Languages have no borders. They travel where armies cannot, survive empires that imagined themselves eternal and preserve memories long after kingdoms have dissolved into history. They carry the accumulated wisdom of civilisations, absorbing influences across nations, refusing to recognise the political boundaries that later generations draw on maps.Yet, paradoxically, few things have become as fiercely contested in the modern world as language. What ought to be a bridge between peoples is repeatedly morphed into a wall separating them.In South Asia, languages that once coexisted in a shared civilisational landscape now arrive burdened with political identities.Sanskrit is often reduced to a Hindu language, Urdu to a Muslim one, Hindi to an emblem of nationalism, while English continues to bear the weight of colonial past. Languages that once wafted freely across kingdoms are now expected to carry passports.It is this paradox that triggered a conversation with Shahid Rasheed, associate professor of sociology at Forman Christian College, Lahore, who has spearheaded the reintroduction of Sanskrit to a Pakistani university classroom for the first time since Partition.The initiative has attracted attention because it appears, at first instance, to unsettle established notions of Pakistan’s very identity. But as our conversation for The Wire unfolded, it became clear that Sanskrit was merely the point of departure. The real subject was the relationship between language, civilisation and the modern nation-state.For Rasheed, the question is larger than Pakistan and larger even than South Asia. It concerns the tendency of human societies to convert cultural inheritances into exclusive identities.“Languages are vehicles for expressing human thoughts, emotions, and experience,” he said. “Classical languages such as Arabic, Persian, Greek, Hebrew and Sanskrit have produced some of humanity’s richest literary and intellectual traditions. They are like great rivers or mountain ranges – part of the shared heritage of mankind.”“The problem,” he scorned, “begins when languages are transformed into rigid social and political identities.”That distinction between language as inheritance and language as identity runs through his entire argument.Human beings, he said, possess an almost instinctive tendency to create identities. There is nothing unusual about loving one’s mother tongue or taking pride in one’s linguistic heritage. The difficulty begins when affection becomes exclusion.“It is natural to love one’s own language,” he reflected, “but loving my language does not require me to dislike another. Appreciating the beauty of my homeland does not mean denying the beauty of other lands. Identity becomes problematic only when cultural symbols are excessively politicised and turned into instruments of exclusion.”On dealing with criticism over a languageIt is a deceptively simple proposition, yet one that challenges much of South Asia’s linguistic politics. Over the past century, languages have increasingly been recruited into projects of nation-building. They have become symbols of sovereignty, markers of communal belonging and, at times, tools of political mobilisation.Rasheed’s intervention questions that very premise. Languages, he insists, belong first to civilisation and only incidentally to states.This perspective explains why he rejects the assumption that Pakistan’s cultural history begins exclusively with Islam. Such an interpretation, he believes, not only impoverishes Pakistan’s understanding of itself but also misunderstands the universal character of religious and linguistic traditions.“Islam is part of Pakistan’s heritage,” he acknowledged, “but it is also an important element in the history and culture of the entire South Asia.”“Islam is a universal religious tradition that addresses the deepest questions of human existence and has enriched civilisations across the world, including Indian civilisation,” he argues. “It is modern nationalism, not religion that has often reduced universal religious and cultural traditions into exclusive national possessions.”The distinction is significant. Rasheed is not arguing for the dilution of Islamic identity. Rather, he challenges the assumption that acknowledging older civilisational inheritances somehow diminishes Islam’s place in Pakistan.On the contrary, he believes the universal spirit of Islam encourages intellectual engagement with diverse traditions rather than retreat from them.That conviction was tested soon after Sanskrit returned to the classroom.The overwhelming response within Pakistan, he recalled, was one of curiosity and encouragement. Yet criticism also emerged, though not always from the quarters one might expect.“Some critics argued that Muslims should study Arabic rather than Sanskrit,” he told The Wire. “My response is that while Arabic occupies a unique place in Islam because it is the language of the Qur’an, neither the Qur’an nor the Prophet of Islam divides languages into ‘Islamic’ and ‘un-Islamic’. Every linguistic tradition contains wisdom and signs of God.”The criticism did not stop at Pakistan’s borders.“Interestingly,” he continued, “I also received criticism from some people in India, who viewed my interest in Sanskrit as a political project or even suggested that Pakistan was somehow ‘claiming’ or ‘stealing’ the language.