Did You Know? The Script That Built an Empire
The Modi script was the administrative backbone of the Maratha Empire. Used from the 14th century until 1950, it helped run one of India’s largest kingdoms. Today, only about 300 people can read the 40 million historical documents written in Modi that are housed in Maharashtra’s archives, racing against time to digitise them.
The Strange Newspaper
Aadhya’s fingers flew across her tablet screen, adding the finishing touches to her school project about “Digital India.” She had included everything—from UPI payments to satellite launches. Modern India was all about technology, and she was proud to showcase it.
“Perfect!” she muttered, hitting save.
That’s when she noticed Ajoba hunched over the dining table, squinting at what looked like the world’s weirdest newspaper. The letters seemed to dance and curve like someone had melted the Hindi alphabet.
“Ajoba, what is that?” Aadhya wrinkled her nose. “Did someone print the newspaper wrong?”
Her grandfather looked up, his eyes twinkling behind his thick glasses. “Wrong? Beta, this is Vasundhara Vrutta—the only newspaper in India still printed in Modi script. Only about three hundred people in all of India can read this properly.”
“Three hundred?” Aadhya’s journalist instincts kicked in. “Out of 1.4 billion people? Why would anyone use such a useless script?”
Ajoba’s face grew serious. “Useless? This ‘useless’ script holds the key to four crore—forty million—historical documents sitting in the Pune Archives. Without people like me, those documents might as well be locked in a vault forever.”
Just then, Papa walked in, laptop bag slung over his shoulder. “Speaking of which, Baba, we need your help. The C-DAC team encountered another setback with the digitisation project. The OCR can’t read some of the cursive variations.”
“C-DAC?” Aadhya perked up. That was the Centre for Development of Advanced Computing—definitely modern enough for her project.
“We’re racing against time to digitise Maharashtra’s historical documents,” Papa explained. “Each day, we lose another Modi script reader to old age. It’s like losing a human hard drive with no backup.”
Aaji emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her sari. “This calls for a family trip! Tomorrow is Saturday. We’ll visit the Pune Archives, then head to Gokarna for the weekend. You children need to understand your heritage.”
“But Aaji, I have to finish my project—”
“Your project about Modern India?” Ajoba interrupted. “Come with us, and I’ll show you how the past programs the future.”
The Archives of Time
The Bharat Itihas Sanshodhan Mandal in Pune bore no resemblance to what Aadhya had expected. Instead of a dusty small building, she found a regal old building where the ancient met the modern. Scanning machines hummed while scholars pored over centuries-old documents.
“Dr. Joshi!” Ajoba called out to a woman in a crisp cotton sari. “Meet my granddaughter, the one who thinks the Modi script is useless.”
Dr. Manisha Joshi smiled warmly. “Ah, another young sceptic! Come, let me show you something.” She led them to a climate-controlled room. With gloved hands, she carefully removed a document from a special case.
“This is from 1389,” she said reverently. “The oldest Modi document we have. Six hundred years old, beta. When your great-great-great ancestors wrote this, there were no printing presses, no computers—just hands, ink, and knowledge.”
Aadhya leaned closer. The curves and flourishes looked almost alive. “It’s… beautiful. But why these shapes?”
“Excellent question!” Dr. Joshi’s eyes lit up. “Let me tell you about Balaji Avaji Chitnis, secretary to Shivaji Maharaj. When he visited the Mughal court in Delhi, he noticed something fascinating. The Persian scribes used two scripts—Nastaliq for important documents, which was beautiful but slow to write, and Shikasta, meaning ‘broken,’ for quick notes.”
“Like the difference between writing neatly for exams versus taking quick notes in class!” Aadhya exclaimed.
“Exactly! Balaji realised that the Maratha Empire needed a swift script for administration. So he adapted Modi script to be our ‘Shikasta’—quick enough for court proceedings, clear enough for records.”
Papa pulled up something on his laptop. “Look, Aadhya. This is the Unicode chart for Modi—U+11600 to U+1165F. In 2014, this ancient script joined the digital age.”
“Wait,” Aadhya’s mind raced. “So a 600-year-old script is now part of the same system that runs my smartphone?”
“Now you’re getting it,” Ajoba beamed.
Aaji, who had been quietly observing, spoke up. “But there’s another story too. Tomorrow in Gokarna, I’ll tell you how our family stories say the script came to be.”
NEXT: The Legend of Gokarna
