The Battle for Bengaluru

Two unexpected road trips to Karnataka in just one month – one to the bustling global hub of Bengaluru, and the other deep into the state's rural heartland. For a Malayali, travelling to Karnataka is almost a rite of passage, whether it’s a school or college tour to Mysuru or a career move to Bengaluru. For me, too, Karnataka had always been a state of passing interest. I had never felt the curiosity or found the opportunity to glimpse the social dynamics of this familiar South Indian neighbour.

Yet, during recent travels through the state capital and its rural heartlands, I felt the deeper pulse of contemporary Karnataka society. Living up to the state tourism tagline, ‘One State, Many Worlds,’ my visit revealed a brewing crisis engulfing Kannada identity.

Bengaluru days
During a recent weekend, I found myself in Bengaluru, navigating the city via public transport. Although I had visited India’s Garden City several times before, it was only after nearly two decades that I had the chance to explore it without the pressure of a tight schedule. The journey took me through both old and new areas, from emerging technology hubs such as Kadubeesanahalli to the legendary Brigade Road, using a combination of taxis and the metro rail network. 

The vibrant energy of a cosmopolitan city – a flourishing center of new-age technologies, economic growth, and cultural assimilation – is palpable everywhere, showcasing its potential to propel our nation to the next level on the global stage. Strolling through the vibrant Church Street amidst a pan-Indian crowd and a mix of foreigners, I soaked in its energy and dynamism. However, after an unsettling experience on the Namma (meaning 'our' in Kannada) Metro rail network, one question echoed in my mind: ‘Whose Bengaluru?’

Upon arriving at the customer care center in Krishnarajapura metro station, I came across a sign that read, 'Please communicate in Kannada' – a surprising sight in a city like Bengaluru, widely regarded as a potpourri of diverse languages and cultures.

After travelling extensively on metro systems across Europe, where national languages take the lead, it was a jolt to encounter a customer service desk in India’s most cosmopolitan city that flatly refused to help non-native speakers. However, I managed to clear my doubt about the rail route without knowing Kannada, using English. 

A striking feature of the Namma Metro stations was the deliberate promotion of the regional language, with every instruction and piece of information provided in Kannada, followed by its English translation. What caught my attention were the vivid images scrolling across the train’s display screen, announcing the next destination. As the metro trains pulled away from each station, the screen lit up with visuals and narrations of Karnataka’s luminaries, including scientists, scholars, and literary icons. Artistic depictions of 12th-century vachanakaras, like the poet-saint Allama Prabhu, added a historical touch. 

For me, it felt like a bold echo of the recent proposal to rename the entire Namma Metro network after Basaveshwara, the iconic 12th-century poet and social reformer. It echoed the same spirit as naming the airport after the city’s founder, Kempegowda – honoring Karnataka’s rich legacy through Bengaluru’s major landmarks.

A few days of exploring Bengaluru made it clear that the metro rail is just one piece of the puzzle. Across public infrastructure and many contemporary buildings, I noticed a deliberate or perhaps even ‘desperate’ attempt to reaffirm Kannada language and Kannadiga identity through historical figures and traditional symbols.

Wandering through Bengaluru, it’s impossible to miss the names of global tech giants displayed in Kannada alongside English. This change follows last year's amendment to the Kannada Language Comprehensive Development Act, 2022, by the Siddaramaiah government, which mandates that establishments in Karnataka feature at least 60% content in Kannada, with the language taking prime position at the top of name boards.

Previously, there were instances in which activists from the Karnataka Rakshana Vedike vandalized English signboards of global companies, such as BMW, in Bengaluru. All of this made me wonder: Is Kannada truly facing a fight for survival, despite its deep literary roots and the lasting legacy of icons like Kuvempu, Shivaram Karanth, and Girish Karnad? 

Kannadiga desperation
No Indian city has embraced globalisation and multilingualism quite like Bengaluru in the early 21st century. As the city evolved into India’s Silicon Valley, it attracted techies and aspiring youth from across the nation. But this rapid growth came at a cost – Kannada, once the dominant language, began to lose its prominence.

