Bengaluru, often called the Silicon Valley of India, has long been a melting pot of cultures. With its rapid urbanisation and influx of migrants, the city has become a microcosm of India’s linguistic and cultural diversity.

However, this dynamic has also ignited debates about identity, belonging, and the preservation of Kannada culture. 

At the heart of the "Kannadigas v Outsiders" debate lies a struggle to balance the constant arrival of new residents with the cultural and linguistic roots of the land.

Historically, Karnataka has prided itself on its rich heritage and the Kannada language, which is not just a means of communication but an embodiment of the state’s identity. Over the years, concerns about Kannada being overshadowed by dominant languages like Hindi and English have sparked movements aimed at preserving its prominence.

From demands for Kannada signboards to protests against Hindi imposition, the discourse reflects a broader anxiety about cultural erosion. 

The internet paints a divided picture. 

Reddit threads, blogs, and comment sections abound with tales of harmonious coexistence juxtaposed with anecdotes of alienation. Migrants share stories of locals welcoming their efforts to learn Kannada, while others recount cold shoulders in shops and public spaces. While overt hostility may be rare, subtler forms of exclusion — tied to the language one prefers — persist, creating an undercurrent of tension for many.

This debate takes on a unique dimension in Bengaluru’s educational institutions, where students from across the country converge, spending multiple hours together every day. 

Classrooms can become arenas where linguistic and cultural identities intersect, with language barriers hindering participation and understanding. In the corridors outside, the dynamics of social groups often mirror the linguistic divides seen in broader society.

Today, EdexLive delves into these linguistic faultlines, focusing on personal testimonies and on-the-ground observations to explore how language and identity shape the student experience, drawing primarily on conversations with two voices: Mohit, a Malayali student at Ramaiah Institute of Technology, and Yashwanth, a Kannadiga engineering graduate from the University of Visvesvaraya College of Engineering.

Their accounts, albeit anecdotal, offer insights into how Bengaluru’s educational spaces become crucibles of language negotiation and cultural co-existence.

Language barriers in navigating daily life

At Ramaiah Institute of Technology (formerly known as MS Ramaiah Institute of Technology, and which continues to be popularly referred to as MSRIT), Mohit, 20, stands as a classic example of a non-Kannadiga who has grown up in Bengaluru’s cosmopolitan milieu.

“I’m Malayali,” he says, “but I was brought up in Bengaluru.” Mohit’s family has deep connections to the city, and Bengaluru’s streets and sounds are familiar to him.

Yet, his linguistic journey has been one of navigating awkward moments in shops, autos, and bakeries, where his limited Kannada prompted impatient responses or subtle slights. While these incidents have allegedly declined over the years, they stand as small reminders that language gaps can shape everyday encounters.

“I’ve had many experiences with some locals who never explicitly said anything about discomfort with language barriers, but were not nice to me because I used a language other than Kannada,” Mohit says.

These encounters, he clarifies, rarely escalate into outright hostility. More often, they manifest as “some bad vibes”, or less patience from shopkeepers or service providers.

However, the engineering student is quick to note that on campus, he has seen none of this: “At MSRIT, I’ve encountered no such behaviour. People generally do see the efforts that non-Kannadigas put into blending in, and are supportive about it.”

Across town, Yashwanth, a Kannadiga who graduated in Electrical Engineering from the University of Visvesvaraya College of Engineering (UVCE), takes a more firm stand on the ethics of language accommodation. 

“I think it’s important for any out-of-state student to learn the local language,” he says, adding that, “It’s not just Bengaluru. Any place you go, honouring that culture is basic ethics. I’m not saying they should learn a language completely, but at least the bare minimum.”

In his view, learning enough Kannada to converse with shopkeepers and auto drivers is a matter of respect. This sentiment echoes an underlying principle: language learning in Bengaluru is not always about survival, but often about respect and courtesy. 

“In Karnataka, especially in Bengaluru, we actually welcome all languages, compared to other states,” he says. He argues that Bengaluru’s growth as a metropolitan city hinges on its embrace of multiculturalism.

However, he believes that if newcomers refuse to learn even a little Kannada, it can hurt local sentiments. Mohit, who rates his Kannada fluency at about “4 out of 10,” shares that the city’s patience threshold is flexible. 

“It only takes above level 4/10 fluency to blend in well with the locals,” he says. Initially, his limited vocabulary prompted awkward interactions. Over time, as his confidence in using basic Kannada words like ‘beda (don’t want)’, ‘beku (want)’, ‘illa (no)’, and ‘ide (is there)’ improved, he observed a palpable shift in how people treated him.

Even a modest effort to communicate in Kannada seemed to open doors and put others at ease.

Teaching in a multilingual city

In the classroom setting, language plays a different role. Mohit notes that “professors usually use English while teaching” at MSRIT. Kannada might crop up during casual chitchat or informal discussions, but critical academic material is imparted in English. 

Yashwanth’s recollection of UVCE classes aligns with this observation: “Classes are basically conducted in English. If the majority of students are Kannada-speaking, then it might be a mix of English and Kannada. But generally, in higher education institutions, English is preferred.”

The mandatory Kannada Kali course, introduced in some Visvesvaraya Technological University (VTU) colleges — a group that includes MSRIT — apparently aims to smooth this linguistic integration. It offers non-Kannadiga students a structured way to pick up basic Kannada. 

