Case and Case-Endings – 2 (Discourse 13)

I have already discussed the second case to some extent. Now let us see how far it is meaningful to link the second case with the accusative. Let us also see to what extent the second case has a right to its claim to be a separate case.

Rám bhát khácche [Ram is eating rice] – as far as case goes both Rám and bhát are in the first case but bhát is accusative. We do not say bhátke khácche; we say bhát khacche. In the active voice there is a direct syntactic relationship between the subject and the verb; thus the subject has to be present. The existence of the subject remains substantiated without the presence of an object but without the subject the existence of the object cannot be substantiated. In the passive voice and the impersonal voice the syntactic relationship between subject and object is indirect. For example, ámár dvárá dekha hayeche [It has been seen by me]. It is for this reason that the first case has been placed first in the sentence.

Now the question arises, why does the first case-ending precede the second case-ending? Why is the second case-ending not first?

This same question can be asked of the alphabet. Why does the letter a come before the letter á in the list of vowels? Similarly, why does ka come before kha among the consonants? The reason is that a is the acoustic root of creation. Because a is the first sound in the creation it has been placed at the beginning of the alphabet. If two a’s are joined together then they become á. It is not enough that they are placed one after the other; they have to be joined together.

In the case of the consonants, ka is an unaspirated letter. When ha is added to ka it creates the aspirated letter kha. Children and less-educated adults feel difficulty pronouncing the aspirated letters such as kha, gha, cha, etc. One reason is that the unaspirated letter is placed before its concerning aspirate. Another is that in the error-filled vulgar language the aspirates are, for all practical purposes, not pronounced. For example, kháiyá jáo is pronounced káiyá jáo. In other words, in this case the aspirate is pronounced as an unaspirated letter.

Among the twelve dialects of Bengali, there are four in which one can say that there is, for all intents and purposes, no pronunciation of the aspirates. In two dialects there is partial pronunciation and in the remaining dialects they are pronounced. But this is not to say that they are always pronounced in those dialects. For instance, there is proper pronunciation of the aspirates in Calcutta Bengali, but we only actually pronounce them when they come at the beginning of a word. Elsewhere we write them as aspirates and we think of them as aspirates but we pronounce them the same as their related non-aspirates. We write chele and we consciously pronounce the cha as an aspirate but when we write mách we consciously pronounce the word as mác. Similarly, we consciously say karci for karchi and jácci for jácchi. Though we are aware of the pronunciation and knowingly pronounce the unaspirated letter in place of the aspirate, nevertheless it remains altogether undesirable to spell it with the unaspirated letter in such instances. Some writers spell it this way but by doing so they are introducing a disorder into the language which is harmful for students. Similarly, we pronounce kát́ instead of kát́h, deki instead of dekhi, and katá instead of kathá. If I say it that way, should I spell it that way also? Absolutely not!

Generally speaking, in Rarhi Bengali and Shersháhvádiyá Bengali (Malda – Murshidabad) the aspirates are fully pronounced throughout. Whenever a certain maternal uncle of mine from Calcutta saw me he would ask: Keman ácis khoká? [How are you, my boy?] I used to reply: Bhála áci, mámábábu [I am fine, uncle.]. Another maternal uncle of mine from Berhampore used to ask me: Keman áchis, khoká? and I used to answer bhála áchi. When I would meet a certain cousin of mine he would ask: Keman áshas? and I used to answer vála ashi.

As with the aspirated and unaspirated letters, the common people often mix up the pronunciation of antahstha letters and vargiiya letters, putting the antahstha letter first and the vargiiya after, especially if it is a two-syllable word that contains á. For example, se láph diyeche [He has jumped]. Here la is an antahstha letter and pha is a vargiiyá letter. From time to time uneducated people in certain areas reverse the letters while pronouncing the word and say hyá, ed́á phál dishe. Similarly they exchange a preceding vargiiya letter with the following one because the latter vargiiya letters leave a strong impression on the tongue while pronouncing them. For example, instead of saying d́ekci we say decki. We call báksa báska. Riksha becomes riská. In Magahii they say ámdii hathii instead of ádmii hathii. The word ádmii is originally Semitic.

The letter ka prepresents saḿvrttibodhicitta, that is, ka is a physical transplantation of psychic idea, thus it occupies the first position in the list of consonants. Ka is káryyabrahma.

Anyhow I was speaking about case. The nominative case is a fully developed case. No sentence can exist without a subject while it can exist without an object. Thus, as far as case goes, the nominative comes first and the accusative follows it. For example, “I am going”. This sentence has the nominative but not the accusative. This can work with an intransitive verb.

In olden times people used to form words based on sounds (sound-imitative words are formed in this way). Then, when different cases were made, they no longer used the original words. The life of people in those days was centred around their clans. Their oral language was very undeveloped. At most they learned to say a few words, thus their vocabulary was quite limited. Under pressure for survival the different clans used to fight with each other. In that backward age they used to call their own clan or group asmad and the other clan or group jusmad. Then gradually, while adjusting to the changes in language, the number of cases increased. After the nominative case came the accusative, instrumental, dative, ablative, genitive, locative and vocative cases. Slowly, along with the cases the case-endings also became separate. The first case-ending form of the nominative remained very close to the original root word. The second case-ending accusative became a little further removed, and the third even more so. In this way, moving further and further away, the vocative case finally returned to the first case-ending word form. The difference is that the vocative is not a genuine case because it is not directly connected with the verb. Of course it is certainly connected indirectly and in certain special cases directly. For example, bho ráma, mám uddhara or dádá go, ekt́u egiye eso [O brother, come forward a bit]. However, whether the vocative case be direct or indirect, most of the time it remains connected with the imperative.

Now the question arises, how did this vocative case come into existence? In the old forested or sparsely populated areas there was often a need to call someone from far away. The vocative case was formed from this call. Say, for example, someone’s name is Ratneshvar. If we try call them from far away by lengthening the closed syllable shvar in the name Ratneshvar it presents difficulties; thus the sound was shortened to an open syllable – Ratneshvá. Shá is an open syllable. Of course, in Bengali many people do not want to accept the vocative case as a separate case.

At any rate, the closely related nominative which came from the original word asmad was aham. Thereafter, according to number and case, subsequent words gradually became further removed from the original word or case. For example, the singular aham gradually became ávám in dvivacana [dual number] and vayam in the plural.(1) Here ávám and vayam, which came from aham, are even further removed from the original word asmad. The accusatives – mám, má; ávám, nao; asman, nah – became even further removed. In this way a need was felt for the different cases and for this reason separate case-endings came into existence.

Now let us move on to the second case. It is said that if the accusative case is to be preserved then the second case-ending must be retained. Some languages have a separate form for the second case while in some languages its function is accomplished with the help of an indeclinable to indicate the second case, sometimes fully and sometimes partially. It should be pointed out that in Sanskrit there is a separate form for the second case. All languages have the accusative but not all languages have a separate form for the second case. Some languages have a different means for recognizing the accusative case. If the second case-ending is used for the accusative then it facilitates understanding of the language. For example, if I say Rám bhátke khácche, [Ram is eating rice] then, due to the presence of sign indicating the second case [ke] attached to bhát, there is no difficulty in understanding the meaning of the sentence, that Ram is eating the rice rather than the rice eating Ram. Of course, we can also understand who is eating whom from the meaning of the sentence. English does not have a separate case-ending for the accusative. The indeclinable “to” indicating the accusative accomplishes the task. However “to” is not always used with the accusative.

The Sanskrit aham is nominative and the accusative is mám, not ahamam or asmadam. Mám is a second case-ending word. In Sanskrit there is no connection between aham and mám. The English word for aham is “I”. In English ámáke is “to me”, not “to I”. As in Sanskrit, the word “me” is very far removed from the original word. It is also a separate form of the second case. There is no connection between “I” and “me”. “Me” is a new word. Had aham been the first case in Sanskrit and ahamam the second case, then there would have been a connection between the two words. However the second case became mám, ávám, asman. For this reason Sanskrit is a little difficult to learn. Bengali is easy by comparison.

The Sanskrit language is bound by the dos and don’ts of grammar; thus in order to learn the language one has to learn the rules of grammar as well. Bengali is much easier in that respect. In Bengali ámi is used in the first case and ámáke (that is, ámi-ke) in the second. In Hindi and Urdu maen is used in the first case and although maenko would be straightforward and simple if it were used in the second, mujhko is used instead. Thus Hindi is relatively harder to learn than Bengali.

The Sanskrit second case mám is má in the Vedic language. In Sanskrit ávám is used, in Vedic nao; in Sanskrit asman and in Vedic nah. The Sanskrit word má has three meanings: “tongue”, “to me” and “no” (negation). From this comes the Bengali word máná. Máná karechen means ná-ná karechen [they have prohibited]. In Hindi we say maná kiye. The Hindi maná is spelled without the long “a” [á] but in fact it should be spelled with á, that is, the word is not maná but máná.

Earlier I said that the Vedic word má means “to me”. It bears no relation to the word asmad. The Vedic nao means “to the two of us”. Nah means “to us”. In Sanskrit the visarga equals s (with hasanta) equals r (with hasanata) equals h (with hasanta). That is, nah and nas are the same thing. The word nas is used in Russian. In French the word vous and nous are pronounced bhu and nu respectively. Of course in French the final “s” is silent.

Anyhow, if we say jyotih in Sanskrit it can be pronounced in three ways – jyotis, jyotir and jyotih. According to the rules of Sanskrit, if a vowel follows a visarga then the visarga is dropped, however if it is followed by a consonant then it is not dropped. For example, if one says jyotihke ballum then it is spelled with the visarga but jyoti + indra becomes jyotirindra because it is a compound word.

At any rate, although the second case-ending is found in Sanskrit or Vedic, in Bengali there is often no linguistic sign to indicate the second case. For example, Rám bhát khacche [Ram is eating rice]. Of course in Rarhi Bengali they still say mui gharake jechi [I am going home] and in Oriya they say mu gharaku jibi.

After this comes the third case. It is said that the third case is the instrumental case. The instrumental has been accepted as a separate case in all of the world’s developed languages. In Sanskrit the instrumental case is the third case because it is directly linked to the verb in the active voice. It is indirectly linked in the passive and impersonal voices. Thus it has to be accepted, otherwise there will be no sentence. In Sanskrit the third case is fixed for the instrumental but in Bengali, Hindi and other Indian languages there is no fixed case for the instrumental, nor does it have any separate form. In Bengali the instrumental indeclinable dvárá is used after the sixth case-ending to form the third case. For example, ámár dvárá ei káj habe ná [This work will not be done by me]; in Hindi mere dvárá is used, or even more idiomatically mujhse. For example, mujhse yah kám nahii ho páegá. Here mujhse is the ablative form. It is an idiomatic expression of Hindi.

The instrumental case exists in Bengali but there is no separate form for the third case. Furthermore, the instrumental is often formed by using an instrumental verb after the second case-ending. For example, Ámáke diye ei káj habe ná. The third case is formed in English in the same way by using an instrumental indeclinable. In English the prepositions “by” and “with” are used. The preposition “by” is used to show a direct link with the verb and the preposition “with” to show an indirect link. For example, “The room has been cleaned by Sita with the help of a broom”. Nowadays one sees confusion in the use of these two. Most likely it is not being taught properly in the schools and colleges. In some places it seems that the error persists.

In Sanskrit in all such cases a suffix has been fixed for the original subject and for the secondary or minor subject. In the case of the principal subject, the suffix śak is affixed to the verbal root and for the secondary subject the suffix ńak is added to the verbal root to form the adjective. For example, Dhopá raung diye kápaŕ chopácche [The washerman is staining the clothes with dye].(2) The Sanskrit for dhopá [washerman] is rajaka or sabhásundara, just as the Sanskrit for nápit [barber] is parámáńika or narasundara. Dhopá or rajaka is the principal subject, thus the suffix śak is added to the verbal root ranj to form the word rajaka, that is, “one who dyes clothes”. If the suffix ńak is added to the verbal root ranj then it forms the word raiṋjaka, that is, “an object with which something is dyed” or “the dye which has been bought from the market”. Here there is a similarity between English and Sanskrit. Just as Sanskrit has different suffixes for the principal and the secondary subject, similarly in English there are separate prepositions for the same reason. Since English does not have a separate form for the third case as Sanskrit does, this is accomplished by the prepositions “by” and “with”. The third case form for the word asmad is mayá. This is very far removed from the first case form aham, so it is a new form. Thus just because one knows the original word in Sanskrit, it does not mean that one can know what the third case form will be. The third case form will have to be learned and remembered separately, especially in the case of pronouns. In French the situation is somewhat similar to Sanskrit.

In Bengali and most Indian languages there is no separate form for the third case. However, needless to say, the instrumental case certainly exists. In Sanskrit the word karańa [instrumental, cause] used to be used to indicate the idea that governmental laws were linked with action. Certainly this is the fundamental principle in the instrumental case. Thus in ancient India and during the Buddhist era as well, those who were closely connected to government paperwork were called karańa. Karańa means Káyashta (sadbaoddha-karańa-káyattha-t́hakkura) [one of the principal castes].

In Sanskrit the third case is not only instrumental. Adhvakálábhyám apavarge. That is, the third case is used for apavarga.(3) Manuś rástáy cale – care ná [Man walks in the road, he doesn’t graze]. The verb carati is used to mean “move while eating”, not calati. A person walks but a cow grazes. In Hindi gáy cartii hae. In Bhojpuri gáy caratiiyá. However, if a person eats while walking then in that case it is not unreasonable to use the word carche although it is not done. Some of us eat cánácur or jhálmuŕi or peanuts when we are walking, do we not? However if someone says that we are grazing [carchi] then our self-respect will suffer a blow. How can we keep our self-respect like that!

In Sanskrit, if one holds to a specific path, moves along it, finishes the work and reaps its fruits as well, then the third case-ending is used to indicate this. It is the instrumental case. In Bengali the seventh case is used in this situation and the case will also be the locative case. For example, se pathe khete khete jácche o ek ghańt́áy se khele [He is eating while going down the road and in one hour he ate it.]. Here pathe and ghańt́áy are in the seventh case.