Back in 2006, while attending a summer school at the Indian Institute of Science campus, I found it tough to manage in the city without knowing Kannada. This was especially challenging in everyday transactions, such as haggling with taxi drivers or bargaining at local markets. Outside the institute, daily life largely pulsed to the Kannada rhythm, making it harder for non-speakers to blend in.

That was a time when heated discussions were in the air about changing the name of Karnataka's capital from its anglicised name, Bangalore, following the suggestion put forward by Jnanpith awardee U.R. Ananthamurthy to the state government.

By 2014, when Bengaluru officially replaced Bangalore, the IT boom had hit new heights, and many Kannada speakers felt outnumbered. With the 2021 census still pending, official statistics on the number of migrants in present-day Bengaluru remain unavailable. However, the Leader of Opposition in Karnataka recently speculated that the native population now accounts for just 20 per cent of the city's total.

"When I go to Whitefield, it feels like Noida or Gurugram," remarked Karnataka IT Minister Priyank Kharge during a Legislative Assembly debate in December 2024, adding that Bengaluru is experiencing "the highest migration in the world."

Flipping through TV channels in both residential areas and hotels, it was surprising how seldom Kannada appeared, with Hindi and English dominating the screens. Interestingly enough, I visited a busy juice center near Brigade Road where Malayalam songs were playing, despite the majority of customers being non-Malayalis.

The increasing influx of IT employees from the Hindi heartlands to Karnataka’s capital in recent years has been nothing short of phenomenal.

On metro trains, I often saw groups of Hindi-speaking techies buzzing about job prospects and swapping interview stories.

A retired software engineer reminisced about the early 2000s, when 'old' Bangalore’s tech workforce was largely South Indian, with Kannadigas holding a prominent place in the mix. English was the primary office language, while Kannada, Tamil, Malayalam, and Telugu were commonly understood. However, two decades later, as his son entered the software industry in 'new' Bengaluru, he observed a sharp decline in Kannada’s visibility. With the growing influx of IT professionals from North Indian states, Hindi – alongside English – had emerged as an unofficial lingua franca, particularly in food courts and informal workplace conversations.

There are even instances where someone who knows only Kannada struggles to negotiate a rental in Bengaluru, while those who know Hindi manage to do so. Migration from Hindi-speaking states is set to surge, and tensions between Kannadigas and North Indians are already beginning to surface.     

This Republic Day weekend, a viral X post gained widespread attention, declaring, "Bengaluru is closed to North India and neighbouring states for those who refuse to learn Kannada." The post reignited the ongoing debate over migration and language in the city.

Migration is nothing new to Bengaluru. Once known as the “Pensioners’ Paradise of India,” the city has always been a melting pot of shifting demographics. Even in the 1980s, English and Hindi were widely spoken, though Kannada reigned supreme. Fast forward to today, and rising resentment among Kannadigas reveals a growing fear of losing their cherished capital to the influx of migrants.

“The anxiety is coming from the fact that this is the capital city of a state which has an official language. The capital is the heart of a place, and symbolically, you would like Kannada to have centrality there,” says Bengaluru-based sociologist Chandan Gowda to a news portal.

The linguistic marginalization would not have struck Kannadiga pride as deeply if it had unfolded in other Karnataka cities, like Hubli or Dharwad, rather than in the state capital. In the current climate of rising xenophobia, which has become all too familiar, it’s easy to label this as Kannada language fundamentalism. But that’s far from the truth. 

A Malayali friend, who has lived in Bengaluru's historic Wilson Garden neighbourhood for over a decade, shared an insightful anecdote about his Kannadiga landlord's attitudes. The house owner, deeply proud of speaking his mother tongue, genuinely hopes his tenant will make an effort to learn Kannada. He believes that doing so will not only strengthen their connection but also foster a deeper understanding between them. It’s heart-warming for him when his tenant’s school-going daughter embraces Kannada and compensates for her dad’s language barrier. 

Rural contrast 
Spending a few days in Bengaluru and then travelling to rural Karnataka or its smaller towns feels like stepping into a completely different world.  It's not just a leap from the gleaming skyscrapers of IT hubs to the quiet expanse of agricultural villages – it's a shift from a multilingual global metropolis to the heart of Kannada culture, rich with history and tradition.

