Arunachal’s Vanishing Voices: Tribal Languages Struggle to Survive Amid Hindi, English Dominance

Itanagar: On a mist-covered slope in Taksing village of Arunachal Pradesh’s Upper Subansiri district, 72-year-old Chakiap Bai leans forward inside his wooden home and hums a lullaby in Nah, a language spoken by only a few hundred people. His granddaughter listens quietly, but when asked to repeat the lines, she answers in Hindi.

“That is my biggest fear,” Bai says softly. “Our children understand Nah, but they do not speak it. If they stop speaking, the songs of our ancestors will fall silent.”

Bai’s concern is echoed across Arunachal Pradesh, one of India’s richest linguistic landscapes, home to over 40 languages and more than 100 dialects. Yet many of these tongues are on the brink of extinction as younger generations increasingly embrace Hindi and English for education, entertainment and employment.

In West Kameng’s Singchung area, 65-year-old Bugun woman Sarita Phinya recalls the wedding chants she once sang for hours during ceremonies. Today, her grandchildren know only Bollywood tunes. “Sometimes they laugh when I sing in Bugun,” she laments. Her neighbour, 52-year-old Esnam Phiang, has mobilised local youth to record folk songs, lullabies and tales from elders using mobile phones. “We realised that if we don’t record them now, we may never hear them again. Our phones have become our libraries,” he says.

In faraway Kaho village in Anjaw district, farmer Dising Meyor compares the loss of his father, who passed away without passing on many traditional stories, to “a whole book being burned.”

Experts caution that these anxieties are justified. “Languages like Meyor, Bugun and Nah have fewer than 2,000 speakers between them,” says Professor Tana Sworen of Rajiv Gandhi University, also a member of the UGC and Sahitya Akademi. “Without conscious effort from the younger generation, they could vanish in a few decades. Every week, a child is losing approximately 10 words because they are not using their own language at home,” he warns. UNESCO has already listed 34 of Arunachal’s languages in categories of endangerment, while state surveys have recorded as many as 73 spoken tongues.

Across villages, communities are experimenting with revival initiatives. In Nafra, parents are bringing back bedtime storytelling in Sartang. In Kibithoo, schools organise “language days” where children must greet and converse in Meyor. Deputy Director of Research Bulton Dutta confirms that the state has conducted a linguistic survey and forwarded recommendations to the government. “Documentation is crucial, but the bigger challenge is encouraging everyday use,” he says.

Deputy Chief Minister Chowna Mein, who oversees finance, planning and investment, insists the government is committed. “We have provided budgetary allocations and introduced third languages in schools. We are documenting oral traditions rigorously and will soon constitute a committee with a long-term vision,” he says.

Despite these efforts, the pull of Hindi and English remains strong. Classrooms privilege them, digital media reinforces them, and aspirations for jobs and higher education make them appear more useful. For many young Arunachalis, ancestral languages are not just difficult to learn but increasingly irrelevant to modern life.

For elders like Bai, Phinya and Meyor, however, language is more than communication, it is identity, memory and belonging. As Bai’s lullaby fades into silence, the question lingers: will the next generation still be able to sing it back?