Dada, Bhaiya & Sir
Mental language model and its quirks
Languages have a funny (or interesting) way of working. The tone, accent, and even the language itself change depending on whom we are talking to.
Take, for example, one of my brothers-in-law (the husband of one of my cousin-sisters). His family is what you might call "the great Indian khichdi." They are Biharis—two brothers and three sisters. The older brother married someone originally from Tamil Nadu but settled in Kolkata, while all the others married Bengalis.
Observing their conversations is a treat. Whenever they talk (or cross-talk—like Sister A speaking to the husband of Sister B) with their Bengali counterparts, they use Bengali. But within a fraction of a second, they switch to Hindi while addressing each other. It feels like an internal, highly efficient machine-learning model deciding the appropriate language in real time.
I recently realized I have this habit too.
When I moved to Bangalore almost three years ago, I noticed something interesting. Many of my peers referred to a certain set of people—essentially anyone they didn’t personally know—as “Sir.” This included auto drivers, delivery boys, street vendors, etc. This seemed to be a cultural norm, and soon, I found myself doing it too. If you think about it, it makes sense. Just because you’re paying for someone’s service doesn’t mean you inherently deserve more “respect” (assuming ‘Sir’ is a way of showing that). So, calling them “Sir” back feels like an attempt to level the playing field.
But this was something I had never done before moving to Bangalore. Back in my hometown, we generally addressed strangers as Dada (elder brother, a respectful term) or Didi (the female equivalent).
After leaving Bangalore and spending almost seven months in North India, I completely abandoned the habit. Instead, I adapted to the staple North Indian “Bhaiya” for addressing others. But once I returned to South India—this time to a different city—I unconsciously resumed calling people “Sir.”
Recently, I was back in North India for a week, staying in an Airbnb. One morning, I wanted to ask the housekeeper where the coffee cups were kept. So I did:
“Sir, where do you keep the coffee cups?” (Sir, aap coffee cups kahaan rakhte ho?)
He looked visibly puzzled. I quickly realized that the ‘Sir’ part might have thrown him off. I rephrased my question, replacing ‘Sir’ with ‘Bhaiya.’ This time, I got my answer instantly.
It’s fascinating how languages work, especially in Bharot—i.e., India or Bharat.