Long before Kerala was carved out as a State united by its language, the seeds of linguistic assertion were sown in the hallowed halls of the Travancore Sree Moolam Praja Assembly.
Published Nov 01, 2025 | 8:20 AM ⚊ Updated Nov 01, 2025 | 10:04 AM
Malayalam Day binds the State in spirit and identity.
Synopsis: As Kerala marks 69 years of its formation on 1 November, the day is less about its physical borders and more about honouring Malayalam, the language that shaped the State’s identity long before its political birth. Archival debates from the early 1900s in Travancore and Cochin reveal how reformers and legislators fought to make Malayalam the language of the courts, classrooms, and government at a time when English dominated public life.
On 1 November, Kerala steps into the 70th year of its formation, a day shared by seven States and five Union Territories as their own formation day.
For Keralites, however, the day carries a deeper meaning. It is not just about geography or governance but about language—Malayalam Day—celebrating the mother tongue that binds the State in spirit and identity.
Yet, there was a time when Malayalam had to fight for space in its own land: to be heard in courts, used in government offices, and taught in schools. There was a time when only one department was allowed to function in Malayalam, and when the government itself believed its educated citizens knew more English than their native tongue.
As Kerala completes 69 years since its formation, it is worth revisiting those forgotten struggles that shaped the linguistic pride the State celebrates today.
Long before Kerala was carved out as a State united by its language, the seeds of linguistic assertion were sown in the hallowed halls of the Travancore Sree Moolam Praja Assembly (TSMPA).
Archival records show that as early as October 1905, K Parameswaran Pillai of the Nayar Samajam, Quilon, rose in the Assembly with a demand that was as bold as it was visionary.
He urged that “Malayalam, the language of the country, might be made the language of the courts of law, and that judgments and proceedings might, as far as possible, be written in Malayalam.”
The plea, however, failed to gain much momentum at the time.
Two years later, in January 1907, members R Narayana Iyer and Kanakku Parameswaran Krishnan from Kottarakara carried the torch forward. They demanded that all government and High Court proceedings, circulars, and law reports, which were then issued almost entirely in English, be translated into Malayalam.
Their appeal was rooted in a simple democratic principle – that the people of the land should have access to the language of power and law. “The great mass of the people are ignorant of English,” they reasoned, making a compelling case for linguistic justice.
The response from the Travancore government was cautious and bureaucratic. While it claimed that most circulars and rules were already being translated and published in the Gazette, it refused to take up the translation of law reports, suggesting instead that such work should be left to private initiatives “as in British India.”
Though the government’s reply was far from encouraging, these early interventions stand today as the first murmurs of a larger cultural awakening—to make Malayalam the language of official communication and justice—decades before the idea of linguistic States would transform India’s map.
Nearly a century ago, in February 1926, the Cochin Legislative Council (CLC) witnessed a remarkable debate that sought to place the Malayalam language—the tongue of the people—at the heart of administration and justice.
C A Kunjunni Raja, a forward-thinking member of the Council, moved a resolution urging that Malayalam be made the medium of all government proceedings, official communications, and court judgments, except those involving the British paramount power.
Presenting his case with passion, Kunjunni Raja argued that “the home language of the ruler and the ruled should be the proper language of the government.”
Citing the 1921 Census, he pointed out that Malayalam was spoken by over 90 percent of the population—8,82,822 people—while only 18,006 could read and write English. “Are we to discard the interests of 9,61,074 of our population for the 18,006 who know English?” he asked, calling English “a foreign language with all its economic disadvantages” that made governance distant and alien to the common people.
But not everyone agreed. A B Salem, another member, countered that English remained essential to maintain communication with the “British Indian Government in India,” noting that even death sentences from Cochin’s Chief Court had to be translated into English.
Representing the government, Rao Sahib T V Kasturi Ranga Ayyar said Malayalam could not simply replace English “by a stroke of the pen.” He argued that Cochin’s administration had evolved in line with the Madras Presidency and could not “isolate herself from the rest of India.”
Ayyar, however, hinted at a future possibility – that once Malayalam attained greater cultural stature and gained official footing in Travancore and British Malabar, Cochin might follow suit.
The resolution was defeated—10 votes to 23—but it marked a defining early struggle for linguistic identity, long before Kerala was born on the foundation of its shared language.
Cut to Travancore, August 1926. Inside the ornate chambers of the Travancore Legislative Council, a quiet yet powerful debate unfolded.
The subject was Malayalam – and whether it should become the language of education and administration across the princely State.
On that day, Council member Kallur Narayana Pillai moved a resolution recommending that Malayalam be used exclusively in all official and semi-official proceedings.
But the motion was never taken up. Instead, Narayana Pillai tabled another, equally significant, resolution urging the government to ensure that all subjects in English-medium schools, except English itself, be taught in Malayalam.
He argued passionately that education in a foreign tongue stifled the physical and mental growth of Travancore’s children.
“Only education given in the language they have heard, known, and learned since birth—Malayalam—can find a place in their hearts,” he declared.
The proposal, however, met with resistance. R Krishnaswami Aiyar, the Director of Public Instruction, countered that proficiency in English was essential, as Travancore’s colleges were affiliated with Madras University, where English was the medium of instruction. Without command of English, he warned, students would struggle to succeed academically and professionally.
What followed was a spirited discussion reflecting the tug of war between cultural identity and colonial practicality – a debate over whether progress meant mastering English or nurturing Malayalam. Eventually, Narayana Pillai withdrew the resolution.
Interestingly, a similar debate took place in the Cochin Legislative Council in March 1931, when member K Ayyappan rose that day with a bold proposal: to make Malayalam not only the medium of instruction in schools but also the official language of governance, barring correspondence with the British.
In a stirring speech, Ayyappan argued that a people’s progress was inseparable from their language.
“If there is something called our soul,” he declared, “it lies in our language.”
He urged that all State affairs—even the Diwan’s address—be conducted in Malayalam, so that “our civilisation will flourish, and our culture will gain charm.”
However, not everyone shared his idealism. Council member A B Salem opposed it on practical grounds, quipping that insisting on Malayalam for subjects like medicine and mathematics would be like “travelling from Ernakulam to Thrippunithura in a bullock cart instead of a motor car.”
After a brief discussion, Ayyappan withdrew his motion.
In July 1942, Puliyoor TP Velayudhan Pillai raised a historic question: could Malayalam be made the official language of the State?
Citing the example of Hyderabad, where Urdu had long held official status, Pillai urged the government to grant the same dignity to Malayalam.
However, the response from the government was curt: “No.”
Government representative G Parameswaran Pillai admitted he had no information on Hyderabad’s policy, and the discussion that followed revealed an astonishing reality – only one department in Travancore, the Devaswom Department, was permitted to conduct its business in Malayalam.
“Educated people here knew perhaps more English than Malayalam,” the Chair observed, underscoring how deeply English had entrenched itself in administration.
Pillai’s intervention—though brushed aside at the time—echoed a growing sentiment among Malayalees yearning for linguistic recognition.
The demand that began as scattered voices in the Travancore and Cochin assemblies over a century ago—to give Malayalam its rightful place in governance, education, and justice—continues its journey today.
The very ideals once dismissed as impractical are now finding legislative expression through initiatives such as the Malayalam Language Bill, 2025, which seeks “to provide for the adoption of Malayalam as the official language of the State of Kerala and its use for all official purposes… to ensure the growth, dissemination, enrichment, and protection of the language.”
In essence, what started as a plea for linguistic dignity has evolved into a constitutional and cultural commitment – a living testament to Kerala’s enduring effort to make its people’s language the language of its power.
(Edited by Dese Gowda)