In Sanskrit there are three kinds of locatives – káládhikarańa, bhávádhikarańa and ádhárádhikarańa [the locatives of time, idea and base]. Many do not accept káládhikarańa in Bengali but it must be accepted.

In what we have been discussing till this point it has been shown, first of all, that in Sanskrit the third case means the instrumental but in Bengali and many Indian languages the third case does not have a separate form. Secondly, in English the instrumental indeclinables “by” and “with” are used for this purpose. However in this regard one must take into account the four English moods; in addition one will have to consider case and case-ending. The English synonym for káraka is “case” and the English synonym for káraka-vibhakti is “case-ending”. Mood shares the same properties as case. The indicative, imperative, subjunctive and infinitive moods are related to case. Take, for example, “to walk is a good exercise”. Here “to walk” is used as the nominative. There is no synonymous or equivalent word for mood in the Indian languages. Nor is there one in the Latin-derived languages.

The next subject for discussion is the dative case. It is said that the dative case [sampradána káraka] is the fourth case. Sam-pra-dá+anat́ is the derivation of sampradána. In ancient times when the sages used to offer sacrifices they used to keep a standing offering intended for the gods along with their worship. To offer something permanently in this way is called sampradána. The dative case does not have any value as a case. Of course, in Sanskrit it has some value but not in any other modern language. At least in the two hundred or so languages I am talking about there is no such case as the dative case. Since there is no case there is also no separate case-ending or case indicator.

In Sanskrit the dative case has its own form or case-ending. If I say dhopáke kápaŕ dilum [I gave the washerman clothes] or bhikhárike kápaŕ dilum [I gave the beggar clothes] the difference between the two is that what I give to the washerman will be returned, that is, that giving is temporary, but what I give the beggar is permanent. For this reason the washerman will be in the second case in Sanskrit – rajakam – but the beggar will be in the fourth case – bhikśukáya. In Sanskrit this change is a change from the accusative case to the dative case, but in Bengali there is no such difference or change. In Bengali if one says diye dilum or dán karlum then it is understood that the giving is permanent so no need is felt there for the dative case.

Hindi is quite similar to Bengali in this regard. In Hindi ko is used to indicate the accusative case and it is also used for the dative case. This is not only true of Hindi or Urdu and Bengali; there is no such thing as the dative case in any Indian language. Students have been burdened with an extra grammatical load for no good reason. Something completely needless, extraneous and superfluous has been maintained in the grammar. It has no separate existence nor any separate case-ending. In Sanskrit rámáya, naráya and so on are used to indicate the dative case. In Sanskrit mahyam is used as the fourth case dative for the word asmad; it bears no relation to the original word. In Hindi and Urdu mujhko or mujhe is used for the dative. Neither one is fourth case. Mujhko is the second case and mujhe is the seventh.

In Sanskrit the fourth case is also used to mean “for”, for example, “namaskar for Shiva” – Shiváya namah. Here Shiva is put in the fourth case to mean “for Shiva”. The case indicator áya has been added. In Sanskrit the fourth case forms are une, bhyám, bhyas, but in Bengali or any other Indian language there is no separate form for the fourth case. In Bengali the fourth case is formed by adding the indeclinables janya, nimitta, lági, lege, lágiyá, etc. Similarly in Angika lelii, lá are added, in Maethilii lel, in Magahii lági, in Bhojpuri lá, vade, lági, khátir, in Oriya páni, and so on. In other words, all use an indeclinable denoting “for” along with the root word for the sixth case. For example, Tomá lági jege achi divánishi [I stay awake for you day and night]. In Sanskrit also the form used in the fourth case is very far removed from the original word. For example, asmad – mahyam.

Clearly we can say that while the dative case deserves to be preserved in Sanskrit, there is no need for it in any other language. Kabir has said: Saḿskrta kúpodaka, bhákhá vahatá niira. That is, the Sanskrit language is blocked like the water of a well but the mother tongue is like the flowing water of a river. Sanskrit is like a sitar with its frets fixed while the people’s language is like a violin without fixed frets – if you can stop the strings, though, it sounds very melodious.

That which is mastered by continued arduous practice is called dhrupada. The Sanskrit language has been bound by the composition of grammar. For this reason the Sanskrit language is called dhrupadii language. Other dhrupadii languages of this kind are old Arabic, Hebrew, Latin, old Greek and Pali. The Vedic language does not have any grammar, thus in this sense Vedic is not a dhrupadii language.

A certain type of music is also called dhrupadii. Some people mistakenly think that dhrupadii music refers perhaps to a special raga or raginii or a composition in that raga, but this is not the case. Dhrupada is a certain type of method or style where the music is fixed in a certain scale. This method or style differed from place to place. For example, in Agra, Jaonpur, Lucknow, Gwalior, Varanasi, Betiah, Vishnupur, and so on, each music found expression in its own style. And from each of these distinctive styles arose a separate Gharańa [a particular style or school]. But it is necessary to mention that all of these Gharańas, being confined to a particular ordering of the steps of the scale, gradually came to the point of dying out. Their condition became like that of women wearing the veil. The music became thirsty and anxious for the slightest respite, to breathe a little open air [háoyá]. Incidentally, the word háoyá is a Turkish word. In order to reform the Turkish alphabet and spelling, Kemal Pasha (Kemal Atatürk) introduced Roman script. Similarly, in order to reform the rule-bound style of music and in the hopes of breathing a little open air, there was an effort in the Mughal court to breathe some life into dhrupadii music. In this case, although the correct scale was maintained, freedom was given to the vocals to go here and there. This facility or opportunity was thus the music’s kheyál. This kheyál dhrupadii saved the music from the hands of monotony. Dhrupadii music was cultivated in the Vishnupurii Gharańa of Bengal but it did not create its own kheyál. Bengali music hardly ever used to be sung in dhrupadii style hence in that respect Bengali music was already somewhat free from this kind of monotony. It was for this reason, of course, that the need for kheyál was not felt in Bengali music.

When saḿgiita (the combined name for instrumental music, vocal music and dance is saḿgiita) is not bound fast by the scale, that is, when the singer enjoys sufficient freedom in their vocals, when the dancers can direct their steps to some extent according to their own wishes, when the musicians enjoy a certain freedom with the metre while playing, then this kind of saḿgiita, that is, dance, vocals and instrumental music, can be called folk song, folk music and folk dance. However this does not mean that this folk music will always remain classified as folk music. When it becomes bound by certain rules it will also rise to the level of dhrupadii, as has happened with Manipurii dance. This rising to the level of dhrupadii has two sides to it. On the one hand, when folk music rises to the level of dhrupadii it gains a certain respect, a certain prestige. On the other hand, this respect and prestige prevent it from moving ahead on its path. The flowing river full of vitality gets transformed into a swamp choked with water hyacinths – the sun of its fortune sinks forever into the mud and mire.

11 September 1983, Calcutta Footnotes

(1) Sanskrit has three numbers – singular, dual and plural. – Trans.

(2) Chopána and chápána are not identical. Applying colour to something is chopána and stamping an impression or print on something is chápána. The sari is dyed yellow – chopána. The sari is printed with an ornamental design – chápána.

(3) Apavarga is where the action is finished and the result has been reaped. –Trans.

Case and Case-Endings – 3 (Discourse 14)

The spoken Bengali of Midnapore is quite an old form of Bengali. Midnapore’s place in the cultural life of Bengal is also quite important. The people of Midnapore have never lost their vitality of life, even when passing their days enduring countless insults. Indeed, in the pre-Pathan era, the Pathan and Mughal eras, and even in the beginning of British rule, which was witness to the Chuyar Rebellion [cuyáŕ vidroha], we have seen great agitation for freedom there; later, in 1942, there was an earth-shaking, stirring agitation. I can see today that many of you have come here from Midnapore. The spoken language of the western part of Midnapore, which means Jhaŕgrám subdivision, is a dialect of central Rarhi Bengali. This same dialect is prevalent in Mayurbhainj and Singhbhum. The spoken language of the southern coastal areas of Midnapore, from the mouth of the Rasulpur River to the mouth of the Suvarnarekha River, I have named Contai Bengali. The full pronunciation of the consonants is present in great measure in this dialect. Based on the evidence, it is easy to arrive at the conclusion that the poet Kalidasa was from this area.

Anyhow, the northern part of our well-known land of Rarh, which we generally call north Rarh, was known in olden times as Varddhamán Bhukti. Roughly speaking, north Rarh consisted of modern-day Birbhum, Dumka, Dhanbad, western Murshidabad, Burdwan and Hooghly. Southern Rarh, or Dańd́a Bhukti, consisted of certain parts of Hooghly, certain parts of Burdwan, Howrah, Midnapore, Bankura, Purulia, Singhbhum, Baleshwar and certain parts of Mayurbhainj District. This Dańd́a Bhukti was invaded several times during the reign of the Kesharii kings of Orissa (Anantakesharii, Yayatikesharii). During the Maratha invasions, when part of Orissa’s revenue had to be given to the Marathas, the then nawab, Alivarddi Khan, placed certain parts of Midnapore, along with 24 Paraganas, Chittagong and Burdwan, partially in the hands of the British. Dańd́a Bhukti was known as Hijlii during the Pathan and the beginning of the Mughal eras. When what we call kájubádám [cashew nut] was brought to this country by the Portuguese, it was first cultivated in Hijlii. Thus the actual Bengali name for cashew nut is hijlii bádám. This nut was also cultivated extensively in Kerala. When the farmers of that region wanted cash value in exchange for their nuts they used to pronounce it as “cashu”. Consequently the name hijlii bádám later became “cashew nut”. A certain gájii from a region in Turkey by the name of Soharward arrived in Hijlii to preach his religion.(1) He wanted to convert Hijlii into an ideological centre for his religion, thus he gave it the name Madinápur. When Nawab Alivarddi Khan turned over this Madinápur to the British they christened it “Midnapore”. Rather than using either name, Midnapore or Madinápur, the local people call it Mediniipur. Near the end of British rule Bengal’s first minister (at that time he was not called chief minister) was Mr. H. S. Soharwardi, a descendant of the gájii who came from Soharward. This Midnapore is an ideological centre for various reasons.

The next subject of discussion is the ablative case [apádána káraka]. The word apádána s derived apa – á – dá + anat́. It means “to take something from something else”. In Bengali the indeclinables hate [from], theke, t́heine (t́háni-e), and so on, are used for this. Similarly in Hindi the indeclinable se is used, in Oriya ru, etc.

It is said that the ablative is the fifth case. The root word of the word paiṋcamii [fifth] is panc. It is a Vedic word which means “hand-work”. Whatever may be the work done by the hand – whether patting someone on the back or making rice-cakes – it all comes within the scope of panc. In later times the word shilpana came to be used in Sanskrit for work done by hand. Thus one who did work by hand, or shilpana kriyá, is a shilpii. Nowadays the word shilpii is used all over. For example, one who sings is called kańt́hashilpii [vocal artist]. Now we can call someone skilled in handiwork a shilpii, for example, vayanashilpii [knitter], tantushilpii [weaver], and so on. But how is it that one who is skilled in vocal work can be called shilpii? On the one hand, the word yantrashilpii [instrumentalist] can be used. The word shilpii can work for someone who plays a sitar. But the word kańt́hashilpii is not correct. The word kańt́hashilpii is an oxymoron like “gold stone-dish”. A dish can be gold or a dish can be stone but it cannot be both. Similarly, one who sings is a gáyaka [singer], not a shilpii. Those who sing are called gáyaka if they are male and gáyakii if they are female. Many people call lady singers gáyiká but this is incorrect; the proper word is gáyakii because gae + ńaka = gáyaka. By adding the feminine suffix uniip we get gáyakii. I would like to add here that as with gáyiká, the word seviká is incorrect. Nevertheless the feminine form seviká of the word sevaka is extremely common. Its correct form is sevaká.

Now the question is: why is iṋa used to spell paiṋca instead of na or ḿ? The rule for both Sanskrit and Vedic is that if the original word or original verbal root is spelled with the apadánta na or ma then the corresponding word takes the fifth letter of that varga. For example, the original verbal root panc is pronounced with apadánta na and since ca is added to it then it is spelt with the fifth letter of the ca varga, or iṋa. The word sauṋga comes from the verbal root sanj in accordance with the very same rule. Here the na is not padánta, it is not at the end of the word. Since the ja is replaced by ga then the concerned varga’s fifth letter is used, that is, una instead of na. For this reason it is spelled unga. Similarly the word raiṋjana comes from the verbal root rańj. The ńa in rańj is apadánta, so instead of ńa or ḿ the fifth letter ina is used. Similarly, gauṋgá is spelled with unga. The word gauṋgá is derived gam + gam + d́a + feminine á. Gam means “towards ga” and ga here means “an extensive land”. Gam + d́a + feminine á = gá, that is, “a woman who so goes”. Gauṋgá means “that river which flows through an extensive land” – from Gangotri towards Gangasagar. Gauṋgá is spelled with padánta ma, thus should it not have an anusvár? No, it does not because even though the m (with hasanta) of the first gam is padánta, it is not by itself a word or a verbal root. It is the singular second case of the word ga. After the second gam is joined to the first the ma is dropped so it does not come under consideration. Hence gauṋgá is definitely spelled with the fifth letter of the ga varga, that is, unga. However in the spelling of sampádak, shauṋkar, and so on, either the fifth letter ma, or una, or the anusvára can be used, that is, either sampádak or saḿpádak, shauṋkar or shaḿkar. Nowadays we see a tendency to spell gauṋgá with the anusvára instead of una, but this is incorrect. In some languages they go so far as to spell the word vasanta as vasaḿta.

As I was saying, the original Vedic word panc means “work done by hand”. Now the hand has five fingers, thus the meaning of panc became “five”. The Vedic panc became painj in Farsi; it also means “five”. That which is formed out of five áb, or five streams of water, is paiṋjáb. An impress of five fingers is called paiṋjá in Farsi. Fighting with the wrist and the help of five fingers is called paiṋjá kaśá.