Karnataka, the sixth-largest Indian state by area, is fundamentally composed of halli, meaning village. A substantial segment of Karnataka's population is still village-based, relying primarily on agriculture and rural industries.  Agrarian villages are central to preserving cultural traditions and shaping Kannadiga identity.

I have observed that people in rural Karnataka are generally welcoming to non-Kannada speakers and visitors, as seen in the friendliness shown towards Kerala farmers engaged in ginger cultivation in Kodagu. Karnataka has long been South India's most multilingual state, where diverse languages thrive, including a strong Urdu-speaking community that makes up over 10% of the population. However, people remain deeply rooted in their cultural traditions and are resistant to rapid social or linguistic changes.

Though exact numbers are scarce, Bengaluru is seeing a surge in migrants from Northern Karnataka, many taking up menial jobs to fuel the city's economic boom.

"Northern Karnataka’s villages remain among the country’s poorest, with low development indicators and limited job opportunities. As agricultural losses mount, districts like Raichur, Yadgir, and Kalaburagi see able-bodied men and women compelled to migrate, leaving their families behind in search of survival. No wonder trains and buses to Bengaluru are overflowing with migrants, balancing their few belongings on their heads. For many, securing work in the ever-growing capital city, whether as construction workers or drivers, is not just an option but a lifeline," says Thomas Mohan, who witnessed this cycle of distress migration firsthand while working with the Azim Premji Foundation in Yadgir district.

Nearly all the auto and taxi drivers I travelled with in Bengaluru are Kannada speakers, though minimal communication was needed, as most passengers now rely on travel apps like Uber. 

For a Kannadiga, life in Bengaluru and life in rural Karnataka are worlds apart – both in language and lifestyle. Unlike Thiruvananthapuram for a Malayali or Chennai for a Tamilian, Bengaluru has drifted away from its cultural and linguistic roots, becoming a city that increasingly feels unwelcoming to migrants from Karnataka's villages.   

Last year, prominent folklorist and former head of the Kannada Development Authority, Purushottam Bilimale, provocatively stated that in several parts of Bengaluru, Kannadigas had become "refugees".

The political dance
As Bengaluru pursues its global ambitions while grappling with an identity crisis, Karnataka’s politicians have started embracing their village roots to champion Kannada cultural pride.

For instance, the ‘villager’ image was central to the populist appeal of Karnataka Chief Minister Siddaramaiah, who has, on multiple occasions, danced with villagers, including members of tribal communities.

Visuals of Siddaramaiah dancing with his childhood friends in his native village near Mysuru went viral on social media during election time, boosting his popularity.

While often perceived as the ‘lighter side’ of Karnataka's Chief Minister, dancing with villagers carries a deeper political motive – reinforcing Kannada cultural dominance.  His dance doesn’t just involve entertainment; it highlights the ruling government’s solidarity with 'pure' Kannada culture, best expressed through village dance forms. 

I found that Siddaramaiah's posters and cutouts in rural Karnataka and small cities subtly strengthen his image as a leader connected to his village roots.

While Karnataka’s electoral politics sway to village tunes, its economy moves to Bengaluru’s tech beat, where vibrant dance floors come alive in pubs and nightclubs.

The capital region is the backbone of Karnataka’s economy, contributing 36 per cent of the state’s GDP, with relentless governmental efforts to plan its future. One of the key highlights of the 2024 state budget is the "Brand Bengaluru" initiative, which aims to transform the city into a global hub with world-class infrastructure and enhanced investor appeal.

The Invest Karnataka 2025: Global Investors Meet, held from February 12 to 14 at Bangalore Palace, solidified Bengaluru’s status as a global investment powerhouse and stressed the city's crucial role in driving Karnataka toward its full potential.

The real question is whether symbolic political gestures – from the Chief Minister’s village dance to metro rail hoardings urging commuters to speak Kannada – can truly bridge the widening gap between a tech-driven metropolis chasing global ambitions and a historic state capital struggling to preserve its cultural identity.

(Social anthropologist and novelist Thomas Sajan and US-trained neurologist Titto Idicula, based in Norway, write on politics, culture, economy, and medicine.)