How Narendra Modi’s language shapes India’s global voice
Prime Minister Narendra Modi speaks in Hindi — but the world still listens in English. What does that say about India’s voice in global diplomacy?
By Sanjay Dubey
For a prime minister whose politics thrives on performance and nationalism, speaking in Hindi on the world stage is both identity and instrument. It also reflects a pragmatic reality — English is not a language in which Narendra Modi is most at ease. That should not be surprising in a country like India and, in fact, reflects the strength and inclusiveness of its democracy. But when it comes to international affairs, it might carry a cost.
Language is rarely neutral in society or in politics. When you speak Tamil in Tamil Nadu, Marathi in Maharashtra or Gujarati in Gujarat, you instantly become a little more familiar to the people there. The same applies to politics — domestic or international. When world leaders meet, what they say in private — suggestions, jokes, off-the-cuff reassurances, rapid clarifications — and how they say it can matter as much as the formal communiqués that follow. Direct communication in a common language is not only the purest form of expression but also the shortest route to trust. When people understand you more easily, they tend to trust you more and feel more comfortable in your company.
Narendra Modi’s public friendship with Donald Trump — the headline moments of Houston’s “Howdy Modi” and Ahmedabad’s “Namaste Trump” — were unmistakably theatrical and politically useful for both sides. They built a spectacle of affinity. But the question is, can such events replace the quieter and candid one-on-one diplomacy that takes place when nobody is within listening distance? The most probable answer is: the optics of friendship can be manufactured; spontaneous, private conversation between two leaders without any intermediary is far harder to replicate.
In any communication, interpreters introduce friction. Nuances are filtered, jokes misfire, the rhythm of give-and-take slows. Diplomacy often advances in the interstices — the hallway chats, the phone calls, the whispered clarifications during discussions that never become public. Leaders who can pick up the phone and speak without an intermediary enjoy a kind of conversational currency. When conversation is mediated, the currency is downgraded. When we speak to someone only for transactional reasons — or can only do that — achieving those very aims often becomes harder.
Paradoxically, the interpretative buffer can also be deliberately useful. In a press conference where a sensitive question lands, replying in Hindi and letting an interpreter render the answer creates a protective layer of insulation. Follow-ups are less likely, and small slips or nuances can be managed. That tactical opacity has value. But when persuasion is the goal — moving a foreign audience, convincing a skeptical counterpart — intermediation dilutes impact. A carefully crafted, emotionally charged sentence from a leader like Narendra Modi invariably becomes flat prose when filtered through even the best interpreter.
There is also a psychological dimension to this. In India, English is more than a language — it is a social credential. Fluency often grants access to power, privilege, and proximity to influence. Even those who resent this hierarchy tend to internalize it, equating intellect with accent and articulation. Narendra Modi’s rise inverted that order. He built his authority not on elite polish but on vernacular power — and that inversion has given him immense political capital at home.
Abroad, however, it creates a dissonance. Walking into rooms full of Western leaders, aides, and cameras — where English is the natural medium of camaraderie and exchange — evokes the very elite world Modi’s politics defines itself against. Speaking proudly in Hindi in those settings becomes an act of assertion, but also one of distance.
This likely produces two related behaviours. One is control: keeping meetings scripted and choreographed to avoid any risk of conversational weakness. The other is compensation: replacing casual rapport with spectacle — the long hugs, the dramatic handshakes, the public declarations of friendship.
For giants like Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping, or Japan’s prime ministers, interpreters are the norm, so speaking through intermediaries is not seen as a deficit. With Western leaders, however, the expectation of extempore English is far stronger. For them, English is not merely the language of the “first world,” but a shared register of humour, cultural reference, and idiom — a medium that builds informal trust and serves as a tool of rapport as much as communication.
Some leaders connect even without perfect English because they convey tone and intent clearly. Volodymyr Zelenskyy is a striking example. His English is imperfect, but his body language, directness, emotional clarity, and willingness to err make him accessible and human. The lesson is that fluency is less important than the ability to be understood and to make others feel they are speaking to a peer.
Atal Bihari Vajpayee offers a more instructive Indian contrast. Like Modi, he was a Hindi orator of rare grace, but he never treated English as an adversary. When he addressed Western audiences or met American presidents, his English — careful, measured, and occasionally poetic — conveyed confidence and ease. He could move between two linguistic worlds without losing authenticity. So could Sushma Swaraj, whose English was as mellifluous as her Hindi. Swaraj served as the Minister of External Affairs in Modi’s first government, yet she was never truly deployed to her full potential on the world stage.
Contrast this with Shashi Tharoor, who, during the aftermath of Operation Sindoor, when India seemed to be losing the information battle to Pakistan, almost single-handedly articulated India’s position with remarkable clarity and eloquence, winning over global audiences through the sheer force of his language and intellect.
Vajpayee’s bilingual poise gave him a diplomatic reach Modi could have achieved had he chosen to cultivate that register. Modi’s Hindi oratory connects powerfully with his domestic audience, but on the international stage, the lack of linguistic ease can subtly tilt the scales of perception.
It is telling how Pakistan’s Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif became something of a blue-eyed boy for Donald Trump. Sharif holds only nominal authority at home, but he has an instinct for flattery — one he delivers smoothly in fluent English. The result was on display at the recent Sharm el-Sheikh peace summit, where, among some of the world’s most powerful leaders, Sharif was the only one Trump invited to speak midway through his own address. The episode underscores how charm and linguistic ease can, in the theatre of diplomacy, sometimes outweigh formal power.
Why, then, has Modi not leaned harder into English? One explanation is practical — limited early exposure makes it difficult to acquire the kind of effortless fluency that sustains quick, spontaneous conversations under pressure. Another is political — his brand draws strength by staying rooted in vernacular authenticity. Using polished English would blur the image of the anti-elite outsider. And embracing the language of the coloniser risks diluting a nationalist narrative built on cultural self-assertion.
When Modi proudly speaks in Hindi before global leaders, it may not be only about identity, nationalism, or lack of English proficiency. His home audience understands every word, foreign leaders don’t. That gap can be turned to advantage. He can deliver lines that sound stirring to Indians, enhancing his image as a global strongman, while the interpreter renders them in a restrained, diplomatically correct English for the world to hear.
But what empowers domestically can isolate internationally. Vajpayee showed how one could carry the cadence of Hindi and the clarity of English with equal grace. Benjamin Netanyahu moves between Hebrew and English with strategic ease. Finland’s President Alexander Stubb wields disproportionate global influence partly because of his eloquence in English. Zelenskyy uses his broken English to mobilise sympathy and solidarity for his war-torn country. Each shows how bilingualism can become an asset, not a liability.
Major strategic deals rarely hinge on a single private call. They emerge from sustained bureaucratic effort and tough negotiation. Yet the informal, trust-based exchanges that avert crises, nudge a partner toward compromise, or invite candour in unpredictable moments are invaluable. When India’s top leadership must rely on intermediaries in the lingua franca of global diplomacy, it forfeits a small but sometimes decisive margin of soft influence — the kind that can turn a “let’s study this” into a “let’s do this now.”
This is not to say Modi has been ineffective. His Hindi oratory resonates with a billion people and has reshaped India’s national self-image in a way that many find empowering. There is value in asserting vernacular pride — it signals confidence in one’s own culture and resists the colonial habit of equating English with intellect. But there can also be a cost when that assertion narrows the range of a leader’s personal diplomacy.