Acala

Here the sound a is used as a negation. The etymological meaning of acala is “that which does not move”. Its colloquial meaning is “tree”, or “mountain”. It is worth remembering that in ancient times people were familiar with the verbal root cal primarily as átmanepadii, while in later days it became parasmaepadii; in other words, the verb calá can be used in both ways. Although during the time of the composition of grammar, the átmanepadii use of the verbal root cal was abolished, still the átmanepadii form was accepted for both padiis. If we can say that the verbal root cal was not used as átmanepadii in ordinary Sanskrit, then it is even more true of the spoken language. In the literary language it existed in name only. Since it was accepted as both padiis, then by adding the suffix shatr to the verbal root cal we get calat which means “that which is moving”. Thus: calat + citra = calaccitra; calat + shakti = calacchakti; jijiiviśet + shataḿ samáh = jijiiviśecchataḿ samáh; tat + shubhram = tacchrubhram; tadyacchet + shántátmani = tadyacchecchántátmani. And by adding the suffix shánac we get the word calamána which is equally correct. Thus, acala means aga [unmoving].

The practical value of money depends on its mobility. If no one will accept it due to some defect in its structure or lack of value then its motion gets halted. For this reason, fake [nakala] or counterfeit [meki] money is called acala t́áká, acala mudrá, or acala paysá [non-moving money]. One should keep in mind that in this case, the word acala comes from Sanskrit and t́áká is indigenous Bengali.

The words nakala and meki are of foreign origin. Meki mudra means “counterfeit coin” in English. Keep an eye on the spelling here. “I” comes after “e”. The usual rule is “i” before “e” but there are certain exceptions or apaváda such as “counterfeit”, “leisure” and the root “ceive” (its noun is “ceipt”) – “receive”, “deceive”, “conceive”, “perceive”, and so forth. Such exceptions are called apaváda in Sanskrit. Váda means “fundamental idea”. The prefix apa means “opposing”, the prefix upa means “near”, and the prefix ava commonly means “lower”. That which opposes the basic means of expression is apaváda. For example, words ending with di or dhi and suffixed by ki are masculine. We call this expression váda but the word dadhi is an exception; it is neuter. Rather than calling it an exception, we can say that it goes against the prevalent rule, that is, it is the apaváda of váda. In Bengali, however, the original meaning of apaváda has been lost. It is now used to mean “abuse” or “harsh words”.

Acára

It is important to remain aware of the difference between acára [pickle] and ácára [conduct]. Ácára is a Sanskrit word which is used in Bengali; it means “behaviour” (ácarańa). Á – car + ghaiṋ = ácára. Á – car + anat́ = ácarańa. Acára, however, is a foreign word – it was brought by the Portuguese approximately 450 years ago. The people of this country learned how to make acára from them and thereafter increased its scope. Mango, green jackfruit, lemon, hog-plum, chillies, bamboo shoots, cauliflower, cabbage, kohlrabi, radish, myrobalan, kaŕáishunt́i, karamcá, kámaráuṋgá – from what is acára not made? Ácára helps in digestion and is tasty besides.

The Indian people not only learned how to make acára from the Portuguese, but also jam, jelly, marmalade, conserves, syrup, and yeasted breads; this apprenticeship began in their main centre, Goa, as well as in Hoogli and Bonadel. Bonadel means “good area”. The word bonadel, as it spread orally, became bandel in some places (Hoogli district) and bondel in others (Calcutta, 24th Paragańá). If care is not taken in spelling then ácára can be easily confused with acára.

The renowned Agra jam in north India and Bengal’s Suri jam did not exist before the Portuguese arrived in this country. Of course, native fruits such as mango and jackfruit were already here, therefore they have Sanskrit names.

Acyuta

The etymological meaning of cyuta is “that which falls off or drops away after reaching full maturity or completeness”. Thus, etymologically, almost all fruits (palmyra fruit, mango, coconut, jám [Indian blackberry]) fall in the category of cyuta because they fall off the tree when they become fully ripe, but colloquially cyuta refers to sweet mango, coconut, palmyra fruit, bellfruit. The etymological meaning of acyuta is “that which does not fall off or drop off” – that which does not deviate from its own nature or its own dharma. It has achieved the fullness of its nature.

