Khadi Boli was the language I used in a comment on a YouTube channel.
It read:
“भाई, पर्सनैल्टी डवलप करणी है के? तो टेम क्यूँ खो रा, आजा मेरी वेबसाइट पै … AvdheshTondak.com.”
Within minutes, the channel owner replied. He suggested that if I wanted to promote my website, I should use what he called “decent language,” and not the kind I had used. He also added—unsolicited—that such language could harm my personality and goodwill.
That response made me pause.
What struck me was not his remark, but the ease with which Khadi Boli—also known as Kauravi or Khari Boli, the regional language of Western Uttar Pradesh—was heard and dismissed as “indecent.”
When Khadi Boli Is Heard as “Indecent”
This reaction is not uncommon. It is familiar to many who speak Khadi Boli.
Khadi Boli, a North Indian dialect spoken across Western Uttar Pradesh and nearby regions, is often heard as crude or uncultured.
More troubling is how deeply this perception has been absorbed by many native Khadi Boli speakers themselves.
This is especially true of college-going young men and women.
They begin to experience their own mother tongue as rough, embarrassing, or socially unsafe, and gradually distance themselves from it.
In its place, effort is often redirected toward sounding more “polished”: reshaping one’s speech, practicing unfamiliar accents, and measuring language against external markers of refinement.
Over time, a quiet assumption settles in: that decency is something a language provides.
But decency does not belong to language.
Language itself is neutral. It is the choice of words, intention, and tone that make speech respectful or offensive. An insult remains an insult whether it is delivered in Khadi Boli, Hindi, or English. The language does not decide that—the speaker does.
What Happens When You Distance Yourself from Your Mother Tongue
When you hesitate to own your native language, others sense it.
That hesitation changes how the language enters the room. Khadi Boli, spoken without ease or conviction, is often heard through filters of stereotype rather than familiarity. What follows is judgment—language mistaken for temperament, tone mistaken for intent.
That judgment says less about Khadi Boli and more about how little it is understood.
Khadi Boli—also known as Kauravi—is the linguistic base from which modern standard Hindi and Urdu evolved. In that sense, it is not a lesser form of Hindi, but its source.
But the real reason to accept your language is not its historical contribution.
It is simpler than that.
Rejecting your language is a quiet way of rejecting yourself.
Acceptance Comes Before Confidence
Years ago, at the All India Radio canteen, I met a young man who was visibly anxious about his pronunciation.
“Sir, I can’t say ‘sh’ properly,” he told me. “In my speech it always comes out as ‘s.’”
I asked him how people in his region usually pronounced it.
“That’s how most of us say it,” he replied.
That was the answer.
I told him: first accept how you speak. Practice correction only when your work requires it—not because something is wrong with you.
Acceptance comes first.
Improvement follows naturally.
This understanding has stayed with me.
It is the same understanding with which I approach Khadi Boli.
On the Quiet Withdrawal from Khadi Boli
Khadi Boli has not received the recognition it deserves.
One reason for this lies uncomfortably close.
Across Western Uttar Pradesh—Meerut, Muzaffarnagar, Saharanpur, Baghpat, Shamli, Noida, Ghaziabad, Bulandshahar—many native speakers quietly step away from their language to avoid judgment or stereotyping.
This withdrawal is rarely dramatic.
It happens in small choices, repeated often.
Disowning one’s mother tongue is not a small thing.
It creates the space in which distance becomes normal, and absence goes unnoticed.
Once that space exists, labels follow easily.
The Fear of Being Called “Ganvār”
Some people hesitate to speak Khadi Boli because they fear being labeled ganvār.
The word ganvār simply refers to someone from a village. Over time, it has been burdened with meanings it was never meant to carry—foolishness, lack of ability, social inadequacy. None of these belong to the word itself.
I say this without hesitation. I was born in a village in Muzaffarnagar, and I am a ganvār. I have never felt the need to distance myself from that fact, or to explain it away.
I have worked as a voice artist for All India Radio, Doordarshan, the BBC, National Geographic, Audible, and others. My relationship with Khadi Boli has never stood in the way of that work. If anything, it has given me steadiness—a sense of where my voice comes from.
Context matters. Speaking English when English is required is not a rejection of one’s roots. But withdrawing from one’s own language out of fear is something else entirely.
Respect, Language, and Intention
Respect is not a grammatical setting.
It does not switch on or off with language.
It lives in intention.
Consider these two sentences:
“आप बड़े मादरचोद हैं।”
“तू घणि सुथरी लग री है।”
They do very different things.
Not because of the language they are spoken in, but because of what is being carried through them.
When Khadi Boli is dismissed as rude or indecent, the problem does not lie in the language itself. It lies in how the language is being heard—often before it is allowed to be understood.
Khadi Boli is my mother tongue. I speak it with awareness and responsibility, shaped by context and care. It is a language I live in, not one I perform.
I own it.
Closing Thoughts
This piece comes from lived experience—the feeling of being judged for one’s language, and the slower work of reclaiming it.
Khadi Boli is not an idea to be defended. It is a language that is spoken, heard, and carried forward.
I have built a small Shabdkosh so that, if you wish to move beyond reflection and spend some time with Khadi Boli as a living language, you can. It’s a growing collection of words, meanings, and pronunciations, shaped carefully and without urgency.
It is offered in the same spirit as this piece.
Without urgency. Without apology.