The rule that the ablative case is the fifth case is followed closely in Sanskrit. The ablative case uses the fifth case-ending to indicate that something is taken from a specific source. For example, narát [from man], Rámát [from Rama], and so on.

In Sanskrit the fifth case has its own separate form but this is not true in Bengali or in any other Indian language. In most cases the fifth case is formed by adding ablative-indicating indeclinables, such as theke, ceye, hate, etc. after the sixth case-ending, for example, Rámer theke [from Ram]. In Hindi the indeclinable se is added to form the fifth case, for example, Ramse. In such an instance there is no need for the sixth case-ending. In English the preposition “from” is used for this purpose. In old English “unto” was also used. In the old English of twelve hundred years ago “unto” had three common uses corresponding to “towards”, “to”, and “from”. In modern English “unto” is practically not used at all, however in the Bible it is used to mean “to”.

In old Bengali, from fifteen hundred years ago to about six hundred years ago, the word hante was used, meaning hate [from]. The word hante appears in the Sriśt́irahasya, written by Saeyad Mohamad Alawal, the court poet of the king of Arakan. The language of the people of Arakan was Magii, a Burmese language. Bear in mind here that all languages in Burma are Burmese languages. For example, Arakanii or Magii, Chin, Kachin, Tenaserim, Burman and so on. However the principal language is Burman. It is also the language of the central government. Although Magii is a Burmese language, it is not Burman. All of these Burmese languages are written in more or less the same script. Of course there is a slight difference between some of the letters. The Burmese alphabet is Indo-Aryan, that is, it is formed with the Indian letters – a, á, ka, kha, etc.

The script of Thailand’s Thai language and of the Tibetan language belong to the same family. Although the people of these lands belong to the Mongolian race, unlike the Chinese their scripts are not pictorial, but rather Indo-Aryan. The royal language or government language of Arakan was Bengali. The word hante was common in the Bengali of that time. Saeyad Alawal has written:

Káke kalla nirbalii káháke bali ár Háŕ hante nirmiyá karaya puni hár

The modern Bengali word haite or hate comes from the word hante. The ablative-indicating indeclinable theke comes from the old Burmese word táikiyá. The Burmese word táikiyá became táikyá in the southern Chittagong dialect and from this comes the modern Bengali thákiyá or theke. The mixed dialect that was formed from an admixture of Magii and southern Chittagong’s Coxbazaar dialect is known colloquially as Zarvadi Bengali. The word táikiyá no longer exists in modern Magii or Burmese but theke is used extensively in modern Bengali.

All languages have an ablative case. In Bengali and most of the Indian languages the fifth case is created by first putting the original word in the sixth case and then adding the corresponding ablative-indicating indeclinable. For example, from maen [I] comes mujhse [from me]. Urdu follows the same rule. In Hindi and Urdu se functions in both the third and fifth cases. “With” does not fall into any specific case. Even though in Sanskrit “with” indicates the third case and makes it instrumental (as in saha-yoge trtiiyá [adding “with” makes it third case]), saha-yoge trtiiyá does not hold true in Bengali. Adding “with” makes it the sixth case and genitive as well – in Sanskrit, mayá saha [with me], Rámeńa saha [with Ram], but in Bengali ámár saunge, Rámer saunge.

Nowadays in modern Bengali many people use the word sáthe interchangeably with saunge, however the word sáthe is not native Bengali; it comes from Hindi and Gorkhali. In pure Bengali and pure Maethilii the use of saunge is more proper. In our Calcutta Bengali we do not say sathe; we say saunge.

Even though there is great grammatical similarity between Hindi and Urdu there are some differences as well, for example, gender. There used to be more difference between Hindi and Urdu in the feminine plural, however nowadays that has lessened somewhat. For example, in Hindi laŕkiyán já rahiin thiin. Formerly in Urdu one used to write laŕkiyán ja rahiin thiin. Of course, in the beginning people used to write it this way in Hindi as well. According to the normal rule, foreign words are feminine in Hindi. However this rule is not followed very strictly because there are many exceptions (what we call in Hindi apavád). For example, the word kalam [pen] is foreign (Farsi). Kalam is feminine in Hindi. It is not only because it is foreign. The Sanskrit synonym for kalam is lekhanii which is also feminine. Hence kalam is feminine in Hindi, that is, we say merii kalam [my pen]. Since kalam is a foreign word it should also be feminine in Urdu but it is not. It is masculine in Urdu, that is, one says merá kalam. If we use the word kalam in Hindi in masculine form then it does not mean a writing pen; it means “grafted plant”, as in “mango graft”, “blackberry graft”, and so on.

The Farsi word dukán changes gender when the spelling changes. If it is spelled with u – dukán – then it is feminine, for example, merii dukán. But if we spell it with ú – dúkán – then it becomes masculine, that is, merá dúkán.

Different rules also exist side by side in Hindi for some half-Sanskrit words, for example, cálcalan. Some people use it in masculine gender and others in feminine. The Urdu synonym for átmá [soul] is rúh. Rúh is feminine so in Hindi many people use átmá in feminine gender. However the word átmá is not feminine in Sanskrit, so in order to maintain concordance with Sanskrit some people use it in masculine gender. I support the second opinion so in my Hindi writings I have generally used the word átmá as masculine.

In Hindi number and gender affect the verb. In English number affects the verb but gender does not, for example, “he goes”, but “they go”. In this case number affects the verb according to the general rule. But if I say “Ram is going and Sita is going” then one can see that gender does not affect the verb while number does.

The languages of Bihar also have an ablative case but they do not have a separate form for the fifth case-ending. As in Bengali the fifth case is constructed in these languages by adding an indeclinable, se, after the sixth case form. Incidentally, it should be mentioned that the pronunciation of se is somewhere between se and sa. For example, the Hindi for “from me” is mujhse. In Angika it is hamrásan. In Oriya ru is added to make the fifth case, for example, vrkśaru (in Oriya the pronunciation is vrukśaru).

Anyhow, all languages have the ablative case but no Indian language apart from Sanskrit has a separate form for the fifth case-ending. There was no Vedic grammar. Early on there was no Vedic dictionary; only towards the end of the Vedic era did it come into existence. The famous composer of the Vedic dictionary, Yaska, lived long after the end of Rgvedic age. Since there was no Vedic grammar the question of what was correct and what was incorrect did not arise. Often errors were accepted because they were common usage among the Aryans. For example, during the Rgvedic age the word shikśa was pronounced as if it had a long ii, that is, if it was written it would have been written shiikśa. Similarly, the verbal root ji was used in átmanepadii, for example, jayate, jayete, jayante (that is, te, áte, ante). However in Sanskrit the verbal root ji is parasmaepadii, in other words, jayati, jayatah, jayanti (or ti, tas, anti). Generally in Sanskrit if a prefix is added before a parasmaepadii verbal root then it becomes átmanedpadii, for example, vijayate. Later on Panini faced a lot of difficulties because of this, so he made a compromise between the two and gave it the name ubhayapadii [ubhaya means “both”].

Verbs are not used in átmanepadii form at all in Laokika Sanskrit. By accepting them as ubhayapadii he was able to maintain concordance [bojhápaŕá] with the Vedic language.(2) Another example is the verbal root cal [to move]. In Laokika Sanskrit this verbal root is 99.99 percent parasmaepadii but Panini accepted it as ubhayapadii. Apart from one saying of the Buddha, one will not come across any other example of the verbal root cal being used as átmanepadii. That saying of the Buddha is:

Ihásane shuśyatu me shariiraḿ Tvagasthimáḿsaḿ pralayaiṋca yátu Aprápya bodhiḿvahukalpadurlabháḿ Naevásanát káyamatashcalisyate

[Let my body be parched in this posture. Let the bones, flesh and skin perish. My body will not move even an inch from this position unless I attain the supreme enlightenment which is difficult to attain in lives together.]

At any rate, whether or not the ablative case has a separate form, it exists in all languages. In Bengali hate, theke, haite, t́heine, and so on, are used for this purpose. Some people might be a little surprised to hear the word t́heine but there is no cause for wonder because all languages have distinctive [áládá] specialities of pronunciation and meaning. For example, the English word “double” also means “double” in Bengali, but in Angika it means “very big”. It is worth pointing out here that the word áládá comes from a Farsi word, aláhidá. Nowadays this word áládá can no longer be separated [áládá kará] from the Bengali language.

I was saying before that the word kalam is feminine in Hindi and masculine in Urdu. The feminine gender is used in Hindi to refer to weapons but barchá [spear], pharsá [axe], bhálá [lance], etc. are masculine in Hindi although they denote specific weapons. The word talvár is feminine in Hindi but masculine in Urdu.

The next subject of discussion is the genitive case. The genitive is the sixth [śaśt́hii] case. The word śaśt́hii begins with the letter śa. The Yajurvedic pronunciation of śa is kha, so the Yajurvedic pronunciation of śaśt́hii is khaśt́hii. However if it is in the beginning of a compound letter then it is not pronounced kha. In Bihar the word śad́ayantra is pronounced khaŕyantra following the Yajurvedic pronunciation. In the same way santośa is pronounced santokha in Panjabi and shiśya is pronounced shikh.

Anyway, the sixth case is used to relate one with another. In Bengali the indicator for the sixth case is r or er. For example, kalikátár, Rámer. If the last letter ends with the pronunciation of a consonant then er is added, for example, varddhamán-er → varddhamáner. Although varddhamán is not spelled with a hasanta it is pronounced as if it had one. Hence it is varddhamáner, but cuncŕor.

Just as r and er are added to form the sixth case, e, te, and ete are added to form the seventh case. E is added in all cases except for those words ending in i, ii, u or ú. Ete is added after those words whose pronunciation ends with an hasanta, whether or not they are spelled that way, and te added in the remaining cases. For example, Krśnanagar-e, Varddhamán-ete, Kalikátá-te.

This kind of rule does not exist in Sanskrit. The sixth case-ending form differs according to the word. For example, the singular sixth case form of the word nara is narasya, but the sixth case singular for muni is muneh. For such reasons it is difficult to learn the word forms in Sanskrit. In English “of” and apostrophe “s” are used to make the sixth case. The pronunciation of “of” in English is like “ov”. Many mistakenly pronounce it like “off” but this is incorrect. “Off” means “far” and is spelt with double “f”.

Hindi uses different indicators for the sixth case according to number and gender, namely ká, kii, ke. Ká is used for the masculine, kii for the feminine and ke for the masculine plural, for example, Rám ká bhái [Ram’s brother], Rám kii bahan [Ram’s sister], and so on. In Marwari rá, ri and re are used; in Panjabi da, dii, and de; in Angika ra and ker; in Maethilii ak and ke; in Bhojpuri ke and ka; in Oriya ra and aḿk; in Assamese ra; and so on. In French the definite article (the) changes according to the gender – le for the masculine, la for the feminine and les for the plural. This change in the definite article does not take place in English, nor in Hindi. Nor is there any change according to gender in the numerical article in either English or Hindi and Urdu. In other words, both masculine and feminine use ek [one]; the feminine does not use ekii. In English “a” or “one” remains unchanged but in French the numerical article also changes according to gender. The masculine form is un and the feminine is une. In this respect English is a bit more difficult than Bengali, Sanskrit even more difficult, Hindi more difficult still and French quite difficult.

Many people do not accept the genitive case as a true case, but this is a matter that deserves careful consideration. As regards the genitive case, in Bengali the sixth case does not maintain a direct link with the verb, but often it maintains an indirect link due to the influence it exerts over the verb. For example, Rámer bhái khácche [Ram’s brother is eating]. Here there is no direct relationship between the verb khácche and Rám, but since the one who is eating is related to Ram therefore Ram maintains an indirect relationship with the verb, especially if Ram’s brother does any true or untrue work of some magnitude. For example, Rámer bhái ek lakśádhik t́áká dán kareche [Ram’s brother has donated over one hundred thousand rupees]. The brother is giving – this is the root expression and it is nominative. However by saying “Ram’s brother”, the word “brother” is indirectly modified, and when people hear it they will say: “O, Ram’s brother! He would be the one to make the donation. He takes after his brother.” But if we say that Ram’s brother is drinking too much wine these days, then people will say: “Fie, fie! He’s Ram’s brother and he’s drinking! What a disgrace!” Thus the genitive indeed does indirectly influence the verb.

“Ram’s brother is eating.” Here “brother” is a noun and “Ram” qualifies this noun. Now that which qualifies a noun or a pronoun is an “adjective”. The verb cannot be qualified because a verb is not a qualitative entity, so in the case of the verb a modifier is used instead of a qualifier. That which modifies a verb is called an “adverb”. The adverb is linked to the verb, so the adverb is said to belong to the same family as the genitive. Hence if the adverb is accepted in the genitive sense then the genitive case must also be accepted. If brinjal [begun] dipped in gram flour and fried is begunii then will pat́ol dipped in gram flour and fried be pat́ol fried meat instead of pat́olii? Since the adverb modifies the verb it has to be accepted as genitive case. “The pandit’s boy drinks wine.” Nowadays many boys all over the world drink so there is nothing about this that is much cause for surprise. But the moment we hear that the pandit’s boy drinks, our surprise increases, is it not? In other words, even though the genitive case “pandit” is not directly connected to the verb, it cannot be denied that it influences the verb significantly. So therefore how can the need for the genitive be denied?

I mentioned earlier that Sanskrit has a separate form for the sixth case. However the sixth case form differs for different words and it can be very far removed from the original word. For example the sixth case form for the word asmad is mama or me, for ávayoh it is nao, and for asmákam it is nah. In the case of Hindi pronouns ham becomes hamárá, hamáre, hamárii; tum becomes tumhárá, tumháre, tumhárii; and so on, differing according to number and gender. In Bengali ámi becomes ámár and tumi becomes tomár. In English, although “of” and “ ’s” are used for the genitive case, there are fixed forms for the pronouns: “my” from “I”, “your” from “you”, “thy” from “thou”, and so on. If the genitive pronoun follows “of” then altered forms are used, that is, “my” becomes “mine”, “thy” becomes “thine”, “your” becomes “yours”, “her” becomes “hers” and “his” becomes “hiss” in old English – in modern English it is written with one “s”. In French “my” is mon, ma or mes depending on number and gender. A moi, a toi, etc. are used when the voice changes.

