EE7.5 - Ka to Kandara (Discourse 16)

Ka to Kandara (Discourse 16)

Notes:

Words in double square brackets [[ ]] are corrections that did not appear in the printed version.

Ka is the first consonant of the Sanskrit alphabet. All the languages of the world which are descended from Sanskrit use ka as their first consonant. All those languages which are adopted-descendants, that is, those which are not directly descended from Sanskrit, but whose vocabulary is full of Sanskrit, also use ka as their first consonant. Both Sanskrit and the world’s phonetic science are arranged in such a way that if ka is used as the first consonant it is very convenient, and if not, then quite troublesome. If ka is not the first consonant, then not only practical difficulties arise but also grammatical difficulties. It becomes impossible to achieve a well-knit system regarding grammatical aphorisms, rules and decisions if ka is not the first consonant.

The special facility that results in the use of Roman script due to the lack of consonant and vowel diphthongs, that is, due to the system of consonants not being written improperly side by side, can be lost if the arrangement of letters does not follow Sanskrit practice.

Sanskrit does not have its own script. In the first half of the Vedic era, Sanskrit literature was composed without script. The invention of script was in the latter half of the Vedic era, but despite the lack of script in the first half of the Vedic era, alphabetic classification existed, and thus when script was invented it was also arranged according to the existing practice of alphabetic classification.

The Sanskrit language was first written in the Bráhmii and Kharośt́ii scripts, which were approximately seven thousand years old. Both these scripts were arranged according to Sanskrit phonetics. In subsequent times, the scripts that arose chiefly from Bráhmii, and secondarily from Kharośt́ii, that is, India’s original Sáradá script (the original mother of today’s Kashmiirii, D́ogrii and Punjabi Sáradá scripts), Nárada (the mother of today’s Gujarati, Nágrii, Devanágrii, Moŕii, Curuválii, etc. scripts) and Kut́iilá (Bengali) script, are arranged according to those phonetic rules.

Sanskrit does not have its own script. Wherever it was written or studied or taught, it used to use whatever script was prevalent in that country at that time. Keeping practicality in mind, if Sanskrit is written nowadays in Roman script, its phonetic practice should be according to its own alphabetic system, that is, the letters should be arranged ka, kha, ga, gha, una… in this way.

Nowadays several languages descended from Sanskrit are written in Arabic script (Farsi script) for various historical reasons. Those languages are: Sindhii, which is descended from Saendhavii Prákrta (the name of its original script is Láhándei), the Páshcáttya Prákrta-descendant Kashmiirii (the name of its original script is Sáradá – Kashmir’s Sanskrit books and birth records are still written in this script), Peshawar (Puruśapur) and Afghanistan’s (Gándhár) language (this language is also descended from Páshcáttya Prákrta – páshcáttya → pashto. Its original script is also Sáradá), Farsi (its original script also came from Bráhmii). In addition to these, there are the Sanskrit adopted-descendants, Baluchi (it is Baluchistan’s original language belonging to the Dravidian branch), and Bráhoi (it is also a language of the west bank of the Sindhu river-basin. It is also of Dravidian origin as well as being an adopted descendant of Sanskrit). The other important language of this group is Malay (it is the original language of Malaysia and Singapore. It is included within the Malay family of languages and its original script is Kut́iilá (Bengali)). Although Malay is written nowadays in Arabic script for historical reasons, this Sanskrit adopted-descendant has no relation to the Arabic branch of languages. Still, it contains many Arabic words.

All those Sanskrit-descended languages and Sanskrit adopted-descendants which use ka as their first consonant may encounter difficulties at every step in the construction of grammatical aphorisms and the composition of phonetic rules. The śa rule, ńa rule, and system of conjuncts are all unscientifically and disorderly formulated. In many cases, there being no possible formula to apply, it is said: “that’s the way it’s been done”. I say, even if Roman script is used for convenience in the world of grammar, its alphabetic system must be arranged according to Sanskrit rules. Otherwise it will have to suffer the results of its own errors. Thus ka is the first consonant of the alphabet of Sanskrit-descended languages and adopted-descendants.

One meaning of the word ka is “water”. That which is covered by ka, that is, water, (which is kena in the sense of being covered by water) is kaccha. In ancient times that portion of western India which is situated at the northwest corner of the Táptii river-basin and the southeast corner of the Sindhu river-basin fell below sea level due to a terrible earthquake of volcanic origin. Sea-water inundated the land of that region and the area became surrounded by water. From then onwards it was called kaccha. There is another place a short distance from there which became partially inundated with sea-water. That area, which was under the moral supervision of Maharshi Bhrgu, was given the name Bhrgu Kaccha (Bharoca). Since that region was situated between Gondawanaland and the ancient Báluca-Áráballii mountain range, the entire area was transformed into sargasso sea according to the laws of nature. Thus, as a result of being inundated by sea-water, there remains the possibility of finding mineral oil in the water beds of this area, or beneath the soil where there is no water.