That vaeśńavii máyá which looks after and cares for the created universe also never deviates from its own nature or its dharma. When Parama Brahma [Supreme Entity] acts as the preserver then it is called Viśńu. This Viśńu never deviates from its path or fails in its duty. From beginninglessness to endlessness, all falls within the periphery of His duty. If Viśńu would forget His duty for even a second, the entire universe would collapse. This rhythmic expression of Viśńu is called acyuta. Brahmá, the creator, could put an end to this universal play, He could withdraw it back into annihilation; still Viśńu would continue His work of preserving and maintaining without a pause. Thus, from the supreme spiritual standpoint, acyuta stands for Supreme Consciousness’ Viśńu form whose seed syllable is u.

Acetana

Cit + lyut́ = cetana. By adding the negation a it becomes acetana. The verbal root cit means “to perceive”, “to discriminate”, “to cogitate”, “to contemplate”. (By adding the suffix kta after the verbal root cit we get the word citta). The word cetana is used in different senses. It means “one who has awakened”, “who is alive”, “who has developed intellect”, “who is spiritually awakened”, “who is discriminating”, “whose power of judgement is developed”, and so forth. Although the word cetana has many meanings, normally we use it in three ways. Needless to say, we also use acetana primarily in three ways.

If, for any reason, in the world of physicality, the nerve fibres are injured and due to this the nerve cells lose their normal abiltity to function, then that temporary loss of function we refer to in colloquial Bengali as ajiṋána haye yaoyá [becoming unconscious] or jiṋána háráno [becoming senseless] for which the word acetana is also used. In many cases the nerve cells, rather than the nerve fibres, receive a blow. If the mind is agitated by some extremely pleasurable or extremely painful event, it can cause a psychic stupor which prevents the nerve fibres from functioning normally. As a result, the person becomes senseless. For this reason, one should not break any very painful or very pleasurable news to a person suddenly. It should be done slowly, step by step. The nerve fibres should also⁽¹⁾ not be given any sudden, heavy blow. One should be socially considerate in this regard.

If an unmarried daughter suffers humiliation from relatives and neighbours over a long period of time, then the pressure of that mental suffering can one day affect her nerve cells and render her senseless or take the form of a disease. This is commonly called hysteria. If the cause of suffering is removed then the disease also disappears. In those societies where the remarriage of widows is forbidden hysteria is common for this very reason. In colloquial Bengali we call this phit́ haowá [fainting].

One should keep in mind that spirit possession and fainting are not the same thing. In possession a person mumbles incoherently. In this case he or she does not or cannot control his or her mental pabula and expresses his or her mind without any awareness of time, place or person. Hysteria is different.

Anyway this hysteria is a form of acetanatá [senselessness]. Epilepsy is also transmitted from the psychic level, that is, from the nerve cells to the nerve fibres. But this disease first occurs in the nerve fibres and then agitates the nerve cells. After this, it remains imprinted in the nerve cells as a psychic disease and expresses itself in a particular place and time. These are the different kinds of senselessness that we observe or find in the mundane world.

Epilepsy arises when a person comes in sudden contact with some thing or some event completely outside the realm of his or her experience. Through proper counselling, attacks of this disease can be checked and through psychic treatment along with the use of small amounts of medicine the disease can be treated. Anyhow, in all the above cases we use the word acetana.

In the psychic world we use the word acetana in yet another way. Though from the spiritual standpoint it is not absolutely true, still we commonly divide the mind into three layers of which one is the acetana [unconscious] mind. Its scope is extremely vast but it functions entirely within that vast periphery. The second layer is the avacetana [subconscious] mind whose scope is comparatively much smaller but which functions partly within those boundaries and partly outside them. The third layer is the cetana [conscious] mind whose scope is extremely limited but which functions primarily outside those boundaries with the help of the ten sensory and motor organs. In those extremely few cases where it functions within its boundaries, its action consists of contemplation born of experience.

Ten sensory and motor organs and the faculty of contemplation – this is its domain. For this reason, many people are of the opinion that there are eleven indriyas. In social life and in individual life, for one’s sake or for other’s, that person’s life becomes exalted and sublime who is able to enrich his or her conscious mind’s creations with the wealth of the subconcious mind, and one’s all-round existence becomes successful when one is able to saturate one’s conscious mind with the riches of the subconcious mind, and the subconscious mind with the treasures of the unconscious mind. Within this is hidden the supreme spiritual inspiration of one’s existence and the complete fufilment of desire.