In Bengali and other modern Indian languages this kind of usage does not exist. In Sanskrit it exists to some extent but not so much, nor is there any need for it. In Sanskrit when there is an effort to speak circuitously or indirectly then generally this is done by making use of the sixth case, for example, máturna vyathate manah. In Bengali the sixth case is employed for this kind of expression, however there is less of this practice of indirect speech in Bengali. An example of indirect speech is:

Sakále vikále kabhu náoyá hale pare Gámachá kariyá tárá chot́a mách dhare

[After taking their bath, whenever it may be, morning or afternoon/they use their towel to catch small fish]

Although as far as languages go French grammar is quite difficult, in most cases more so than either Sanskrit or Latin, it is my firm conclusion that in the realm of ideas it is a very expressive language, one whose match is difficult to find in this world. Bengali also has great expressive power, however this power has not been harnessed as it should have been.

18 September 1983, Calcutta Footnotes

(1) Gájii if one survives, shahiid if one dies – in other words, in Islam when an individual offers their life in order to establish their religion but manages to survive they are called gájii. One who embraces death in order to establish their religion is called shahiid.

(2) Nowadays the Hindi synonym for bojhápaŕá [literally, “mutual understanding”] – samjhaotá – is spreading orally, but one should keep in mind that the word bojhápaŕá has not yet died out. Similarly, the word ekt́áná [continuous] still enjoys excellent health in Bengali though the synonym lágátár has entered the language.

Published in: Varńa Vijinána Chapter 15Previous chapter: Case and Case-Endings – 3 (Discourse 14)Next chapter: Proper Names – 1 (Discourse 16)Beginning of book Varńa Vijinána Case and Case-Endings – 4 (Discourse 15) Published in: Varńa Vijinána Case and Case-Endings – 4 (Discourse 15) The subject of today’s discussion is the locative [adhikarańa] case. Adhikarańa is derived by adding the prefix adhi and the suffix anat́ to the verbal root kr. In Sanskrit the suffix abhi means “great” and the suffix adhi means “extensive” or “collective”. The word adhikarańa means “that extensive land or field which gives rise to a completed action [karańa]”. This extensive land or field is dependent upon time, place and person. In order for anything to be established, it has to be established on the basis of place or land, idea or time. For this reason the grammarian Panini accepted three bases of things – time, idea and base. The three types of locatives were created on the basis of these three – the locative of time, the locative of idea and the locative of base.

Nowadays the locative of idea does not enjoy widespread acceptance, however it cannot in any way be negated. If we say sáhitye nipuńa [skilled in literature] then since sáhitya [literature] is an idea, it is classified as the locative of idea. In the word sáhitye, e is the indicator of the seventh case. When the inflection mayat́ is added to the root word guńa it becomes guńamaya. Guńamaya means “one who is filled with qualities”. Guńa [quality] is a base. The meaning of the word deshagata is “that thing or person which is within a country”. Desh [country] is a base, thus these belong to the locative of base. If we say sandhyábeláy [evening] then it refers to a particular time or a measure of time, a division of time, so it is the locative of time. Thus time, place, idea – all three can serve as a base. So these three have to be accepted as the locative case, that is, the locative of time, the locative of idea and the locative of base.

It is said that the locative is the seventh case. This hard and fast rule is followed in Sanskrit, however there are distinctive case-endings in Sanskrit that differ from word to word. In Bengali there are three endings used for the seventh case – e, te and ete. If a Bengali word ends in i, ii, u or ú then e is not added. In all other cases e is the ending. For example, Kalikátá-e (Kalikátáy), Pat́ná-e (Pat́náy), but instead of Kashii-e or Pálámu-e it is Káshiite and Pálámute. If a word ends with hasanta pronunciation (whether it is spelled that way or not) then ete can be added instead of e. For example, Varddhamáne or Varddhamánete, Krśnánagare or Krśńanagarete, and so on. Cuncŕo, however, is not spelled with ete because there is no hasanta pronunciation.

In Hindi me is used to indicate the locative case except in the case of pronouns. In the case of the pronouns tu [you - affectionate form] and maen [I] first jha is added and then e or me – tujhe, tujhme, mujhe, mujhme.

In Oriya re is added for the seventh case. Of course sometimes te is used in poetry; in such instances the seventh case replaces the first. In Bengali, for example, there is the saying págale ki ná bale, chágale ki ná kháy [what won’t a fool say, what won’t a goat eat!]. In Assamese at is used, for example gharat. In old Bengali te and ete were used more than e. For example, deshete áila Rám ánanda savár. However it should be pointed out that the language of poetry and the language of prose are not the same; poetry enjoys more leeway.

In Maethilii ma or mán are used for the seventh case, however in poetry moy [in me] and toy [in you] were used and continue to be. In one composition of the ancient poet Vidyapati this line appears: dayá janu choŕavi moy. More used to be used in Hindi poetry for the seventh case, however since this is a matter of poetry the grammar should not be based on it. Often doggerels do not follow properly the rules of grammar. In dialects as well it is often seen that the rules of grammar are not obeyed. In all such cases not only is the seventh used to replace the first and second cases, but in addition they go outside the fundamental grammatical structure. For example, in Burdwan District there is a lullaby which goes like this:

Áo re áo re báchá áo Kii lági kánda re báchá kii dhan cáo

[Come child, come/why are you crying? What treasure would you like?]

Nowadays the people of Burdwan District do not say áo; they say áy or ái. For example, in Oriya if we say – amaŕa (la) dhavaŕa (la) páŕe (la) láguchi manda madhura háoyá/Mote kabhu ná dekhilun kabhu ná sunilun emati tarańii vaoyá – then according to grammar these two lines are incorrect, but as far as usage goes they are not incorrect. Another example is: Mastakare dei hát kánducchanti rájáḿka mátáre/Keŕhen (ńa) gelun mor putra mo dhana re? From the standpoint of proper Oriya grammar mo dhana re should be mor dhana re but in poetry mo dhana re can be used. Anyhow, all languages need the three locatives – the locative of time, the locative of idea and the locative of base.

English uses the locative indicators “in”, “into”, “on”, “upon”, “unto”, “above”, and “within”. The preposition “in” is used when something is inside of something else, for example, “He is in the room.” If someone is outside and then comes inside then the preposition “into” is used, for example, “He went into the room”. It is most unfortunate that many people nowadays do not observe this distinction between “in” and “into” though they should. “Within” means “being inside” and “without” means “remaining outside”. “On” is used when something is above something else and touching it, for example, “The book is on the table”. When something is over something else but not touching it, that is, when there is a space between the two, then “upon” is used, for example, “The ceiling fan is upon the head”.(1) “Above” is similar to “upon”. The difference is that “above” is used equally for material and immaterial situations, but “upon” is not used so much for immaterial cases. For example, “He is looked upon as an elder brother but he is above all prejudice”. In certain cases a long-standing idiom violates this rule. An example is “Let him stand upon his own legs.” When a person stands on their own legs, they stand right on their legs, not above them, thus in this case “on” is more proper. Of course some people do use “on”, that is, “He stands on his own legs,” however “He stands upon his own legs” is more idiomatic.

At one time the word “unto” was very common in English. Nowadays this is no longer the practice though it is still used to some extent in biblical English. “Unto” used to be used in the sense of “to” and “from”.

Often we knowingly violate the rules of grammar for ease of use but this occurs in certain limited cases so it cannot be accepted as historical truth or arśa prayoga.(2) It would be better to consider it a common error. One cannot issue a grammatical ordinance and declare such usage forbidden. It is like saying in Bengali tini ekjan sambhránta paribárer santán [Literally, “He is the child of a ‘respected’ family”] to mean tini ekjan abhiját paribárer santán [“He is the child of an aristocractic family”]. The word sambhránta has been derived from sam – bhram + kta and its actual meaning is “one who has made a big mistake”. The Bengali words ám [mango], lebu [citrus fruit], áslo are such kinds of common errors. Similarly, many people use the words itipúrve [formerly], itimadhye [meanwhile], nishcayatá [certainty], prasáratá [extension, width], etc. incorrectly. The same thing happens in Hindi when people say bhijiṋa for abhijiṋa and abhijiṋa for anabhijiṋa. Another example is mahánatá; it should be mahattvá – in Sanskrit there is no such word as mahánatá. Similar is the case with dar-asalme; it should be dar-asal – the word is Farsi and it means asaliiyat me. If someone says dar-asalme then this becomes asaliiyatme me. The same occurs with bephájul to mean báje [worthless]. Phájul means báje. If the Farsi prefix be is added then its meaning becomes “that which is not worthless”. If one says bephájul bát nahii karnii cáhiye, then its meaning becomes “one shouldn’t say things that are not worthless”, that is, one should say things that are worthless. Just see what it has come to!

The abstract noun for the adjective adhika [more] is ádhikya or adhikatá, not ádhikyatá because ádhikyatá has a substantive-forming suffix added twice. However both you and I will agree that the literary quality that ádhikyatá possesses (ádikhyetá in the spoken language) is not found in either adhikatá or ádhikya. When we sit around gossiping and slandering during the rainy season, keeping time with the rain and eating our fried puffed rice, we use this word adikhyetá. It is incomparably suggestive; we all agree on that. How can adhikatá or ádhikya compare with such a delectable expression. It is like taking a hot potato cake right from the frying pan to your tongue.

Earlier I said that the locative case is used in most languages, especially in those languages that have a systematic grammar – they certainly have it. It cannot be denied that the locative case uses the seventh case-ending but it cannot be claimed that if the seventh case-ending is used then that necessarily makes it the locative case. In Bengali the seventh case is often used in place of the first. For example, págale ki ná bale, chágale ki ná kháy [What won’t a fool say; what won’t a goat eat]. In Hindi the seventh is used in place of the second, for example, saying mujhe málum nehii [I don’t know] instead of mujhko málum nehii. In Bengali as well, the seventh case is used in place of the second. For example, ámáy dáo [give me] can be used instead of ámáke dáo.

I was discussing the use of the prepositions “in”, “on”, and so on. The French pronunciation of “in” is áyn. The pronunciation of “in” became in when it crossed the English Channel from the shore opposite Dover and arrived in Cornwall, however “on” and “upon” did not come from French. The French un means “one”. The English “an uncle” is un oncle in French. “An aunt” is une tante. Anyhow the English indeclinable “in”, indicating the locative case, came into existence in this way but it does not have the same meaning in French as it does in English. All the locative-indicating indeclinables were created like this.

Apart from the locative-indicating indeclinables, in all those cases where the case is created by changing the word form, the seventh case word form becomes removed from the original word. However the change is less in all those words which end in an antahstha letter. For example, the seventh case singular form of the word nara is nare; ra is an antahstha letter. If any letter other than an antahstha letter is present then the distance increases. Hindi and Urdu follow the same rule in this regard. In the languages of Bihar man or mán are used. In other words, we can see that all languages have a locative case and a seventh case, even though they do not have a separate seventh case form as Sanskrit does. Instead, a seventh case indeclinable is used to indicate the locative case. It is my firm opinion in this matter that the locative case exists and should be accepted as such.

The next subject of discussion is the vocative case. The vocative case has been accepted in Sanskrit but it has no fixed case-ending; it is not the eighth case. In some grammars the vocative has been accepted as a part of speech but not as a case. When considered from the standpoint of case and case-ending the locative case is the last case, but even so the vocative cannot be dismissed. In ancient times there was a need to call others from a long distance in the deep forest and this was the genesis of the vocative. In those days it was very important.

Although the vocative case has no direct connection with the verb it certainly has an indirect connection. This indirect connection appears especially in the imperative mood. For example, shuncho dádá, ekvár ásbe [Listen Dada, come sometime]. Here the imperative verb ásbe maintains an indirect link with the vocative dádá. From some points of view, the vocative has to be accepted as a case when it maintains a link with the verb. How can we not accept the vocative as a case when we accept the dative so emphatically? Moreover, often the word form or case-ending in the vocative is different from the nominative. For example, the third person singular of the word mátr [mother] is mátá but in the vocative it becomes mátah. “Mother, come” will be mátah ágacchatu.

Incidentally, words that end with the suffix trrń add a visarga (h) in the vocative, for example, mátah, bhrátah, pitah, and so on. The interesting thing is that these words which end with the suffix trrn are related to Latin, French, English and also a little to Farsi. One example is the Vedic word pitr (Its Rgvedic pronunciation is pitar, the Yajurvedic pronunciation is pitr, and the Atharvavedic pronunciation is pitru):

Latin – pater French – pere English – father Farsi – pedar

Vedic bhrátr (Its Rgvedic pronunciation is bhrátar):

Latin – frater French – frere English – brother Farsi – berádar

Vedic mátr (Its Rgvedic pronunciation is mátar):

Latin – mater French – mere English – mother Farsi – mádár

It is worth pointing out that each of these words ends in ra or “r”. The fixed rule for these words ending in trrń is the sixth case ending uh and the vocative case-ending ah. For example, the sixth case is mátuh, pituh, etc. and the vocative is mátah, pitah, and so on.

Up to now we have discussed different cases and case-endings. To sum up the discussion on case, the different case and case-ending forms can shown through a shloka:

Rámah rájamańih sadá vijayate, rámaḿ rámeshaḿ bhaje Rámenábhihatáh nishácaracamúh rámáy tasmae namah Rámánnásti parájayah. Rámasya dásohasmyaham Ráme cittalayah sadá, bho rámah mámuddharah

The Inclination for the Creation of Words

The inclination within people to create words has a limitless value for the alteration of language and linguistic style. Many places in India and Southeast Asia have been named with the words pura, nagara, etc., added on. In Sanskrit small cities used to be called pura and large cities were called nagara (incidentally, the word pur is actually Farsi). The difference between the two was that a nagara used to be completely encircled by a wall which was called nagaraveśt́anii in Sanskrit. Those who used to live within the walls of the nagara were called nágarika. The word used today in English as a synonym for nágarika, “citizen”, bears no relation to the ancient word nágarika. Nágarika means “inhabitant of a nagara”, while “citizen”, the way it is used today, refers to any resident of a country whether they live in a city or in a rural village.