Our well-known kalmii [a leafy vegetable similar to spinach] grows in ka, that is, water, floating on the surface until it becomes very long. If you catch hold of one part and pull it, the distant portion will also be raised. Thus, the name of kalmii shák in Sanskrit is kalambii sháka. Actually, the word kalmii is derived from the Sanskrit word kalambii.

When manifestation first sprouts within the vast scope of the unmanifest, the Cognitive Faculty is bound by the Creative Faculty. This bound entity is known in Buddhist philosophy by the name of saḿvrttibodhicitta. In theist philosophy it is given the name káryabrahma. At that time one portion of the Cosmic Mind becomes the objective counterpart and one portion becomes the subjective counterpart. If there is no object there can be no subjectivity. Thus, since the unmanifest has no object, it has no subject either. In the manifest state the object exists so the subject also exists. Ka is the acoustic root of the objectivated counterpart of the Cosmic Mind, that is, ka signifies saḿvrttibodhicitta, or káryabrahma. And that portion of the Cosmic Mind which is the witness of the acoustic root ka has om as its acoustic root (a + u + m). Bear in mind, the acoustic root of the causal factor of the Cosmic Mind is not (৺)om but om. (৺)om refers to the unmanifest Cosmic Entity, regardless of manifestation or non-manifestation, beyond the phenomenal world or within it. Thus we see that another meaning of the word ka is “objectivated Cosmic Mind”.

That ka is the acoustic root of the Cosmic Mind transformed into object was certainly known to some few people during Vedic or ancient times. Thus they used a vertical mark to stand for the ka sound as a symbol of Parama Puruśa, and as a symbol of the binding force or Mahámáyá they drew a [[horizontal]] line. In order to signify the Cosmic Mind which has been transformed into the Cognitive Entity due to the bondage of Prakrti, they drew a plus sign [+] as a combined mark with the line signifying Prakrti over the line signifying Puruśa. In the process of writing this combined mark quickly without lifting the hand, it has taken on the form k: [ka] in modern Bengali. Because all sounds in the practical world are based on the objectivated Cosmic Mind, ka is the first consonant.

Since the letter ka is related through the system of mutual replacement to the sound ca, ca becomes the first letter of the second varga⁽¹⁾; and since t́a has a relationship of mutual replacement with the sound ca, it becomes the first letter of the third varga. Since ta has an acoustic and lightness⁽²⁾ relation to t́a, it is the first letter of the next varga. Since the ka, ca, t́a and ta vargas are grouped among the long sounds, pa becomes the first letter of the following fifth varga. Since there is no opportunity for a varga system beyond the fifth varga, the acoustic root of destruction, ma, has been kept as the last letter of that varga. Besides these, the remaining letters are either antahstha varńa (vowel conjuncts) or uśmavarńa [aspirates]. These aspirated sounds are known as uśmavarńa because at the time of pronunciation the air of the vocal cavity becomes heated. Thus we see that if ka is kept as the first consonant, then acoustic consistency is preserved. Thus, ka is the first consonant of the alphabet.

The meaning of the verbal root kań/kan (kańi/kani) is “to shine”, “to create sound”, “to groan”, “to be injured, or to run away for fear of being injured” or “to go quickly”. Although in the Vedic language this verbal root is mainly constructed with ńa, in Laokika (comparitively recent) Sanskrit both ńa and na are used. “That which shines” or “that whose attraction is desired” is kań + da = kanda. All those plants which yield their crop below ground (tuber crop), such as potato, red potato, yam, shánkalu [a conch-shaped tuber], ol, arum, are called kandashaka.

People care for the potato plant and desire it, not for the plant itself, but for its subterranean crop. This is equally applicable to all below-ground crops, thus all those crops which are produced below ground we call kanda.

“That which shines” or “that which is desired” – while using the word kanda in this sense, the people of that time came into contact with such objects whose attraction was irresistible to them. They also used to use the word kanda for those objects. Often, due to some extra attraction, the sound was doubled or lengthened (prśi diirgha) in accordance with the natural law, thus in those cases also the word kanda became kakanda. The first consonant, ka, was doubled. Kakanda means “gold”.

When the people of the prehistoric era came into contact with gold they became fascinated by its colour and gave it the name suvarńa. The etymological meaning of this word is “beautiful colour”. Its colloquial meaning is “gold”. When the Aryans entered India they came to Jambudviipa and found traces of gold particles in the rivers there. Because they found gold particles in the rivers of Jambudviipa they gave that land another name – Jámbunada (jambunada + sńa).

