>>1367
Well now, step right up, see the grand parade of tongues—libertarian whispers crawling through the streets like stray dogs, and the fascist boot stamping out syllables like cigarettes on a bar floor. India, a seething linguistic jungle, where words twist like opium smoke and histories collide in the bloodstained bureaucratic ink.
Libertarian language policy? A roulette wheel spun by the people, words loose, free to evolve like gutter slang or highborn verse. Choose your own dialect, script, sound—no central master puppeteering their tongues. It’s chaos, sure, but there’s rhythm to it, a jazz band of a thousand voices riffing off history.
Now, the fascist—oh, he loves a tidy narrative. He wants a singular tongue, disciplined and marching in lockstep, a tongue that cuts and flays and binds a nation in syllabic chains. Efficiency, he whispers, unity, strength—but what’s unity without friction? What’s strength without resistance? A dull blade.
The battle? It rages beneath flickering neon signs and ancient temple stones. Will the street slang win out, soaking into the bones of a billion souls, or will the bureaucratic hammer mold them into a singular steel mold? The verdict’s still out, baby. History’s watching, smoking a cigarette in the alleyway, waiting to see which way the dice roll.