English Is an Indian Language Only!

We Indians have a way with English that no grammar book can ever capture. It’s not the Queen’s English, it’s not American English, and it’s certainly not Hinglish. It’s something richer, more layered, and definitely more fun. It’s ours. We’ve stretched it, twisted it, localised it, and somehow made it fit perfectly into the rhythm of our lives.

Take the way we greet people. “How are you, dear?” sounds harmless enough, until you realise we use it for everyone: from our boss to the bank clerk. It’s affectionate, intrusive, and utterly Indian. Then there’s the call-centre classic: “Hi, I’m David this side.” It’s our way of locating ourselves in the invisible world of telephony. Perfectly logical to us, completely baffling to a Brit.

And my all-time favourite is “She is not on her seat.” I once saw this go spectacularly wrong in Dubai. The Communications Director of the World Trade Centre overheard an Indian receptionist tell someone on the phone, “He is not on his seat.” The director looked puzzled, then amused, and finally told her, “You mean he’s not at his desk. Not on his seat. Otherwise it sounds like he’s sitting on his bottom somewhere else.”

The receptionist looked mortified, but to her credit, she smiled, nodded, and said, “Yes, yes, ma'am. I will correct.” The next day she was back to saying, “He is not on his seat.” Some habits don’t need correction. They need celebration.

In India, English isn’t a foreign language. It’s an emotional one. It carries our pauses, our politeness, and our peculiarities. It’s how we mix respect and familiarity without missing a beat. We’ll tell someone, “Please do one thing,” when we actually mean “Please do many things.” We’ll say, “What is your good name?” as if we all secretly have a bad one tucked away somewhere.

Then there are the everyday phrases that make Indian English sparkle. “I’m not getting your point” sounds perfectly reasonable to us, though elsewhere it would be “I don’t understand you.” “That shop is not there only” uses that magical word only again to emphasise finality. We add only to everything. “He came yesterday only.” “She’s sitting here only.” We can’t help it, it sounds right.

We also like doubling things for affection or importance. “It’s a small small thing,” we say, because one ‘small’ never feels enough. Our sentences are warm and efficient. “Give me one glass water” saves time. “I’ll drop you till the gate” sounds more caring than “I’ll drive you to the gate.” When there’s a power cut, the most natural thing to say is, “Light came back finally.” No grammar book can explain that joy.

Then there’s our street poetry. “I am going marketing” means the groceries will get done. Thank you for the same” makes even an email sound formal and well-bred and when someone says “Thank you,” the inevitable reply is “Mention not.” No one quite knows where that came from!

“I want to show you my purchasing I did today” no one else in the world would say it that way, but every Indian would understand it perfectly. Of course, the ultimate bureaucratic masterpiece “Please intimate me.” It sounds official, polite, and slightly mysterious. It’s our way of saying “Please let me know,” but with a little government stamp on it.

We love redundancy. We double confirm. We pre-pone meetings. We give a missed call when we want you to call back. And we never say “I’ll call you later.” We say, “I’ll give you a call only.” That word only again; our emotional punctuation. It softens, insists, and affirms all at once.

Even our yes and no are visual. That famous Indian head wobble — part nod, part wave, part shrug — has driven many foreigners mad. But it’s our unspoken grammar. A quick wobble can mean yes, no, maybe, or I’m listening, depending on context. Try teaching that in an English class.

We’ve also mastered the art of polite avoidance. “I will just come” can mean anything from “I’ll be there in two minutes” to “You’ll never see me again.” “We’ll see” is a national escape clause and “Do one thing” is both instruction and affection. 

Corporate India has elevated this to performance art. “Kindly revert” has replaced “Please reply.” “I’m out of station” sounds quaint in an era of remote work, but it still features in every out-of-office email. “Myself Rajesh” opens presentations across the country, with absolute sincerity and confidence.

The thing is, it works. This language-within-a-language allows us to move across class, culture, and comfort zones. It lets a village student talk to a CEO without feeling out of place. It’s flexible, forgiving, and wonderfully democratic.

When I lived in Dubai for nearly two and a half decades, surrounded by every accent imaginable, I realised something. Indians didn’t struggle with English, we owned it. We had no linguistic insecurity. We spoke it our way, and somehow everyone understood us. Even when they didn’t, they still remembered us.

I once saw a British colleague ask an Indian, “Could you finish this by Friday?” The reply came instantly, “I’ll try my level best.” Which in our English means: I’ll make an attempt. To the Brit, it sounded like a solemn oath.

There lies the beauty. We’ve built a bridge language, shaped by our history, soaked in our culture, and spoken with our accents. It may not follow every rule, but it follows every emotion.

So the next time someone corrects your “revert back” or “do the needful,” just smile. Tell them this isn’t wrong English. It’s Indian English. It’s the only English that can say “Kindly do one thing” and make it sound like teamwork. It’s the only English that lets you say “How are you, dear?” to a stranger and get a smile in return.

English isn’t just something we borrowed. We’ve made it our own. We’ve painted it in our colours, spiced it with our phrases, and served it with our unique head wobble. English didn’t colonise us, we colonised it right back.

That, dost, is why I’ll always say with pride — English is an Indian language only!