The City That Invented Its Own Language

"Same to same barabar!" "Chal, hawa aane de!" "One jhaap dunga under the kaan!" "Cutting maar de, boss!" "Apun bola na, tension nahi leneka!"

Anyone who is born and lived in Mumbai long enough like me has spoken this tongue without realising it. Not Hindi. Not Marathi. Not English. It is a cocktail of all three, spiked with attitude, survival instinct, and street-smart swagger.

This is the sound of trains screeching into Dadar station, of unwashed chai glasses clinking at a wadapav-chai tapri run by a Konkan coast couple, of a Bihari cabbie arguing with a Delhi banker outside Phoenix Mills, of Tamilian dosa and Gujarati pav bhaji guys striking their tawas in unision. The city needed a way to communicate that didn’t care for religion, caste or class. So it created its own short, sharp grammar. 

In the 1950s, Bombay’s docks and textile mills pulled people from every corner of the country. Marathi, Gujarati, Konkani, Tamil, Telugu and Bhojpuri collided on the factory floor. Out of this chaos came a new rhythm. It was practical. It was democratic. It said, you belong here if you can keep up.

By the time Amitabh Bachchan growled, “Apun bola, sab set hai,” in the 1980s, Bambaiya was already a cultural icon. The tapori tongue had swagger and humour. It was fearless. When Munnabhai told Circuit, “Tension nahi leneka, apun hai na,” it became a philosophy for the average Mumbaikar. When Bhiku Mhatre shouted, “Mumbai ka king kaun?” it sounded like the whole city answering back.

From Amar Akbar Anthony to Satya, from Rangeela to Munna Bhai MBBS, this language leapt off the footpaths and entered living rooms. It made film dialogues sound real. It made heroes human. Copy and content writers realised that if you spoke like Mumbai, you could be understood anywhere in India. 

Then came the English invasion. The corporate boom, the BPOs, the tech parks that never got built, and the WhatsApp revolution. Out of this mix, Bambaiya grew a new head. Hinglish. The hybrid child of two restless parents.

Now college kids say, Scene Tight Hai, or Light Le Bro. They mix English verbs with Hindi slang. Chill Maar, Vibe Kar, Scene Set Kar na Baap. A sentence from a Bandra café could easily sound like, “Kal Party Mein full Solid Crowd Tha, Ekdum Vibe Maar Raha Tha.” No one even notices the switches. It’s instinctive. Then there's a gentle but steely-eyed request Bhidu, Adjust Kar Na that you better not refuse! 

What began as street talk has turned into the language of the city’s young. Even brands have started using it. Netflix promos, Swiggy notifications, and Zomato tweets sound like your friendly auto driver. Swiggy once ran a viral reel that went “vadapav, vadavada, pav pav…” tapping straight into the street food soul of Mumbai. Zomato too tweets like a Mumbaikar: “Guys, kabhi kabhi ghar ka khana bhi kha lena chahiye.” It’s cheeky, familiar, and sounds like your building ka dost reminding you to take it easy.

Advertising has discovered that this language of hustle is the fastest route to trust. It feels authentic. It doesn’t talk down. It belongs to those who wake up before sunrise to catch the 6:32 fast from Borivali. Those who juggle rent, traffic, and deadlines with the same resigned smile. It is the language of the chai-sutta stall and the startup pitch deck.

In a corporate office in Lower Parel, a manager might say, “Deadline tight hai, jugad lagao.” The intern will reply, “Ho jayega boss, light le.” Somewhere on the Nariman Point footpath a tapri fruit salad guy might tell a job-seeking youth with a smile, “Paisa kal de, abhi nikal.” Each one using the same rhythm, the same vocabulary of survival.

You’ll even hear a touch of Hyderabadi creeping in now. Words like “hau” for yes, or “kaiku” for why, have slipped into Mumbai slang. “Boss, Hau Kaiku Tension Maar Raha Hai?” fits right in with “Arre Bhidu, Chill Maar.” It’s how languages in this city borrow, bend, and blend without permission.

This is also the only city where language flattens hierarchy. A CEO and a cabbie can both sound like brothers. “Arre bhai, ek cutting maar de” works across strata. The man behind the stall smiles, “Thoda strong banau kya, boss?” It’s not just tea. It’s connection.

Bambaiya carries no accent, no airs. It is about being quick with words and quicker with wit. It allows you to insult with affection. “Idhar aa babu, ek jhaap lagau kya?” It lets you praise. “Wah re, bhai kya full-to thod performance diya re” It even lets you part with grace. “Chal, milte hain, scene banayenge.” Picture two friends on a Shivaji Park kkatta about to leave after which one says, “Bhidu, walk-talk karte hain na instead of waiting for an auto. Sutta marega kya?”

Social media has taken it global. Instagram reels echo with Kya Bolti Public!? Scene Kya Hai?, Tu Jaanta Nahi Mera Baap Kaun Hai, and Full Tight Bro.” Rappers like Divine and Naezy turned the local dialect into gully rap. The same rapchik slang that once belonged to the underbelly is now global street poetry. The world now understands what Apun Ka Time Aayega means without translation.

For linguists, Bambaiya Hingkish is a dialect that reflects the soul of the city. Fast, funny, flexible, and fiercely independent. It's a phenomenon and a living, evolving urban code that refuses to be pinned down. For Mumbaikars, it’s just how they talk. Nobody in this city has the patience for perfect grammar. The train leaves in two minutes. You have to get your point across in five words or less.

When you hear someone say, Chal Hawa Aane De, it isn’t just dismissal. It is the city’s refusal to get stuck. When you hear Scene Solid Hai, it means life is fine, despite everything.

You can take a Mumbaikar out of the city, but you cannot take Bambaiya out of him. He may live in Dubai or Pune or Toronto, but the moment he meets another Mumbaikar, the accents drop and the first thing he’ll say is, “Boss, Tu Aapun ka City se Hain yaar” That’s when you know you’re home.

Grammar books may not recognise Scene Tight or Jhakaas. Oxford will never include Light Le or Jyada Footage Mat Kha. It doesn’t matter. Bambaiya Hinglish belongs to the people who made this city their home, even when it didn’t belong to them. It’s the sound of resilience, of struggle, of pride.

So, chal dost ek cutting maarte hain. Life same to same barabar hai.