If Sindhi stops being spoken at home today, tomorrow it may survive only in textbooks and ceremonies. The choice lies with the youth—not just to remember Sindhi, but to speak it, live it, and pass it on.
In India, Sindhi has become a passive language—heard but not spoken, understood but not owned.
Many Sindhi parents, with the best intentions, choose not to speak Sindhi with their children. They fear that using the mother tongue might “confuse” the child or slow down their English fluency
Neelam Malkani | Bhopal
There was a time when Sindhi echoed naturally in Sindhi homes—during lunch-table conversations, wedding rituals, lullabies sung by grandmothers, and heated discussions over evening tea. Today that sound has been replaced by Hindi and English. The shift may seem harmless, even practical, but its consequences are far deeper than we realize.
Walk into a typical urban Sindhi household and you will notice a familiar pattern. Grandparents speak in Sindhi. Parents reply in a mix of Sindhi and Hindi. Children respond almost entirely in Hindi or English. Ask a teenager to narrate a simple childhood incident in Sindhi, and you are likely to get an awkward smile or a hesitant refusal: “Samajh aata hai, par bolna nahi aata.”
This hesitation is not accidental—it is cultivated. Many Sindhi parents, with the best intentions, choose not to speak Sindhi with their children. They fear that using the mother tongue might “confuse” the child or slow down their English fluency. As a result, Sindhi becomes a passive language—heard but not spoken, understood but not owned.
Schools reinforce this divide. Sindhi is rarely offered as a subject, and even when it is, it is treated as optional or secondary. A child grows up learning French or Sanskrit but remains illiterate in their own mother tongue. Over time, the language begins to feel unfamiliar, even unnecessary.
Social pressure further deepens the problem. Among the youth, English is seen as the language of intelligence and ambition, Hindi as the language of belonging, and Sindhi—unfairly—as outdated. Speaking Sindhi in public spaces often invites jokes, mockery, or polite discomfort. Slowly, pride gives way to silence.
The real loss, however, is cultural. Sindhi proverbs lose their sharp wisdom when translated. Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai’s poetry cannot be fully felt outside its linguistic rhythm. Folk songs, idioms, and even everyday expressions carry emotions that no substitute language can fully capture. When Sindhi youth stop speaking the language, they also distance themselves from these cultural roots.
Yet, this is not a story without hope.
Revival does not require grand movements—it requires everyday choices. A parent deciding to speak Sindhi at home without apology. A group of youngsters starting a Sindhi podcast or Instagram page. Cultural organizations organizing storytelling sessions, drama workshops, or Sindhi reading circles. Even simple acts—sending voice notes in Sindhi, writing captions in Sindhi script, or singing Sindhi songs—can make a difference.
Most importantly, Sindhi youth must shed the idea that speaking their language makes them less modern. One can be globally competent, professionally successful, and still deeply rooted. Speaking Sindhi is not nostalgia—it is self-respect.
Languages do not die because they are weak; they die because they are neglected. Sindhi has survived centuries of upheaval, migration, and loss. It deserves more than quiet disappearance within its own community.
If Sindhi stops being spoken at home today, tomorrow it may survive only in textbooks and ceremonies. The choice lies with the youth—not just to remember Sindhi, but to speak it, live it, and pass it on.
Read: Sindhi community’s Portrayal in Bollywood
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Neelam Malkani is an educator and writer. She is based in Bhopal
