BORROWED ACCENTS: HOW WE SPEAK DIFFERENTLY AROUND CERTAIN PEOPLE

 

We don’t always speak in our own voice. Sometimes we borrow one—just for a moment, just for a conversation. A slightly different lilt, a borrowed vocabulary, a softer rhythm. The change is often so subtle even we might not notice it, but those around us do. In Nepali society, where language, region, and class are all stitched closely together, we learn early that how we speak can open doors—or quietly close them.

A teenager from Kathmandu might add a bit of rural accent when talking to a relative from the village—not mockingly, but out of some instinctive attempt to blend in, to sound familiar. The same person might flatten their Nepali altogether when speaking to someone who only understands a textbook version of it, shaving off the colloquial, smoothing out the edges.

English, too, shifts shape. In classrooms, students slip into crisp, measured English for presentations, but switch to a looser, half-Nepali version during breaks. Around certain teachers or “smart” friends, the accent tightens. The Rs become more pronounced. The pauses more dramatic. It’s not just about fluency; it’s about fitting the tone of the room.

And in offices, one can hear the gentle bending of language depending on who walks in. An intern might switch from relaxed banter with colleagues to a more formal tone with their supervisor. A manager might adopt a more "modern" rhythm when talking to urban clients, then revert to something more grounded for a government official. The voice isn’t fake—it’s responsive, calibrated.

This chameleon speech pattern isn’t necessarily deceptive. It’s survival. It’s belonging. We are a country of many tongues—Nepali, Maithili, Tamang, Gurung, Tharu, Newar, Bhojpuri, Sherpa—and even within the same language, the accents carry weight. They mark geography, education, community. To sound a certain way is to send a signal—I’m from here or I understand you or I’m not trying to be above you.

But there’s a tension, too. Sometimes we bend our voices out of insecurity. We fear sounding too "gaunle" in city settings, or too "show-offy" when speaking fluent English in front of relatives. We soften our tongues to seem more humble, or sharpen them to seem more accomplished. The borrowed accent becomes a mask we wear to protect ourselves from judgment.

At times, this becomes a performance so convincing that we lose track of what our original voice even sounded like. Do we speak this way because it’s who we are—or because it’s what the room expects of us?

Still, there’s something deeply human in all of this. The way we shape-shift linguistically is not just about power or fear—it’s about empathy. It’s our attempt to meet people where they are. To be understood, yes, but also to say I understand you too. A shared rhythm builds trust faster than perfect grammar ever could.

And perhaps the goal isn’t to find a single “authentic” voice, but to become more aware of the ones we borrow. To notice when we change, and why. To ask whether we’re adjusting to connect—or to hide. Because sometimes, the borrowed accent brings us closer to others. But other times, it takes us further from ourselves.