Actually the word “citizen” means a resident of this kind of wall-enclosed city. Neither the English “citizen” nor the Bengali nágarika refers to the resident of a particular country. In other words, the pure English expression for the English word “citizen”, as we use it today, as well as for the word nágarika in Bengali, is “bonafide inhabitant”. The Farsi word for this is mulkii.

This wall-enclosed city used to be called hábelii in Urdu and háolii in Bhojpuri. There is a place in Monghyr District by the name of Habelii Kharagpur. According to the practice of those days the main gate of the hábelii or nagara used to be closed at nine at night and the key used to remain with the city-father or the sheriff.

Many places in India and Southeast Asia were named with the words pura, nagara, upanagara, etc. added on. We have taken many of these words from Farsi, for example, the Urdu word mańd́i meaning “marketing centre”; in Sanskrit it is called vipańana kendra or vipańi, that is, “where commodities are taken for the purposes of selling, or vipańana”. Many people mistakenly use the word “marketing” to refer to shopping. Actually “marketing” means selling. The villagers go to the market or bazaar to sell their goods and produce, that is, they go for marketing. We go to the market to buy potatoes or pat́ol [wax gourd], that is, we go for shopping. The pure Bengali word for “marketing centre” or mańd́i is postá. There is a Postá Bazaar in Calcutta. Have you all read the famous poem by Sukumar Ray? Shunte pelum postá giye/Tomár náki meye viye [When I went to market/ I heard about your daughter’s wedding].

If a place has a village and a flourishing market for buying and selling then it is called a gaiṋja (ganj-a). The English distorted the pronunciation to ganj (spelled “gunge”). In this way the place called Ballygunge came from the name of Mr. Bailey, Tolleygunge from Mr. Tolley, and so on. The actual pronunciation should be Baligaiṋja, T́áligaiṋja. The common people of east Bengal say Náráyańgaiṋja, Munsiigaiṋja. They pronounce these names correctly. Now if someone persists with a faulty pronunciation should we follow them blindly or should we open their eyes to their error? You tell me.

There is another word in Bengali – hát́. The word hát́ comes from the Sanskrit word hat́t́a. For example, if many hát’s are strung together then it is called hat́t́amálá in Sanskrit. Certainly many of you have read the story “Hat́t́amálá”.(3) In Sanskrit a very large hát́ is called hat́t́ika. Hat́t́a plus the suffix śńik makes hat́t́ika. Although grammatically speaking the meaning of hat́t́ika should be “small hát́”, in actuality it was used to mean “large hát́”. The Bengali word which is derived from hat́t́a is hát́, for example, rájárhát́, bágerhát́, májherhát́, and so on. The Bengali word derived from the Sanskrit hat́t́ika is hát́i. For example, naehát́i comes from navahat́t́ika, nalahát́i from nalahat́t́ika, gaohát́i from guvákahat́t́ika, etc. In south Bengal there was a tendency to pronounce hát́ hát́á and ghát́ ghát́á; as a result we get Páthureghát́á, Beleghát́á, Murgiihát́á, Daramáhát́á, Gariyáhát́á, and so on.

There is normally a shortage of fodder in the district of Nadia, famous for its bumper crop autumnal paddy. It is bordered by Burdwan, the district of winter paddy. Hay [khaŕ] used to be imported by boat along the Jalangi River to Nadia District from Burdwan’s Nandanaghát́ (Nádanghát́). At that time this hay-laden Jalangi River was renamed the Khaŕiyá or Kháre River. In other words, although this tributary of the Padma River was known as the Jalangi River in Murshidabad District, its common name was the Khaŕe River. There was a huge cattle market [garur hát́] near Nadia District’s cowherding centre, Reui village (later on this Reui village became known as Krishnanagar) – Sanskrit gohat́t́ika → Prákrta gohad́d́ia → Demi-Prákrta gohád́i → old Bengali goháŕi → modern Bengali goyáŕi. The British made Goyáŕi the district headquarters of Nadia District. We still say the two together – Goyáŕi-Krishnanagar.

A large centre for buying and selling, whether in a village or in a city, is called a kasbá in Farsi. There is a place in 24 Paraganas called Kasbá. The old name of the city of Jessore was Kasbá. The real Jessore was included within Khulna District when Khulna District was created. Khulna is not a very old district. It was formed by piecing together 24 Paraganas’ Sátkśiirá, Jessore’s Khulna and most of Bakharganj’s Bagerhat. After the place called Jessore was included within Khulna District there was no utility in keeping the name Jessore for the remaining portion of the district. Still the name Jessore continued in use. From then on the people started calling the district headquarters at Kasbá Jessore. When I was a child I have seen the village girls telling the booking clerk when they went to buy tickets: “Sir, would you please give me tickets for Kasbá.” Then the ticket clerk would get out tickets for Jessore and give them to them.

The British built soldiers’ barracks at Ghughudáuṋgá to the north of Calcutta. The incessant weapon-fire there used to make the sound dumdum. It was like a violent boom-boom [damá-dam] on Diipavali night. The village people all around became impatient with the noise and gave the place the name Damdamá [mound for target practice]. Later on, when a railway station was built there it was named Dumdum. The actual name of the place was, therefore, Damdamá. When the local people went to Sealdah station to buy tickets they would say: “Sir, please give us tickets for Ghughudáuṋgá,” and the ticket clerk would give them tickets for Dumdum. No one wanted a ticket for Sinthi, perhaps because Sinthi was not as famous as Ghughudáuṋgá.

The Aryans established their first colony in northwest India. Later they started slowly advancing eastwards. First they came to the Saptasindhu, now called The Punjab, which means the land of five rivers – the Sutlej, Bias, Ravi, Chenub and Jhelum. Previously the name of this region was the Saptasindhu. Bear in mind here that the Vedic word sindhu means both “sea” and “large river”, as does the Farsi word dariyá. Anyhow, when the Aryans encountered the Sindhu River they gave this very large river the designation nada [large river] and named it the Sindhu. The Sindhu has six tributaries – the Shatadru, Irávatii, Candrabhágá, Vitastá, Vipáshá and Kábul. Together they formed the Saptasindhu [seven sindhus] of that time and later on it became The Punjab.

When they arrived in The Punjab and discovered an environment eminently suited to farming they became very happy and began to settle there. Their Vedic language underwent transformation and became known as Paeshácii Prákrta in the Saptasindhu. The modern languages descended from this Paeshácii Prákrta are Panjabi, Pahari (previously it was called Pahari-Panjabi) and Dogri. The Multani language, being a mixture of Panjabi and Sindhi, shows the influences of both Paeshácii Prákrta and Pahlavii Prákrta. Even today these languages use many words derived from Vedic, for example, ind, pińd́a, pińd́i, etc. The village that was settled by the Rawal Brahmans of south India is Rawalpindi. Although sugar is called khánŕ (which comes from the Vedic word khańd́a) in Panjabi, sugar, especially red sugar, is called sharkará in Vedic and Sanskrit. Since we learned how to make sugar from the Chinese it was given the name cinii in the spoken language. Sharkará is an ancient word from which comes the pure Hindi sakkar, the Marathi sáṋkar, the Tamil sákar, the Latin [saccharum] and the French sucre. The French sucre underwent alteration and became the English “sugar”.

The word khui comes from the Vedic word khudikam and it means “well”. The modern Bengali word kúyo comes from the Mágadhii Prákrta word kúa which comes from the Sanskrit word kúpa. From the Sanskrit word indrakúpa comes the Mágadhii Prákrta word indraua, from that the Demi-Prákrta word indarua, from that indárá, and from that the ultramodern pronunciation inárá. In Sanskrit indra means “best”, thus a large well, or inárá, is called indrakúpa. In those days the shál tree was considered the best tree. The place which had an abundance of these shál trees or indravrkśa was known as Indrapura → Indpur → Indpur, which is a village in Bankura District. The Pahlavii Prákrta word put́t́ara or put́rá comes from the Sanskrit word puttra. It is the same in modern Sindhi. The Panjabi word dohtar comes from the Sanskrit word daohitra, however in many areas of north India daohitra is called náti which comes from the Sanskrit word naptá. Naptá means “that which prevents the fall of a bodiless soul”. According to the social practice of the time, those with whose help one was saved from social downfall during the period of mourning also used to be called naptá, nápita or nápte. From the Vedic nupta comes the Paeshácii Prákrta nutta, in Demi-Prákrta nuta and in modern Panjabi nu which means “daughter-in-law”. In the rest of north India, however, “daughter-in-law” is called putohu – Sanskrit putravadhú → puttavahu → putohu.

After that the Aryans advanced further east. The land grew greener and lusher. They had never seen so much green before. In Vedic dhánya means “green vegetation” so after crossing the Saptasindhu they named the new land east of it Haritdhánya; this became Hariahánya in Shaorasenii Prákrta, Hariháná in Demi-Shaorasenii, and Hariyáná in modern Hariyánavii (which is a very close relative of Hindi). Similarly, we get the word Ludhiyáná. In ancient times the Aryans used to use the pollen from the forest tree flower by the name of lodhra as a cosmetic.

Dháráyantre snáner sheśe dhúper dhonyá dita keshe Lodhra phuler shubhra reńu mákhta mukhe bálá Kálágurur guru gandha lege thákta sáje Kuruvaker parta cúŕá kálo kesher májhe

[After bathing in the fountain/they would scent their hair with incense/the maidens would smear their face with the lustrous pollen of the lodhra flower/the scent of dark sandalwood wafted from their clothes/they wore red amaranth in their black hair]

Lodhradhánya → Lodhdhahána → Ludhiháná → Ludhiyáná.

They advanced even further east, travelling from the west towards the sunrise in the east until they came to the region lying between the Ganges and Yamuna rivers, at the point where they are farthest from each other, between Gangotri and Yamunotri. After that the two rivers gradually converged until they met up at Prayága. The area lying between these two rivers was the ancient Brahmávartta or Brahmarśidesha which later on became Shúrasena and even later was given the name Do-áb in Farsi, that is, “the land of two rivers”. The ancient capital of Brahmavartta was Vrśńipura (today Vit́hur near Kanpur). Later on, after its name had changed to Shurasena, the capital became Mathura. Before Krśńa, the king of Shurasena was Kaḿsa. His capital was also at Mathura. The Kayasthas of north India that live in the former Brahmavartta or Shurasena still call themselves Máthur. Since this last part of Brahmavartta was eminently suited for living, farming and all sorts of developed undertakings, the Aryans gave it the name Prayága (pra – yaj + ghaiṋ = Prayága). Here ya is in the middle of the word [antahstha ya] so according to the rule – padánte padamadhyasthe “ya”-kára “ia” ucyate – prayága became prayága [with the dot below the letter in Bengali script].

The meaning of the verbal root yaj in both Sanskrit and Vedic is “to act”. By adding the suffix na to the root yaj we get the word yajiṋa. Yaj + ghaiṋ makes yága. The meaning of both words is “action”. Thus, “the place where action is performed in an excellent way” is called prayága. The Aryans used to believe that this place was extremely holy. It was their conception that if one took a bath at Prayága then all one’s sins would be washed away, so even now there is a custom among a certain class of people in India to immerse the remains of the deceased at Prayága. There is a saying in Hindi when a wicked person says something spiritual or righteous – Na sho cuhá khá kar billii calii prayág snán [after swallowing nine hundred mice the cat went for a holy bath in the Prayága]. The words yájaka [officiating priest at a ritual], yajamán [person for whom the ritual is performed], etc. come from the verbal root yaj.

As a result of the Aryans settling down at Prayága the region became an illustrious centre for learning and culture. Much later, during the Pathan-Mughal era, it grew into a crowded city and became susceptible to flooding during the rainy season. So during the Pathan era a new city was established not very far away and given the name Álláh-Ábád, or the “abode of Allah”. Later on the Shias gave this place, Álláh-Ábád, the name Iláhábád. In modern Hindi it is called Iláhábád. Both names, Álláhábad and Iláhábád, are used in Urdu. One thing to keep in mind is that all those cities which have the word ábád added at the end of their names were all named during the Pathan or Mughal era, or else later on, for example, Farrukhabad, Muzaffarabad, Alidabad, Jekovabad, Nasirabad (Mymensing), Jahangirabad (Dhaka), Islamabad (Chittagong), Phaejabad (Ayodhya), Shershahabad (Malda), Sharifabad (Burdwan’s Paragana), etc. The new name of Burdwan is Vár-e-Dewán and the name of Paragana is Sharifabad. Hence, if we find the word ábád attached, it helps us to determine the history of the city, and we can be certain that the city is no more than seven hundred years old.

During the Pathan-Mughal era the united name of the provinces of Agra and Ayodhya was Hindustán or Hindustán. Incidentally, I should point out that the word stán or stán is Farsi; its Sanskrit equivalent is sthán. In Urdu as well this Farsi practice is followed.

Sáre jánháse acchá hindustán hamárá Ham bulbulen hen iskii iyha gulistán hamárá

[Our country, India, is better than the whole world. This is our rose garden and we are the nightingales of the garden.]

During the Pathan era there were three provinces in north India – The Punjab, Hindustan and Bengal. The number of provinces increased during the time of Akbar. The province of Agra was formed from the south, southwest and southeast portions of Hindustan province and the province of Oudh was formed from the northeastern areas. Thus the people of Bengal and The Punjab still refer to the people of Uttar Pradesh as Hindustanis. Some people wonder why should only the people of Uttar Pradesh be called Hindustanis if all of India is Hindustan, however, those who call the people of Uttar Pradesh Hindustanis are not entirely wrong because Hindustan does not refer to all of India. Though in Urdu poetry and in the spoken language the word Hindustan is used for India, this usage is not an historical fact. Bear in mind that in Farsi the actual word for India is not Hindustan but Hind.

