WHILE Americans and Britons squabbled last month over who's doing what to whose language, English-speakers in India could only wonder what the fuss was all about. Indians—and indeed Britons—have been mangling the language ever since it was introduced to the sub-continent.

In 1886, Henry Yule and AC Burnell compiled Hobson-Jobson, the first dictionary of Anglo-Indian. It consisted of words from Hindi and other Indian languages that had slipped into the speech of British soldiers and administrators posted on the subcontinent. (“Chutny: A kind of strong relish, made of a number of condiments and fruits… the merits of which are now well known in England.”)

Once the British left India, Anglo-Indian died a natural death. In its place came a chutnified Indian English that mixes American and British versions of the language with vernacular words and syntax and direct translations of phrases.

A glimpse of the breadth of influences in contemporary Indian English can be found at the delightfully-named Samosapedia. A cross between Hobson-Jobson and Urban Dictionary, the website modestly describes itself as “the definitive guide to South Asian lingo” and invites users to “catalog and celebrate the rich, diverse and ever-evolving landscape of this region's shared vernacular”. Over 2,500 words and phrases have been added since Samosapedia was launched at the end of June.

Samosapedia is a lot of fun. It is also fascinating. Many phrases it lists are common across India: A "chaddi buddy" (lit: underwear friend) is someone you've known since childhood; “kabab mein haddi” (lit: a bone in the kebab) is a third wheel with better imagery; an “enthu cutlet” (lit: an enthusiastic mincemeat croquette) is an overly earnest soul. But then there are those that come from regions, sub-cultures and even neighbourhoods. “Talking-shalking” highlights the Punjabi fondness for rhyme. “Sandra from Bandra” is a stereotype from a predominantly Catholic suburb of Mumbai. “Send it” refers to smoking pot.

The entries at Samosapedia also offer an insight into how Indian culture is changing. “Traditional with modern outlook”, often found in matrimonial ads, encapsulates the evolving nature of arrange marriage—or “love-cum-arranged marriage”—where the prospective bride and groom have far greater say in their partners than earlier generations did. “Behenji-turned-mod” is a condescending term for a traditional woman transitioning from fusty and oily-haired to a more urban, socially acceptable version of herself. It is telling that these undoubtedly modern but widely-used phrases exist in Hinglish, a portmanteau of Hindi and English.

With thousands of dialects and 22 official languages, Indians have always been good at mixing things together. “Bambaiyya Hindi”, or the Mumbai version of Hindi, includes words from English, Marathi, Gujarati, Urdu and occasionally Arabic. Delhi's Hindi is riddled with Urdu, Punjabi and Bengali. In daily speech, Hindi and Urdu intermingle freely—for example, dhanyavaad and shukriya (thank you) are used interchangeably—in what linguists used to call Hindustani, the lingua franca of the sub-continent.

Like Spanglish and Chinglish, Hinglish is a convenient moniker. But it isn't a single thing, but rather a catch-all term for the many Englishes that exist within India. Explore Samosapedia for a while and you find an entire family tree for what is essentially a mongrel language. For a native speaker of Indian English (such as this Johnson), it is a joy to find entirely new bits of vernacular. Suringified? Give? Take? What? But it is also gratifying (and slightly annoying) to find that words and phrases I thought were specific to my circles in Mumbai, where I grew up, are actually widespread and well-worn.

The founders of modern India wanted Hindustani to unite the country. South Indian speakers of Dravidian languages considered that a cultural imposition from the north. English has no such baggage. As English-speakers proliferate, it may not be too far-fetched to think that Hinglish could one day become a Hindustani for the 21st century: a second language through which all Indians can communicate with each other—and irritate language purists on both sides of the Atlantic.