Ui

This is a native Bengali word. In north India, diimak is used, on the Bengal and north India border, diiyank or diiyán, in English “white-ant” and in Sanskrit valmiikakiit́a or pluśińa. This tiny creature belonging to the ant group increases its numbers at an extremely fast rate. They cannot see anything in sunlight. Their sense of touch also diminishes when exposed to sunlight. Thus they build little tunnels out of earth to protect themselves from sunlight and use them to move around because their sense of touch and other senses come to life in the darkness of these tunnels. Under certain conditions the different branches and sub-branches of these tunnels that they lay down right and left become visible as a mound or hillock. In spoken Bengali we call these ui-dhibi, in English “anthill”, in Sanskrit valmiika. An anthill was built around the entire body of a sage who remained motionless for many days during the practice of his austerities. At the time that he sat for meditation he was known by the name of Ratnakara. The people gave him the name Valmiiki because at the time that he finished his penance and rose from his seat he had the body of an anthill.

People in many countries of the world eat ants, even civilized people in some places. They say that ants are tasty and have a sweet and sour flavour.

In many parts of Bengal, a is used in place of ra, and ra is used in place of a. For this reason ui are called rui nearly everywhere in southern Bengal. That fungus variety of plant, or mushroom, which grows on anthills is called rui-chátu [ant-mushroom].

In Sanskrit the word pluśińa was more widely used than the word valmiikakiit́a. Sama pluśińá sama mashakena sama nágena sama ebhistribhirlokaeh, that is, Parama Puruśa is unbiased. He is equal to everyone because He sees everyone in the same way. He sees an ant in the same way He sees a small mosquito. He understands an ant in the same way that He understands a mosquito. He doesn’t make any undue fuss over a giant serpent (python or “elephant of the jungle”) because of its great size. He sees a python or “elephant of the jungle” in the same way that He sees an ant or a mosquito, and they also see Him in that same way. Nor does He make any special fuss over this universe, the three worlds of heaven, earth and hell, because of their vastness, and they look at Him in this same way. In other words, everyone is equal to Parama Puruśa – a mosquito, an ant, a python, a mammoth, even the three worlds. He remains with everyone equally through His ota yoga and prota yoga. He is impartial under all conditions.

In the opinion of biologists, ants first appeared on the earth approximately six million years ago. It is possible that they appeared somewhat earlier than this, but not later. In other words, after ants arrived on the earth they passed through at least one, if not more than one, ice age, and have arrived in their present form having undergone one or more long hibernations.

Ukta

Ukta means “that which has been said” or “that which has been mentioned before”. Vac + kta = ukta. Generally, when the suffix kta or ktin is added to a verbal root which begins with antahstha va, the va of the root verb is changed into u. For example, vad + kta = udita [said]. Anu – vad + ghaiṋ = anuváda [translation]; but anu – vad + kta = anúdita (that which has been translated). By adding kta to vac + ńic we get the word ucita whose etymological meaning is “that which has been made to speak” and whose colloquial meaning is “that which is to be done” or “that which is worthy of being maintained”. Some people spell the word ucita with t – ucit. This is anucita [improper]. There is no such word as ucit.

Ukti

Vac + ktin = ukti. Ukti means “word”, “language”, “remark”. If one wants to say “pat́utá [dexterity] in the Sanskrit language” one says pát́avah saḿskrtoktiśu. Here ukti means “language”.

Uktha

By adding the suffix thal/vak to the verbal root vac we get the word uktha. Uktha means “that which is uttered forcefully” or “that which is sung forcefully”. Many people know that the Sámaveda is not actually a Veda. The song portions of the Rk, Yajuh and Arthava Vedas collectively make the Sámaveda. The Rgvedic portion of the Sámaveda is called uktha. The correct pronunciation of this portion is somewhat strenuous.

Uccarańa

Ut – car + lyut́ = uccarańa (utterance). Its etymological meaning is “to step to the upper side” and its colloquial meaning is “that which is said” or “that which is diffused in the firmament”.

Uccárańa

Ut – car + ńic lyut́ = uccárańa (pronunciation). Uccárańa means “to articulate a sound properly”.

Uccára

Ut – car + ghaiṋ = uccára. The etymological meaning of the word uccára is “that which is ejected”; its colloquial meaning is “stool”. The straining which is done at the time of passing stool is also called uccára deoyá. Some people mistakenly use the word soccára when they want to say sarava, or “vocal”. One meaning of the word soccára is “one who has passed stool but still has not cleaned oneself”. Its second meaning is “one who is straining to pass stool”. Is it desirable then to request a gentleman or lady to be soccára?

