The Bengaluru Blend
#34 - A fun look at how Kannada and English mix in everyday life.
This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group. Each of us examined the concept of ‘LANGUAGE’ through our unique perspective, distilled into roughly 500 words. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.
“Weekend plan yen maga?”
“Swalpa adjust maadko, bro.”
If you’ve heard this, congratulations! You’ve just been introduced to Kanglish.
You say you don’t know what it is? Let me explain. Kanglish, as some call it, is a mix of Kannada and English. It’s fun, peppy, and easy to use. It borders on Kannada slang, but it isn’t quite that.
It’s what city people speak. It’s the Bengaluru way. You’ll hear it on college campuses, in cafes, on Instagram reels, in WhatsApp groups, and at traffic brawls. Kanglish may not follow grammar or language rules, but it follows people. It’s not official, it’s not perfect, but it just works.
“Olle ide bro! Let’s put some scene.”
“Full tight agi dance madana, bro!”
“Boss, budget tight ide. Swalpa discount kodi, please!”
Sometimes it’s 80% Kannada with a sprinkle of English. Sometimes it’s English with just a “maga,” “machi,” or “swalpa” thrown in. Either way, it gets the job done.
Languages evolve. That’s their nature. People speak in new ways, and others copy them. Songs, movies, and the internet add new words. Everyone uses language in their own way. Some mix two languages. Some switch how they speak based on who they talk to. Language shows who we are. As people change, language changes too.
So why do we use Kanglish?
It’s easy. Why stress over finding perfect Kannada words for “plan,” “meeting,” or “timing”? etc. It’s fun and expressive. Since you add your own touch, it feels like you’ve made the language your own.
Thanks to meme culture, and Instagram, Kanglish has found its true home. Whether it’s “Aye! Drama queen,” “Office ali full headache macha, need one strong filter coffee,” “Chindi matter ide baa,” or “Boss, swalpa gap kodappa,”. It gets the message across, even to people who don’t fully know Kannada.
It’s how I think and speak sometimes. It’s how Kannada gets spoken in the cities. For many, it’s a way to keep Kannada alive while staying in tune with modern life.
If a language is alien to us, we hesitate to engage with it.
Kanglish can also be a gateway drug for non-Kannada speakers to learn the language. A newcomer to Bengaluru might hear, “Bro, swalpa left-u,” and wonder if they missed a left turn or a language class. But that’s the charm. Kanglish is welcoming. It doesn’t demand fluency. It just invites you in. You pick up a few words, laugh at a meme, and before you know it, you’re saying “maga” or “machi” like a local.
Across Karnataka, people mix Kannada with other languages too. Coastal Karnataka blends Kannada with Tulu and Konkani. In the north, you’ll hear bold, distinct Kannada often mixed with Marathi. Each region has its own style and slang. Kanglish has enough company.
Languages don’t just survive in books. They live in conversations. And that’s something to celebrate. It shows how creative and adaptable our culture is.
“Chill maadi! Kanglish na enjoy maadi” is all I say.
Giddy up!
Avinash.
You can explore other posts on Language from the Bangalore Substack Writers group following the links below. Give it a read.
Loss of a language By Rakhi Anil
Beyond Words and Dialects by Aarti Krishnakumar, Aarti’s Substack
In search of my lost mother tongue by Siddhesh Raut, Shana, Ded Shana
The language question by Rahul Singh, Mehfil
Geography & Language by Devayani Khare, Geosophy
The Dance of Languages by Haridas Jayakumar, Harry
Poetic Silence - From Anand Bhavan to 3039 and back by Amit Charles, @acnotes
No Garam Aloo in Tamil Nadu by Ayush, Ayush's Substack
Lost in translation by Vikram , Vikram’s Substack
I’ve been thinking a lot about tongues, again. by Ameya, (Always) Ameya
The Language Beneath Words by Mihir Chate, Mihir's Substack
What does this mean? by Nidhishree Venugopal, General in her Labyrinth
Urgh, by Shruthi Iyer
The Language of Murder by Gowri N Kishore | About Murder, She Wrote.
I have no words by Richa Vadini Singh, Here’s What I Think
Jal-Elephants, Thread-Navels, and Other Sanskrit Beasts by Rajat Gururaj, I came, I saw, I Floundered
Of Language, Love and Longing: Politics, Mother Tongue and Loss by Aryan Kavan Gowda, Wonderings of a Wanderer
An Ode to Languages, by Lavina G, The Nexus Terrain
I agree—Kanglish is the gateway drug for migrant Bangaloreans like yours truly. Have been muddling my way through with it for a few years now. :D
Loved this! Makes me feel that Kanglish could be a good stepping stone to brushing up on my Kannada :)