In a time when language is increasingly being used as a proxy for identity, and identity as a tool for exclusion, the Supreme Court’s judgment in Mrs. Varshatai v. State of Maharashtra is a resounding reaffirmation of India’s constitutional commitment to pluralism. Delivered on April 15, 2025, the decision upheld the display of Urdu alongside Marathi on the signboard of a municipal building in Patur, Akola district, rejecting the claim that such usage violated the Maharashtra Local Authorities (Official Languages) Act, 2022.
But this was not just a case about signage or statutory interpretation. It was about what place Urdu—and by extension, linguistic and cultural minorities—continue to hold in the Indian republic. Authored by Justice Sudhanshu Dhulia, who presided over the bench of the Supreme Court along with Justice K. Vinod Chandran, the judgment blends legal clarity with cultural wisdom, and reads as much like a constitutional essay as a judicial opinion. It situates the question of language within the broader context of Indian history, identity, and fraternity—invoking not only statutory text but the spirit of the Constitution, the debates of the Constituent Assembly, and the lived realities of India’s multilingual people.
What emerges is not just a dismissal of an exclusionary petition, but a powerful defence of linguistic harmony, cultural coexistence, and the right of every Indian language—especially those spoken by minorities—to be seen, heard, and respected.
The judgment begins with a line from Mouloud Benzadi that sets the tone for what follows:
“When you learn a language, you don’t just learn to speak and write a new language. You also learn to be open-minded, liberal, tolerant, kind and considerate towards all mankind.”
Facts of the case
The petition was filed by Mrs Varshatai, a former member of the Municipal Council, who objected to the use of Urdu in any form, including on signage. Her argument was that the Maharashtra Local Authorities (Official Languages) Act, 2022, permitted only Marathi. The Municipal Council had earlier rejected her plea by a majority resolution dated February 14, 2020, noting that the use of Urdu had been longstanding—since 1956—and that a significant portion of the town’s population was Urdu-speaking.
The appellant then moved an application under Section 308 of the Maharashtra Municipal Councils Act, 1965, before the Collector, who allowed it, citing a government circular that mandated 100% use of Marathi in government proceedings. However, this was later set aside by the Divisional Commissioner, leading to a challenge before the Bombay High Court, which dismissed her petition. She then filed a Special Leave Petition (SLP) before the Supreme Court.
During the pendency of the case, the 2022 Act came into force. In an earlier round, the Supreme Court disposed of the SLP, stating that the High Court order may not stand in light of the new law but leaving it open to the aggrieved party to seek appropriate remedy. The matter was then heard afresh by a division bench of the High Court, whose ruling in favour of the Municipal Council was challenged once again—bringing the issue back before the Supreme Court.
The final decision, delivered on April 15, 2025, rejected the challenge and upheld the High Court’s ruling.
The legal position and the Court’s reasoning
The Supreme Court first dealt with a procedural infirmity in how the challenge to the Municipal Council’s resolution was brought about. The appellant had approached the Collector under Section 308 of the Maharashtra Municipal Councils Act, 1965, seeking suspension of the Council’s decision to retain Urdu on its signboard. However, a crucial amendment to Section 308 in 2018 had changed the law: after this amendment, the Collector can no longer act on complaints made by individuals or councillors, even if they were former members. The power to bring a resolution to the Collector’s attention rests solely with the Chief Officer of the Municipal Council.
The Court made this limitation clear:
“After the amendment… the Collector can exercise powers only when the Chief Officer of the Municipal Council brings it to the Collector’s notice… In this case, the application was admittedly not made by the Chief Officer… which should not have been entertained in the first place.” [Para 11]
In other words, the entire chain of proceedings initiated by the petitioner before the Collector was legally untenable from the outset, as she had no standing under the amended law to invoke the Collector’s jurisdiction. This aspect alone could have disposed of the case. However, given the persistence of the challenge and the deeper constitutional concerns it raised, the Court moved to examine the substance of the matter as well.