From the spiritual point of view, the essence of the all-imaginative ectoplasm is known as the Cognitive Faculty or the Cognitive Entity, regardless whether it is expressed or unexpressed. That essence or flow of the individual movement is the causal matrix of its arising. Within the crude manifestation of this conciousness in the unit inheres the fundamental substantiation of its existence – the establishment of the sense of doership – and in its ultimate transformation it becomes the faculty of discrimination.

This Cognitive Faculty which lies in the seed of expression remains associated with all manifest entities during every step of the process of manifestation, and it remains as the witness of all entities whether they are expressed or unexpressed. When it remains associated with each individual entity separately it is known as Pratyagátmá and when it remains associated with them collectively as the Cognitive Entity, it is known as Paracaetanya. When the knowership of the Cognitive Faculty remains associated with matter, that is to say, when it remains associated in such a way that there is no realization of existence, nor the capacity for doership or active experience, then that state of matter we call acetana or crude matter; everything else is cetana.

The manifestation of consciousness (cetanatá) is greatest where the sense of existence is most pronounced. For this reason human beings are considered the most developed beings. But is there anything more to the human being… does this exhaust his potential? No. The sweetness of this sense of existence is hidden in the glory of its expansion. It is their existential greatness and its unhindered radiation that makes human beings great. Thus, in another sense, when we say “conscious entity” we mean human being.

In the waking, dream and deep-sleep states, spiritual consciousness permeates the microcosm but in the living being it happens mostly in the waking state, very little in the dream state, and virtually not at all in deep sleep. But the wonder of it is that the same being that considers the waking state the final, supreme truth also considers the dream state as the final and supreme truth as long as he or she is dreaming. Deep sleep is the state of the experience of nothingness. Thus, despite the impossibility of calling this supreme or final, after waking from this deep sleep one falls into the error of thinking of this recent experience of absence as supreme and final. Actually, the dream state is a combination of subtle experiences collected from the mental world and vibrations collected from the waking state. Those vibrations which are gathered from the crude world oscillate constantly between truth and untruth, but those which come from the mental world are sometimes relative and sometimes non-relative truth. There is little opportunity for vibrational movement in the conviction of absence realized in deep sleep but we cannot reject this as non-existence. Anyhow, all this happens in the flow of consciousness, sometimes in a very natural, and sometimes in an unnatural rhythmic flow. This was consciousness or its negative, unconsciousness.

We were speaking about the waking state, dream state, and deep sleep, which reminds me of a little-known face. It was the year 1938 or 1939. At the time I was about seventeen or eighteen. It was British rule then and there was a fair amount of discipline and sense of discipline in evidence everywhere.

I was travelling from Calcutta to Patna by night train. Travelling by day would have been a waste of my time, but by taking the night train I was not losing any time because if I was not in the train I would still have to sleep, regardless of whether I was in Calcutta or Patna. Thus by taking the night train I avoided spoiling my time.

It was wintertime. The compartment I boarded was quite crowded at the beginning, but half the people got off in Burdwan and the rest in Asansol. After Asansol I had the compartment to myself. I lay down and covered myself, and fell asleep not long after.

Suddenly, about 2:30 in the morning, I heard someone whispering in my ear in a sweet, gentle voice. He seemed to be saying, “Excuse me, please. Could I borrow your lighter?”

A little annoyed, I pulled the blanket down from around my face and saw a young gentleman about my age in a coat and pants. At that time nobody liked to wear pants. Police, excise inspectors and military personnel had to wear pants as part of their uniform and gazetted officers had to wear pants for their work, but as soon as they got the chance they would switch to a dhoti and paiṋjábii. Doctors at that time used to wear either pants or dhoti. School boys used to wear half-pants, but as soon as they reached college age they would start wearing dhoti and paiṋjábii. During my time, many boys in the higher grades of high school also wore dhoti and paiṋjábii. That was the style in that era.

I was somewhat astonished to see this young man standing there wearing pants, but I guessed that he must have been a gazetted officer. His countenance bore an imprint of gentleness and nobility.

