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By:

Anandajit Goswami

15 April 2026 at 11:15:27 pm

Lessons from the Mountains

How much of the Himalayas must melt before we rediscover our humanity? I have carried this question for some time. Perhaps it came from the mountains, the rain and the silence. The Himalayas feed rivers, sustain communities and carry memories of centuries. Yet their changing landscape reminds us that nature has limits. We discuss melting glaciers, disappearing water sources and climate change, but too often these remain statistics. What happens when they become part of daily life? I imagine...

Lessons from the Mountains

How much of the Himalayas must melt before we rediscover our humanity? I have carried this question for some time. Perhaps it came from the mountains, the rain and the silence. The Himalayas feed rivers, sustain communities and carry memories of centuries. Yet their changing landscape reminds us that nature has limits. We discuss melting glaciers, disappearing water sources and climate change, but too often these remain statistics. What happens when they become part of daily life? I imagine sitting on those mountains on a rain soaked afternoon, watching clouds descend and the earth being washed clean. In that silence, love arrives. Not the dramatic love we celebrate, but a quieter love that simply sits beside us. And then I ask myself: have I learned to love another human being, or only the idea of humanity? Humanity as an idea is easy to love. The person before us is different. He has fears, weaknesses, anger and wounds. To love a human being requires patience. It requires us to stay. The question stays with me. We often imagine spirituality as a journey away from people, towards mountains, forests and solitude. But perhaps the journey into the mountains is only half the journey. The other half is returning to people. Perhaps we enter the forest not to escape humanity, but to understand it better, and then return to everyday life with a greater ability to see those around us. If spirituality creates distance between us and others, what have we gained? True spirituality should make that distance smaller. It should make us more compassionate, not more detached. We can speak to someone thousands of kilometres away in seconds, but may not know what the person next to us is going through. How much of Nepal do we really reach when we admire its mountains? Perhaps Nepal represents every distant place we admire without truly knowing, every landscape we photograph without understanding, and every suffering we discuss without allowing it to change us. We can cross mountains and borders without ever truly arriving. A journey is complete only when it brings us closer to another human being. Perhaps that is where a spiritual journey becomes meaningful. And then there is violence. A missile can cross the sky in seconds. A bullet can end a life in an instant. But fear travels much faster. It moves from one heart to another and changes the way people see each other. Grief becomes anger, anger becomes hatred, and hatred makes it easier to see another human being as an enemy rather than as a person. At such moments, our philosophies disappear. The mask falls. I imagine looking beside me. I expect to find a gun. But there is no gun. There is a guitar. I do not know who placed it there. Perhaps it was love. Perhaps it was music or another human being reminding me that there is a choice. The gun represents hatred, revenge, intolerance and the desire to silence another voice. The guitar represents conversation, empathy and creativity when the world is full of noise. We can decide what we add to the world. We can add to anger, or we can reduce it. We can answer hatred with hatred, or begin a conversation. Every choice shapes society. Perhaps that is where being human really begins. The Himalayas may continue to melt. Rivers may shrink. Fear may return, and guns may continue to speak. But we still have a choice. We can add another weapon to the noise, or pick up the guitar. We can continue speaking the language of fear, or learn the language of compassion. Perhaps spirituality is making that choice again and again. Humanity begins with the person standing next to us. It could be a stranger, neighbour, colleague, or someone we strongly disagree with. The moment we stop seeing that person as another human being and begin to see something of ourselves in him, the distance becomes smaller. The mountains may teach us silence. Rivers may teach us movement. Rain may teach us renewal. But their greatest lesson is simple: we are all standing on the same fragile earth. The world will continue to change, whether we are ready or not. The real question is what we will become while it changes. Where we expected a gun, perhaps there can be a guitar. Perhaps we should begin there. We may not control the future, but we can influence the human atmosphere we leave behind. (The writer is an author and musician. Views personal.)

Lingua Pragmatica

Correspondent
Mar 19, 2025
3 min read

Updated: Mar 20, 2025

As Southern leaders like M.K. Stalin rage against Hindi, Andhra Pradesh’s Chief Minister Chandrababu Naidu offers a model of pragmatism over parochialism.

Chandrababu Naidu
Andhra Pradesh

Amid the cacophony of opposition in southern states to Hindi, Andhra Pradesh CM N. Chandrababu Naidu has taken a markedly pragmatic stance by remarking recently in the state Assembly that there was no harm in learning other languages. Hindi, Naidu noted, was useful for communication across India, particularly in political and commercial hubs like Delhi. His remarks, though avoiding explicit mention of the NEP, were widely seen as an endorsement of multilingualism and a rebuke to the linguistic chauvinism that has gripped parts of the South.


Few issues in India stir political passions quite like language. It is not merely a means of communication but a marker of identity, a relic of colonial resistance, and a source of political mobilization. In the southern states, where anti-Hindi sentiment has long been entrenched, the National Education Policy (NEP) 2020 and its three-language formula have reignited old tensions. No state embodies this defiance more than Tamil Nadu, where the ruling Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) led by M.K. Stalin has framed the policy as an assault on its linguistic autonomy.


Naidu’s words, welcomed by his ally and Deputy Chief Minister Pawan Kalyan, mark a sharp contrast with the DMK’s position. Tamil Nadu’s hostility towards Hindi dates back to the 1930s, when C. Rajagopalachari’s attempt to introduce it in schools met with fierce resistance. The anti-Hindi agitations of the 1960s cemented the DMK’s ideological stance, with its first Chief Minister, C.N. Annadurai, famously warning that Hindi imposition could push Tamil Nadu towards secession.


The question, however, is whether this rigid opposition serves Tamil Nadu’s interests. While Stalin, with an eye to the upcoming Tamil Nadu Assembly polls, has been relentlessly portraying Hindi as a threat to his state’s regional identity, Naidu, a partner of the BJP-led Centre, is framing it as a tool for economic mobility. His argument is not that Hindi should replace Telugu or English but that it offers a competitive advantage.


The economic case for multilingualism is compelling. Indians who speak multiple languages tend to have better job prospects, higher earnings and greater geographic mobility. Andhra Pradesh’s Telugu-speaking diaspora is a case in point. Telugus make up a significant proportion of Indian-origin professionals in the United States, the Gulf, and Southeast Asia as Naidu pointed out, hinting that this success story was built not on linguistic rigidity but on adaptability.


In a country where inter-state migration is rising and where Hindi remains the most widely spoken language, refusing to learn it amounts to self-imposed isolation. Tamil Nadu’s approach, by contrast, risks limiting its youth. The DMK government has refused to implement the three-language policy, keeping schools strictly bilingual with Tamil and English. Its justification that Hindi is not necessary for global success could be true in a narrow sense but ignores the domestic context. If Tamil filmmakers can dub their movies into Hindi to expand their audience, why should Tamil students be denied access to the language that could open more doors for them within India?


The DMK has accused successive central governments, particularly under the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), of pushing Hindi at the expense of regional languages. Yet, rejecting Hindi outright is an overcorrection. The reality is that Hindi is an important language in India’s economic and political landscape. Naidu’s position, one of accommodation rather than confrontation, offers a middle ground that other Southern leaders would do well to consider.


Some states already recognize this. Karnataka, despite its own history of linguistic pride, has allowed Hindi to be taught as an optional language. Kerala, whose migrants work in Hindi-speaking regions and the Gulf, has been less hostile to Hindi education. Naidu’s model, balancing regional identity with practical necessity, offers a way forward. Languages should be embraced, not politicized. Southern leaders would do well to listen to him.

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