Ut́a

Ut́a means “that which is made out of straw and such”; its colloquial meaning is “cottage” or “hut”. Ut́ + ac = ut́a. Ut́aja shilpa means “that industry which is done in a cottage” – cottage industry. One should keep in mind that the word ut́a here is adopted from Sanskrit. Where the word ut́a is Sanskrit – derived then its English synonym is “camel”; uśt́ra → ut́t́ha → ut́a.

Urńá

Urńá → uńńá → uńá → uńa. Urńá means “wool” or “woollen thread”. In northern India the word uńa is used to mean “wool” and the word uńii is used to mean “woollen”, but it is mistakenly spelled with ú instead of u, and na instead of ńa. That creature which produces wool-like threads from its umbilical [nábhi] region or makes its home in the web fashioned from these threads is urńanábha [spider] – in Bengali mákaŕsá. Another name for the threads which make up this web is lútá or lútátanttu.

Utkala

Ut – kal + ac = utkala. Its etymological meaning is “that whose sprout [kalra] rises upwards” or “that which grows like the crescents of the moon” [candrakalá] or “that which has been created as a result of the piling up of sand and alluvium deposited in the sea by the Mahanadi, Brahmani, Baetarani, Godavari and other rivers”. In olden times the area from the mouth of the Godavari River to the mouth of the Mahanadi River was called Utkala, and the area from the mouth of the Suvarnarekha River to the mouth of the Mahanadi River was called the land of Od́ra. The combined areas of Od́ra and Utkala, that is, the wide coastal area extending from the mouth of the Suvarnarekha River to the mouth of the Godavari River, was called Kaliuṋga.

Ud́ (od’) + rak gives us the word od́ra which means “one who extends a warm welcome to others”; “who cordially receives others”; or, “who warmly invites others and feeds them”.

Utkháta/Utkháda

To uproot something by digging a hole around it and throwing it away is called utkháta or utkháda. Utpát́ana also has the same meaning. The meaning of unmúla kará is “to pull something up root and all”.

Udgátá

Its etymological meaning is “one who sings in a loud voice”; its colloquial meaning is “a Sámavedic pundit who is engaged in performing sacrificial rituals”.

Udgára

Ut – gára. Its etymological meaning is “to throw or eject upwards”; its colloquial meaning is “that which comes out of the mouth”, or vocal expression. Thus the word udgára is used for “to praise someone”. A speech delivered in a loud voice is called udgára or siḿhodgára. In the physiological texts belching is called udgára.

Udgiita

Ut – gae + kta = udgiita. Its etymological meaning is “that which has been sung”; colloquially it refers to the Sámaveda.

Udgriiva

If someone stretches one’s neck (griivá) out of excessive desire to hear something then this is called udgriiva haoyá.

Uttála

Tála is a particular measurement of water height. Roughly speaking, it is a standard size equal to the palmyra tree. If a certain wave reaches a height greater than that of a palmyra tree then we can call it uttála (ut-tála).

Dekhite dekhite jhaŕ haelo prabal;
Sát tál haeyá gela magarár jal.

[As I watched, the storm grew intense; the surging waters rose up as high as seven palmyra trees. ]

In Bengali there is a proverb which says: “Once the pond was as high as a palmyra tree; now the water-pot can’t even be immersed.”

Uttunga

Ut – tuḿ + gam + d́a or ut – tung + ac = uttunga. Tunga means “high” – that which outdoes another in height. Ut means “upper direction”. Uttunga means “that high thing which has become apexed and seems to want to touch the sky”.

Udghośa

Ghoś + ac = ghośa. Ghośa means “one who announces” or “that which is announced”. If a seller says “Take some curd, mother” or “Take some sweet-rice, Mother Lakśmii”, then he is ghośa in the sense that he is announcing. If someone is charmed by someone else’s virtues and proclaims his or her praises then he is also ghośa. If someone announces something in a loud voice for the purpose of having that sound or those virtues heard by someone else then that is ut – ghośa = udghośa. Its English synonym is “slogan”. If someone says something in a loud voice, whether for another person to hear or not for another person to hear, then it is called nirghośa. For example, tini vajranirghośe ballen [“he spoke with a thunderous voice”]. If someone speaks one’s mind in unambiguous language, without mentally suppressing it or blocking it with his lips, then it is called ághośa.