A little annoyed, I said, “I don’t smoke. I don’t have a lighter.”

“Look in your right-hand pocket,” he replied. “There’s a lighter there.”

Amazingly enough, there was. I was completely dumbfounded. There actually was a lighter in my pocket.

When I handed it to him he smiled sweetly and said, “I put the lighter in your pocket. It was a pretext to talk to you. I hope you didn’t mind?”

I asked him to sit. A tornado was tearing full speed through my mind. I had locked the door, so how did my visitor get in? I was sleeping on my right side, so my right pocket was underneath me. How did he put the lighter in there? After a short stoppage at Sitarampur there was no other stoppage until Jashidi Junction. Did this fellow hop on a moving train?

My visitor appeared as if he had heard everything I was thinking and smiled in such a way that left no doubt about it. I motioned for him to sit next to me on the berth but rather than sitting on the berth, he spread a silk hankerchief on the opposite bench and sat there.

For a time there was complete silence. Outside it was completely dark and other than the sound of the train there did not seem to be anything else existing. The sound of the crickets blended with the sound of the train to make a single sound as the train rolled past the undulating land of Ráŕh. I asked this polite, mannerly, quiet young man, “Where is your home? Where are you coming from? Where do you stay?”

“I’m from Dhaka city, at Ramna, near Kaliibari,” he replied. “I’m working in Calcutta.” (This was nine or ten years before the partition of the country). Smiling a little, he said, “Don’t you know that I’m very close to you? I’m just a little younger than you are. You should use tumi and not ápni [the familiar rather than the polite form of address].”

So I said [using the familiar form], “Then you’re staying in Calcutta now.”

He smiled. “Yes, but for the time being I’m in this compartment.” I also started smiling with him.

He continued talking: “I was thinking that you didn’t get a chance to eat properly because you had to catch the evening train, so I kept some food for you. I wanted to give it to you when the crowd thinned out. I didn’t let just anybody cook it; I cooked it with my own hands, so I wouldn’t hear of you not taking it. I was going to give it to you myself but it was so crowded that I didn’t get a chance. Moreover, I was thinking for a long time that I wanted the chance to meet you. After the train emptied out in Asansol I thought to come and see you, but I noticed that you had lain down with a blanket over you and fallen asleep. One shouldn’t just wake somebody up like that. If I did wake you up under those circumstances to give you something to eat, it wouldn’t exactly be wrong, but I didn’t do it. About 2:30 I noticed that you were sleeping lighter and then I took the opportunity to wake you up on the pretext of wanting your lighter. Now I can see that waking you up was a great injustice; it won’t do to give you food at 2:30 in the morning.”

“You didn’t tell me your name,” I said.

“My name is Madhumalay Mitra,” he replied. “In the morning also, I won’t have a chance to sit beside you and give you breakfast. A group of pilgrims are going to get on at Jhajha station. They’re going from Mokama ghat to Simariya ghat to bathe in the Ganges during the solar eclipse.”

“Why?” I asked. “Mokama ghat is also on the Ganges.”

“Mokama ghat is on the south bank of the Ganges,” he replied.

“That’s the land of Magadha, while Simariya ghat is on the other side – in Mithila. The virtue one earns from taking a bath in the Ganges in Mithila is greater than in Magadha so they’ll take a steamer to the other side and bathe there.”

“Is that so?” I said. “You know so much!”

Madhumalay replied, “Even now you’re thinking that I’m a stranger. But I’m not a stranger. I’m inside your mind.”

I looked at him, astonished.

“Unfortunately for me,” he continued, “I won’t find you alone tomorrow at breakfast time.” Again he started saying: “You just got up and took off your blanket. Why don’t you sit up and cover your ears and neck with a muffler. You were coughing several times during the night. You may have caught a cold.”

We were quiet for a few minutes. Again he resumed speaking.

“You were thinking about Áklmand Singh.”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Áklmand Singh also got in this compartment once,” he said. “He also knew me. Once he hung a heavy, one maund⁽²⁾ bag with his breakfast from that chain that you see there. The chain couldn’t handle the weight and as a result the train gave a strong jerk and came to a halt. The railway officers started searching and came into this compartment. ‘Who pulled the chain,’ they asked. ‘I didn’t pull it,’ said Áklmand. ‘Just look. There’s a bag tied to the chain. It only weighs a maund.’

