Balancing Act in J&K: Language, Identity, and Demand for Fairness
J&K Legislative Assembly Holds Special Session on Pahalgam Tourist Killings (Image credit Office of J&K CM)
Language, Power, and Justice: CAT’s Stay on Urdu Mandate in J&K Is More Than a Legal Quibble
By P SESH KUMAR
In the ever-turbulent theatre of Jammu and Kashmir, where identity, language, and governance are always entangled in a tense embrace, the Central Administrative Tribunal (CAT) has just thrown a spanner into a long-standing bureaucratic tradition. With its recent order staying the mandatory requirement of Urdu proficiency for applicants vying for the post of Naib Tehsildar, the CAT hasn’t merely paused a clause—it has cracked open a political, cultural, and constitutional Pandora’s box.
For decades, Urdu was more than just a language in Jammu and Kashmir—it was the bureaucratic scaffolding of administration, the silky thread binding dusty revenue records, legal decrees, and official orders. To be eligible for key roles like that of a Naib Tehsildar, knowing Urdu wasn’t optional—it was gospel.
But that gospel has now been challenged, and if the CAT’s interim ruling stands, it could reshape not just eligibility criteria, but the very idea of what linguistic identity means in a multi-ethnic Union Territory still coming to terms with the aftershocks of Article 370’s abrogation.
The CAT’s intervention came after a barrage of public outrage, legal pushback, and open street protests—especially in the Jammu region. The grievance was simple yet potent: why should candidates from Dogri, Hindi, or English-speaking backgrounds be barred from public jobs just because they didn’t study Urdu in college?
Was it fair, constitutional, or even administratively rational in 2025, when five languages—Hindi, English, Dogri, Kashmiri, and Urdu—are all officially recognized in the Union Territory under the J&K Official Languages Act?
The CAT didn’t mince words. It saw prima facie merit in the argument that singling out Urdu as the sole language of eligibility could violate Articles 14 and 16 of the Constitution—those old warhorses of equality before law and equal opportunity in public employment.
So, the Tribunal did what courts do best: it stepped in with an interim stay and asked the Jammu and Kashmir Services Selection Board (JKSSB) to halt the exclusivity and consider graduates from all official languages. Predictably, political temperatures shot up.
The BJP, especially its Jammu unit, erupted in celebration. Its MLAs, who had earlier staged vociferous protests in the Assembly and even petitioned the Lieutenant Governor, hailed the CAT order as a “historic correction” and a blow against what they called the “Kashmir-centric linguistic hegemony” of the past.
It wasn’t just a legal victory—it was a symbolic dethroning of a linguistic monopoly that many in Jammu felt had kept them perennially disadvantaged in government recruitment.
But scratch beneath the surface and the picture becomes murkier. Urdu is not just any language in J&K—it is historically the administrative glue of the region. Removing its mandatory status for a post like Naib Tehsildar—essentially a frontline revenue officer—could lead to operational dysfunction.
Many of the land records, revenue entries, and judicial documents in rural Kashmir are still in ornate Urdu script. So, while opening the door to more candidates may tick the box of fairness, it may also lead to a cadre of officers ill-equipped to deal with the region’s paperwork realities—unless, of course, the government also overhauls the language of administration itself, which is a mammoth task.
The other fallout of the order is cultural. Among Urdu-speaking communities—especially in the Valley—there is a simmering fear that this is yet another attempt to erase a part of their identity.
First came the reorganisation of the state, then the dilution of domicile laws, and now a perceived downgrading of Urdu. Whether these fears are justified or not, the political optics are sensitive, and policymakers would do well not to brush them aside.
Meanwhile, there’s also the practical chaos the CAT order has unleashed. The JKSSB will now need to revisit its recruitment process, reframe its eligibility guidelines, and possibly even redesign its exams. Candidates who were already preparing for the Urdu-based test are now in a bind—should they switch languages or stay the course? And what if the final judgment swings the other way?
The uncertainty is palpable, and the administrative machinery has been thrown into temporary disarray.
Still, there’s something refreshing about this moment. For once, a Tribunal didn’t shy away from asking tough questions. For once, a decades-old practice wasn’t accepted just because it was always done that way. And for once, a legal body dared to challenge linguistic orthodoxy in a region where even dialects are loaded with political history.
The CAT’s final hearing is scheduled for August 13. Until then, this stay is only a pause, not a verdict. But the signal it sends is clear: no rule—no matter how entrenched—is above constitutional scrutiny. And no language—no matter how historic—can claim unquestioned primacy in a pluralistic democracy.
Whether this is the beginning of a truly multilingual administrative order in Jammu and Kashmir or just a passing courtroom flicker will depend not just on judges, but on how maturely the political class, bureaucracy, and society handle what’s turning out to be a quintessentially Indian debate—where language, identity, and fairness are all fighting for a seat at the same table.
(This is an opinion piece, and views expressed are those of the author only)
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