of a single religion or community. But author and historian Rakshanda Jalil challenges this reductionist view with her new book Whose Urdu Is It Anyway?, an anthology of Urdu stories written by non-Muslim writers. In this in-depth conversation with The Federal’s Nilanjan Mukhopadhyay in Off the Beaten Track, Jalil unpacks the politics of language, social media-fuelled stereotypes, and the true literary depth of Urdu.

You begin the book with a provocative question: Is Urdu the language of Indian Muslims? What’s your response to that claim?

It absolutely isn’t. This can’t be said enough, even though many have tried. That’s why I felt empirical evidence was needed. I put together a collection of stories by 16 writers who don’t happen to be Muslim. Frankly, I belong to a generation uncomfortable with publicly labelling people as Muslim or non-Muslim. I’d have preferred to just say “Urdu writers". But today, we need to make such statements bluntly, almost forcibly. That’s why I used the word “non-Muslim” in the subtitle - it wasn’t easy, but it was necessary.

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We’re living in an age where stereotypes carry more weight than facts. Misconceptions - often spread through WhatsApp forwards - gain traction. Urdu has long been wrongly equated with Islam and Hindi with Hinduism. What was once fringe is now mainstream, not just in language but across issues like nationalism and gender. Everything - even flowers, colours, and clothes - has been assigned religious meaning. Urdu has been a victim of this juggernaut of misinformation.

You mention that a story from the book was excerpted online and received extreme reactions. What did those responses reveal about the state of public discourse?

Scroll published an extract of Kanhaiyalal Kapoor’s story Maine Apna Bharatiyakaran Kar Liya Hai, originally written in the 1950s as a gentle satire on nationalism and nativism. But in today’s India, it takes on a sharper, almost dangerous edge. The comments on that post - 200 or more - revealed that hardly anyone had read the story. The link was right there. But people reacted purely on impulse, assuming their nationalism was under attack.

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This kind of knee-jerk outrage is common now. The story was critiquing the artificiality of certain ideas, not mocking the nation. Yet, there was no effort to understand its intent. On platforms like Twitter, it’s worse - I’ve regularly received comments like “Go to Pakistan” for simply promoting Urdu. But Urdu is an Indian language. Why should celebrating it offend anyone?

Do you see similar stereotyping within the Muslim community, such as the belief that Hindi belongs to Hindus?

There’s no widespread aversion to Hindi among Muslims. I recall visiting eastern Uttar Pradesh and encountering someone quoting the Hadith - Islamic teachings - from a Hindi-printed book. It struck me that even sacred texts were now being read in Hindi, which says a lot about language shifts.

That said, there are Muslims who do react possessively about Urdu, seeing it as their exclusive cultural legacy. On the same Facebook post, several Muslim commenters accused me of giving away “their” language. This defensiveness is also a result of deep-seated identity politics. But Urdu was never exclusive. It had a pan-Indian presence - North and South, East and West. Dakkani poets, for example, made massive contributions to Urdu.

There’s a romanticised idea of Urdu as the language of love and poetry. Do you see that as another form of reductionism?

Absolutely. Reducing Urdu to just a “sweet language of romance” is akin to how beautiful women are often not taken seriously. It’s a disservice. Yes, Urdu has produced stunning love poetry, but that’s not all it is.

Urdu has immense political muscle. It has addressed revolution, caste, class, patriarchy, and all forms of injustice. The chant Inquilab Zindabad came from Hasrat Mohani, an Urdu poet. Urdu prose and fiction have held mirrors to society, tackling tough realities. To bind it only to ghazals and sher-o-shayari is deeply unfair.

Urdu’s reach across India was historically vast. Yet, in places like West Bengal or Kerala, Muslims are deeply rooted in regional languages. How do you see this diversity within Muslim linguistic identity?