“Wheat” in Sanskrit is godhúma. Its etymological meaning is “that thing which gives rise to a pleasing vibration in the tongue”. I have said several times in the past that the original Persian language is a descendant of Sanskrit. From this word godhúma we get the word gondúma in old Persian. In various Indian languages we get the words gehun, gahum, gahun, gehuma, gohun, gaham (in Rarhi Bengali and parts of Orissa), gam, etc. from this godhúma. When wheat matures its colour becomes somewhat golden. Thus wheat also used to be called kakanda or kańaka in old Sanskrit. Wheat is also called kańaka in the Paeshácii Prákrta descendant, Punjabi.

Earlier I said that kanda can be spelled with either ńa or na if its meaning is “to shine”, “to create sound”, etc. For this reason both spellings, kanda and kańda, are correct. Na and da are dental letters, thus no difficulty arises if we write nda, but according to the conjunction rules of linguistic science, a dental letter cannot be combined with a cerebral letter. Thus the conjunction ńa with da is not allowed. Kanda must be spelled with nda. Nowadays the spelling of kanda with na is prevalent. In the Vedic era, however, the letter ńa was much more common. Thus the word kańd́a was also used to mean kanda or “gold”. The meaning “gold” for the word kańd́a has disappeared.

Etymologically, kaga signifies two things. Ka means saḿvrttibodhicitta [the bound Cognitive Faculty]. With this meaning “movement towards saḿvrttibodhicitta” or towards crude thought is called kaga (ka + gam + d́a = kaga). The other etymological meaning of the word kaga is “one whose movement is towards ka”, that is, water. For “movement towards water” or “descending into water” there is also the Vedic verbal root il. Il + ac gives ila which means kaga. If we take the word ka to mean water then one colloquial meaning of the word kaga is “buffalo”. If a buffalo sees water it cannot resist taking a dip, thus a synonym for “buffalo” is kaga.

The root verb kac means “to shine”. The etymological meaning of the word kaca is “shining” or “luminous”. Colloquially, it refers to the guru of the gods, Brhaśpati’s son, Kaca. Some of you must have read the story of Kaca-devayánii.

Kaca + purii = kacapurii → kacaurii → kacaorii → kacurii. Bear in mind, in Sanskrit the word purii is sometimes used to mean “city” or “town”, but it does not refer to the entire town, but rather a specific part of town, such as Daetyapurii [demon-town], Yakśapurii [ghost-town], Shatrupurii [enemy-town]. The word purii, from which kacurii has come, is not a pure Sanskrit word. It is a north Indian Hindi word. When nuchis [a deep-fried unleavened bread] are fried in pure ghee then they are called shakkulii or shaḿkulii or shaḿkhulii. In Bengali both luchi and nuchi are equally correct. When the dough for these nuchis is mixed with some ghee for leavening and fried in a pan of ghee, it is called somáliká in Sanskrit and purii in north India. If it is fried in oil, whether it is deep-fried or fried with sprinkled oil, it is not considered nuchi – it is called purii. For example, d́álpurii which is fried in oil. We won’t say d́álluchi, we say d́álpurii.

“Bread” in Sanskrit is rot́iká. In any case, that purii which is fried in pure ghee and shines, that is, becomes tempting, was kacapurii → kacurii. Many are of the opinion that approximately five thousand years ago in old Tamil (dramil), the word kaoccesa was prevalent, meaning “small” or “immature [kaci]” or “tip”. In its corrupted form we get the words kocce/koce which mean “small” or “tip”. Similarly, we get the word kocin, meaning “small island”. A small boy we call kaci chele. The word kaci in Bengali comes from old Tamil. A newly-developed tip of a pumpkin [láu] vine we call kaci [láu] d́agá. So, in some people’s opinion the word kacaorii has come from koccepurii (koccepurii → kocceurii → kacaorii → kacurii).

Kad + jala = kajjala, that is, where water expands and takes the form of vapour or clouds. Thus kajjala signifies “cloud”. Bear in mind, here va is not adjoined to ja. Kat + jvala = kajjvala. Kat means “ugly”; kat means “black”. “That black-coloured object which shines” is kajjvala. Kajjvala means “collyrium”.

The meaning of the root verb kat́h is “to be in difficulty”; “to dry out and become hard”; “to remain in a confused state”; “to groan”; “to be hurt” or “to flee in fear of being hurt”; “for green grass or plants to turn yellow and become straw”. The root verb kat́h has been used a little to mean “to move forward”. From the verbal root kat́h plus ac we get the word kat́ha. Etymologically kat́ha signifies “that which is deluded or which deludes”, or “which is hard-earned”. Colloquially, kat́ha signifies:

1) A part of the Vedas – Kat́hopaniśad.
2) Kat́ha was the name of a certain Vedic rśi.
3) Kat́ha means “dry wood and stone”.
4) Most of the Brahmans of that time used to be poor and needy,
thus kat́ha generally signified Brahman.
5) Kat́ha means “that work which is difficult to do”.
6) Kat́ha means “that knowledge which is difficult to master”.
The words kat́hii or kat́hánii means bráhmańii [female Brahman
or Brahman’s wife], not Brahman’s daughter; the word kat́há
means Brahman’s daughter.