After the British came to this country and occupied the provinces of Agra and Oudh they created a new province by joining the two together and gave it the name “United Provinces of Agra and Oudh”, abbreviated UP. Gradually the name UP came to enjoy widespread usage among the common people, so after independence this province was given the name Uttar Pradesh in order to keep the name UP in force. It is also abbreviated UP.

Every sound on earth is meaningful, whether or not we are aware of that meaning. This meaningfulness is bound up with the local language’s phonetics and independent pronunciation. Often we unknowingly forget about this meaningfulness and we try to forget this local independence of pronunciation as well. Though the error we commit in doing so is pardonable to some extent, it is not completely excusable in all cases.

The huge city in the south of England used to be called Londres (the French pronunciation was londre) in France, but because the people of Scotland could not pronounce it properly, and for other reasons as well, the city was called Láńd́án. Nowadays the word Láńd́án has changed into London. I am not saying that the city should be called Londre once again, only that there is a definite need to remember the original historical name of the city. If we cannot properly pronounce the name of the city that has for centuries been called Moscova and instead pronounce it Moscow, we cannot consider that to be entirely appropriate. Leaving aside English, in Bengali and all other languages of the world there is no difficulty in using the word Moscova. Whether or not Moscova can be said in English is a matter to think over as well.

Roma is a historically renowned city. Where is the justification for mistakenly pronouncing it “Rome”? Is it logical to change a proper noun in this way? Where is the logic behind calling a city “Cairo” that has always been called Kahira, both in the ancient Egyptian language and later on in Arabic?

We can call the land that used to be called Filistin in Arabic and which is called Palestine in Hebrew either name we wish according to our convenience. However, if we say the name quickly of the city called Kalikátá because it specializes in quicklime [kalicun] and coir rope [kátá], in the spoken language of that city, and it becomes Kalkátá, then what is the logic behind saying Calcutta in English? It should definitely be written Kalikata in English and it should be done right away. Similarly, there is no justification for writing or saying Burdwan in place of Varddhamán. After reading mistakes like this wise people should correct them.

We have already talked about the word gaiṋja. Now the question arises: What is the original source of the word gaiṋja? There are two opinions regarding this. Some people believe that it is a Farsi word and others say that it is an Indian word. The reason behind this confusion is that in old Farsi we come across the word gaiṋja, while at the same time the word gaiṋja has been used in the spoken languages of north India since ancient times. So we can say that the word gaiṋja is as much Indian as it is Farsi. In the far east of Bengal we have Ashugainj (previous British Tripura District, modern Kumilla District) and west of there is Hazratgainj, Rahmatgainj, and so on.

Like the word gaiṋja, the word luci [a type of fried unleavened bread] is as much Farsi as it is Panjabi, Kashmiri and Bengali. Even if the word luci has come from Farsi, it is as much at home today in Bengali as any native. In the spoken language luci-nuci, leci-neci are both equally correct so those who claim that the word leci comes from the Farsi-Urdu word lecchi are perhaps correct. However in Bengal the word neci with its special characteristics has found its way into our kitchens and pots and pans and rolling pins and mortars. Since ancient times the city of Burdwan has been influenced by north India so some of the residents of Burdwan say lei instead of leci or neci. Lei is actually a Hindustani word. The equivalent Sanskrit word for luci is shakkulii or shaḿkulii. Luci and puri are not the same thing. The Sanskrit synonym for puri is somáliká, which actually means “that which looks like the moon”.

Some place-names have been created by blending Sanskrit and foreign words, for example, Jamalpur. Jámál is an Arabic word while pura is a Sanskrit word. Similar is the case with Mátádiin and Shiuvakhs. Along with Shiuvakhs we have Állávakhs, Khodávakhs, Rahimvakhs, and so on. In a Burdwan village I have seen a Rákhaállá Mańd́al, Rákhahari Mańd́al’s close friend. Both of them have the nickname Rákha. When you see such names you can tell that a cultural blending has taken place.

There is another Bengali word – begun [brinjal]. Some people ascribe to it the far-fetched meaning be – guńa, “without quality”. As a joke it can also be translated into English as “dis-qualification”. It is worth mentioning here that the origin of the word begun is not “absence of quality”, that is, it is not “disqualification” at all. Although brinjal does not have much food value, it does stimulate the flow of saliva and it helps in the digestion of other foods. If brinjal is mixed and eaten together with bitter foods (neem, ucche, etc.) then it counteracts the defects of those foods. The little defect that brinjal does have is that it is classified as an allergic, that is, if one eats too much of it then it can lead to itching.

So the word begun is not a combination of the Farsi prefix be [not] and the word guńa. It is a Sanskrit-derived word. The Sanskrit synonyms for beguna are vártáku, vártákii, vártikii, brhatii, vrntáka, vyauṋgana, and so on. From the Sanskrit word vyauṋgana come the Bengali words begun, báigun, báigan, the Hindi word veigan, and so on.

The long pointed brinjal (kulii begun) is called brhatii in Sanskrit. All brinjals come from China but this brhatii was the last to arrive. At evening time, when the jute factory coolies would return home, they used to enthusiastically buy this kind of brinjal and so it got the name kulii begun. The muktakeshii brinjal common in Bengal is called vártáku in Sanskrit. The Sanskrit name for the white brinjal which many people consider inedible is vrntáka.

Kusumbha-nálikásháka-vrntákaḿ-potakiistathá Bhakśayan patitohasttasyádapi vedántago dvijah

That is, if one eats white brinjal, red spinach, ciciuṋgá and hill kalmia then even the twice-born versed in the Vedas and Vedanta will meet their downfall.

Anyhow, this white brinjal is called [“eggplant”] in American English. The proper English for all varieties of begun is “brinjal”. Brinjal is called vátáyú in Panjabi. This word comes from the Sanskrit word vártáku. Brinjal came to our country from China a long time ago. There are many other names for it also in Sanskrit. Those of you who have an almanac at home will discover that on certain dates it is forbidden to eat vártáku and on others vrntáka. At any rate, the be of the word begun is not a Farsi prefix.

Another very common word in Bengali is báhádur. Many people think that this word may have come from Farsi. At first glance this seems to be so but actually it has not. There was a common word in Vedic, bhagadhara, which meant “fortunate”. This bhagadhara became bahadara in Prákrta, from that bahádar in Farsi, bahádar in Panjabi, bahádar or bahádur in Urdu, bahadur in Hindi, and in Bengali we clean up this bahádur, dress it in a dhoti and a shawl and set it loose as báhádur.

There is a place in Mymensing District known as Bahadurabad. The word ábád is, of course, Farsi but while the word báhádur may appear to be Farsi it is originally Vedic. In Bengali names one often comes across a mixture of two languages, for example, Házárilál (Farsi-Hindi), Banoyárilál (Vrajabháśá-Hindi), and Phajle Karim (Arabic-Farsi). If the latter were written in only Farsi then it should have been Kudrat-i-Khudá and if it were only Arabic then it should have been Phazal-ul-Karim.

The rule for compound words in Bengali is that if the first word is an adjective ending in a and the second word is suffixed by anat́ or kta then the first word ending becomes ii. For example, bhasma + bhúta = bhasmiibhúta, nava + karańa = naviikarańa. stagita + karańa = stagitiikarańa, ghana + bhúta = ghaniibhúta, etc.

In many people one can recognize a tendency to exclude foreign words. They like to say árám kedárá for “easy-chair” and jharńa kalam for “fountain pen”, however both árám and kedárá in the word árám kedárá are foreign words. What is the justification for importing the foreign words árám and kedárá to replace the foreign word “easy-chair”? Although the word árám also exists in Sanskrit it has a different meaning. Árám in Sanskrit means “small house” or “garden house”.

Although the word jharńa in the word jharńakalam is native Indian, the word kalam is foreign. This kind of tendency cannot be considered beneficial from any point of view. People import and use words as a matter of necessity, and out of necessity we will sit in our “easy-chair” and write in our “diary” with our “fountain-pen”. When we feel the need we will even take a look at our “notebook”.(4) No one can object to this.

Look, many of you cultivate [cáś-ábád] your land, so even if it is a little outside the scope of this discussion I would like to point out that if you tell anyone cáś-ábád kari [I cultivate] then you should know that the word cáś is a pure Bengali word and the word ábád is Farsi. You mix the two when you cultivate. The blue-bloods or orthodox nobility in the world of grammar may find scholarly fault in this but I see no cause for objection. You can say cáś-ábád just as happily as you practise it. The more you practise cáś-ábád and develop it, the more you will find solutions to food problems. Right then. Pick up the plough and the yoke and take to the soil.

25 September 1983, Calcutta Footnotes

(1) This distinction is also no longer observed in modern English. –Trans.

(2) This refers to the practice of using a word because it was used by a respected intellectual in the past, even though that usage is grammatically incorrect. –Trans.

(3) A children’s story written by the author. –Trans.

(4) All the words in quotation marks are English words commonly used in Bengali. –Trans.

Published in: Varńa Vijinána Chapter 16Previous chapter: Case and Case-Endings – 4 (Discourse 15)Next chapter: Proper Names – 2 (Discourse 17)Beginning of book Varńa Vijinána Proper Names – 1 (Discourse 16) Published in: Varńa Vijinána Proper Names – 1 (Discourse 16) Last week we discussed the inclination for creating words. Often when we speak we say things like cá-t́á, cáśá-bhúśá, jal-t́al, nadii-t́adi, and so on. When we add a second word whose sound rhymes with the first word, are we doing this in error? Or are these added words completely meaningless?

No, they are not meaningless. Human beings try to find rhythm in everything because human life itself is rhythmic. Movement is the natural characteristic of life so rhythm must exist within human movement. If life’s movement were continuous or linear then there would be no scope for rhythm, and without rhythm there can be no happiness either. So in this universe all movement flows in the waves of systaltic order. It is in this rhythm that one encounters the sweetness inherent in movement. Thus people want rhythm in their actions; they want to enjoy the sweetness of the rhythmicity of movement.

Human beings also want to preserve this rhythmicity in their language. Mono-syllabic and bi-syllabic words lack rhythm so in this case an effort is made to introduce some rhythmic order. If one says simply cáśá, cá, jal, nadii, etc. the mind does not feel satisfied due to a lack of rhythm; so instead we say cá-t́á, cál-culo, jal-t́al, cáśá-bhúśo. Granted, it does take more time to pronounce but it sounds better because one discovers a sense of rhythmic order there. Thus these kinds of words cannot be considered compound words. Rather they should be considered rhythmic words.

This reminds me of an interesting story. Maharaja Manindra Chandra Nandi was the king of Kásimbájár. He used to remain busy with charity work, so much so that his charitable activities nearly left him destitute. There is a story about his charitableness. Once, during the time when the Maharaja was nearly destitute, a poor Brahman approached him. He told him about his distressful situation and asked him for money to help with the wedding of his daughter. Manindra Chandra was not in a position to give him anything but this made him feel extremely uncomfortable. Suddenly his eyes fell on the hookah he used for smoking tobacco. The basin of the hookah was covered with silver leaf. He told the Brahman: “Look, I don’t have anything to give you, but do one thing. Take my hookah. If you sell the silver in it you can get a little money.”

Manindra Chandra had another great quality in addition to his charitableness. He was a very humorous fellow. There was a British magistrate who came to this country and learned Bengali quite well. Once he asked Manindra Chandra, “Well now, why do you all say things like bhát́-t́át, d́ál-t́ál in your Bengali language?” I have just said that Manindra Chandra had a very humorous nature. Immediately he replied, “Look here, educated people like me don’t say things like this. Esab cáśa-bhúsorái bale-t́ale tháke [Only farmers [cáśa-bhúsorá] talk [bale-t́ale] this way].”

A similar kind of thing also happened in Burdwan although it did not concern rhythmic words but rather the different ways in which words are used. One day the magistrate’s orderly, Bhajahari, did not show up for work. The next day the learned gentleman asked Bhajahari in Bengali, “Bhajahari, why didn’t you come to work yesterday?” Bhajahari replied, “Sir, I had a splitting headache yesterday.”(1) The red face of the magistrate got even redder as he asked – “Your head was caught. Who caught it? Why did they catch it? Who would willingly catch it? Grab them and bring them.” Anyhow, there is a tendency to pronounce words in this way in all the world’s languages. This is due to rhythm.

The other day I was talking about the inclination for naming different places. That day I discussed how the modern pronunciations of certain historically renowned cities like Londres, Moscova and Roma are distortions of their earlier pronunciations, and that these modern distorted pronunciations are not correct. In the case of these foreign words it is distortion or error. There are also many such errors or distortions in Indian naming. In the case of foreign languages, the proper pronunciation of the capital of France is párii [Paris] because in French a is pronounced like á. Here the “Pa” is pronounced pá, the ri is pronounced rii and the s is silent because there is a rule in French that if any consonant other than “c”, “l”, “f”, or “r” comes at the end of a word then it is silent. Thus the proper pronunciation of “Paris” is párii. However ninety-nine percent of the people that I have heard pronounce it “Paris” instead of párii. Another mistaken pronunciation that people make is “Chicago”. The proper pronunciation is shikágo. In the European languages “ch” is typically pronounced like sha rather than ca, so in the United States this city’s name is pronounced shikágo rather than cikágo.

There is a similar tendency in India’s Assamese language. In Assamese ca is always pronounced like sha. For example, we write tincukiyá but we read it tinsukiyá. We write cit́ibác but we read it sit́ibás. Bear in mind that no word on this earth is meaningless. This should be kept in mind in the case of naming. So the distorted or incorrect pronunciation of proper nouns cannot be supported under any conditions. Proper nouns cannot be changed and must not be changed.