Uddálaka

Ut – dal + ńic + ka = uddálaka. Its etymological meaning is “one who moves with one’s face turned completely upwards” or “one who has risen above everyone”. Colloquially it refers to a certain sage.

Udváhu

Váhu means “that part of the arm which is above the elbow”. Lifting the arms so that they are at least parallel to the earth or above it is a symbol of complete dependence on God. Thus, in olden times the devotees and virtuous people prescribed this udváhu posture for kiirtana and self-surrender.

Udbiŕála

Uda or udaka means “water”. The etymological meaning of udbiŕála is “that cat-like creature that lives in the water”. Its colloquial meaning is “water-lion”. Some people have the notion that the water-lion is, perhaps, an aquatic creature but it is not. It is a land creature like the crocodile and the fish-eating crocodile. It goes into the water to catch prey. It is a land-dwelling creature which breast-feeds its young. It sleeps and gives birth on land, and normally lives in large holes near ponds and reservoirs.

Udbuddha

Ut – budh + kta = udbuddha. Buddha means “to be aware of”, “to be enlightened”. If someone becomes enlightened or aware in any matter, or if his or her blood circulation quickens due to some thought process, some inspiration or strong inspiration, then this is called udbuddha haoyá, in English “inspired”.

Udbodhana

Ut – budh + lyut́ = udbodhana. Bodhana means “to bring within the faculty of perception”, “to bring within the purview of experience”, “to make expressed what was unexpressed”. Whenever any action goes from the level of conception to the level of objective expression, then the first stage of that objective expression is called bodhana. When this bodhana is done by calling the people ceremoniously with the help of musical instruments then it is called udbodhana.⁽¹⁾

Upakathá

Kathá means “story” or “narrative”. The word kathá is also used in Bengali to mean “word” or “sentence”. For example, Or saunge ámi kathá balba ná [“I will not speak with him”] but in Sanskrit the word kathá does not have this meaning. Kathá means “story” or “narrative”. Kathániká → kahániá → kaháni → káhinii. Káhinii means “a particular type of story” or “short story”, in Farsi kissá. From this kissá has come the rural Bengali word kecchá. For example, motii bibir káhinii [Moti Bibi’s story] becomes motii bibir kecchá. The word kecchá is also used to mean “slander and harsh words”. Kutsá → kucchá → kecchá. That story which does not come cent-percent with the category of story – it has some characteristics of a story and lacks others – is called upakathá. Or else, that which is not quite classified as a story but which is very nearly one (upa means “near”) we also call upakathá. According to the practice where a replaces ra and ra replaces a, upakathá becomes rúpakathá. Although rúpakathá is common usage, from the grammatical standpoint it is incorrect. Upákhyána (upa + ákhyána) means “short story”.

Upakúla

The level ground lying a short distance from a river is called kúla. The sloping or slanted area beside the kúla which slopes down to the water’s edge is called upakúla [bank or coast].

Upad́haokana

Upa – d́huk (d́hok) + ńic + lyut́. Upad́haokana means “something given with respect” or “gift”, “eulogy”, “token of respect”.

Upadevatá

The etymological meaning of upadevatá [demigod] is “nearly a god”, that is, not quite a god or worthy of being meditated upon, but venerable and worthy of respect. In many cases people are devoted to upadevatás out of fear and sometimes they are worshipped in the hopes of obtaining something. Banabibi [The Lady of the Forest] is there to save one from the grasp of the tiger. Besides her, there is Dakśińa Ráya; out of fear of cholera people worship Olái Cańd́ii; out of fear of smallpox they worship Shiitaládevii; out of fear of snakes, Manasá. These are all upadevatás. The women of a household will sometimes worship Lakśmii year-round to bring happiness in the family; Śet́erá as well as Suvacanii is worshipped in the ritual peace ceremony; Śaśt́hii and Niila are worshipped to bring welfare to one’s children; and out of fear of illness Shmashánkálii and Rakśekálii are worshipped. In Sanskrit they are all classified as upadevatás because they are not Parama Puruśa, the object of meditation in the spiritual world. Besides these, there are many other upadevatás such as Mangalacańd́ii, Áshánbibi, Satyapiira, etc. Upadevatás are also called folk [laokik] gods and goddesses. Some of them have dhyána mantras and some do not; some of them also have dhyána mantras in the local or state language and some do not have that either. In many cases the gods and goddesses of the Buddhist and Jain eras came or are coming to be worshipped as upadevatás in the post-Buddhist and post-Jain eras. Those spiritual aspirants who follow the paths of knowledge, action and devotion, of course, do not bow their heads to upadevatás. They practise the sádhaná of the singular Parama Puruśa.