At the heart of the substantive issue was the interpretation of the Maharashtra Local Authorities (Official Languages) Act, 2022—a law that declares Marathi as the official language for all local government bodies in the state. The petitioner’s argument hinged on a narrow and rigid reading of this Act—that once Marathi was declared the official language, the use of any other language, including Urdu, became impermissible.
The Court decisively rejected this interpretation, emphasising that the Act mandates the use of Marathi for official communication, but does not prohibit the use of additional languages for supplementary or public-facing purposes, such as signboards. It quoted the High Court’s clear reading of the law:
“All that [the Act] does, is to ensure that the business and affairs of the Council, are to be conducted in Marathi language… it does not prohibit use of an additional language… the use of an additional language… would not indicate any violation of the provisions of the Act of 2022.” [Para 14]
The Supreme Court agreed with this view, observing:
“The High Court to our mind rightly concluded that the 2022 Act, on which the appellant placed significant reliance, does not prohibit the use of an additional language, which is Urdu in the present case, on the signboard of the Municipal Council building.” [Para 15]
This distinction—between mandating a language and prohibiting others—is constitutionally important. The 2022 Act ensures that Marathi is used, but does not insist that it be used exclusively. As such, Urdu can co-exist on a signboard without violating the law.
Further, the Court reframed the debate entirely by shifting attention from legality to constitutional purpose. Why use Urdu at all? The Court’s answer was simple but deeply rooted in the values of inclusivity and effective governance:
“The purpose here for the use of Urdu is merely communication. All the municipal council wanted to do was to make an effective communication.” [Para 19]
This clarity of purpose is crucial. The use of Urdu on the signboard was not a political gesture or an assertion of religious identity. It was a functional, inclusive, and locally appropriate decision, intended to reach and welcome a section of the population that reads Urdu. The Court highlighted that this was neither new nor radical—Urdu had been used on the Patur Municipal Council’s signage since 1956.
Finally, in what is arguably the most important paragraph in terms of grounding the decision in the lived realities of governance and citizenship, the Court stated:
“Coming to the present case, it must be stated that a Municipal Council is there to provide services to the local community of the area and cater to their immediate day-to-day needs. If people or a group of people, residing within the area covered by the Municipal Council are familiar with Urdu, then there should not be any objection if Urdu is used in addition to the official language i.e. Marathi, at least on the signboard of the Municipal Council. Language is a medium for exchange of ideas that brings people holding diverse views and beliefs closer and it should not become a cause of their division.” [Para 46]
This is where the Court moved beyond a narrow legal resolution and reminded the petitioner—and the country—that language, at its best, is a bridge, not a barrier. The Municipal Council exists to serve the community—not to assert a singular linguistic identity at the cost of alienating others. If part of the community reads Urdu, there is no reason—legal, moral, or constitutional—to exclude it from a signboard.
By recognising this, the Court reclaimed the space of local governance as one that is responsive to local needs, identities, and realities, not one dictated by abstract notions of linguistic nationalism.
A powerful history lesson
Where this judgment truly shines is in its cultural, historical, and constitutional depth. The Court does not stop at interpreting a statutory provision or addressing procedural irregularities. It goes much further—into the idea of language as identity, as history, and as belonging. In doing so, it delivers a clear and courageous rebuke to the growing communalisation of Urdu and the false binaries that have been constructed around it.
The Court directly confronts the widespread tendency to associate Urdu with Islam, and to treat it as a foreign or sectarian language. It challenges this prejudice head-on by making a series of powerful and clarifying declarations. Perhaps the most quoted and impactful of them is this:
“Let our concepts be clear. Language is not religion. Language does not even represent religion. Language belongs to a community, to a region, to people; and not to a religion.” [Para 17]
This simple but profound line dismantles the politicised narrative that seeks to conflate Urdu with a religious identity. It restores to language its proper meaning—not as a marker of religious belonging, but as a tool of expression, identity, memory, and connection. Language, the Court reminds us, cannot be confined to a single group or cast as exclusive to one faith.
