Linguistics over licences in Maharashtra
The four-day Marathi course, introduced from June 1, has become an unlikely part at five of 25 RTOs, each in a different zone in Mumbai. Every day, 50 to 80 drivers turn up at each centre, racing to clear a language test before their permits are flagged.The urgency stems from an announcement made in April by Pratap Baburao Sarnaik, Maharashtra’s Minister of Transport and chairperson of the Maharashtra State Road Transport Corporation (MSRTC). Sarnaik held a press conference to announce that taxi and auto drivers in Mumbai would need to know how to read, write, and speak Marathi, or risk losing their licences. Transport officials who issue licences without proper checks may also face action. The drive was to start from May 1.His statement sparked a political storm within days, drawing backlash from the Shiv Sena’s Sanjay Nirupam and Samajwadi Party leader Abu Azmi, who objected to the timeline. Sarnaik, who is also from the Shiv Sena, part of the ruling alliance, then pushed the deadline to August 15, giving drivers a longer window to learn to read, write, and speak in Marathi. Mumbai has 88,923 registered taxis and 4,22,990 autos, many of which are driven by people who have migrated to the State in search of work.For some, the classroom is an unfamiliar and uncomfortable space, one that surfaces old anxieties about literacy, age, and what their children might think. Drivers, who have spent years memorising routes, fares, and the unwritten etiquette of Mumbai’s roads, now find themselves holding a pencil again, sounding out words under the gaze of an instructor.For some, the four days pass quickly, and without much fuss; for others, each session is a small, quiet reckoning with a part of their past they had hoped never to revisit.Contrasting viewsIn Kurla, Moolachand Yadav, 53, who has been driving an auto in Mumbai since 1991, says he has no quarrel with the new requirement. “Itne saal se yahi sheher mein gaadi chala rahe hain, ab Marathi seekh lenge toh sawari bhi badhegi (I have been in this city for so many years now. Maybe learning Marathi will help me find more customers),” he says, confident of finishing the course. Yadav has watched the city change around him for over three decades: new flyovers, new fares, new passengers.For him, Marathi is simply the next thing to adapt to, no different from learning a new route or a new app. Some drivers at his stand grumble about the classes cutting into their peak earning hours, but he chooses to see it differently. A few mornings spent learning the language, he reasons, could mean better conversations with Marathi-speaking passengers, and possibly more regular customers in the long run. For Yadav, the classes are less an imposition and more an opportunity, a way to earn the trust of more passengers, and with it, more money.Not everyone shares his enthusiasm. In Govandi, in Mumbai’s eastern suburbs, Rakesh Mandal bristles at the idea of sitting in a classroom. “Mera age 42 hai. Mere bachche school jaate hain. Agar main bhi school jaane lagunga, toh woh sochenge ki unka baap padha-likha nahi hai (I am 42. My children go to school. If I also start going to school, my children will think I cannot read and write),” he says, even though he admits quietly that he can’t.Mandal has driven a taxi in Govandi for 20 years, ferrying his own children to school before starting his shifts. The thought of his children seeing him study daily fills him with dread. The discomfort runs deeper than the test itself. For Mandal, going back to school risks exposing a gap he has spent decades concealing, and no certificate, he feels, is worth that cost.Sarnaik feels that learning the language of the region where a
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