HOW ENGLISH IS DESTROYING YOUR CHILD’S LIFE
- Madhukar Dama
- May 24
- 6 min read
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1. INTRODUCTION: THE INVISIBLE DAMAGE
English is sold in India as the language of success, intelligence, and global opportunity. But behind the surface of polished grammar and fluency lies a deeper tragedy — children are losing their emotional roots, self-expression, cultural pride, and cognitive freedom. English is not just a tool anymore. It has become a filter through which a child’s entire identity is being altered, repressed, and redirected.
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2. LANGUAGE IS NOT NEUTRAL — IT CARRIES POWER
Every language shapes how we think, feel, and relate to the world. When a child is forced to abandon their mother tongue in favour of English:
They learn to speak, but forget how to feel.
They read, but struggle to express truth.
They grow academically, but shrink emotionally.
This is not development — it’s detachment.
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3. WHAT CHILDREN LOSE WHEN ENGLISH TAKES OVER
A. EMOTIONAL EXPRESSION
Children naturally express love, pain, confusion, or joy best in their mother tongue. English-based schooling suppresses that. It trains children to think in a language they do not feel.
B. FAMILY CONNECTION
Grandparents and extended family become strangers when the child no longer shares a language of comfort. Even parents who speak English struggle to emotionally reach their children.
C. CULTURAL CONTEXT
Folk tales, songs, proverbs, and festivals lose their meaning when translated. English disconnects children from the wisdom, rhythm, and soul of their own culture.
D. SELF-WORTH
Children who are poor in English are seen as dumb, even if they are wise, kind, artistic, or brave. English becomes the ruler. The child becomes the ruled.
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4. THE SYSTEMIC PRESSURE TO OBEY ENGLISH
English-medium schools are seen as superior, even in villages.
Parents feel ashamed if their child doesn’t speak English.
Hindi, Kannada, Tamil, Telugu, and other languages are reduced to “second language” status.
Exams, interviews, textbooks, and even cartoons and games are all English-dominated.
This is not education. It is linguistic colonisation.
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5. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL DAMAGE
Constant correction damages confidence.
Speaking broken English creates shame and silence.
Children learn to hide. They fear making mistakes.
Language becomes a source of anxiety, not joy.
Many children are now fluent in English but unable to express anger, grief, or truth in any language. They speak, but nothing of themselves remains.
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6. WHAT YOU CAN DO AS A PARENT
Speak your mother tongue at home proudly and consistently.
Let the child think, feel, and play in their native language.
Watch regional stories, films, and folk songs together.
Stop shaming wrong English. Honour true expression.
Choose bilingual or regional-language schools if possible.
Teach your child that knowing English is a tool — not identity, not superiority, not intelligence.
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7. CONCLUSION
English is not the enemy. But making it the master is. Your child deserves the right to feel fully alive in their own language — to dream, shout, cry, imagine, and belong. Don’t let fluency in a foreign tongue become silence in their soul.
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ENGLISH IS GOD AND YOUR CHILD IS THE SACRIFICE
(a Bukowski-style scream from under the school bench)
they came in uniforms
too clean to be comfortable
reciting alphabets in rooms too bright
to ever allow dreaming.
a teacher stood there
like an English-speaking god,
her tongue polished by convents,
her skin powdered,
her eyes sharp with correction.
“Say it right.”
“Say it better.”
“Don’t speak Kannada in class.”
“Your English is poor.”
“Speak confidently!”
and every word the child knew
in the language of her grandmother
was now wrong.
rejected.
unsuitable.
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they eat paratha,
but must say “bread.”
they play kabaddi
but must say “sports.”
they cry for amma
but must call her “mom.”
and the gap between
voice and heart
grows like a fungus
in the schoolbag.
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you, proud father,
boast of your English-medium son
who can say “dinosaur”
but not “dosai.”
who can ask for jam
but not jaggery.
who stammers in Tamil
but rolls fluently in Netflix slang.
you think
you’ve bought him a future.
but all you bought
was a coffin with western labels
where his mother tongue is buried
with his childhood.
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he dreams in muted subtitles now.
he laughs in edited tones.
he writes poems that rhyme,
but never bleed.
he can say
“Good Morning Ma’am,”
but can’t tell his grandfather
he misses him.
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and one day,
this child
will stand in a job interview
with perfect English
and empty eyes.
and he’ll be praised.
and hired.
and used.
and broken.
and replaced.
and when he comes home,
you will ask him,
“Why don’t you talk to us anymore?”
and he won’t know how to say
in any language:
“Because you cut my tongue
and told me it was for my own good.”
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HEALING DIALOGUE: THE ENGLISH-SPEAKING FAMILY THAT DOESN’T SPEAK TO EACH OTHER
Characters:
Madhukar, the healer
Rajesh (father, 46, MNC executive)
Anjali (mother, 43, school principal)
Isha (daughter, 17, top performer, emotionally withdrawn)
Aarav (son, 13, tech-savvy, irritable)
Scene: A healing circle in Madhukar’s forest courtyard. All are dressed neatly, hesitant to sit on the ground.
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Madhukar: Welcome. You’ve come far.
Rajesh: Yes. We weren’t sure if this was our kind of place... but something feels off in our home. Like, we live together but don't really connect.
Anjali: We’re all educated, settled, fluent. But at home, silence has grown loud.
Madhukar: Silence isn’t always peace. Sometimes, it’s paralysis.
Isha: We all speak English. But no one listens.
Aarav: We eat alone, study alone, scroll alone. It’s normal now.
Madhukar: Language is not speech. It is space. A place where feelings meet words. What happens when you only speak a language you don’t feel?
Rajesh: But we’ve given them the best. English education. Resources. Freedom.
Madhukar: You gave them tools. But not presence. English gave them fluency. But not intimacy.
Anjali: We discuss grades, colleges, competitions. But never heartbreak. Never fears.
Isha: I don’t even know how to say what I feel — in English. It feels… fake.
Aarav: If I speak Kannada, I’m told I sound backward.
Madhukar: And so, your home became a corporate boardroom. Polite. Correct. Empty.
Rajesh: But how do we go back? Everything around us is English — work, school, media.
Madhukar: You don’t have to abandon English. Just reintroduce truth.
Anjali: How?
Madhukar: By letting your child speak without performance.
To Isha: What language do you use when you cry?
Isha (softly): Kannada. Always Kannada.
Madhukar: Then let that be your home language of emotion. Let your children stumble. Stammer. Break. And be heard.
Aarav: But they laugh when we mispronounce English. Even teachers do.
Madhukar: That’s how shame is planted. And love is buried.
Rajesh: We wanted them to succeed in the world.
Madhukar: And in doing so, you cut off their roots. A tree with no roots may look tall. But one storm, and it’s gone.
Anjali (tearfully): We used to sing Kannada lullabies. Tell folk tales. And then… grammar replaced stories.
Madhukar: Bring those back. At dinner. At night. No corrections. No judgments.
Isha: Will it change anything now?
Madhukar: Language carries memory. If you return to your natural tongue, your natural bonds will return too. Not instantly. But surely.
Aarav (quietly): Can we speak mixed? Like how Ajji used to talk? Half-English, half-Kannada?
Madhukar (smiling): That is not broken language. That is the language of belonging.
Rajesh: And what if we fumble?
Madhukar: Then your children will finally see that it's okay to not be perfect — and still be loved.
(They all sit silently. Isha rests her head on her mother’s shoulder. Aarav leans against his father. No one says anything. No one needs to.)
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[End scene. The language of healing has begun. Not through words — but through shared silence, finally safe.]