“That reaction surprised me. It reflects how deeply we have internalised the assumptions of the modern nation-states. Our educational systems and media often encourage us to think in terms of exclusive ownership. I believe we need to move beyond this mindset by engaging seriously with the diverse classical traditions of humanity.”That observation, perhaps, captures the central irony of contemporary South Asia. Two countries that inherited the same civilisational landscape increasingly speak as though history itself were divisible. Languages, religions and even historical figures are frequently pressed into service as evidence of competing national narratives. What once belonged to a shared intellectual world is now subjected to the logic of exclusive ownership.The fate of Sanskrit in Pakistan illustrates this transformation with unusual clarity.After Partition, Pakistan inherited thousands of Sanskrit manuscripts housed in libraries and archives. Yet, the scholars capable of reading and teaching the language had largely migrated across the newly drawn border. Without teachers, departments or institutions, manuscript collections inevitably slipped into neglect.“After Partition,” Rasheed explained, “Pakistan lost most of the scholars who could read and teach Sanskrit. Without trained specialists, the manuscript collections naturally remained neglected.”He does not interpret that neglect simply as an administrative lapse. It also reflected the emergence of a political imagination that increasingly viewed Sanskrit as belonging elsewhere – as though a language spoken and studied across large parts of the subcontinent for centuries had suddenly become foreign because national borders had changed.‘Don’t expect Sanskrit to become a major choice’To recover Sanskrit, therefore, is not to revive a forgotten relic. It is to reopen a conversation with a part of the region’s own intellectual past – a conversation interrupted not by the passage of time but by the arrival of modern political certainties.Yet, Rasheed is under no illusion that Sanskrit is poised for a dramatic revival in Pakistan. To imagine classrooms overflowing with students eager to converse in Panini’s language would, he says with characteristic restraint, be to misunderstand both the purpose of classical languages and the nature of scholarship itself.“I do not expect Sanskrit to become a major choice of students here, nor do I think that should be the goal,” he said. “Like Latin or Classical Greek in many parts of the world, its value lies primarily in scholarship. I have already seen interest among students of sociology, anthropology, history, philosophy and comparative literature. Many may take only an introductory course, while a smaller number will pursue advanced study. That is perfectly natural.”Its significance, he argues, is therefore “not numerical but intellectual and symbolic.”“Learning a classical language is much like travelling to another country. One encounters unfamiliar worlds, learns different ways of thinking and, in the process, discovers the limitations of one’s own assumptions,” he said. “It broadens one’s intellectual horizons and cultivates humility and understanding.”That distinction between classical and living languages surfaced repeatedly during our conversation. Too often, public debate sets them against one another, as though support for one necessarily comes at the expense of the other.Rasheed rejects the premise itself.“Classical languages and living languages serve different purposes, and they should not be placed in competition with one another. Classical languages, such as Sanskrit, Classical Arabic, Greek, Latin and Hebrew, are indispensable for understanding the intellectual and spiritual foundations of civilisations. Although they are no longer spoken in everyday life, they preserve some of humanity’s greatest works of philosophy, literature, religion and art.”The example he offered was telling. “One studies Classical Greek to read Socrates, Plato and Homer in the original.” Translation, however accomplished, can only approximate the cadence, conceptual depth and subtlety of an original text.“Even the finest translation cannot fully convey the nuances, rhythms and conceptual richness of an original text. There will always be good reasons to study important works in their original language.”But scholarship, he insists, should never become compulsion.“This does not mean that everyone should study classical languages. They are highly specialised disciplines. However, we need scholars trained in these languages so that humanity’s great wisdom traditions remain accessible. At the same time, I would oppose making classical languages compulsory. They should be pursued by those with genuine scholarly interest.”The danger, in his view, begins when governments or ideological movements seek to revive classical languages not to enlarge human understanding but to reinforce narrow identities.“A language that could have broadened our intellectual horizons turns into an instrument of narrow-mindedness. This is a tragedy.”That warning extends beyond Sanskrit. It applies equally to every language enlisted in the service of politics.The missing lessonThe history of the subcontinent offers sobering reminders. The Bengali Language Movement, which ultimately culminated in the birth of Bangladesh, demonstrated that language is never merely a means of communication. It is inseparable from dignity, memory and political power.For contemporary India and Pakistan, Rasheed believes, the lesson remains urgent.