Some people call ghosts upadevatás out of excessive fear, that is, they accept them as minor gods and goddesses lest they be angered by being called ghosts. In Sanskrit, however, the word upadevatá is not used to mean “ghost” – for ghosts the word apadevatá is used. Upa means “near” and apa means “just opposite”. Apadevatá means “one whose nature is just opposite to that of a god”.

Upadesha

Upa – dish + ghaiṋ= upadesha. Desha means “that particular place which is shown through signs, gestures, letters or finger-indications.” In the case where these instructions [deshaná], what-is-to-be-done and what-is-not-to-be-done, are articulated in detail and what action is to be taken according to those instructions is also articulated, then it is called upadesha (advice). When what-is-to-be-done and what-is-not-to-be-done is carefully articulated and according to that orders are given, then it is called nirdesha (nir – dish + ghaiṋ = nirdesha – direction). When that something is made compulsory, either to do or not to do, regardless of whether something is said about whether it is proper to do or not to do, then it is ádesha (order; á – dish + ghaiṋ = ádesha).

Speaking of upadesha a story comes to mind about European indigo planters.

It was the time of heavy monsoon rains. The paddy fields of east Monghyr’s Khaŕgapur and Belharnii River-basin⁽²⁾ seemed like a vast lake, and in the centre of the paddy fields, on a piece of high ground, stood a huge indigo factory.

I went there to do archaeological research on Angadesh, in the Lachmiipur jungle area by the eastern border of the Khirkhiriya (Kśiirakśiriká) Hills. I found there many cave paintings from the Buddhist era. I even came across some artifacts that dated back to the beginning of humankind’s history in old Angadesh. In these hills humankind depicted its existence through many different varieties of drawings. From these it can be understood just how far back Angadesh’s history goes. If Karna is accepted as Anga’s first king, then Anga’s political history is over 3500 years old, but these cave paintings are signs of the first stage of prehistoric humans’ ascension through the annals of history. They are approximately twelve thousand to fifteen thousand years old. No writings are found with them because at that time humankind had not yet invented script.

This Lachmiipur jungle was even bigger during Buddha’s time. At that time it extended south to Grdhrakút́ (Gidhaor). To the west and south of this jungle was Magadha and on the north-east border was Angadesh. After going around all day in the hills I realized that if a proper search was conducted then there would be a strong possibility of finding the highest quality slate, red mineral iron and kaolin there.

Anyhow, seeing that evening was fast approaching, I started heading back. As I was crossing the jungle I found that the entire region had become submerged in water. The Khargapur Lake dam had broken and water was rushing down and flooding the Khargapur River. The roads to both the cities of Bhagalpur and Monghyr had been washed away by the surging waters, hence there was no road back; I would have to spend the night somewhere there. The next morning some way could be devised to drive to Bhagalpur and Monghyr by putting bricks, wood and stones on the damaged road.

Now, on a piece of high ground in the middle of that mass of water stood a witness to the first part of British rule – a huge indigo factory.

Incidentally, I should mention that at that time different varieties of dye used to be obtained from different sources, some metallic, some plant. Among them, the need for blue dyes was by far the greatest. There was a great demand for blue for arts and crafts, and different kinds of household and social needs. Blue dye was collected from the indigo plant. Bear in mind that nowadays blue dye is no longer prepared from the indigo plant. Since the discovery in Europe of a means of preparing blue dye through a scientific process the cultivation of the indigo plant has become obsolete.

Anyhow, towards the beginning of British rule the British cultivated indigo extensively in Bengal. The indigo plant likes warm weather and lots of rain. The British cultivated their indigo in different areas using local farmers; in some areas they cultivated the indigo on their own land and they would prepare the blue dye in local factories from the indigo plants and send it overseas. These English indigo merchants used to be called niilkar saheb. There were many indigo factories in Bhagalpur, Monghyr, Burdwan and Birbhum. The indigo plant near Burdwan District’s Ajapur was quite huge. It was destroyed in the Damodar flood of 1912.⁽³⁾ Wild indigo plants can still be seen growing uncared for in this district. But indigo was cultivated more in Jessore and Nadia districts. At one time, the farmers of these two districts in Bengal revolted, disturbed by the oppression of these indigo factory owners. This rebellion has been described by Dinabandhu Mitra in his book, Niiladarpańa.

