Words, words, words
Syed Badrul Ahsan feels educated by a posthumous work
Language is sometimes, when you are in the mood to be serious about it, a search for roots. You call it etymology. You call it going back to heritage. When you think of English, you think too of the inroads other languages have made into it. Indeed, you wonder at the many ways in which these languages, notably French, have enriched English, have given it the solidity it enjoys today. And now, as this rich work from the late Shaikh Ghulam Maqsud Hilali demonstrates, there are the juicy morsels that have crept into Bengali from such sources as Persian and Arabic. Maybe you knew about these things all along, maybe you didn't. The bigger point is that with language being a dynamic affair (it dies if it is not that), Bengali too has had its fair share in accommodating words and terms from other languages. Hilali's work, prepared well before his death in 1961 but subsequently brought out by his son (this is the fourth edition, the first having seen the light of day in 1967), is proof of that truth. Think of a term, albat (surely) we employ in everyday life. Its roots lie in albatta. Our alkatra springs from the Arabic alqatra; and karavan (or think of Karwan Bazar) has emerged from the Persian karwan. The French of course use the word caravane. The dogs will bark but the caravan moves on? Remember? Adaptation is by and large enriching. The immensity of time and patience Hilali must have spent in deciphering the mystery of adaptation by Bengali of Perso-Arabic elements has surely paid off. He tells you that jhamela, meaning troublesome burden, comes from the Arabic zamila, overload or overcharge. And jhola has its origins in the Persian julla or jula. Think of beram, as in illness. You instantly are taken back to be-aram, meaning sick, in discomfort, in Persian. The hectic activity we define as torjor has half of it coming from the Persian zor. As for a gift you plan for someone, a tofa, the origins lie in the Arabic tuhfa, an excellent, rare object worthy of being presented to an individual. From manand, like or resembling in Persian, you have the Bengali antonym bemanan. Persian also gives us bera, fence, from bara, meaning walls or fortifications. The roots of magaj, or brain, are in the Persian maghz. Ruhani, a term relating to the soul, has at its core the Arabic ruhaniyy as well as the Persian ruhani. Now think of latifa, a word that is generally associated with a woman's name. Its origins are to be spotted in Arabic. It signifies elegance as well as a witty saying. Remember latifa in Urdu? For your sobur you have to travel back to sabr, patience, in Arabic; and soylab is really a combination of the Arabic sayl, flow, and the Persian aab, water. Put the two together and you have a flood or water that overflows. For shinduk or chest or box, you go back to sunduq in Arabic. Shisha, glass, is actually a Persian term. Hashi tamasha is a conjoining of the Bengali hashi, laughter, and, from both Arabic and Persian, tamasha --- meaning banter, joke, fun. And so it goes on. It is quite probable you will shake your head in disbelief when you browse through this work and realise how many of the words you use on a quotidian basis are honestly rooted in foreign clime. And that is true of other languages as well. If you have no problem in handling lieutenant or juggernaut in English (and they come from foreign tongues), you cannot really complain when you have similar stories being told about Bengali. The point is the language you speak and conduct your life in is a composite of elements flowing into it from outside. Or call it the chaos before creation. It will make things easier for you. Why do you use jal for water? Or pani? Has it ever occurred to you that your bostabondi is basically the Persian basta-bandi, packed in a sack or bale? Our debt to Hilali the polymath is huge. But for his son Humayun Khalid, this rich compendium would be lost to oblivion.
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