Kat́h + inac = kat́hina – “that which is by nature hard or troublesome”. In Rarhi Bengali and Shershahabad Bengali, some people say about naughty or mischievous boys: baŕá kat́hin cheilye go [what a naughty boy]. They use the word kat́hin with its proper meaning.

The word karttiká used to be used at one time for “that which survives even when cut up”. Karttiká → kattiká → kaiá → kai. Some people believe that even if the kai fish is cut up into small pieces, each of those pieces stays alive. For this reason the fish was given the name karttiká. The Maethilii word kavai has come from this word karttiká. It also means kai fish.

The root verb kad means “to swell up or expand”, “to be deluded”, “to create delusion”. Kad + ambac = kadamba. Etymologically, the word kadamba means “that which has created attraction”, or “that which has expanded”. It has several colloquial meanings:

1) The kadam flower, whose other name is niipa. Its original home is India and Southeast Asia. Although there are several varieties, both large and small, there are two main varieties. The first is a small-sized flower which is also used as a food when mature for making chutney, pickle, and ambal [a sour broth used as a condiment]. The second variety is a large flower – although not as tempting as a food, it has a pleasant smell. The blooming of this flower during the rainy season has been alluded to in various ways in ancient literature.

2) The second meaning of the word kadamba is dudhiya grass, a grass which grows well in temperate climates. It grows nicely in the plateau climate of Ranchi so the nearby cowherds and sheep-tenders take their animals to these areas to graze during spring and summer.

3) A third meaning of the word kadamba is “green turmeric”, that turmeric which is found in clusters at the base of the turmeric plant. This green turmeric is a cure for skin disease, but since it is a little poisonous it is not edible except as medicine. Shunt́ turmeric [dry turmeric] is prepared by boiling this green turmeric and drying it in the sun. This shunt́ turmeric is used in cooking. Since this green turmeric had the capacity to eliminate the causes of diseases, people in olden times used to smear their bodies with green turmeric paste and bathe before weddings and festivals in order to prevent the outbreak of disease during large gatherings. This festival is still celebrated to some extent and is known as gátraharidrá [gátra means “body” and haridrá means “turmeric”]. Green turmeric is also a cure for eczema. One small measured teaspoon of chopped green turmeric mixed with one or two drops of pure honey and one tulsi leaf, taken with an empty stomach, is considered a medicine for eczema.

Turmeric leaf is called parńa in Sanskrit. The word parńa means “any mature leaf”. Immature, red leaves are kishalaya. Green leaves are patra and in the turmeric plant they were called parńa. The third meaning of parńa is páń [betel leaf] (Its Sanskrit name is nágavallarii). Támbula does not refer to betel leaf but rather to any table spice. In this respect, betel leaf belongs to the category of támbula. According to tradition, when Párvatii was performing austerities she used to wear clothes made of turmeric leaves stitched together. Thus her name then became Parńashavarii.

4) Another meaning of the word kadamba is “turmeric-coloured mustard”. Indian mustard is of roughly three varieties. All three varieties of mustard go by the name kat́ugandhabiija. (not kat́ubiija; kat́ubiija means “chilli” or “black pepper”). In olden times kat́ugandhabiija oil used to be called kat́utaela, that is, kat́utaela means any kind of mustard oil. Thus today also mustard oil is called kaŕuyá in Bihar and certain other parts of India. Kat́u → kad́u → kaŕu. Kat́u means “spicy hot”. Mustard oil is somewhat spicy and pungent, hence the name.

a) Rái mustard [rapeseed]. Its seeds are small and blackish-red. The plant is small, less pungent, and has less chaff. Its chaff is used as manure and as feed for animals. The chaff yields a higher ratio of oil. Its seeds should be sown at the end of early autumn in paddy land when the land is a little muddy, as part of the pigeon-harvest.⁽³⁾ When the paddy is cut, the tips of the mustard plants also get cut, and as a result the mustard plant gives off new offshoots. Due to the many offshoots, the plant produces more flowers during winter season, and a greater yield as well. Its greens are less caustic.

In land where other crops cannot be cultivated during winter due to a scarcity of water, farmers can also cultivate peas, grams, khesari [a variety of pigeon-pea] and other small lentils as a part of the pigeon-harvest. In order to plant for the pigeon-harvest, the soil should be well-turned and it is good if a little extra liquid fertilizer is used.

