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In a world often divided between science and the arts, few individuals bridge the two with the grace, intellect, and cultural commitment of Padma Shri Prof Lalit Magotra. A distinguished physicist with over 300 scientific publications and a revered figure in Dogri literature, he is not just a literary icon or a scientist, he is a custodian of heritage. His life represents a rare confluence of intellect and emotion, tradition and progress. He reminds us that to preserve a language is to preserve a people’s memory, and that no effort in that direction is ever too small.
Dr. Magotra exemplifies the unique intersection of analytical brilliance and creative depth. Having served as Professor of Physics at the University of Jammu, his parallel journey as a writer, essayist, and cultural activist has not only elevated the Dogri language but has also inspired generations to reconnect with their linguistic roots.
From his acclaimed collections like Cheten Diyan Galiyan and Hello Maya, to his tireless advocacy that helped secure Dogri’s inclusion in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution, Dr. Magotra’s life stands as a token to the power of language, identity, and intellectual pursuit. Honoured with the Sahitya Akademi Award and, more recently, the Padma Shri, he remains a guiding force in both academic and literary realms.
In this candid and wide-ranging conversation with Anuja Khushu, Editor-in-Chief of The Chancellor, Dr. Magotra reflects on his dual passions, the decades-long struggle for Dogri’s recognition, and his message for the next generation of writers, scientists, and cultural thinkers.
Excerpts:
Q: Take us back to your early academic journey. How did you discover your dual passion for science and literature?
My love for physics began around 11th grade. I never saw it as difficult—it was always fascinating to me. I completed my BSc at Science College Jammu, where I also discovered a love for literature, thanks to its incredibly rich library.
Then I went to Kashmir Universityand completed my MSc in Physics in 1966, because at that time Jammu did not have a postgraduate physics department. I returned a few years later and enrolled in the newly established PhD program in Physics at Jammu University. I’m proud to say I was the first PhD scholar in physics from Jammu itself.
Q: And yet, all this time, you were also immersed in literature?
Yes. My love for Dogri and storytelling came from my family—my grandmother, my mother. I was raised on oral tales. Even during my student days, I was active in cultural activities. I was elected cultural secretary at Kashmir University and began organising literary programs.
My first short story was published in 1972, and I never stopped. I later wrote essays and poetry, and it’s all been parallel to my academic life. The two never conflicted; they complemented each other.
Q: Tell us about your work in forensic science—an unusual turn in your career.
After my PhD, I joined the Forensic Science Laboratory and worked there for four years as Assistant Director of Criminal Scientific Investigation. I was trained by the CBI in Delhi and later at Shivpuri in explosives. But I soon realized that was not my calling. I wanted to return to academics, and I joined Jammu University in 1978, where I remained until retirement.
Q: You won the Sahitya Akademi Award for an essay collection. What inspired that book?
The book is deeply personal. It reflects my nostalgia for old Jammu, the places, people, and culture that I saw vanishing. These were short, memory-based essays. Because they were brief and reflective, they resonated with readers. Ironically, while I’m mainly known as a short story writer, it was these essays that won me the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2011.
Q: You’ve led the Dogri Sanstha for over 30 years. What’s been the impact of this organization?
Yes, I’ve been associated with Dogri Sanstha since the 1980s, and have served as its President since the 1990s. The Sanstha was established in 1944, the same year I was born. One of its earliest goals was to secure Dogri’s inclusion in the Eighth Schedule of the Constitution—a dream that came true in 2003.
This wasn’t easy. Back in 1944, Dogri had no significant modern literary output. It was rich in folk literature, but we lacked books, dictionaries, and educational presence. Over time, we built all of that—schools, colleges, university courses, and thousands of published works. That foundation made constitutional recognition possible.
I have also served two terms as Convener of the Dogri Advisory Board at Sahitya Akademi, orchestrating seminars on Ram Nath Shastri and translation workshops in major cities and even in Japan.
You played a key role in getting Dogri recognised in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution. How did that movement unfold, and what does it still demand of us today
The movement to include Dogri in the Eighth Schedule was a long, collective struggle, fueled by generations of Dogri writers, scholars, and activists who believed in the linguistic and cultural identity of the Dogra people. It wasn’t just a demand for administrative recognition—it was a plea for legitimacy, for inclusion in the narrative of the nation. I was involved in organizing awareness campaigns, writing essays, lobbying through literary forums, and coordinating with other language movements.
In 2003, when Dogri was finally included in the Eighth Schedule, it was a historic moment. But it was also just the beginning. The real challenge lies in implementation. Are we teaching Dogri in our schools? Is it being used in official communication? Is it visible in digital media and popular culture? These are the questions we must continue to ask. A language survives not just through recognition, but through usage and pride. We need to keep nurturing Dogri so that it lives not just in literature, but in everyday speech.”
In practice, Dogri is not used in courts, police stations, health or agriculture departments, or even schools at the foundational level. This leaves citizens helpless. Imagine a poor villager standing in court, unable to understand the language being spoken, the judgment being delivered. That is not justice.
Q: What role do literary organisations play in saving languages like Dogri?
They are crucial. There aren’t many such bodies for regional languages, especially Dogri. But in Jammu, the literary community—whether Dogri, Hindi, Punjabi, Urdu—works in harmony. When Dogri was campaigning for recognition, writers from all languages stood with us. That spirit of unity is rare and beautiful.
6. Do you think regional languages like Dogri are endangered today? What can be done to protect them?
Yes, they are under serious threat—not just from other languages, but from apathy. When parents stop speaking a language to their children, it begins to die. To save Dogri, we need a collective cultural commitment: integrate it in school curricula, support writers and publishers, use it in media and digital spaces, and most importantly, speak it at home with pride. At Dogri Sanstha, we’ve been actively working on these fronts for years, but much more needs to be done.
Q: You began writing poetry later in life. What drew you to it?
About 15 years ago, poetry just happened. I had always written short stories and essays, but suddenly poetry felt like the right form. It allows for a new way of reflecting and expressing. And yes, I continue to write today.
Q: What message would you like to give to the younger generation?
Please, don’t abandon your mother tongue. Our generation made the mistake of prioritizing English and Hindi. But your roots, your identity, your cultural memory—they live in your language. I’ve lived in Germany, Sweden, Switzerland, and everywhere I saw the same thing: people are proud of their languages. They study, work, and thrive in them.
Why should we be ashamed? Language is not just communication—it is who we are.
