English is necessary as at present original works of science are

Host: The evening was heavy with the scent of monsoon rain. Puddles glimmered under the streetlights, and the old university café hummed with the tired chatter of students still clutching notebooks and dreams. Inside, ceiling fans creaked lazily, stirring the humid air scented with tea, ink, and ambition.

At a corner table, by a wall covered in posters of scientists and poets, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other. The faint hum of a generator mixed with the distant call of a train. Between them lay a half-open laptop, an empty cup, and a torn page of handwritten equations.

Jack stared at the screen — a dense document filled with English technical terms. Jeeny, her dark hair tied in a loose braid, watched him with quiet curiosity.

Jeeny: “You look like that page just insulted you.”

Jack: (chuckles dryly) “It didn’t. But maybe it should have. I’ve been reading this paper for an hour and still don’t know what half of it means. English isn’t just a language anymore — it’s a gatekeeper.”

Host: A drop of rain slid down the windowpane, blurring the lights of the campus outside. Jeeny tilted her head, eyes thoughtful.

Jeeny: “That’s why I wanted to talk about this quote from Abdul Kalam. He said, ‘English is necessary as at present original works of science are in English. I believe that in two decades’ time original works of science will start coming out in our languages. Then we can move over like the Japanese.’”

Jack: “Yeah, I’ve read that one. Nice dream, isn’t it? But it’s been more than two decades, Jeeny. Science still speaks English — maybe louder than ever.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the dream takes longer than a deadline. Dreams don’t follow decades; they follow determination.”

Host: The fan above them whirred, casting a slow, turning shadow across the table. Outside, the rain picked up — a rhythmic drumming like an anxious heartbeat.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. Look at reality. English dominates everything — science, business, technology. Even the code we write speaks English. The Japanese, the Germans, the French — they all learned to adapt. Why should we pretend we can rewrite the language of progress?”

Jeeny: “Because progress isn’t a language, Jack. It’s a voice. And when that voice only speaks one tongue, it silences millions.”

Jack: “You’re making it sound like oppression. It’s just practicality. A universal medium. You think a researcher from Chennai and one from Denmark can talk physics in Tamil?”

Jeeny: “They could, if translation was valued as much as discovery. But we made the language sacred — not the science. And that’s the tragedy.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his grey eyes narrowing as the light flickered. His voice was low, edged with logic but touched by weariness.

Jack: “You know why English became dominant? Because it worked. Because those who wrote in it built the structures the rest of us now use — from Newton’s equations to NASA’s papers. It’s not about pride, it’s about precision. Science needs clarity.”

Jeeny: “Clarity doesn’t belong to one language. Sanskrit once carried astronomy, Arabic once carried medicine, Greek once carried philosophy. Every civilization had its moment of voice. Why can’t ours?”

Jack: “Because the world doesn’t wait for translation, Jeeny. You either keep up, or you fall behind.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Japan didn’t fall behind. They learned English when necessary, but they created in Japanese. Their scientists, their engineers — they built a bilingual bridge, not a single road.”

Host: A sudden crack of thunder filled the room, followed by the smell of wet earth rushing in through the half-open door. A few students glanced over but went back to their own quiet arguments about exams and futures.

Jack: “Japan’s an exception. They had discipline, a national vision. You think our education system’s ready for that?”

Jeeny: “It will never be ready if we don’t start. Every generation that says ‘it’s too late’ just leaves it for the next. Maybe Kalam wasn’t wrong — maybe he was early.”

Host: The rain softened, and through the window, a faint mist began to rise from the ground, glowing in the streetlight. Jack rubbed his hands together, staring at his reflection in the glass — a man torn between logic and longing.

Jack: “You talk like it’s just pride in language. But it’s not that simple. English gave us access — to knowledge, to technology, to opportunity. Without it, how many of us would still be dreaming inside these cafés instead of building rockets?”

Jeeny: “But at what cost, Jack? For every student who climbs that ladder, a hundred are left behind because the first rung says ‘speak English.’ Kalam didn’t say abandon English — he said balance it. Move when we’re ready. We’re still crawling.”

Host: Her voice rose slightly, trembling with conviction. The rain drummed again, faster now, echoing her words.

Jeeny: “He believed that one day, we’d create knowledge in our own tongues — imagine that, Jack. Physics in Tamil, genetics in Hindi, robotics in Malayalam. Language shaping thought instead of limiting it.”

Jack: (leans forward) “But that’s exactly the danger. If every region builds its own vocabulary, how do we stay connected? Science thrives on collaboration. You start fragmenting it, you kill the flow.”

Jeeny: “Only if we refuse to listen. Collaboration doesn’t die when languages multiply; it dies when humility does. The Japanese didn’t isolate themselves — they translated, they shared, they evolved. Why can’t we?”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking the slow passage of seconds. The air between them crackled — not with anger, but with the friction of truth meeting resistance.

Jack: “So you think we should abandon the global language and write everything in our mother tongues?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we should earn the right to choose. A scientist should be able to publish in Tamil and still be read in London. That’s what technology should be doing — translating brilliance, not policing it.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He picked up the torn page between them — equations written in shaky English letters, with small Tamil notes in the margin.

Jack: (quietly) “My father would have liked what you’re saying. He could fix any machine, but he couldn’t write about it. Said his words didn’t belong in science.”

Jeeny: “That’s the pebble under our civilization’s foot. Our geniuses stumble because their language doesn’t pass the gate.”

Host: The rain slowed to a gentle whisper. Jeeny reached over and turned the laptop toward her. The screen showed lines of text from a research paper — technical, precise, cold.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I once translated one of my professor’s papers into Hindi just for fun. When he read it, he said, ‘It feels like it breathes now.’ Maybe that’s what Kalam meant. Science shouldn’t just exist — it should breathe.”

Jack: “Maybe he was right. But do you really think we’ll see it — science written in every language, understood across the world?”

Jeeny: “We will, if we stop treating English as a crown and start treating it as a bridge. A bridge you cross — not worship.”

Host: Jack stared at her for a long moment, then let out a slow, defeated laugh — not mocking, but weary.

Jack: “You always find poetry in policy, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Because the world runs on both — logic builds it, poetry keeps it human.”

Host: The lights flickered once more before steadying. Outside, the rain had stopped. The campus glistened — trees dripping, benches shining, books tucked under arms of students walking home.

Jack closed the laptop, pushed it aside, and looked at Jeeny.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it starts small — one translation, one voice refusing to fade. Maybe that’s how we catch up, not by imitating the West, but by finally hearing ourselves.”

Jeeny: “And maybe when we do, the world will listen in our tongue — not because it must, but because it wants to.”

Host: The camera lingers on them — two silhouettes in the soft glow of a café, surrounded by the hum of a waking world. Outside, the first rays of dawn begin to pierce the clouds, turning the wet pavement to silver.

And as the light spreads, so does the thought — that every language is a universe, and perhaps one day, as Kalam dreamed, the universes will finally begin to speak for themselves.