The Court deepens this point by offering a civilisational and cultural defence of Urdu, recognising it as a product of the ganga-jamuni tehzeeb—India’s long-standing tradition of cultural syncretism, particularly in the northern and central plains.
“Language is culture. Language is the yardstick to measure the civilizational march of a community and its people. So is the case of Urdu, which is the finest specimen of ganga-jamuni tahzeeb, or the Hindustani tahzeeb, which is the composite cultural ethos of the plains of northern and central India. But before language became a tool for learning, its earliest and primary purpose will always remain communication.” [Para 18]
By invoking this shared cultural history, the Court reclaims Urdu as Indian, not just linguistically but emotionally and historically. It reminds us that Urdu is not a cultural intruder—it is a civilisational creation, a language born out of coexistence, shared spaces, and mutual exchange. The judgment acknowledges that Urdu’s elegance, refinement, and poetic tradition are the legacies of this syncretic past, which the Constitution was meant to preserve, not erase.
The Court also situates this discussion in constitutional history, tracing how Hindi and Urdu were not seen as oppositional or incompatible during the freedom movement and in the early years of the republic. Instead, they were regarded as two forms of the same evolving language—Hindustani—that could serve as a common national medium. The Court draws on the work of Granville Austin, whose scholarship on the Constituent Assembly debates and post-independence linguistic compromise is widely regarded as authoritative.
Referring to the language debates before and after Partition, the Court notes:
“Partition killed Hindustani and endangered the position of English and the provincial languages in the Constitution.” [Para 34]
This line, taken from Austin, captures the tragic turning point at which a shared language—Hindustani, made up of both Hindi and Urdu—was discarded, and its components polarised. Urdu, in particular, bore the brunt of this rupture. The judgment acknowledges that post-Partition nationalism rejected Urdu not because of linguistic reasons but because of political and communal ones—a move that was neither just nor historically accurate.
The Court quotes Jawaharlal Nehru, who had been a staunch advocate of Hindustani as the people’s language—a bridge between Hindi and Urdu, and a language capable of uniting India’s many regions:
“Hindustani (Hindi or Urdu)… is bound to become the all-India medium of communication, not displacing the great provincial languages, but as a compulsory second language.” [Para 31]
This vision—of Hindustani as an inclusive, flexible, people’s language—was derailed by Partition, but the judgment shows that it remains constitutionally relevant even today. By citing Nehru, the Court not only restores this vision but places its ruling in a long constitutional arc that includes freedom movement ideals, the Constituent Assembly’s balancing act, and post-independence compromises.
The judgment also brings in Mahatma Gandhi, who warned against linguistic purism and the dangers of reducing language to a narrow, communal identity. Gandhi understood language as dynamic and inclusive, and his approach to Hindustani reflected this. The Court quotes him with quiet force:
“To confine oneself exclusively to Hindi or Urdu would be a crime against intelligence and the spirit of patriotism.” [Para 36]
Gandhi’s words underscore that linguistic plurality was never seen as a threat to national unity—it was the foundation of it. In quoting both Nehru and Gandhi, the Court implicitly argues that today’s efforts to banish Urdu from public spaces are not just unconstitutional—they are a betrayal of the nation-building vision of those who fought for India’s independence.
Together, these references and insights make this portion of the judgment a masterclass in cultural constitutionalism. It does not approach the question of language as a dry administrative matter, but as a living symbol of India’s diversity—something that must be protected not just by law, but by respect, memory, and a shared sense of belonging.
By restoring Urdu to its rightful place—as an Indian language, a people’s language, and a constitutional language—the Court reaffirms that inclusion, not exclusion, is the heart of our constitutional identity.
Debunking the myth that Urdu is alien
One of the most important contributions of this judgment is the way it confronts and dismantles the deep-rooted prejudice against the Urdu language—a prejudice that has been allowed to flourish in public discourse, often unchallenged. The Court recognises that the hostility towards Urdu is not grounded in linguistic fact, but in a political fiction, born out of Partition-era anxieties and perpetuated by majoritarian narratives.
