Mumbai became a confluence of communities and cultures many decades ago, long before debates around identity hardened into political talking points. Yet, with every election cycle, questions of language and belonging resurface, and the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) polls have once again provided the backdrop. The insistence on linguistic pride as a measure of legitimacy feels increasingly disconnected from the lived reality of the city and, in many ways, borders on the absurd when viewed against Mumbai’s social and economic dynamics today.
“Last I checked, he had zero seats,” remarked Chetan Bhosale while sharing a video clip of Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS) chief Raj Thackeray launching a racially charged tirade against South Indians. Bhosale, who grew up in Mumbai but now lives abroad, identifies strongly as a Mumbaikar despite having settled in New York. His comment captured not only political irrelevance but also the fatigue many feel toward rhetoric that repeatedly drags Mumbai backward.
Mumbai and New York are often described as sister cities, but the contrast between them is striking. In New York, linguistic or cultural conformity is not a prerequisite for belonging. One can live there speaking Arabic, Hindi, Somali, Spanish or Malayalam and still be fully accepted as a New Yorker. Accents, skin tones and attire are not liabilities but everyday features of the city’s identity. Mumbai, however, struggles to project that same confidence as long as cycles of exclusionary language politics continue to dominate its public discourse.
The Maharashtra Navnirman Sena, despite its aggressive posturing, has an electoral record that underlines its limited political relevance. In two decades, the party has failed to secure a single seat in the Lok Sabha, holds none in the Maharashtra Assembly, and has managed only one seat in the BMC. Its influence remains marginal even in select suburban pockets. Yet, despite this weak mandate, its rhetoric has repeatedly succeeded in injecting tension into Mumbai’s social fabric.
Raj Thackeray himself comes from a background steeped in art and creativity. A cartoonist by training, with interests spanning music and performance, he embodies a cultural richness that stands in sharp contrast to the narrowness of his political messaging. For someone with such artistic leanings, the repeated reliance on hostility toward migrants as an electoral strategy appears unimaginative and regressive.
The recurring attempt to define who belongs in Mumbai by imposing linguistic tests is deeply misplaced. It fuels resentment, hardens divisions and creates an atmosphere of hostility that lingers long after elections are over. Whether such rhetoric will revive the MNS politically is uncertain, but what is clear is that it continues to sour public discourse and social harmony.
Assertions of Marathi identity are most visible in Mumbai, not necessarily because the city lacks Marathi culture, but because of its prominence and diversity. Non-Marathi speakers have frequently reported being harassed, not only within the city but even while travelling to it. A viral video last year showed an influencer being mocked mid-flight for not speaking Marathi, underscoring how this intolerance has spilled into everyday spaces.
Around the same period, another incident unfolded at Vasai Fort, where a man dressed as Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj clashed with a security guard over the latter’s inability to speak Marathi. More recently, commuters witnessed a man shouting at migrants on a local train, demanding they speak the language. While these incidents vary in context, they are united by the same undertone of exclusion.
Much of this sentiment traces back to campaigns promoting Marathi asmita, or pride, particularly those amplified by the MNS. However, many long-time residents of Mumbai understand that such narratives are not only outdated but fundamentally incompatible with a city that thrives on diversity and constant inflow of people.
India’s linguistic reorganisation of states in 1956 was intended to preserve cultural identities, not to erect barriers that transform fellow citizens into outsiders. Mumbai, perhaps more than any other Indian city, illustrates the danger of misusing that principle.
The modern idea of Mumbai itself is relatively recent. Once a cluster of seven islands, the city was gradually shaped through land reclamation projects during British rule. Its current form emerged through centuries of migration, trade and cultural exchange, rather than from the dominance of a single linguistic group.
Writers and scholars have repeatedly pointed out that Mumbai lacks a singular indigenous identity in the conventional sense. Suketu Mehta, in his work on the city, compared it to New York, describing it as a place created by movement and ambition rather than ancestry. Gujaratis, Tamils, Malayalis, Tulus, North Indians, Parsis, Marathas and countless others have all left indelible marks on the city’s character.
Mumbai has carried many names across its history, reflecting its layered past and shifting rulers. Each phase added something new, making exclusivity impossible. Historians like Gyan Prakash have noted that the city’s many lives overlap and merge, producing an identity that resists being boxed into a single narrative.
Language politics in Mumbai did not begin with Raj Thackeray. The undivided Shiv Sena once championed similar causes, initially targeting South Indian communities before redirecting its focus toward migrants from northern India in later decades. Slogans mocking traditional attire and language became tools of mobilisation, leaving scars that have never fully healed.
Despite this long history, Mumbai has continued to function precisely because its economic and social systems depend on inclusion. Across decades of parliamentary representation, nearly half of Mumbai’s MPs have been non-Marathi, reflecting the city’s plural character and electorate.
Not all communities, however, have faced equal scrutiny. Business groups such as Gujaratis and Marwadis, who wield significant economic influence, have largely remained outside the crosshairs of linguistic politics. Entire neighbourhoods dominated by Gujarati speakers exist without controversy, highlighting selective application of identity rhetoric.
By contrast, migrants from Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Tamil Nadu or Kerala—often working in informal sectors—have repeatedly borne the brunt of such campaigns. Their visibility and vulnerability make them easy targets during election seasons.
None of this diminishes the importance of Marathi language and culture. Marathi theatre, cinema, literature and festivals are integral to Mumbai’s soul and deserve celebration and support. But preserving a language is not the same as weaponising it for political gain.
Mumbai does not need cultural gatekeeping. It needs better housing policies, safer and more efficient public transport, resilient infrastructure, and systems that allow all residents to live with dignity. These issues cut across language, religion and region.
The city belongs equally to the Marathi Manoos and to the millions who arrived with nothing but helped build it brick by brick. For voters today, especially in municipal elections, language politics may resonate with a limited audience, but everyday governance challenges matter far more.
As veteran journalist Kumar Ketkar has observed, Marathi identity appeals mainly to a narrow demographic, while the larger electorate is concerned with pressing civic issues. Mumbai’s defining trait has always been its ability to absorb differences and transform them into collective strength. That, more than any linguistic test, is what truly makes someone a Mumbaikar.