Some people prefer to grow rapeseed alongside wheat. This is not bad, but still one should bear in mind that wheat can be sown until the seventh day of the solar month Paośa (Bengali Paośa) [late December] but if rapeseed is sown so late it may yield less, so those who wish to get a mixed harvest with rapeseed and wheat should sow an early-season variety of wheat.

b) T́oŕi/t́aŕi: This is grown just at the end of early autumn or beginning of late autumn in sun-harvest land or in yellow-coloured soil mixed with a little ash. The land is tilled and then the seeds are sown. Those who don’t like to use chemical fertilizers can allow castor-oil plant fertilizer[reŕi] to decompose and use that in the soil (it is better if cultivated reŕi chaff is used in place of wild reŕi chaff). In land which suffers from scarcity of water at the end of winter season, it is profitable to cultivate t́oŕi in place of other sun-harvest crops or yellow mustard.

The t́oŕi plant is a little bigger than the rái plant. Its seeds are reddish and a little bigger than rái seeds. It gives a somewhat greater yield and comparatively more oil than rái. Its chaff is more valuable as animal feed and manure than rái.

c) True mustard, or yellow mustard. It can only be cultivated profitably in land which remains moist at the time of flowering and which does not dry out altogether when the pods are produced. Its seeds are sown in land tilled for the sun-harvest. It gives a good yield if the land has been fertilized either with chemical fertilizer or decomposed, cultivated reŕi chaff. It is considered true mustard in regards to taste, colour, smell and quality. The plant is large and gives a good yield. Its greens are extremely caustic. With a little irrigation the cultivation of this variety of mustard is the most profitable. This mustard does not like wet climates. At one time it was cultivated throughout Bengal and its seeds used to be exported to different countries. Although today its production has decreased as a result of a lack of proper agricultural practices, if sincere efforts are made then an increase in its production would not be impossible or unachievable.

Yellow mustard flowers carry honey (floral nectar) and also have different kinds of medicinal value. Kadamba refers to this variety of mustard.

5) The word kadamba also means “collection”, “large cluster”. If a large number of bamboo plants grow together in a cluster then we can use the term veńukadamba [veńu means “bamboo”].

The verbal root kad means “to create delusion”, “to be deluded”, “to swell up and expand”. Kad + ac = kada. Its etymological meaning is “that which is deluded, or is deluding”, or “that which has expanded”. Colloquially, kada means “vapour” or “cloud” because water expands to produce vapour or clouds. That vegetable which is watery, that is, which has expanded due to water, is kadu or kaduka. Kadu means “round láu” [gourd] (alábu means láu of any shape). The word kadu in Bengali is borrowed from Sanskrit. The word láu is a Sanskrit-derivative; the original word is alábu. “That plant which is watery”, that is, which has become expanded due to water, is kadala (kad + alac). That is its etymological meaning. Its colloquial meaning is “banana tree”. Kadali/kadalii means “fruit of the banana tree”. Generally, kadali/kadalii refers to any variety of banana or plantain, but to refer specifically to ripe bananas the word rambhá must be used. In Bengali káṋcá kalá [green banana] and káṋcakalá [green-banana] are not identical. All kinds of bananas, such as cáṋpá, káṋt́áli, martamán, are called káṋcá kalá when green and páká kalá when ripe – káṋcakalá refers only to the plantain varieties of banana which are used as vegetables in vegetable preparations.

O Gańesher má, kalá bauke jválá dio ná
Eke kalá táy abalá káncakalá bai phale ná

[O mother of Gańesh, please don’t make any trouble for Kalábau (Gańesh’s wife). She is a mere plant, and a weak plant besides. She only produces green banana.]

Earlier I said that kad means “to delude”, thus kada means “that which deludes” or “that which is deluded”. Before India attained independence, some of the railway timetables were extremely delusory. This kind of timetable used to be called kada. They used to delude others, and others – that is, us – were deluded by them. Thus we were also kada. Whether or not the present-day railway timetables are kada, I cannot say, but I would guess that they are either not kada or are making efforts not to be.

During those days I once had a true experience regarding the kada meaning of the railway timetables, while travelling on the BNWR (Bengal and Northwestern Railway).

The BNWR line extended roughly from Katihar to Kanpur. Its head office was in Gorakhpur and it was managed by the company. After nationalization, the line’s name became OTR (Oudh-Trihut Railway). After independence, when the railways were reorganized, it was given the name NER with its head office in Gorakhpur.

I was travelling to a district headquarters of north Bihar. First I had to go by the EI Railway (EIR – now ER) to a dock on the Ganges. From there I had to cross the Ganges by steamer and pick up the BNWR at its docking line on the other side. This train would take me a few miles to a junction station on the BNWR main line. There I would have to change trains and get down a few miles later at yet another junction station, that is, I would have to change trains in that third junction station in order to reach my final destination some forty miles away, that is, the concerned district headquarters. Altogether, the distance travelled was only about eighty miles, but the journey required fourteen hours.

I left home towards dawn and after overcoming various hindrances I reached the third junction at six in the evening and waited in the waiting room… waited and waited. There was a large table in the waiting room and a few chairs. The table was tepáyá. Tepáyá means that it was not three-legged by birth. At one time it had had four legs but in some prehistoric era one leg had broken off and it had not been repaired since. Of the two chairs, one had both arms broken off, and the other was missing the right arm while the left arm was loose. I didn’t feel safe sitting in the chair with the loose arm so I sat in the chair with no arms. I didn’t have any work with me so I read over their timetable to help pass the time.

