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THE streets of Bangladesh are filled with Bangla 鈥� on signboards, in conversations, woven into the fabric of daily life. Yet, a closer look reveals something more layered: 鈥樴Λ唳距Π唰嵿Ξ唰囙Ω唰�鈥� 鈥樴Λ唳距Ω唰嵿�� 唳�唰佮Α 唳曕Π唰嵿Θ唳距Π,鈥� and 鈥樴Ξ唰嬥Μ唳距�囙Σ 唳膏�距Π唰嵿Ν唳苦Ω唳苦�傗��. Bangla script carrying foreign words, a blend so common that it often goes unnoticed. On social media, Bangla shifts between alphabets, appearing both in its own script and the transliterated form often known as Banglish. In digital spaces, the language bends and stretches, shaped by global linguistic forces, technological infrastructures, and individual preferences. Some celebrate this hybridity as a mark of adaptability; others see it as dilution, a slow erosion of linguistic integrity. Language is always evolving, and linguistic hybridity is neither new nor inherently good or bad. What interests me isn鈥檛 whether these changes should happen, but why some forms take hold while others fade. Who gets to decide what is legitimate? What forces shape these shifts, and what do they mean for the future of Bangla? I don鈥檛 see myself as a purist, but I鈥檓 also not someone who blindly celebrates the rhetoric of linguistic diversity. Instead, I find myself questioning, exploring, and trying to understand asymmetrical power relations and whose influence shapes the way language changes. It鈥檚 not just about the language itself, but the conditions that drive its evolution, who gets to define it, and what consequences those changes carry. Language may be fluid, but its evolution is never random. Some shifts happen naturally through everyday use, while others are shaped by histories of colonisation, technological shifts, economic pressures, and changing social structures.

The tension between preservation and transformation has always been present in the history of Bangla. Ekushey February is commemorated as a struggle for linguistic dignity, but it was never just about language; it was about power, access, and autonomy. The demand for Bangla as a state language in 1952 was not simply about official recognition; it was about ensuring that Bangla speakers could access education, governance, and public life on their own terms. The victory of the Language Movement secured Bangla鈥檚 political survival, but the deeper structural realities of linguistic power did not disappear. In the decades that followed, Bangla encountered a new kind of exclusion: digital inaccessibility. Proprietary systems like Bijoy required users to memorise complex layouts and purchase licenses, turning Bangla typing from an everyday necessity into an exclusive skill. Those who could not afford or master Bijoy resorted to writing Bangla in the English alphabet, creating an informal and inconsistent transliteration culture. This practice, born out of necessity, became widespread in online communication, leading to various unintended linguistic consequences.

One of the most peculiar outcomes of Bangla鈥檚 digital adaptation is Murad Takla, a term that has transcended its origins as a simple typographical error to become a widely recognised internet phenomenon. It all started when someone attempted to type murod thakle (鈥榠f you have the guts鈥�) but ended up with murad takla due to a mix of phonetic approximation and a lack of familiarity with Bangla spelling in digital spaces. What might have been just another typo quickly took on a life of its own. Social media communities embraced Murad Takla as a label for incorrect, often absurd, transliterations of Bangla written in English letters, turning these errors into a source of humour and cultural critique. But beneath the memes and viral posts lies a deeper linguistic reality. Before Bangla typing tools became widely accessible, many had no choice but to write Bangla using the English alphabet, creating an inconsistent, highly individualised phonetic system. This necessity-driven workaround meant that a generation of users developed their own intuitive ways of spelling Bangla, often without formal reference points. Murad Takla is, in many ways, a by-product of this history, an unintended consequence of a time when Bangla lacked accessible digital infrastructure. Yet, Murad Takla is not merely about humorous misspellings. It also reveals a form of linguistic gatekeeping. While some see it as a light-hearted attempt to maintain linguistic integrity, others argue that it reinforces elitist attitudes towards language, mocking those who lack access to proper Bangla typing tools or formal education in Bangla orthography. The very errors it satirises were often born from necessity rather than incompetence. This raises an uncomfortable question: is the humour about language, or about who gets to wield authority over it? Despite these debates, Murad Takla has left an undeniable mark on digital Bangla culture. What started as a joke has become a larger reflection of how technology, access, and social hierarchies shape language. At its core, it is a reminder that while digital spaces make communication easier, they also create new forms of exclusion 鈥� ones that, ironically, can be laughed at but not easily erased.

Avro, launched in 2003, was a direct response to the gatekeeping of Bangla typing. Unlike fixed-layout systems, Avro introduced a phonetic method that allowed users to type Bangla using English letters, which the software would then convert into Bangla script. Instead of memorising complex key placements, one could simply type 鈥榓mi banglay gan gai鈥�, and Avro would render it as 鈥樴�嗋Ξ唳� 唳�唳距�傕Σ唳距�� 唳椸�距Θ 唳椸�距�団��. This innovation made Bangla typing accessible to millions. OmicronLab describes Avro as 鈥榬ewriting history and recreating tradition鈥� by ensuring that anyone, regardless of technical expertise, could type freely in Bangla. If the language movement was about resisting political erasure, was Avro about resisting digital exclusion? The software did more than introduce a new typing method; it shifted control away from gatekeeping institutions and into the hands of everyday users. In many ways, Avro carried the spirit of Ekushey February into the digital age, ensuring that Bangla was not just recognised but also usable in the modern world.