At one time all of Vauṋga-D́abák, all of Samatat́-Bágrii, the western portion of Cat́t́al, the southern part of Barendra and east Rarh, that is, east Midnapore, Hooghly, Howrah, east Burdwan and west Murshidabad, were all under water. Thereafter some land rose from the sea due to the accumulation of silt and sand from the Ganges, the Padma and the rivers of Rarh. This kind of silt and sand bank is called dviipa in Sanskrit – that is, “land enclosed by water”. After this alluvial land appeared, groups of people began migrating there from Rarh. When Sanskrit words evolve through the Prákrta languages they undergo phonetic changes. According to the style of these phonetic changes, the ka, ta, pa, da in Sanskrit words become a in Prákrta, especially in Mágadhii Prákrta. Thus the Sanskrit dviipa became diia in Prákrta and diiyá or diyá in Bengali. Many settlements have the word diiyá included in their name, for example, Nadiiyá from Navadviipa, Háthiiyá from Hastiidviipa, Shriinivásdiiyá from Shriinivásdviipa; Májhdiiyá from Madhyadviipa, etc. Since Madhyadviipa became Majjhdiia and then Májhdiiyá, it is spelled with jha and dii. People mistakenly write Májdiyá. Incidentally, since western Rarh was never underwater you will not find places in western Rarh that have the word diiya included in their name. For the very same reason there are no villages or cities in the far north of Bengal that have diiyá in their name. On the other hand, there are a whole host of places with diiyá in their name in Hooghly, east Burdwan, Nadia, 24 Paraganas, Jessore, Khulna, Chittagong, and so on.

I should point out one more thing in this regards. Approximately seven hundred or seven hundred and fifty years ago a terrible ocean storm caused great swells in the waters of the Bay of Bengal. Due to these swells, the water of the Bay of Bengal inundated one hundred and fifty miles inland. All of the settlements in that hundred and fifty miles were wiped out in the blink of an eye. Millions of people, cattle, animals and plants perished in a instant. Gradually the salt waters of the ocean receded and left behind a vast jungle with saline soil. Afterwards the people of western Rarh came in groups with their axes and scythes and other implements, cut down the jungle and colonized the area anew. If you look at the bloodlines of the people of 24 Paraganas you will find that they have come predominantly from Midnapore. Their surnames also reflect this. The spoken language of this region of 24 Paraganas also shows the influence of the languages spoken in the Contai and Tamaluk regions.

Everything was destroyed up to Nadia’s Ranaghat. This jungle became filled with tigers, bears, rhinoceri, huge pythons, king cobras, and so on. As recent as a hundred and fifty years ago there were great numbers of rhinoceri in southern Bengal. Acharya Prafullachandra Roy wrote in his autobiography that during his childhood their tenants used to bring home rhinoceros meat. P. C. Roy was from Ráŕulii village in Khulna District. This village belongs to Páikgách Tháná and a large area of this tháná falls within the Sundarbans.

In Sanskrit and Prákrta the suffixes aka, raka, ruka, etc. are added to mean “small”. For example, mánava [person] becomes mánavaka [small boy or dwarf]. In English the suffixes “let”, “kin”, “ock”, etc. are added as diminutives. For example, “rivulet” comes from “river”, “armlet” from “arm”, “mankin” from “man”, “hillock” from “hill”, and so on. In Sanskrit vatsaruka → vaccharua → báchru. From this comes the word báchur [calf]. Go + ruka = goruka → gorua → goru [cow] (thus it is spelled with o – many people incorrectly spell this word garu). Similarly, the suffix raka is added to dviipa to mean “small island”. As such, dviiparaka → diiaraa in Prákrta → diiyárá in Hindi, diiyar in Bhojpuri, dirá in Angika. However in Angika the word ca-a-r (car) is more common. In the Shershahabad Bengali dialect of Malda District these two words, dirá and car, are used side by side.

Earlier it was mentioned that the ka, ta, pa and da in Sanskrit words change into a in Prákrta, especially in Mágadhii Prákrta. Since the Sanskrit word diipa, which means “lamp” in English, has a pa at the end it changes into diia in Prákrta. In the north Indo-Aryan languages it is called diiyá.

The word ávali in Sanskrit denotes “many-ness” (ávalii is also correct, just as both kali and kalii are both correct). Thus diipávalii in Sanskrit means “many lamps”. From this comes diiáoyálii in Prákrta and diioyáli (diiwáli) in modern Hindi. In modern Bengali it is deoyálii.

There are some words which were used in old Bengali and medieval Bengali that are no longer used in modern Bengali, for example, Sanskrit darpańa → Prákrta dappana → old Bengali dápan. The word dápan was used in old Bengali and medieval Bengali but neither this word nor any corruption of it is used in modern Bengali. In medieval Bengali one comes across these lines:

Háther káḿkan má leu dápana Appane appá bujhata nia mana

They mean: “Don’t take a mirror to see the bracelets on your wrist/Understand yourself with your own mind.”

Another Sanskrit synonym for “mirror”, mukura, used to be used in Bengali. Mukura is not used nowadays in the spoken language but it is used in the literary language. The common modern Bengali word árshii is a Sanskrit-derivative. The original Sanskrit word is ádarshii or ádarsha, either one. In Hindi both árshii and árshá are used and the same holds true in Marathi. Áyaná, however, is a Farsi word. Áyaná in Farsi means both “glass” and “mirror”. Áyaná is an unnecessary Farsi word. There is no particular advantage in using the word áyaná when Bengali already has its own word, árshii. While áyaná means káca [glass] (káca is a Sanskrit word), the word siisá is also used in Farsi for high-quality or thick glass, what is called sphat́ika in Sanskrit. In Bengali “lead” is called siisá; its Sanskrit name is siisaka. The word siisá does not mean “glass” in Bengali.

The word cashm in Farsi means “eye”. The word cashmá is used in Farsi to mean “near the eyes”; its Sanskrit equivalent is upanetram. In Bengali none of us say upanetram, nor do we wear upanetram; we wear cashmá [eyeglasses]. If we give up Farsi we may become cashamkhoŕ [shameless] (one who fails to see is called cashamkhoŕ in Farsi). Another meaning of the word cashmá in Farsi is “fountain”; it also means “glass” as well. In Kashmiri both cashmá and nága are used equally for “fountain”. When fountains or springs are named in Kashmir they are given this kind of name in some places, such as Sheśnág, Anantanág, and so on.

In Sanskrit the word nága has three different meanings. One meaning is “mountain spring”, the second is “mountain python”, and the third is “mountain mammoth”. Samapluśińá samamashakena samanágena sama ebhistribhih lokaeh, that is, no one enjoys any special respect or disrespect from the Supreme Consciousness. A termite or a mosquito is the same as a mountain mammoth, or indeed this entire manifest universe.

Anyhow, we were talking about place-names. In Bengal there are a great many native words used for place-names. One such word is d́áuṋgá. Any settlement which has risen from the sea and which is not very old is a d́áuṋgá. There are many places in east Rarh and Bagŕi which include the name d́áuṋgá, for example, Beldáuṋgá. In Calcutta we find Nárkold́áuṋgá. The former name of the place in Calcutta which is nowadays called College Square was Pat́old́áuṋgá; that is, the people used to cultivate pat́ol [wax gourd] in that d́áuṋgá which has risen from the bosom of the sea. At any rate, if one comes across a settlement with the word d́áuṋgá included in its name, one can be sure that that settlement has risen from the bottom of the sea. You will come across the word d́áuṋgá far less in lands which were not under water.

Of course the word d́áuṋgá is also often used to refer to elevated land. In Rarh the word d́áuṋgál is used for high land and the word námál is used for low land. There is a locality in Dumka which is called D́áuṋgálpáŕá. The town of Suri also has a locality called D́áuṋgálpáŕá. There is a place near Asansol, a dry land, called Táld́áuṋgá, however Bankura District’s Táld́áḿrá does not come from the word d́áuṋgá.

In Bengali a very high hill or mountain is called parvata. If it is smaller then it is called páháŕ (hill). Even smaller is called páháŕii (small hill). The station now called Bokaro Steel City was formerly called Mará Páhárii. Many people used to mistakenly pronounce it Márápháŕii. Mará páháŕii means a small hill of mará [dead] stone. I myself have personally crushed and powdered a fistful of the stone from this area with my bare hands; For this reason it has been named Mará Páháŕii. Similarly, we get Belpáháŕii, Senpáháŕii, Jhánt́ipáháŕii, Kálipáháŕii (near Asansol), and so on. Smaller than a páháŕii is a d́uḿri or d́áḿrá [hillock]. The next smaller is called a t́ilá and even smaller is a d́hibi, for example, ui-d́hibi [anthill]. Naturally, the name Táld́áḿrá comes from the word d́ámrá. Of course, a cluster of palm trees [tál gách] is also called táldáḿrá. Anyhow it is quite certain that the name does not come from the word d́áuṋgá. In very old Bengali a t́ilá used to be called a t́ál. We come across these lines in the Bengali of twelve hundred years ago:

T́álata ghar mor náhi páriveshii Hánŕita bhát nái niti áveshii

[I live on a small hillock. I have hardly any neighbours. There is no rice left in the container. I fast almost daily.]

Some of the lowlands in the eastern part of Birbhum are called námál, for example, the thánás of Labhpur, Nannur, Mayureshwar, Rampurhat, Nalhati, Murari, etc. In the western region the areas of Dubrajpur, Khayrasol, Suri, Mamudbazaar, Ilembazaar, Rajnagar, etc. are d́áuṋgál, while Bolpur, Sainthia, etc. are partially d́áuṋgál and partially námál. Námál land produces a better yield except in the case of paddy which produces a better yield in d́áuṋgál land because the soil is clayey. The people of námál land have the conception that if their girls are given in marriage to d́áuṋgál boys then they will get bored, because they are forced to eat lots of poppy seed.(2) So the námál people say “Don’t give your daughters in marriage there. If you do they get bored.”

The word d́áuṋgá is a very ancient, prehistoric Austric word. There are many such Austric words used in Bengali and d́áuṋgá is one of them. These Austric words are also plentiful in the Viirhoŕ language. In the Santhali Haŕ language Austric words have undergone some alteration. On the other hand, the Orán’s Kuruk language is a Dravidian language. It has very few Austric words. Bengali has many Austric words such as d́áuṋgá, but Kuruk and other Dravidian languages have very few, although we cannot say that they have none at all.

The very common Bengali word pallii is originally a Dravidian word. Like Iŕápallii and Tirucirápallii, we also have Bhat́t́apallii and Palliigrám. No matter how much we try to polish and dress up the word pallii in an effort to pass it off as Sanskrit, it is originally Dravidian. Many people believe that the Bengali word páŕá [neighbourhood] is a corruption of the word pallii. In other words, the word Páŕágán comes from Palliigráma. However this is erroneous. It is true that the word gán comes from the word gráma [village] but páŕá does not come from pallii. Páŕá is an eastern Indian word which is used extensively in Bengali, Assamese, Oriya, Nagpuri and Chattisgari. The Hindustani synonym for páŕá is muhallá. Where we say e páŕáy [in this neighbourhood] in Bengali, we say is muhalláme in Hindustani. The word muhallá comes from Farsi. Incidentally, I should point out that in Sanskrit the word pallii does not mean páŕá. In Sanskrit the word pallii means t́ikt́iki [a small house lizard] and krkalása means girgit́i [another variety of lizard]. This t́ikt́iki is called chipkalii in Hindi. In Maethilii, Magahii and Bhojpuri it is called bichaotii. In Angika it is called t́ikt́ikiyá, and you all know that in English it is called “lizard”.

In Sanskrit the word nadii refers to both small and large rivers. However in the Austric language common in Rarh all rivers except for very large rivers are called joŕ. In the spoken language of the Málpáháŕii community of western Rarh the gods used to be called mashán. So they named the river which they used to believe was a holy or divine river, the Mashán-joŕ. We should not imitate others who say másháinjoŕ or myáshánjor. As far as I am concerned, one should not say másháinjoŕ; one should speak correctly.

A similar, well-known word in Rarh is haŕká. In the old Austric language it meant “flood”. The common usage of the word haŕká in Rarh is for a flood that comes and goes suddenly. The Austric synonym for “bridge” is sánko, so the place where there is a sánko over a joŕ is called Joŕásánko. Similarly there is a Sánkomuŕo in Rarh.

Sol and suli are both Austric words. A large village built on high land [t́ilá] is called a sol; if it is small in size then it is called a suli, for example, Khayrasol. A place where an abundance of khayrá fish (khadirá matsya) can be found in its ponds, pools and creeks is called Khayrásol (a small town on the outskirts of Birbhum). That which has a lot of sheoŕá trees is Siháŕasol (Burdwan District’s Shiyársol). The sol that was founded by a certain gentleman named Ásán Miina is Asansol (a subdivision town in Burdwan District). It is notable that all three – Asansol, Khayrasol and Siháŕsol – are all near each other. In the western part of Midnapore District there is a village of the Lodhá community called Lodhásuli.

The villages situated in western Rarh and northern Orissa used to be called sáhii or sái, for example, Bábusáhii and Ciŕimársái (Midnapore). Places or villages encircled on all sides by hills used to be called kerá or kelá in western Rarh and northern Orissa, for example, Seráikelá, Keraikelá, Nandankelá, etc.

If a small village is surrounded by dry fields then it is called d́ihi, for example, Bámund́i, Tentuld́i, Gaoráuṋgad́i, Jaridih, Girid́i, etc. If it is a large village then it is called d́ihá, for example, Dumka District’s Hánsd́ihá – that is, that d́ihá where large numbers of swans are taken care of, or that d́ihá whose nearby swamps and pools play host to large numbers of cranes during the winter season. Needless to say, the words d́ihi and d́ihá are both Austric. It should be noted that the villages and towns named d́ihi-d́ihá are not in the rainy part of Bengal (with a few exceptions). They are all located in western Rarh because western Rarh is a dry land. The localities in east Calcutta named d́ihi were most likely settled at the time by people from Rarh who cleared the Sundarbans and used the name d́ihi. Similarly, one does not come across villages or towns in western Rarh with the word diiyá in their name because diiyá is another name for dviipa [island]. Where will you find islands in the dry lands of western Rarh? However, the words joŕá or juŕi are used in western Rarh in the names of villages or towns encircled by rivers, for example, Jerid́i and Shukjoŕá.

