When Words Disappear

The language of our grandparents may not reach our grandchildren.

- Muskan Shafi Malik

At home, I often feel like an orphan of my own language.

I grew up hearing Kashmiri in its rawest, most beautiful form, from lullabies that my grandmother hummed on cold winter nights to the haunting stories my grandfather told of witches named Rantas and brave men like Sumpa Halwan.

Those words once held magic. They shaped my childhood, wrapped me in warmth, and connected me to something bigger than myself.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped speaking. And now | wonder: Did I stop, or was I made to forget?

Today, when I speak to children, especially the youngest, those of Gen Alpha, I hear a strange mix.

English, Urdu, and Kashmiri all tumble out at once, with Urdu leading the way. There's no single rhythm. The mother tongue, it seems, has become the least spoken in the house. It's fading, not in silence, but in substitution.

Language should be part of Kashmir's quintessential beauty. It should be a living thing. Instead, it's dying.

Even though Kashmiri is the mother tongue of more than seven million people, UNESCO now classifies it as a language in danger.

Look around: in our schools, workplaces, streets, and even homes, communication happens in Urdu or English. It is as if Kashmiri has been boxed away, brought out only for drama performances or cultural functions.

It wasn't always this way.