The Transfer

Aarav Mishra's life got totally flipped when his dad, who works for the government, got the news about moving to a new place. From their roots in Lucknow, they were uprooted and relocated to Bengaluru, the IT hub of India, where everything's a whirlwind of tech parks, startup hype, and a whole new language.

“I’m clueless about Kannada, Dad,” Aarav muttered, looking at the Google search results. The alphabet looked like art. Looks great, but it's super confusing.

You’ll learn.” His dad put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, kiddo. You’ll get the hang of it.” Same as I did. India, that's where you're from. No matter what language you're using.

But twelve-year-old Aarav wasn’t convinced.

New School, New Silence

The bell rang. Children flooded the corridor. Aarav was sitting straight in the third row of Class 7B at Sarvodaya Vidyalaya. The teacher, Ms. Revathi, introduced him quickly - “New student." 

From Uttar Pradesh. — and she went back to her Kannada class.

Aarav tried to follow. The board was packed with science stuff...all in local lingo. He got the hang of those word pieces - "gati," "vega," "bal" but the whole grammar thing was still a mystery to him. He was bright. He was really into science, but not in that way.

During break time, he took off his lunch wrap. nobody got close, those other guys were all chatting away, their talk was quick and kinda hard to understand

 He got some glances. Some curious. Others judgmental.

“Why doesn’t he speak Kannada?”

“He’s one of those Hindi boys.”

“Always acting superior.”

Aarav’s eyes stung.

Whispered Words and Broken Walls

Over the weeks, one girl noticed his silence. Ayesha Pillai, a Tamilian whose family had lived in Karnataka for generations. She wasn’t fluent in Hindi, but her English was strong.

“Want to sit with me?” she asked one afternoon.

Aarav nodded.

Gradually, their friendship became his lifeline. Ayesha helped translate lessons. She taught him small Kannada phrases. “Naanu Kannada kalithukolluttiddene,” he practiced. I am learning Kannada.

She laughed. “Your accent is funny.”

He blushed. “So is yours in Hindi.”

They were different. Yet alike.

A Dangerous Game Begins

Then, the election season arrived. Suddenly, loudspeakers in the city blared slogans. Posters dotted the streets. A newly formed regional party, Bhasha Raksha Sena, launched its campaign with fiery speeches.

“No more Hindi imposition!”

“Kannada is not just a language ... it’s our identity!”

“Reject outsiders who disrespect our culture!”

WhatsApp groups boiled with anger. TV debates turned toxic. Social media exploded with hashtags:

#StopHindiImposition

#OneStateOneLanguage

One evening, Aarav’s father came home with bruises. “Someone threw stones at the car. Saw the ‘UP’ number plate,” he muttered.

Aarav watched the news in disbelief. A national leader from a North Indian party had called for making Hindi “the national language” in schools.

“Why would they say that?” Aarav asked.

His father sighed. “To win votes. They light fires where there were none and leave us to burn.”

The Fire Spreads

Tensions reached the classroom. In the middle of a Kannada lesson, a boy named Ravi shouted, “Why should we learn Hindi? Why is he even here?” pointing at Aarav.

Ms. Revathi hesitated. “Ravi, sit down.

“No! My uncle said we’re losing jobs to outsiders. They don’t learn our language. They just come and act like kings!”

Aarav froze.

Ayesha stood up. “Aarav is trying. He respects our language.”

But no one listened.

That day, Aarav broke down in the washroom. He wasn’t crying just because they hated his words. He cried because they didn’t want to hear his heart.

The Language Project

Maybe it's some kind of cosmic joke, but the school's throwing a big event to bring different states together. Everyone had to show off a little story or act in their language, with English words underneath.

Ms. Let us celebrate the diversity of our nation. No fighting. No politics. “Just saying”.

Aarav got home all puzzled. “What’s the next move?”

“Be honest,” his dad said. “Show them how you feel.”

And so, Aarav prepared a poem.

The Day of Voices

On the event day, the auditorium filled with whispers and expectation. Parents. Teachers and even local politicians attended.

First came a boy from Coorg, singing a folk song in Kodava Takk. Then a girl from Assam recited a lullaby in Assamese.

Then, Aarav stepped up.

He looked out at the sea of faces ...some supportive and many sceptical.

He began in Hindi.

“In a land where the Ganga flows

And also the Kaveri sings,

I speak in the words of my home

But I dream in every tongue that rings.”

“My voice is not a threat to yours.

It is a thread.

Stitching together

A patchwork called India.”

“Don’t turn my tongue into a wall.

Don’t let the parties make us pawns.

Because a divided India is not Bharat.

And a single language never made a home.”

The audience was still. Even the politician in the front row looked uncomfortable.

Aarav bowed. Applause erupted.

Repercussions and Revelations

That night, Aarav’s performance went viral.

Clips flooded Instagram and YouTube:

“12-Year-Old Delivers Blistering Poem Against Language Politics”

“Child Calls for Unity Amid Rising Linguistic Tensions”

Some celebrated him. Others called it “scripted propaganda.” Hate comments poured in:

“Send him back.”

“He’s pushing Hindi supremacy.”

“Another pawn of Delhi.”

But in the midst of chaos, something beautiful happened. Students from all over India began posting videos in Marathi, Malayalam, Bhojpuri and Tamil, saying the same thing:

“I speak my mother tongue. But India speaks through us all.”

One India, Many Tongues

Back in school, Ravi approached Aarav during lunch.

“I saw your video,” he mumbled. “Didn’t know you felt that way.”

Aarav shrugged. “It’s not just me. We all feel unheard sometimes.”

Ravi offered a samosa. “Teach me something in Hindi?”

Aarav smiled. “Sure. ‘Dost.’ It means friend.”

Ayesha watched them from afar, eyes wet. She pulled out her phone and typed:

“Maybe children will teach what adults have forgotten.”

The Message

India has never spoken with one voice. And that’s her glory ... not her weakness.

From the sacred chants of Sanskrit to the street poetry of Punjabi, from the softness of Malayalam to the fire of Assamese. Each language is a heartbeat.

Political parties rise and fall. They shout for votes, provoke for mileage, and build narratives of fear. But the real India, the one that eats together, studies together, falls in love across states, and sings the same cricket chant in a hundred accents that India cannot be broken by a language.

To the youth of this nation, Aarav’s voice remains a whisper in the storm:

“Don't fall for their traps.

They want us divided, confused, and angry.

But we are the generation that knows better.

India is One.

And a language can never divide what blood has bound together.”