The word ráŕh comes from the old Austric word ráŕhá or ráŕho which means “land of red soil”. Viirabhúmi means viirácárińáḿ bhúmi in Sanskrit and its altered name is Viirabhúma, or Varjyabhúmi in Vedic. Its altered form is Varrabhúmi and also Viirabhúma. Biira means “forest” in the Austric language. Biirabhúmi means “land abounding in forests”. If the word is taken to mean “forest” then undoubtedly this creates an awkward combination because the word biira is Austric and the word bhúmi is Sanskrit. Birbhum was undoubtedly once full of forests. Mamudbazaar Tháná, Rajnagar Tháná, Khayrasol Tháná, southwest Dumka, east Deoghar and west Pakur, which until 1855 was a part of Birbhum, were all full of forests. The word ráŕhá or ráŕho which we find in the Austric language means “land of red soil”. Similarly, if we accept the meaning “forest” for the Austric word biira then it can definitely offer an explanation behind the name Birbhum, Rarh’s own cultural territory. More research needs to be done on this matter.

It should be mentioned in this regard that with one or two exceptions one does not come across any place in the environs of Calcutta with the name d́ihi-d́ihá, but one does come across d́áuṋgá and beŕe. The Bengali word báŕi comes from the Sanskrit word vát́i and the word báŕiyá or beŕe comes from the word vát́iká. Thus baḿshveŕiyá or bánshbeŕe comes from the Sanskrit vaḿshavát́iká. In north Bengal báŕiyá has changed into báŕi instead of beŕe, for example, Khaŕibáŕi, Khágaŕábáŕi, Nakasálbáŕi, etc. The region which had a forest of reeds [nalkhágŕá] (ikŕá in old Assamese) is Khágŕábáŕi. Khaŕibáŕi is where there is a jungle of wood suitable for use as fuel (khaŕi means “firewood”). Also there is Bagŕibáŕi (Sanskrit badarii → bagaŕi, that is, “plums”), Sháluniibáŕi (shál tree, in Assamese sháluni), Nalbáŕi (reed jungle), etc.

In southern Bengal we find places with the suffix beŕe such as Ulubeŕe (Uluberiyá), Cakrabeŕe, Gaoriibeŕe, Láuṋgalbeŕe, etc.(3) There is another meaning of the word beŕe. Villages that were surrounded by jungle used to be named after the predominant tree in that jungle. For example, the village that was surrounded by a gol tree jungle was given the name Golábáŕi. There are still villages by the name Golábáŕi in Howrah and 24 Paraganas.

It was mentioned earlier that Calcutta was once underwater. After those regions rose out of the water, trees that favoured salty soil began growing there, for example, sundari, hentál [a type of palm], mangrove, báin, etc. Many places were named after such jungles, such as Garánhát́á, Hentálii, and so forth. The area of Calcutta known nowadays as Entally was formerly called Hentálii. There used to be a jungle there of huge hintal trees with thorns and tigers used to hide in it hoping to catch deer. With the distorted English pronunciation it became Entally. At that time different kinds of crops were grown in different areas of Calcutta. These areas were also named according to the local crop; for example, the area where betel was grown was named Guvábágán (the Sanskrit word for “betel” is guváka and from this comes the Bengali gubá). Similarly we get Nebubágán, Hartukiibágán, and so on.

In southern Bengal there are many places with kháli in their name, for example, Pat́uyákháli, Sandeshkháli, Hánskháli, Dhanekháli, etc. In southern and eastern Bengali there were not so many roads or land routes. People used to travel from one place to another by canals, rivers and swamps. Generally girls would travel to their father’s house when the rivers and creeks would fill with water, which made boat traffic convenient and plentiful.

Náo laiyá sháon másere bandhu náiyar laiyá yáio

–Mymensing

[Take me (the bride) to my father’s house by boat in the month of Shrávańa.]

It was the emperor Shershah who originally constructed the long road from Dhaka District’s Suvarńagrám to Át́aka in The Punjab. He did not name the road after himself. It was the people who gave it the name Badshah Road. Later the British extended the road up to Peshawar and renamed it the Grand Trunk Road. It should be mentioned here that the word saraka [road] is not a foreign word. It is actually a Sanskrit word. Sr + ńaka = saraka, that is, “that which is for moving [sará]”, not for standing, sitting or lying down. Due to mass confusion, the word saraka was replaced by saŕaka. Saŕak in chaste Hindi is a feminine gender word. Many people well-versed in Hindi do not realize that the correct form of the word saŕak is saraka. The words sarańa, sarańii, upasarańii and sáráńa in Rarhi Bengali all come from the verbal root sr. Incidentally, it is worth mentioning here that the builder of the Badshah Road, Shershah, came from the former Sahabad District’s, modern Rohatas District’s, Sasaram. The word śasárám has also undergone distortion. It was named Sahasraráma or Sahasarám after a famous local personage by the name of Sahasrarám Singh.(4) This place is still called Sahasarám in the local language, Bhojpuri.

Bear in mind here that the words sará and hat́á are not identical in meaning. The word hat́á, or hat́ná in Hindi, means “to move from the front” and sará means “to go on moving”, so the work of sará cannot be done by hat́á or hat́ná although the work of hat́á can be done by sará. Another meaning of the word sará in Bengali is “to bring into use”, for example, ghát́t́á sará hacche ná [the quay is not being used], básant́á sará hacche ná [the container is not being used]. In the domestic life of Bengal, the container or utensil which is used often for regular needs is called sará in Bengali rather than any other word.

Southern Bengal did not have sufficient roads for land travel. People used to travel nearly everywhere by water with the exception of a few areas near Tripura.(5) Imagine, for instance, that someone wants to go to Barishal’s Bhát́igrám. First they have to travel some distance by steamer from Khulna.(6) Thereafter, once the depth of the water decreases, they have to leave the steamer behind and go by launch.(7) Then, after travelling a little further in a boat they have to continue by footpath to Bhát́igrám. A steamer can travel down a large river or canal but not down a small river or canal; a boat is needed to travel down the small rivers and canals. Now the villages that used to be connected to the main waterways through canals [khál] were given the name kháli, for example, Pat́uyákháli, Dhanekháli, Jelekháli, Sandeshkháli, etc. When you see the name kháli you can assume that there is or was a canal near that village, and that the canal joined a large waterway.

The name kholá is attached to those villages which have no relation with any khál but which have very large trees full of birds, for example, Sharańkholá, Harińkholá, etc. Kholá is a native word which means “bird”. The Sanskrit synonyms for pákhii [bird] are pakśii, vihaga, vihauṋga, vihauṋgama, and so forth. Similarly, the Sanskrit equivalents for “deer” are kuraga, kurauṋga, kurauṋgama, etc. and for “horse” they are turaga, turauṋga, turauṋgama, and so on.

The word kholá has other meanings in Bengali. The first is the covering of a fruit or some such thing. You must have all seen a kholá ghar [house with a pantile roof] and also used the word. Here also the word kholá means “covering”. Two words are commonly used in Bengali to refer to the covering of a fruit – kholá and khosá. If the covering is hard then it is called kholá, for example, the kholá of a coconut, but if it is soft then it is called khosá. For example, a banana has a khosá. However in Calcutta Bengali a banana skin and a coconut shell are both called kholá. Of course, there is a special word for coconut shell – málá (nárkoler málá).

Bengali has its own words for “flower” – mocá and muci. The word mocá means “large flower” and muci means “small flower”. Since a banana flower is large in size it is called mocá, but a coconut flower is quite small so it is called muci. The jackfruit flower is also called muci. In these kinds of philological discussions one learns not only the history of names but many other things as well, and in this way it becomes easy to narrow down the history.

Boats were once used everywhere in Bengal apart from some areas bordering Tripura, the far north of Bengal and western Rarh.(8) During that era rivers and boats played such a prominent role in everyday life that people imagined that there was a river of life lying between physicality and spiritual salvation.(9) There is a poem from twelve hundred years ago:

Sone bharitii karuńá návii Rúpá thoi náhik t́hávii Váhátu kámalii gaan unvese Geli jám váhuŕai kaise

[The boat of compassion is overloaded with gold. There is no room for silver.]

Anyhow, the rivers used to be plied by boat and there were quays for mooring them. In some places where there was no quay the boats were kept tied to a large tree. Nowadays if a dishonest person takes advantage of their friendship with a famous person to do some mischief, and no one else dares to say anything to them about it, then we say “They have tied their boat to a large tree.” In Midnapore, Howrah, 24 Paraganas, Khulna, Noyakhali and other places ghát́ [quay] is called ghát́á and hát́ [market] is called hát́á, for example, Páthureghát́á, Gariyáhát́á, Beleghát́á, Murgiihát́á, Darmáhát́á, Káliighát́á, Gáighát́á, Harińghát́á, and so forth.

The names of some settlements in this country are inextricably linked to certain English names. After the British occupied India they imposed the “policy of subsidiary alliance”. As a result of this policy some kings in this country accepted the authority of the British, for example the kings of Tripura, Coochbihar and Mayurbhanj. They had a contract with the British. The British took their army into all those kingdoms where the kings or great landowners did not accept their authority. They allowed those who surrendered to them out of fear to keep their zamindarship, but they snatched away the kingdoms of those who did not accept their authority and fought against them. Then they installed their own obedient zamindars in their place. Something or other was named after all those British officers who achieved success in these campaigns. For example, after the kingdom of Palamu was defeated, the district headquarters city was named Daltonganj after Mr. Dalton. The Octorloney Monument in Calcutta maidan was built in the name of General Octorloney. Nowadays the Octorloney Monument has been renamed Shahid Minar. This is not proper since it is a distortion of history. Something new should have been dedicated to the memory of the Shahids. Similarly, they have made Pamarganj, Macluskeyganj, Leslieganj, and so on.

Incidentally, it should be pointed out the English word “general” has undergone a distortion of pronunciation to become jándrel in Bengali. We call powerful [jabardast] people jándrel lok. Bear in mind that the word jabardast is Farsi. Dasta means “hand”, and if that hand is applied forcibly to something or possesses something forcibly then it is jabardast. In Panjabi “general” became járnál. If you look around a little you may able to find a couple of Járnál Singhs present.

Even though the English word “colonel” does not have an “r” it is pronounced karńel. From this comes the Panjabi word kárnáil. Similarly, the English word “recruit” has become raḿrut́ in Panjabi and the English “surrender” has become sáláńd́ár.

As a result of the Britishers’ distorted pronunciation the names of many famous cities in this country have become distorted. I have already talked about the distortion of the name Kalikátá (Calcutta) in this regard. A similar thing has happened with the city Bombay. Many fishing families were living in the suburbs of the modern city of Bombay. These fishing families were the old inhabitants of the city before it became Bombay. Their traditional deity was the goddess Mumbávatii. Vatii becomes bai in Maháráśt́rii Prákrta, so accordingly Mumbávatii became Mumbábai and, with the passage of time, Mumbái. The word mumbái has been common in both Marathi and Gujarati since that time and remains so. The British turned this Mumbái into Bombay and this “Bombay” became Bombái in Hindi and Bengali. Kothákár jal kotháy ese dánŕála [Where does the water come from; where does it end up?].(10) Recently the government of Maharashtra has changed the name Bombái to Mumbái. This is a praiseworthy action. Calcutta should promptly be changed to Kalikátá in English. Why should the same proper noun be called differently by different people! This destroys the sense of value of a proper noun. If you ask someone named Sardar Hazara Singh his name will he say that his name is “Leader Thousand Lions”? Should we call Krishnanagar “Black City” in English? Someone who gets a kick out of calling Krishnanagar “Black City” should follow suit and call Calcutta “Lime and Rope”. Only then will their penchant for imitation be complete.

2 October 1983, Calcutta Footnotes

(1) The literal idiom is: “My head was badly caught”. The words used by the magistrate are all spelt with d́h instead of dha and t́a instead of ta to highlight the inability of the English to pronounce the dental letters. –Trans.

(2) Poppy seed is a constipative food. –Trans.

(3) In the literary language nowadays it has been made into vaḿshavát́i but this is incorrect. The literary form of báḿshbeŕe is not vaḿshavát́i. If the original form had been vaḿshavát́i then language its modern southern Bengali form would have been báḿshbáŕi, not báḿshbeŕe. So since the colloquial name is Báḿshbeŕe then the old name of the place was certainly Vaḿshavát́iká.

(4) I did not use the word vyakti [individual] because this word is incorrect from head to toe. The linguistic scholars may be able to tell us at what auspicious moment the word vyakti came to mean “person”. That is not a task for ordinary people like myself. The word vyakti means “to make manifest”. If the needlework that women do on cloth is called súciivyakti then I have no objections. However, calling a person vyakti raises strong cause for objection.

(5) Comilla – Comilla is surrounded by lowlands. Even the two nearby subdivisions, Bráhmanbeŕiyá and Cándpur, are lowlands. However, the city itself of tank, bank, datta and rasamalai, Comilla, is an elevated area [d́áuṋgá] where the bullock cart is more common than the boat.

(6) “Steamer” is an English word. In Bengali one says jáháj, although jáháj is a Farsi word. The Sanskrit word is arńavapota. The word jáháj is more common in Bengali than arńavapota.

(7) In Bengali the word used for the measurement of the depth of water is báno. The corresponding English word is “fathom”.

(8) In very ancient times boats were used in western Rarh as well. The masts of ships have been discovered while cultivating the extremely fertile region of the Ajay and Mayurakshi rivers. However they are from many ages ago.

(9) In old Bengali, rivers used to be called nai or lai. There is a river running through Birbhum and Dumka districts whose proper name is Váṋshnadii but whose common name in Váṋshlai.

(10) A proverb implying that its origin was one thing but it ended up as something else. –Trans.

Published in: Varńa Vijinána

Case and Case-Endings – 2 (Discourse 13)

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