Divided by a Common Language — The Indian Edition

 

Divided by a Common Language — The Indian Edition

By Mohan Murti 

As Indians schooled in the Queen’s English but raised in the Republic’s reality, we’ve turned the language of Shakespeare into something gloriously, unapologetically our own. We bend it, twist it, stretch it—and occasionally, reinvent it altogether. The result is Indian English, a tongue so inventive that it confuses the Brit, bewilders the American, and delights us endlessly.

Consider our national treasure: the dicky. In India, we load our luggage into the dicky of the car. In America, that’s scandalous—something that might get you reported to HR.

In Kerala, we don’t just speak English — we Malayalify it. “Open the light,” we say confidently, and it works just fine.

In Tamil Nadu, grammar bends like a Bharatanatyam pose. “I’m coming, da!” means “I’m going.” “Your good name, please?” is both inquiry and affection. And the word only travels freely: “He told me only!” can mean he told me, only he told me, or nobody else told me.

Move up north and English starts wearing a turban. Punjabis add rocket fuel to the language. “Why fear when I am here?” they roar. A sentence is not complete until it has volume, rhythm, and possibly a bhangra beat.

Then comes Amchi Mumbai English — half Hindi, half movie dialogue, all attitude. “Full tight party scene, boss!” or “Timepass only, re!” It’s the city’s linguistic chutney — spicy, loud, addictive.

Oh, even our accents tell their own stories. The Mallu one flows like coconut oil; the Tamil one clips its vowels like jasmine buds; the Punjabi one bounces with joy; the Mumbai one swaggers like a film dialogue. Together, they make English sound like India — musical, chaotic, alive.

Then there’s the tiffin box—that humble stainless-steel companion of every schoolchild and office-goer. Tell an American you forgot your tiffin, and they might recommend a vaccine.

We don’t graduate; we pass out. It’s a phrase that makes Americans dial 911 in concern, unaware that in India, it’s a proud declaration of academic triumph.

When we want something done, we politely conclude our emails with “Kindly do the needful.” Nobody outside India understands what the “needful” is, but every Indian instinctively does it. That’s the way we pass the buck on! 

And of course, we never postpone. We prepone. It’s perhaps our most brilliant contribution to English—a linguistic juggernaut born from our deep impatience with delay. The Oxford Dictionary has finally bowed in respect.

Our family relationships add another dimension of drama. “Meet my cousin-brother,” we say proudly, and watch Western eyebrows shoot up. To them, cousins are just cousins. To us, bloodlines deserve subcategories.

If you visit an Indian hotel, you might not find a room at all—only steaming idlis and filter coffee. Try ordering a dosa at the front desk of a Hilton in London, and you’ll quickly understand how English travels but meanings don’t.

And that classic Indian opener—“Do one thing…” It never stops at one. It’s our way of gently drawing someone into an entire project, starting with one thing and ending with twelve.

Ask for a rubber in an Indian classroom, and you’ll get an eraser. Ask for one in an American classroom, and you might get detention.

When our boss is traveling, we inform callers with dignity that “Sir is out of station.” To the uninitiated, this sounds like a railways announcement, but in India it merely means he’s not in town.

We don’t procrastinate—we simply say, “We’ll adjust.” Adjustment is our national art form: it applies equally to cramped seats, impossible deadlines, and joint families.

Then there’s our godown—the majestic Indian synonym for a warehouse. Tell an American all your goods are in the godown, and they’ll assume a tragedy.

Even our notion of leisure is linguistic genius. Where others waste time, we call it timepass. It’s a philosophical acceptance of existence itself—why lament unproductive hours when you can elevate them to the status of a pastime?

So yes, we may live in a world where chips are fries, crisps are chips, and cookies are devouring biscuits. But no one can deny that the Indian variant of English is not merely a dialect—it’s a declaration of cultural independence.

It’s English spoken in 1.4 billion accents, spiced with Hindi, marinated in nostalgia, and served with grammatical improvisation. The rest of the world may have invented the language, but India has turned it into a carnival.

And to that, my dear reader, all I can say is—Do one thing: kindly do the needful, and share this piece for some timepass!