In a critical passage, the Court squarely addresses and rebuts the idea that Urdu is somehow foreign or un-Indian:
“The prejudice against Urdu stems from the misconception that Urdu is alien to India… Urdu, like Marathi and Hindi, is an Indo-Aryan language. It is a language which was born in this land.” [Para 27]
This statement is not only accurate in terms of linguistic classification—Urdu, like Hindi and Marathi, evolved from Prakrit and Apabhramsha and belongs to the same Indo-Aryan family—but also essential in its rejection of the false notion that Urdu is inherently Islamic. The Court affirms what should be a basic and accepted truth: that Urdu is Indian in its origins, Indian in its development, and Indian in its usage.
It goes further to remind us that Urdu arose from real, lived interactions among people in India—particularly in the north and centre of the country—where different communities needed to communicate across linguistic and cultural lines. Over centuries, this led to the development of a sophisticated, inclusive, and adaptable language, enriched by multiple traditions and serving as a lingua franca in many regions. In fact, it was not born out of exclusivism, but out of coexistence.
The Court then makes a subtle but powerful observation about the everyday presence of Urdu, especially in the speech of people who may not even recognise its origins:
“Even today, the language used by the common people of the country is replete with words of the Urdu language, even if one is not aware of it.” [Para 37]
This insight challenges the idea that Urdu is used only by a particular religious or social group. On the contrary, the vocabulary of Urdu has become so woven into the fabric of everyday Hindi and Indian speech that it is impossible to separate the two without distorting both. From the language of friendship and affection to politics and cinema, Urdu has left a profound mark.
The Court also offers a striking example of how deeply entrenched Urdu is in the Indian legal system. It lists several key legal terms that are of Urdu origin and are still widely used in courts across the country—even in the Supreme Court, where the official language is English. The judgment notes:
“Urdu words have a heavy influence on Court parlance… Adalat, halafnama, peshi, vakalatnama, dasti…” [Para 38]
These are not minor or incidental terms. They are core procedural and functional terms used in both civil and criminal proceedings, known to every lawyer, judge, and litigant across India. ‘Adalat’ (court), ‘halafnama’ (affidavit), ‘peshi’ (appearance), ‘vakalatnama’ (power of attorney), and ‘dasti’ (by hand)—these are foundational building blocks of legal vocabulary.
This point is underscored further in the next line:
“Even though the official language of the Supreme Court… is English, yet many Urdu words continue to be used in this Court till date.” [Para 38]
In making this observation, the Court underlines an important irony: Urdu is being spoken, written, and relied upon at the highest levels of India’s judiciary, even as efforts continue in some quarters to stigmatise it. This lived reality gives lie to the claim that Urdu is somehow alien or inappropriate for official or legal use.
Together, these points form a comprehensive and compelling rebuttal of the misconceptions surrounding Urdu. The Court not only reaffirms that Urdu is as Indian as any other regional language, but also that it remains active, visible, and essential—not just culturally, but administratively and judicially.
Language as a bridge—not a weapon
In one of the segments of the judgment, the Court engages deeply with linguistic scholarship to challenge the idea that Hindi and Urdu are separate languages. This part of the judgment goes beyond the immediate question of signage and moves into the realm of intellectual history and sociolinguistics, showing how the binary between Hindi and Urdu was not a natural evolution but a consciously created political divide.
To support this, the Court draws on the works of prominent scholars such as Gyan Chand Jain, Amrit Rai, Ram Vilas Sharma, and Abdul Haq—all of whom have extensively studied the origins, development, and mutual influence of Hindi and Urdu.