“The rail authorities replied, ‘You’ll have to pay a fine. Why did you hang something that weighs a maund from there?’

“‘Come on!’ said Áklmand. ‘If my little one maund breakfast bag can stop the train, what can be worse than that! Rather, if you want, I’ll get down from the train. I weigh five maunds. Then the train should be light enough to be able to move.’

“I was thinking to tell this story if I saw you,” said Madhumalay. Then he added. “I know about another event. Once some students were keeping an old mole in a cage in a room in Britain’s India House. No one could go near the cage due to the terrible smell and the continuous high-pitched squealing. On a whim they decided: ‘Let us have a test to see who can stay the longest in that foul-smelling room. Whoever stays the longest will get the title of Knight.’

“There was a queue to go into the room. Who doesn’t want to be called a knight? But every candidate came out before a minute was up. No one could stay even a minute and a half. Then Áklmand Singh said, ‘I’ll try.’ He went in and stayed in nearly a full five minutes. Then they heard the sound of the cage rattling. Everyone was astonished to see the old mole somehow pull the cage out of the room, though he was still in it.

“Everyone asked, ‘My word, mole! Why did you come out?’ He replied, ‘Who can survive in that room? I was able to stay five minutes because of the virtue I’ve acquired from seven lifetimes of penance. Now give me my knighthood as first prize. I’m going back happily to my sugar cane field’.”

“Not a bad story,” I said.

“Now you lie down for some time,” said Madhumalay. “I’ll just be sitting here. Go to sleep and don’t worry about anything.”

Again it was silent for a while. After some time I got up to go to the bathroom. Madhumalay looked at me and said, “Now it’s exactly 2:30. This isn’t a good time to go to the bathroom.”

“Why?” I replied. “Why are you saying such a thing?”

“If you wait a few minutes to go it’ll be better.”

“Look,” I said. “I don’t believe in any kind of superstition. Don’t mind, but I’m going to the bathroom.”

Looking a little sad, he said, “OK, then go.”

I went into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I stepped forward and almost stumbled over something in front of me. When I looked down I was amazed to see a freshly dead body. I looked at the face carefully and saw… what!… it was Madhumalay Mitra! But just a few seconds ago I had seen him sitting on the seat across from mine; he was perfectly healthy when he was speaking to me. How could he have gotten into the bathroom ahead of me? And how could he have died in such a short span of time?

The corpse was wearing the same clothes that Madhumalay had been wearing when he was sitting in front of me. Even the lighter that I had put in his hand a little while before was in the right hand of the dead body. I thought, let me go back quickly and tell the Madhumalay that was sitting in front of me what’s happened; I’ll show him the lighter and see if it’s the same one or not. As soon as I took the lighter out of the corpse’s hand, the bathroom light went out. I left the bathroom cautiously, careful not to step on the dead body. When I arrived back at my seat what do I find? How strange! Where is Madhumalay? He’s gone! But his hankerchief was still on the seat. It was as if he was saying,

Smrtibháre ámi paŕe áchi
Bháramukta se ekháne nái

[I am stranded here with the heavy weight of past memories; free from burden, he is here no more.]

I quickly returned to the bathroom but, amazingly, there was no dead body there. Cold air was whizzing through the slits in the bathroom window shutter, and there seemed to be a voice keeping time with the sound of the inrushing air: “Now it’s 2:30 in the morning… I have to go… whoever comes, comes so that they can go… whoever goes, goes so that they can come… I loved you… I loved you very much… I still love you and always will. Keep the hankerchief and the lighter. Under your bed you’ll find a covered plate that I left there with some Dhaka parot́as [a fried, unleavened bread]… You must take them with your breakfast. I’m really sorry I didn’t get the chance to feed you myself.”

I returned to the compartment and picked up Madhumalay’s hankerchief. The strong scent of attar was rising from it. Near the leg of the bed I found a covered plate with some hot, freshly fried Dhaka parot́as, as if someone had just left them there.

I turned off the overhead light. As the train left Jishidi and headed towards Jhahja, the cold was tearing the heart of the dark winter night with a plaintive lament.

After I finished my work in Patna, I returned home. The hankerchief and lighter I put in my personal museum.