However, Avro鈥檚 phonetic system also introduced a subtle cognitive shift in how users process both Bangla and English spelling. Since Avro relies on English letters to approximate Bangla sounds, prolonged exposure may rewire literacy habits in ways that go beyond simple transliteration. For example, 唳� (dental s), 唳� (palatal sh), and 唳� (retroflex sh) require distinct input patterns: s = 唳� (basa = 唳�唳距Ω唳�), sh = 唳� (shishu = 唳多�苦Χ唰�), Sh = 唳� (ShaT = 唳粪�距��). These distinctions do not exist in English, meaning users must mentally map Bangla sounds to letter combinations that are not always intuitive. Also, some English words are approximated in unexpected ways in Avro. For example, 鈥榗hair鈥� would be typed as 鈥榗eyar鈥�, since 鈥榗e鈥� produces听 鈥樴�氞�団��, and 鈥榶ar鈥� produces 鈥樴�熰�距Π鈥�. Similarly, 鈥樴�堗�椸Σ鈥� (eagle) needs to be typed as 鈥業gol鈥� or 鈥榚egol鈥�, which may subtly influence how users internalise the English spelling of eagle. As people become accustomed to Avro鈥檚 phonetic rules, their ability to recognise and reproduce standard spellings in both Bangla and English may be subtly reshaped.

This raises an important question: does prolonged exposure to phonetic typing alter literacy processing? If users regularly rely on Avro鈥檚 phonetic system, does it shape their cognitive approach to spelling in both languages? While this remains speculative, there is evidence that typing habits can influence broader literacy patterns. The shift might be particularly noticeable among those who primarily engage with Bangla in digital spaces rather than through traditional handwriting or printed text. That said, does it really matter? Language is always evolving, adapting to technological and cultural realities. While phonetic typing may impact spelling conventions, it has also ensured that Bangla remains digitally viable in an era where English dominates most online interactions. Avro dismantled a system of exclusion and gave millions unrestricted access to their language. If that has led to linguistic adaptations, it is simply part of Bangla鈥檚 digital transformation. While it is worth reflecting on these unintended consequences, one fact remains unchanged: Avro made Bangla typing accessible, and that is an achievement worth celebrating.

As I write this, there is an undeniable irony in discussing Bangla鈥檚 future in English. Yet, this irony reveals a deeper truth: linguistic power is not just about what we speak, but about what is recognised and heard. English dominates global discourse, shaping the frameworks within which languages like Bangla navigate and evolve. I choose to write in English because it aligns with my current academic and professional space. While important work on Bangla continues to be done in Bangla, engaging with these discussions in English allows me to contribute to ongoing conversations in ways that are relevant to my present context.

From Ekushey to Avro, the struggle for Bangla has always been about access. In 1952, it was about ensuring that Bangla could exist in governance and education. With Avro, it was about making Bangla typing free and accessible. Now, the challenge is digital survival. The future of Bangla does not depend on government recognition or even on how many people speak it, but on whether it remains usable and relevant in a world shaped by AI and digital infrastructure. The fight for Bangla did not end with Ekushey, nor did it end with Avro. It continues, not in street protests, but in negotiations with algorithms, policy debates, and the invisible decisions that shape digital adaptation. Bhasha Andolon secured Bangla鈥檚 place in governance. Avro secured its place in digital communication. But the next phase of the fight is less visible, more complex, and just as urgent. At the same time, power is relative. Bangla is not a minor language; it is one of the most widely spoken in the world. Within Bangladesh, it holds a dominant position, while indigenous and non-Bangla speakers continue to struggle for recognition. This raises a critical question: What does linguistic justice look like when roles are reversed? If the 1952 movement fought against linguistic marginalisation, then shouldn鈥檛 today鈥檚 conversation critically examine how Bangla interacts with minoritised languages? The fight, then, is about integrity 鈥� ensuring that the struggles we once faced are not repeated in a different form. Instead of asking whether Bangla is thriving, perhaps the more important question is: Who gets to decide what Bangla looks like in the digital future? And what responsibility does Bangla have towards those who now find themselves in the position we were in back in 1952? And here鈥檚 a final question: Can you guess if the Bangla words in this piece were written with Avro?

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Ridita Mizan, an assistant professor of English at the University of Rajshahi, is currently pursuing a PhD in English Studies at Illinois State University. Her research focuses on the disciplinary identity of English Studies and the possibilities for decolonizing the field.