Bengali Muslims are rightfully proud of their language. So are Malayali-speaking Muslims in Kerala or Kashmiri-speaking Muslims in J&K. Expecting every Muslim to know Urdu is not just unrealistic - it’s offensive.

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I’ve seen this in corporate settings too. At office farewells, if there’s a Muslim present, someone will invariably ask them to recite a sher. The assumption is that all Muslims are versed in Urdu poetry. This may seem benign but is deeply problematic.

Why has Urdu prose not enjoyed the same visibility as Urdu poetry?

Poetry has inherent advantages - it’s easier to memorise, quote, and share. But another reason is the decline in reading Urdu in its script. With fewer people reading it, prose doesn’t travel as far, despite podcasts and audiobooks.

Thankfully, Hindi publishers are making Urdu literature accessible in Devanagari. But that’s just a fraction. There’s a vast khazana of Urdu literature that’s still hidden. That’s why translations and anthologies like mine are crucial - they’re entry points that whet the reader’s appetite and encourage deeper exploration.

Cinema has played a key role in sustaining Urdu’s mass presence. How do you assess the evolution of Urdu in Hindi cinema?

Hindi cinema kept Urdu alive when few other platforms did. Lyricists like Kaifi Azmi, Sahir Ludhianvi, and later Gulzar and Javed Akhtar brought Urdu into the public imagination. Film songs carried refined Urdu into every corner of India - from chai shops to homes.

These lyricists also engaged with political themes. When Nehru called for “temples of modern India", it was the film lyricist who translated that vision into accessible songs like Chhodo Kal Ki Baatein. There was nation-building in those lyrics.

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More recently, festivals and reading programmes have played a similar role. For 20 years, I’ve run Hindustani Awaaz to curate such spaces. Today, initiatives like The Wire’s Urdu festival are making Urdu visible again, not just in Delhi but in cities across India. Programmes like Dastangoi are reviving the oral storytelling tradition - even in regions where Urdu isn’t widely spoken. Words have a magic. They don’t need props.

Let’s talk about the stories in the book. How did you choose them, and what themes do they reflect?

I avoided canonical writers like Premchand and Manto - not because they aren’t brilliant, but because they’re already widely anthologised. I wanted to showcase lesser-known writers and stories that aren’t tied to religion.

Take Mahendra Nath’s A Cup of Tea. A couple lives happily for 12 years without being married. Society pressures them to formalise it. After the wedding, the woman says, “Now it’s your turn to bring me tea in bed.” It’s simple, tender, and entirely secular.

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Or Rajinder Singh Bedi’s story of a man who starts as a voyeur but becomes a caregiver to a mother with a specially-abled child. It’s about empathy, not identity. Another by Deepak Budki, a Kashmiri Pandit, tells of vandalised houses left behind in the valley - a haunting narrative about memory and loss.

Gulzar’s story captures communal tensions during overlapping festivals like Ram Leela and Muharram. Reenu Behl’s story addresses female foeticide in Punjab. These are contemporary, urgent issues - and they’re all written in Urdu.

Did you consciously avoid stories that claim greater suffering during Partition?

Yes. I’m not interested in competitive victimhood. Many Partition-era stories focus on one group’s suffering over another’s. I prefer narratives that acknowledge pain but don’t weaponise it. Literature should offer a balanced, humane lens.

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There’s also a story by Surendra Prakash that picks up where Premchand’s Godaan left off, showing that little has changed for the Indian farmer. Others delve into modern anxieties - like Devendra Bisar’s piece set in a mortuary or stories reflecting on decaying urban life.

You’ve made a compelling case for why Urdu cannot be owned by any one group. What do you hope this book achieves?

I hope it disrupts the idea that Urdu belongs to Muslims, or that it’s only about poetry. As long as we yoke Urdu to one religion or community, we fail to understand its richness. These stories show that Urdu is a people’s language - across caste, creed, and geography.

Reading these short stories, I believe, can change the way we think about language, culture, and identity. That’s the ultimate hope.

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