It was a memorable evening. While I was there a well-known person appeared in the waiting room. I was speechless, and he was also speechless. Finally I broke the silence and said: “Hey, Aklmand! What are you doing here?”

With a wide grin, he said: “Perhaps you didn’t know, but nowadays I am a Travelling Ticket Examiner for this railway.”

“Sit down, sit down,” I said. He pulled up the rickety old chair and sat down. The chair welcomed him with a creak and a groan.

“Sit carefully,” I said, “otherwise it will tip over. Don’t hold on to the arm. It’s loose and moreover, it’s covered with betel nut stains.”

“Hey Aklmand,” I asked, “you’ve come rather unexpectedly to this rustic little hamlet. What’s up?”

“In order to come here I had to pour oil on the feet of many a big boss, pure kaŕuyávilás oil.⁽⁴⁾ For three long months I had to put in a lot of nerve-racking effort; only then was I able to come here.⁽⁵⁾ When I came, though, I was completely surprised; my eyes went wide as a kite.”

“One day I was coming from Jaynagar to Samastipur,” he said. “It was a winter night; the doors and windows were open – ‘First class compartment, but pitch dark’.”

“Some unknown person had taken away the doors and windows long before. The lights were off because the bulbs were missing. Previously, the railway officials had the bulbs stamped BNWR in white letters to prevent them from being stolen, but when that didn’t stop the thefts, they started printing ‘stolen from BNWR’ on the bulbs. The idea was that if the thief was not completely shameless, then he would be too embarrassed to use it at home, because if any relative or friend would see it they would know that the head of the house had stolen the bulb from the BNWR. But since even that didn’t prove any obstacle to the thievery, railway officials of late had stopped putting in bulbs. So there was nothing left to do but sit in a dark compartment. People travelling during the dark fortnight had started carrying torches with them. Of course, during the bright lunar fortnight they didn’t need to; the inside of the compartment was illumined by the moonlight.

“With some apprehension, I examined one person’s ticket. He grimaced and scolded me: ‘I am travelling standing up. And you want to see a ticket also?’ Another person was sitting on the floor. I said: ‘You are sitting on the floor of the train. Show me your ticket.’ He showed me his ticket. ‘But this is a third class ticket,’ I exclaimed. ‘In first class people sit on cushions,’ he replied, ‘therefore the extra fare. I’m sitting on the floor of the train, not on any cushion. Why should I pay the first class fare?’ ”

“You see,” he replied, “the train was impossibly crowded. Everyone was going to Simaria Ghat to bathe in the Ganges. I bowed my head before his logic. After that I didn’t have the confidence to look at anyone else’s ticket. I took my life in my hands and got down at Samastipur. Then I thought to myself: ‘So be it, for today at least, I survived. I got out of a real spot.’ ”

“So tell me,” I said. “You must have had some different kinds of experiences getting here.”

“One time, I was going to Raxaul from Simaria Ghat, via Darbhanga. The train was incredibly overcrowded. It was even overcrowded on top of the train, that is, on the roof. There was even a crowd on top of the luggage wagons. Guys were crowded together on top of the train, playing cards. If I wanted to check their tickets I would have had to climb on top of them. That didn’t agree with me much so I got into a passenger compartment, a first class compartment.

“There were two differences between these first class compartments and those of other railways that I particularly noticed. The first was that the cushions that were laid out on the wooden seats could be removed as one pleased. That is, if the railway officials wanted, they could remove the cushions as they needed and transform first class into third class, and third class into first class. And so, this cut down on expenses for the railway.

“The second difference I noticed was that the word ‘toilet’ was written in large letters on the washroom door. Nothing was written there at all in third class. Anyhow, I got into the first class compartment and asked to see the ticket of a certain passenger. He showed me a third class ticket. ‘What is this,’ I said. ‘You are sitting on a first class, cushioned seat and you’re showing me a third class ticket! This is against the law; it’s intolerable. It cannot be put up with.’

“Suddenly all the passengers on the bench jumped up. I retreated a couple of steps out of fear. They wouldn’t attack, would they? Then I took a good look and saw that not one of them had their fists clenched. I regained my composure. No, they weren’t going to beat me.

“In a shaky voice, I asked them softly: ‘Why did you all get up? I didn’t ask you to get up. I only wanted to see your tickets.’

“ ‘Sir,’ they replied. ‘We all accept that it is wrong to sit in first class with a third class ticket, but look! We’ve taken off the cushions and put them on the floor. Now the bench is a third class bench. Certainly you can’t have any objections now. We are sitting in third class now, with third class tickets.’

