BRO, I AM LITERALLY FLUENT: THE ENGLISH THAT ONLY ALCOHOL UNLOCKS

INTRODUCTION: THE LANGUAGE OF THE LOST

In Bengaluru, alcohol doesn’t just loosen the tongue.

It changes the entire personality.

Somewhere around the third quarter glass of Old Monk, something magical happens.

The same guy who just said “maga, ond chill kodu” suddenly goes,

“Bro, I swear, I’m literally done with this toxic corporate culture.”

Welcome to the phenomenon called Peglish — a language born from whisky, stress, and colonial hangover.

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STAGE ONE: FROM “MAGA” TO “BRO”

It starts quietly.

Your friend who was saying “yen maga, swalpa adjust maaDi”

suddenly says,

“Bro, honestly, boundaries are important, okay?”

You blink.

He blinks.

Everyone nods as if he just quoted Socrates.

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STAGE TWO: GLOBAL EXPOSURE WITHOUT PASSPORT

Now comes the world tour.

The guy who’s never gone beyond Mysore starts saying:

“Bro, in Paris right… they don’t judge you.”

“US culture is very individualistic da.”

“Europe has clean air. Here full pollution.”

You ask him if he’s been to Paris.

He says: “My ex went. She told me.”

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STAGE THREE: THE ACCENT ARRIVES

Now English isn’t just English.

It’s accented English —

Half Indiranagar, half YouTube.

“Li-trally bro, I’m like… so done.”

“My emotional bandwidth is low da.”

“She ghosted me, but that’s her trauma response.”

At this point, you’re not sure if he’s drunk or possessed by a BuzzFeed article.

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STAGE FOUR: REAL FEELINGS IN FAKE LANGUAGE

Now he gets emotional — but only in English.

Because Kannada is too raw, too real.

English gives safe distance.

“I feel I’m not seen, bro.”

“No one understands my depth.”

“I have, like, abandonment issues.”

“I think I need therapy.”

His eyes glisten.

The same guy who calls his mom “chindi kelsa” now says “My inner child is hurt.”

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STAGE FIVE: PUBLIC LECTURE, PRIVATE PAIN

Now he becomes Bengaluru’s late-night TEDx speaker.

“Society is a scam da.”

“Capitalism is exploitative. We are just cogs.”

“Bro, what’s real happiness? Is it even possible?”

“You know what? Love is political.”

Even the street dog outside nods slowly.

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STAGE SIX: TRUTH. RAW. UNFILTERED.

By now, the ice has melted. So has the ego.

“I hate my job.”

“My appa never hugged me da.”

“I think I married just to escape loneliness.”

“Sometimes I want to just run off to Chikmagalur and disappear.”

There is no joke here.

Just a man, whispering in the only language he was allowed to dream in —

not because it’s his, but because it’s not.

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NEXT MORNING: BACK TO DEFAULT

Sunlight.

He wakes up, rubs his eyes, holds his head and says:

“Maga, strong filter coffee hakko. Full jwara ide.”

The English has evaporated.

He is back — office ID, Microsoft Teams, auto meter fight, Swiggy order, fake smile.

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CONCLUSION: THE ENGLISH OF THE EXHAUSTED

Why do Bengaluru men switch to English after drinking?

Because they were taught to dream in English,

scolded in Kannada,

praised in silence,

and never allowed to feel in either.

Drunken English is not style.

It’s leakage.

Of shame.

Of unrealised self-worth.

Of unspoken grief.

Of all the things the system locked inside a medium-school, CV-writing, cutoff-scoring, “yes sir” life.

So the next time your friend says,

“Bro, I just wanna be seen,”

don’t laugh.

Just say,

“Naanu kooda maga. Naanu kooda.”

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