Mohit believes it is a positive initiative, stating: “It’s a good initiative according to me. It gives us the much-required vocabulary we need to converse with photocopy shopkeepers, stationery shopkeepers and the like. The course isn’t even very tough.”

This move, he says, is about equipping newcomers with linguistic tools, not enforcing cultural assimilation.

Yashwanth, however, firmly disagrees with the notion of making learning the local language compulsory in the curriculum: “Those students came here to do engineering. If we force them to learn Kannada, it’s not correct. They should have the ethics to learn Kannada on their own.” For Yashwanth, real integration arises from sincere effort, not from mandated coursework.

The role of Kannada in shaping social circles

Socially, language shapes friend circles and campus groups. “I’ve seen some friend groups in college consisting only of students from the rural parts of Karnataka,” Mohit says, adding, “They keep to themselves at all times. Language is most definitely a deciding factor in friend groups.” 

In a city where students come from every corner of India, linguistic affinity often becomes a convenient magnet, drawing together those who share the comfort of a common tongue.

Interestingly, Mohit notes that “It’s the Kannadiga students who switch to English or Hindi to make sure the next person understands them better.” 

This receptiveness is widely reported, and Yashwanth also points out that “Kannadigas show a lot of sympathy towards outsiders.” 

In educational settings, he believes that while some minor frictions occur, the overall atmosphere remains inclusive. Bengaluru’s youths, as he puts it, are more interested in mutual understanding than cultural gatekeeping.

Meanwhile, at Christ University (CU), a private institution known for its diverse student body, language tensions appear diffused. A 24-year-old who recently graduated from CU, recalls that Malayalam, English, and Hindi dominated conversations. She estimates that about 60% of her classmates were from Kerala.

In her experience, Kannada hardly surfaced as a classroom language, and neither the faculty nor the university administration made any concerted effort to push it. “There was one student in my batch, however, who was from Karnataka and really wanted to share his language with us,” she says, adding, “After classes, he took the initiative to teach a few Kannada words that would help us communicate.”

The CU ecosystem, according to her, is so heavily influenced by a Keralite majority that local language barriers seldom come to the forefront. This environment creates a different dynamic, one where a North Indian or a non-Kannadiga might not feel pressured to learn Kannada at all, as they can thrive in their own linguistic comfort zones. If one’s daily errands and peer circles do not require Kannada, the incentive to learn remains low.

A 19-year-old first-year student at CU, originally from Bihar and wishing to remain anonymous, hints at a subtle bias, however.

“During the admission process, it seemed to me that the teachers who take the admission interviews were somewhat biased towards Kannadigas,” he claims. While it is impossible to verify this claim, such perceptions, whether accurate or not, add another layer to the debate.

These nuanced experiences reflect a city that is at once welcoming and also protective of its cultural fabric.

The perceived dilution of Kannadiga identity

For Yashwanth, the worry is not about isolated incidents of discrimination, but about the gradual dilution of Kannadiga identity.

“Promoting other cultures at the cost of disturbing our own is not desirable,” he says. He appreciates Bengaluru’s cosmopolitan flair but warns that newcomers should also adapt and respect local traditions. For him, the fear of Kannada losing ground to Hindi or English is real. 

The growth of the city and the arrival of diverse communities are good for economic and social expansion, he acknowledges, but they also come with the responsibility of preserving the local linguistic heritage.

Mohit does not deny the complexity either. While he has never encountered overt discrimination in educational contexts, he recognises that language shapes how students self-segregate. “One can’t expect to be friends with a person comfortable in speaking in a completely different language,” he remarks. 

Even as institutions try to promote inclusivity — introducing Kannada Kali or encouraging English as the lingua franca in classrooms — social boundaries still form along linguistic lines. The question is not whether these boundaries exist, but how permeable they are and how willingly students attempt to cross them.

In terms of educational policy, top-down measures alone appear insufficient. Yashwanth believes that “just bringing some law or rules won’t change people. It’s the heart of the people that matters.”

He also highlighted the cultural nuances in media consumption that reflect broader linguistic attitudes in Bengaluru. He pointed out that “In cinema, Karnataka people watch movies in every language: Telugu, Tamil, Hindi, everything. But in other states, they depend on dubbing.”

This preference for original language films, Yashwanth explained, underscores a respect for linguistic diversity and a reluctance to impose Kannada over other languages. Allegedly, this openness in media consumption fosters a more inclusive environment where multiple languages can coexist without one overshadowing the others.

Finding common ground in the city of many tongues

Bengaluru’s higher education ecosystem, in many ways, encapsulates the city’s larger narrative of linguistic negotiation. Yes, there are whispers of bias and allegations of partiality. Yes, there are anecdotes of tension in daily life. But these instances sit within a broader story of accommodation, adaptation, and acceptance.

Bengaluru’s students, hailing from every state in India, study side-by-side, learning and unlearning biases, assumptions, and cultural stereotypes. The process is imperfect, but it’s ongoing — a daily negotiation that takes place in classrooms, canteens, and libraries.

Can Bengaluru preserve its linguistic heart while embracing newcomers who speak differently? Mohit’s and Yashwanth’s voices suggest that it can, so long as dialogue, respect, and curiosity guide the way.

In the end, the city’s educational institutions serve as laboratories where language and identity meet, clash, and eventually find common ground. It is in these spaces that the future of Bengaluru’s linguistic landscape will be shaped.