“Perplexed, I stammered: ‘What are they doing? What are they saying?’ At the same time, from all sides the passengers on the other benches shouted out in a single voice: ‘Put the cushions back where they were. Put the cushions back where they were.’

“I was stupefied. Amazed, I asked: ‘What is it, what is it?’ All together the other passengers started saying uriish, uriish, uriish.⁽⁶⁾”

“One smart passenger said: ‘I don’t know what’s hidden beneath the other cushions, but from the cushions that they were sitting on I’ve just counted the denizens who have been there for ages together – of course, according to the last census report – 555,555 uriish. Now that the cushions have been removed all those bugs have become refugees, so they are running amok, rushing around, looking for shelter. It’s the law of nature that they take refuge in our cushions and make life miserable for us by biting us and sucking our blood. Ticket Examiner, sir, you certainly wouldn’t want us to be subjected to such a hideous situation. So our request is that you don’t scold the travellers sitting on that bench over their tickets, but rather tell them to put the cushions back in their rightful places and clear the way for the uriish to go back to the holes where they were living.’

“There was nothing I could say or do. Helplessly, I jumped down from that doorless compartment onto the station platform. I say ‘jumped’ because there wasn’t a single wooden footboard left. People had ripped them out to light their ovens.

“Looking out, I suddenly saw a bridegroom party sitting in a row on the platform. The bride’s people were feting them on beaten rice, yoghurt, peŕa [a sweet] and jalebi.

“ ‘Why are you sitting here and eating?’ I asked them. ‘Which train are you waiting for? To where?’

“I came to know that we had the same destination. ‘What time will the train leave from here?’ I asked.

“ ‘Why, on that line there is a train that will leave for there at nine o’clock,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you take that one?’

“ ‘That we can’t say,’ they replied, ‘but the stationmaster told us to take the ten o’clock train. It takes two hours to arrive, which means that it arrives at midnight. We’ve learned that it is running two hours late, which means that it will arrive at two in the morning, which will be too late for us to eat, so we are finishing our feast here.’ ”

I asked Aklmand: “Hey, can you tell me why the stationmaster advised them to take the ten o’clock train when there is a nine o’clock train?”

“The ten o’clock train is a fast-passenger,” Aklmand replied. “It will make the forty mile journey in two hours. If it’s late, it will take at most another two hours, but the nine o’clock train is a passenger train. It takes at least five hours to travel those forty miles. If it’s late, you see, it can take another three hours, which means that by the time it arrives it will be five in the morning, so the wise thing to do is to take the ten o’clock train.”

“Have you never gone from Khulna to Bagerhat?” Aklmand continued. “In the narrow rail train?”

“Khulna is not very far at all from Bagerhat,” Aklmand replied, “but once I boarded that 9 P.M. train and didn’t arrive in Bagerhat until nine in the morning. Moreover, according to the timetable it was supposed to arrive at 11 P.M.”

“I wanted to see if the timetable was kada or not,” he replied. “Furthermore, the train’s advertisements deceived me. In the station it was written: ‘Come, come along. Take our train to Bagerhat. Once you have ridden in this train you will want to ride it over and over again. If there is any need to use the bathroom, we assist you in stopping the train.’

“Inside the train it was written: ‘If a storm comes, open the windows on both sides of the train. The storm will enter in one window and blow out through the opposite window. If the window on one side is open and the other side closed, then there is a possibility that the train will tip over.’

“As far as I know, the passengers found out from the stationmaster when they arrived in the station what time the nine o’clock train would leave.”

I listened to Aklmand’s story and then I asked him: “Then, do you also advise me to take the ten o’clock train?”

“Certainly,” he replied. “I will give you also the same advice – not once, but a hundred times over.”

“The sister of the nine o’clock train guard’s father-in-law arrived today to visit her son-in-law after a long absence.”

“When she arrived she told her son-in-law: ‘I’ve come after a long absence so don’t go out on duty today. Stay home so we can have a chat. I’ve brought náŕu from Maner and khájá from Silai for you. Stay at home, and eat and enjoy them.’

“For this reason the guard won’t go back on duty. He won’t come back, so the train won’t budge. Under these conditions what other choice do you have but to take the ten o’clock train.”

“Didn’t you protest,” I said, “that as a result the guard is creating a big mess and putting so many helpless passengers to trouble?”

“How could I dare to put up a protest?” replied Aklmand. “I also do such things from time to time.”

Aklmand began telling the story. “Once there was a chubby, jet-black goat-ghost. He used to stay in the raorava section of hell [the lowest stratum of hell], in a seventh floor flat which often gave him trouble due to a lack of water. He used to quarrel and feud twice a day with the other tenants and the owner. One day the ghosts from the building approached the other ghosts of hell and informed them of this. Hell’s ghosts thanked them many times over and said: ‘We haven’t eaten goat-flesh for ages. Since we’ve become ghosts, we’ve lost count of how long we’ve been here in hell. We haven’t had a single chance to eat goat-flesh since we’ve come to hell, because even though cow-ghosts arrive now and then, not a single goat-ghost does. The goblins in the wood-apple trees on the road that leads from earth to hell reach down and pull them up and cook them in the portable stoves they keep in the tree branches, so they can have goat-meat curry simmered with Ganges water along with their rice and ghee.