“The principal lesson is that states should not impose a single central language at the expense of regional languages. Every regional language carries its own history, literature and worldview, and therefore deserves recognition and respect.”Yet, he immediately qualifies the point.“This principle applies in both directions. Sometimes advocates of regional languages develop hostility towards widely spoken national languages such as Urdu or Hindi. That, too, is another form of the same problem.”The objective, therefore, is not to replace one linguistic hierarchy with another.“Hatred of any language, whether Sanskrit, Hindi, Urdu or English, is equally unhelpful. Languages should be seen as cultural resources that enrich humanity rather than as competing political camps.”This balanced approach perhaps distinguishes Rasheed’s argument from many contemporary debates. He does not romanticise regional languages at the expense of national ones, nor does he defend national languages by diminishing local traditions. A mature society, he suggests, should be capable of embracing both.“A country need not restrict itself to a single national language. Several regional languages can enjoy national recognition while one language may also function as a practical lingua franca for communication across different regions. Unity and diversity are not contradictory; they can strengthen one another.”His own linguistic affections illustrate the point.“Personally, I love Punjabi, Urdu, English, Sanskrit and Arabic simultaneously. I reject the idea that appreciating one language requires hostility towards another. We do not need linguistic ghettos where supporting Punjabi means opposing Urdu or loving Arabic means rejecting Sanskrit.”If there was one refrain that echoed throughout the conversation, it was this: languages themselves are innocent.“The problem does not lie in languages themselves; it lies in imposing one language at the expense of others. Every language represents a unique way of understanding the world.”The remedy, he believes, lies in education.“We should cultivate in our children respect not only for the languages of our own country but for the linguistic heritage of all humanity. Unfortunately, state-sponsored education often reinforces narrow linguistic identities instead of fostering intellectual openness.”It is here that the conversation turned unexpectedly towards artificial intelligence.With machine translation becoming increasingly sophisticated, some have questioned whether learning classical languages will soon become unnecessary. Rasheed disagrees.“Learning a language is not merely a means of accessing information. It is an intellectual discipline that trains the mind. The very process of learning a language and its mode of expression strengthens our capacity for reflection and expands our imagination.”Artificial intelligence, he believes, should remain a tool rather than a substitute.“These tools must be used wisely, and we can use them for learning more languages rather than surrender to them and stop learning.”Nor does he believe that governments can manufacture affection for a language by force.“Genuine affection for a language cannot be manufactured through government policy. When a language is promoted by marginalising other languages, the policy often becomes counterproductive and generates resentment. The role of the state should not be to create linguistic hierarchies but to cultivate an environment in which multiple languages can flourish according to their different social, cultural and scholarly functions.”Perhaps the most philosophical moment in our conversation came when Rasheed reflected upon the figures who inhabit South Asia’s shared intellectual memory – Panini, Kabir, Guru Nanak, Amir Khusrau and Mahatma Gandhi.Would they recognise the rigid linguistic boundaries that dominate contemporary politics?He doubts it.“I believe these figures would find many of our modern linguistic boundaries surprisingly artificial. They lived in worlds where ideas, languages and cultures constantly interacted. They borrowed freely from different linguistic traditions and were far less concerned with rigid labels than we are today.”It is an observation that lingers long after the interview ends.The reintroduction of Sanskrit to a classroom in Lahore will not alter the political landscape of South Asia. It is unlikely to produce thousands of Sanskrit scholars or transform public discourse overnight. Yet its significance lies elsewhere. It invites a region, still haunted by the partitions of territory and memory, to ask whether languages truly belong to nations at all – or whether they belong, as Rasheed insists, to the larger civilisation that produced them.In an age when politics increasingly demands exclusive ownership of history, perhaps the most radical proposition is also the simplest: that no language is diminished by being shared, and no civilisation is impoverished by remembering the fullness of its own past.Farooq Shah is a veteran journalist from Kashmir.