“It is absolutely clear that Urdu and Hindi are not two separate languages… Even though Urdu literature and Hindi literature are two different and independent literatures, Urdu and Hindi are not two different languages.” [Para 41]
“Hindi-Urdu are not two separate languages; they are basically one and the same… There are no two other languages in the world whose pronouns and verbs are one hundred per cent the same.” [Para 42]
This is an emphatic and almost scientifically framed observation—what unites Hindi and Urdu is not merely poetic sentiment but the structural bedrock of language. The judgment notes that while their scripts differ (Devanagari for Hindi, Perso-Arabic for Urdu), and while each has drawn vocabulary from different classical sources (Sanskrit for Hindi, Persian and Arabic for Urdu), their spoken forms remain nearly indistinguishable in everyday use across north India.
In referencing Amrit Rai’s influential work, the Court aligns itself with the understanding that Hindi and Urdu emerged from the same linguistic root—Hindavi or Hindustani—and that the divide between them was sharpened over the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, not by natural evolution but by colonial language policies and post-Partition communal politics. Amrit Rai’s thesis, A House Divided, showed how political forces came to assign communal identities to languages that had once coexisted fluidly.
The judgment does not stop at historical analysis—it goes further to expose the consequences of this artificially constructed divide. By making language a marker of religious identity, a shared cultural and linguistic inheritance was fractured. Urdu came to be falsely viewed as “Muslim”, and Hindi as “Hindu”—a split that ignored centuries of shared grammar, mutual influence, and bilingual expression in the public sphere.
These scholarly citations give the judgment a rare academic depth. It is unusual—though deeply welcome—for the judiciary to cite literary historians and linguists so prominently. And yet, in doing so, the Court performs a vital task: it returns the conversation about language to the terrain of fact, scholarship, and nuance, rather than leaving it to be defined by prejudice and politicised emotion.
And then, poetry
The judgment ends with a poetic flourish, quoting Iqbal Ashhar’s nazm where Urdu speaks for itself:
““urdu hai mirā naam maiñ ‘Khusrav’ kī pahelī
kyuuñ mujh ko banāte ho ta.assub kā nishāna
maiñ ne to kabhī ḳhud ko musalmāñ nahīñ maanā
dekhā thā kabhī maiñ ne bhī ḳhushiyoñ kā zamāna
apne hī vatan meñ huuñ magar aaj akelī
urdu hai mirā naam maiñ ‘Khusrav’ kī pahelī” [Para 48]
“Urdu is my name, I am the riddle of ‘Khusrav’
Do not hold me for your prejudices
I never considered myself a Muslim
I too have seen happier times
I feel like an outsider in my homeland today
Urdu is my name, I am the riddle of ‘Khusrav’”
The Court then reflects:
“Let us make friends with Urdu and every language. If Urdu was to speak for herself, she would say…” [Para 48]
A verse that speaks of belonging, alienation, and identity—reminding the reader that Urdu, like any other Indian language, asks not for supremacy, but for space to exist.
Why this judgment is important
This is more than a legal ruling—it is a profound affirmation of India’s constitutional soul. It reasserts that the Constitution protects not only freedom of religion, but freedom of language, identity, and culture. India’s commitment to pluralism is not merely symbolic—it is embedded in its constitutional text and historical experience. This judgment operationalises that commitment with clarity and courage.
It is important because:
- It clarifies the law, confirming that there is no legal bar on using additional languages like Urdu on public signboards under the 2022 Act.
- It safeguards linguistic and cultural rights, especially of minority communities, and affirms that state recognition does not require the exclusion of others.
- It dispels the myth that Urdu is alien, asserting its deep roots in India’s linguistic heritage and constitutional imagination.
- It confronts majoritarian narratives, refusing to allow language to be communalised or weaponised.
This judgment stands out for its clarity, depth, and conviction. It does not merely interpret a statute or settle a procedural flaw—it reaffirms foundational constitutional values. By recognising the legitimacy of linguistic diversity and rejecting efforts to erase or marginalise a language rooted in India’s soil, the Court has underscored that governance must serve all, not just the dominant voice. In doing so, it reminds us that the Constitution protects not just rights in the abstract, but the dignity of communities, cultures, and the many languages in which India speaks.
The complete judgment may be read here.
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