“ ‘You won’t find a single goat-ghost who has had the chance to make it all the way to hell. Now that we’ve learned that a goat-ghost has come to your place, our joy knows no bound. Shut off the tap-water in your building. Cut the electricity. When he comes downstairs to quarrel with you we will pounce on him and take him away with us.’

“While the ghosts were discussing this among themselves in the building a cow-ghost overheard them. He went to the goat-ghost and informed him. The goat-ghost didn’t waste any time, but ran breathlessly away until he had crossed heaven’s border. There was some dispute over his passport and visa, to be sure, but when heaven’s border-guards heard his sad story, they were overcome with compassion and let him enter heaven. After entering heaven, the goat-ghost approached the gods and lodged a complaint against the ghosts of hell. He said: ‘Tell me gods, how can one possibly remain in hell with such worries?’

“ ‘Everything about the ghosts is a mess,’ said the gods. ‘They conspired to eat you without even considering the day or date, didn’t they?’

“ ‘Therein lie our differences with the ghosts,’ said the gods. ‘If we are going to eat you we’ll choose an auspicious day for it. We’ll bathe you in the Ganges on the new moon, apply vermilion to your forehead, that is, you understand, we’ll do everything according to the rules.’

“The goat-ghost smelled danger and rather than waste any time, he fled to the Creator, Brahmá. With great trouble he slipped the security net and entered Brahmá’s chambers.

“ ‘What is wrong, goat-ghost?’ said Brahmá. ‘Why are you panting so hard?’

“ ‘Look sir,’ said the goat-ghost. ‘I was in hell but the ghosts didn’t let me stay there. They plotted to cut me up and eat me. Fearing for my life I came to heaven, but when I arrived here I also saw the gods looking at me and licking their chops, so I came here to ask you for shelter.’

“ ‘Do what I say,’ replied Brahmá. ‘Leave at once. My mouth is also watering seeing your lovely succulence.’ ”

Aklmand said: “So you see, even though I know that the guard was doing wrong, it wasn’t possible for me to protest. My situation on that day was just like that of the Creator, Brahmá. I’ve also done the same thing the guard did today now and again, so can I oppose what the guard is doing and still save face?”

“Still, it is true,” said Aklmand, “that this train’s timetable is completely kada. I should tell you about one incident that concerns this. It happened four or five days ago. A gentleman from a nearby village was travelling somewhere on the main line train. He arrived at the station and asked the station master: ‘Stationmaster sir, can you tell me how many minutes late the number seventeen train is?’

“ ‘How many minutes late!’ the stationmaster replied. ‘That train is coming ridiculously late today.’

“The village gentleman thought: ‘If the train is going to be so late then let one thing be done. The Ganges is only four kilometres from here. Let me go and take a bath in the Ganges to earn some religious merit, then I’ll put on the tilak [religious mark] and sandalwood, eat some beaten rice, yoghurt and peŕá, and then return to the station. Since the train is so late, I’m sure I’ll get back to the station long before the train comes.’

“The gentleman had just left when he suddenly saw the train he wanted heading towards the station. He rushed back to the station and asked the stationmaster: ‘Stationmaster sir, just a little while ago you told me that the train was very late today, but now I see that the train has arrived right on schedule.’

“ ‘Look here,’ the stationmaster replied, ‘what I said was quite correct. This is yesterday’s train; it’s twenty-four hours late.’”

“Seeing all these things,” Aklmand continued, “I was struck with amazement. I felt like a pápaŕ bouncing in a frying pan, dazed and bewildered… a Siŕir naŕu with crispy puffed rice.”

The word kandara means “cavern”.⁽⁷⁾ In Rarhi Bengali the word kandara has become slightly altered and taken the form kándara or kándara.

(1) The letters of the Sanskrit alphabet are divided into related groups of letters, called vargas. Certain letters are replaced by certain other letters under specific conditions, such as in the formation of compound words, thus determining the composition and order of the vargas. –Trans.

(2) Letters or sounds in Sanskrit are further classified according to their lightness or heaviness in pronunciation. –Trans.

(3) Crops in India are traditionally grown and harvested at certain times, and in certain ways, and each of the different harvests has a different name, such as the “sun-harvest”, the “pigeon-harvest” (see Discourse 17: Kapota), etc. –Trans.

(4) Kaŕuyá oil means mustard oil. Because it is especially aromatic, the word kaŕuyávilás has been respectfully used.

(5) These two lines imply a lot of efforts and playing up to important people in order to get the job. –Trans.

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