A few days later I went to Howrah station and found a railway employee to help me locate that same compartment from the train. The employee told me that the bogey had been separated from the train and sent to the Nellore railway workshop where they were going to dismantle it for parts. I asked him why.

The railway employee told me: “A few days ago a passenger by the name of Madhumalay Mitra met an unnatural death in that compartment and since then there have been a number of fantastic and puzzling complaints. The complaints were all different but they all agreed on one point. In every case the unbelievable event happened about 2:30 in the morning.”

I was dumbfounded. It was difficult for me to understand because this happened in the waking state, not during the dream state or deep sleep. Let the philosophers think what they will; let the psychologists say what they wish. I, however, have not been able to erase either Madhumalay Mitra or that night from my mind, even today. He remains in my mind.

Accha

The meaning of the verbal root chii is “to pen through”, “to draw a line”, “to delineate”, etc. The verbal root cho has the same meaning. By adding the suffix d́a to either verbal root, chii or cho, we get the word cha which means “to pen through something”, “to scrawl”. It should be remembered here that in ancient times, before the invention of script, the words rekhá [line] and lehká [writing] carried the same meaning. After the invention of the alphabet, the meaning of lekhá became “that line which expresses a letter”. And rekhá became a basic word. Still, in accordance with the ra-layorabhedah rule (such as roma/loma, rohita/lohita, rakta/lakta, arakta/alakta) rekhá used to be used for lekhá and lekhá for rekhá.

In any case a + cha = accha. The word a is a negation. Thus the etymological meaning of the word accha is “that which has not been penned through or scrawled on”. The colloquial meaning is “good”. This word, in its meaning as “good”, is common today in north India. Acchá ádmii, acche log, acchii kitáb – these all come from the word accha. Even though the word accha is not used in Bengali, the word svaccha (su + accha = svaccha), which means “transparent” in English, is quite common.

Aja

From the verbal root jan plus the suffix d́a we get the word ja which means “that which has been born”. By adding ja after the negation a the meaning becomes “that which has not been born”.

Ajo nityah sháshvato’ayaḿ puráńo

By using the word aja to mean “He who is eternal”, “He who is imperishable”, it refers to Parama Puruśa.

The meaning of the verbal root aj is “to move”. The verbal root aj plus the suffix ac gives us aja whose etymological meaning is “that which is always moving”. Goats always move around in search of food. Thus the colloquial meaning of aja is “goat”. The Cosmic Mind of Parama Puruśa is always busy imagining, both within and beyond the scope of time. Thus the word aja is used to refer to the mind of Parama Puruśa or the Cosmic Mind.

At́ana

The word at́ana is derived from the verbal root at́ plus the suffix lyut́. The verbal root at́ means “to move”, “to keep the flow of movement unhindered”. By adding the prefix pari to the verbal root at́ its meaning becomes “moving while looking and learning” (pari + at́ana = paryat́ana); pari + at́aka = paryat́aka [traveller] or “he who moves from one country to another while looking and learning”.

The verbal root at́ suffixed by t́ac gives at́t́a. At́t́a means “that in which there is continuity”. A continuous “ha, ha, ha, ha, ha”, laughing sound we call at́t́ahási. That house which is continuously moving or growing we call at́t́áliká [mansion]. At́t́a means “that whose flow of movement is unhindered”. In English two words are used for it, “continuity” and “contiguity”. Though there is no fixed rule, generally “continuity” and “continuous” are used in the abstract sense and “contiguity” and “contiguous” in the physical sense. For example, we can say that Patanjali’s philosophy is a kind of at́t́a or continuity of Sáḿkhya philosophy whereas Thailand maintains territorial contiguity with Bengal.

At́ha

The word at́ha means “meaning”. Artha → at́t́ha → at́ha. The word comes from Mágadhi Prákrta.⁽³⁾ However, it is not used in modern Bengali or in any other language which originated from Mágadhi Prákrta. The word was used in Ashoka’s Lumbinii inscription.

Footnotes

(1) They, like the nerve cells, are susceptible to a psychic blow. –Trans.

(2) An old unit of measurement, about 40 kg. –Trans.

(3) An older language of eastern India, from which came Bengali, Oriya, etc. –Trans.