by Muhammad Mohsin Iqbal
Great nations take pride in their civilization, history, and language, and they never detach these elements from their personal existence or collective identity. These attributes are not merely cultural ornaments; they are the spiritual foundations upon which a nation’s character rests. Around the world, especially in diplomatic circles, English has undoubtedly become a convenient medium of communication. It allows people of different regions to converse on equal footing. Yet, even within such environments, there are leaders, officials, and dignitaries who, despite having full command over English, choose to speak in their national languages. They do so without hesitation, without embarrassment, and often with visible dignity. Their confidence springs from a deep respect for their own heritage.
Unfortunately, our condition stands in stark contrast. We live in a society where Urdu is effortlessly understood and comfortably spoken, yet many among us take pride not in fluency of thought but in fluency of English. A strange standard of superiority has taken root—where speaking English is seen as a marker of intellect and status, while speaking Urdu is sometimes treated as a sign of deficiency. In gatherings, in workplaces, and particularly in elite social circles, one notices that even those who think naturally in Urdu consciously switch to English to appear distinguished. This behavior has given rise to an awkward hybrid known popularly as “Gulabi Urdu,” in which English words are sprinkled unnecessarily, as if plain Urdu were inadequate for dignified expression.
During my years in journalism, I was fortunate to work with teachers and senior colleagues who helped purify my language and refine my expression. Their guidance became a treasure that still accompanies me in every sentence I write. I vividly recall an early lesson from my Chief Editor Mujeeb-ur-Rehman Shami, who once reviewed a piece of mine containing the word “Mizbah Khanna” (Slaughterhouse). He looked at it attentively and said, “You have added ‘Khana’ unnecessarily. The word is complete even without it.” It was a small correction, yet its impact was lasting. It taught me that precision in language is not achieved through excess but through clarity. That one moment remains etched in my memory.
On another occasion, I witnessed a gentle but profound lesson from most respected teacher Irfan Siddiqui. Someone at an event used the term “Body language” while speaking in Urdu. Mr. Siddiqui smiled and said that he could not understand why we insert English terms when perfectly expressive Urdu equivalents exist. A journalist present asked him what Urdu word could be used instead. With his characteristic grace, he replied, “You may use the term “Bad’an Boli” for that.” From that day onward, I began employing “Bad’an Boli” whenever needed, and it felt as though I had reconnected with a forgotten part of the language.
There were many others in my journalistic journey—Qudratullah Chaudhry, Abdullah Tariq Suhail, Athar Masud, Tauseef Ahmed Khan, Tahir Majeed, Naveed Chaudhry, Imran Mir, Naeem Iqbal, Chaudhry Khadim Hussain, Esar Rana, Naeem Mustafa, Najam Wali Khan, Zahid Rafique, Akhtar Hayat, Allama Saeed Azhar, and several more—whose companionship enriched my Urdu. They corrected my expressions, refined my usage, and strengthened my connection with the language. Over ten years, I learned from them not only words but attitudes, not only grammar but respect for the elegance and depth of Urdu.
Today, however, the culture of learning and teaching is gradually fading. Senior writers and journalists who nurtured newcomers with patience and affection are diminishing in number. The new generation, equipped with screens, shortcuts, and the influence of globalized media, tends to rely more on English expressions even while thinking in Urdu. The assault of foreign words is slowly diluting the originality of our language. The erosion is subtle but real, and if not addressed, it may eventually alter the very character of our linguistic identity.
Yet all is not lost. Languages survive not through force but through love, usage, and conscious preservation. Urdu has within it a beauty, rhythm, and expressive power that needs no foreign ornament to stand tall. It is a language that carries centuries of poetry, scholarship, and cultural elegance. It is a language that binds our collective memory. But for it to endure in its true essence, we must revive the habits of careful expression, of learning from elders, and of resisting unnecessary linguistic invasions.
We must not be apologetic when speaking Urdu. We must let it flow with the same confidence with which other nations speak their own languages. The world respects those who respect themselves. When we carry Urdu with dignity, it enhances our stature rather than limiting it. Let us remember that languages are not mere tools of communication—they are vessels of identity. If we allow Urdu to weaken, we weaken a part of ourselves.
The responsibility lies with each of us to nurture the language that has nurtured us. Let us speak it with pride, write it with care, and guard it from being overshadowed by borrowed expressions. Preservation begins with small choices—choosing Urdu where it belongs, refining its purity, and valuing the legacy carried in every word. In protecting our language, we are not protecting a relic; we are protecting a living spirit that shapes our national soul.
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