In the rich network of Indian linguistic heritage, few stories illustrate the perils of cultural forgetting as poignantly as the ongoing saga of Konkani. Drawing from Ganesh N. Devy’s profound critique in After Amnesia: Tradition and Change in Indian Literary Criticism, we can uncover a deliberate process of erasure that threatens the vitality of this vibrant language. Devy’s concept of “amnesia” – a collective loss of memory imposed by colonial and postcolonial forces – resonates deeply here. It frames the systematic sidelining of the Romi (Roman) script in favor of a Devanagari monopoly, a move that not only alienates communities but also stifles Konkani’s natural growth, leading to its gradual affliction.
Unpacking Devy’s Amnesia in a Postcolonial Lens
Devy’s work, published in the early 1990s, diagnoses a profound rupture in Indian intellectual traditions. He argues that colonialism induced a form of amnesia, where indigenous knowledge systems were overshadowed by Western paradigms, creating a disconnect that persists today. This forgetting wasn’t passive; it was engineered through education, policy, and cultural narratives that privileged certain forms over others. In Konkani’s context, this amnesia manifests as an ideological push to “purify” the language by enforcing a single script – Devanagari – at the expense of Romi, which has deep historical roots.
Konkani, spoken by millions along India’s western coast, particularly in Goa, evolved in a crucible of influences: indigenous roots blended with Portuguese colonial legacies. For centuries, under Portuguese rule from the 16th to the mid-20th century, Romi became the script of choice for a significant portion of the population, especially the Catholic community. It captured the essence of everyday life through folk songs, theater, and literature, preserving oral traditions in a accessible, phonetic form. Devy might describe this as a “bhasha” tradition – vernacular, dynamic, and rooted in the people’s lived reality – contrasting with the more formalized, Sanskrit-derived Devanagari.
Yet, post-liberation in 1961, a wave of nationalism reframed Romi as a colonial remnant, unworthy of official status. This mirrors Devy’s observation of how postcolonial India often replaced one hegemony with another, forgetting pluralistic histories in the rush toward unity. The result? A scripted monopoly that echoes the amnesia Devy warns against, where the language’s diversity is sacrificed for a homogenized identity.
The Mechanics of Forgetting: Building a Devanagari Dominance
The attempt to erase Romi’s role isn’t subtle; it’s embedded in institutions and policies. Official language acts in Goa have enshrined Devanagari as the standard for education, government, and literature, relegating Romi to the margins. Imagine a child in a Goan school, fluent in spoken Konkani but struggling with an unfamiliar script – this barrier fosters disengagement, turning potential speakers into passive observers. Devy’s amnesia here is vivid: by forgetting Romi’s contributions, such as its use in early printed works and community journalism, the language loses its bridge to a broader audience.
This monopoly operates through narrative control as well. Proponents of Devanagari often paint it as the “authentic” script, tied to ancient Indian roots, while dismissing Romi as foreign. Such rhetoric ignores Konkani’s hybrid nature, where scripts have coexisted for generations. In Devy’s terms, this is a “betrayal of tradition,” where revival efforts ironically impose new silences. Cultural events and literary awards further this by prioritizing Devanagari works, starving Romi literature of recognition and resources. The outcome is a skewed canon, where voices from certain communities dominate, and others fade into obscurity.
Moreover, this forgetting breeds practical afflictions. Digitization lags for Romi texts, making them harder to access in an increasingly online world. Youth, drawn to global languages like English, see little incentive to engage with a fractured mother tongue. Devy would argue that this sterility – a language cut off from its roots – hampers creativity, turning Konkani from a living entity into a museum piece.
The Human Cost: Alienation and Fragmentation
At its core, the monopoly afflicts Konkani by deepening communal divides. In Goa, where religious and cultural lines often align with script preferences, the Romi-Devanagari split symbolizes broader tensions. Catholic speakers, who have long championed Romi, feel culturally disenfranchised, viewing the dominance as an assault on their heritage. This echoes Devy’s critique of how amnesia fragments societies, pitting groups against each other in a battle for legitimacy.
The language’s health suffers too. With fewer speakers mastering it fully, Konkani risks dilution or even endangerment. Devy’s call for “re-membering” – reconnecting with forgotten traditions – offers a path forward. Embracing dual scripts could revitalize Konkani, allowing it to evolve organically. Imagine a curriculum where children learn in the script that resonates with their home life, fostering pride and proficiency. Literary festivals celebrating both forms could bridge divides, enriching the language’s expressive power.
Reclaiming Memory: A Call for Pluralism
Devy’s After Amnesia isn’t just a diagnosis; it’s a blueprint for recovery. For Konkani, this means challenging the monopoly through advocacy and policy reform. Grassroots movements pushing for Romi’s inclusion in official spheres highlight the resilience of forgotten traditions. By remembering Romi’s role – not as a relic but as a vital thread – Konkani can heal from its afflictions.
In the end, the story of Konkani’s script war is a cautionary tale. It reminds us that languages thrive on diversity, not dominance. As Devy poignantly notes, true tradition lies in continuity, not erasure. For Konkani to flourish, it must shake off this imposed amnesia, embracing all its scripts as equals in a symphony of voices. Only then can it escape the shadows and reclaim its place in India’s linguistic mosaic.