At any rate, somehow I made it to the indigo factory. Evening had descended and it was pouring rain. The road was deserted. A short distance away I spied another large house which I guessed to be where the present caretaker of the factory was staying. I approached the house and its caretaker was very glad to see me. “This house is under my guardianship,” he said. “but there’s no good reason for you to spend the night in that dilapidated old house. You can stay here with me. Just wash up and relax; in the meantime I’ll arrange for some drinking-water.”

“I am fasting today,” I replied. “I won’t take anything. I’ll spend the night in that house.”

Disappointed, the gentleman handed the keys to the house to my driver. He sent his servant along with us and told us to let him know if we encountered the slightest inconvenience.

I went into the indigo factory. There was a broom and a lantern from the old administration and the lime and plaster on the walls was falling off. There were owls outside in the cornices and a multitude of titmice inside in the cracks between the rafters. It felt as if I was in a silent royal palace. There was an eerie stillness all around, as if this house was not for the living, as if the dead had the sole right to be there. From the great banyan tree nearby came the sound of a bhutum owl – hoom-hoom bok-bok-bok-bok, hoom-hoom bok-bok-bok-bok.

I opened a nearby window. A lizard jumped down and I could feel the threads of a torn spider web fall over my head. I felt uneasy. I realized that it had been a long time since any human being had entered that house, or at least since anyone had spent the night there.

I had worked all day and was feeling quite tired. I was also half-soaked. Let me not waste any time, I thought. Let me change my clothes, wash up and go straight to bed. If I went to bed then the disembodied spirits would be free to go about their games and mischief. If I stayed awake they would be in difficulty. They might consider me a troublesome burden!

When I entered the room the fellow accompanying me, that is to say, the attendant that the caretaker had sent with me, lit three hurricane lanterns. One he put in the hallway room that was fixed for me to sleep in, another in the bathroom, and the third in the medium-sized room between the bathroom and the bedroom. I told the attendant: “I know that the good gentleman sent you to take care of me, but why should you go to so much trouble on such a stormy night. Go and sleep in your own house.”

“No, sir,” he replied. “I’ve been sent to look after you so I won’t go to my own house. I’ll go and sit in the car outside where your driver is going to sleep and stand guard from there.”

“The driver is there to watch over the car,” I said. “There’s no alternative but for him to be there, but why should you go to needless trouble?”

“No, sir,” he replied. “You will be completely alone in the house. Under such conditions it won’t do for me to abandon you. It would be better that I stayed inside but there are certain reasons why I can’t. However, I will certainly remain outside.”

“Why? Why can’t you stay inside?”

“It’s an old house, you see! The old house of the niilkar sahebs! It has a long history, you understand. Now I must go, otherwise you’ll be late going to bed. Tomorrow morning I’ll tell you its history. I left water for you in the bathroom.”

His words raised doubts. The house has a history! Who doesn’t have a history? If you take away history then you take away existence as well. We may know someone’s history, or we may not, but everyone has a history. Some gets written; some goes unwritten. History is filled with the exaggerated exploits of kings and emperors while the history of the poor and indigent lies buried in the earth, neglected, but everyone certainly has a history. The history of victorious kings is written in glowing letters while the history of the defeated kings lies neglected and ill-treated, covered with mud. So this house also has a history… of course it does.

In the room I found a heavy wooden cot from the old administration showing the craft-work of that time. A thick coconut-fibre cushion was laid out on top of it, over it a tośak [a thin cotton-mattress] and over that a beautiful bedsheet woven by a local weaver on a handloom. It reminded me that it was on these handlooms in Bengal and Angadesh that the world-renowned muslin cloth was woven that first went to the markets of Egypt and later spread to all of Europe. This handloom-woven muslin was made in Dacca, Murshidabad, and Bankura’s Sonamukhi, and exported from the Port-de-Bangala (Chittagong) and the Port-de-Grandee (Saptagram or Satgaon). The sound of these handlooms resounded day and night throughout the cities of Tangail, Bajitpur, Shantipur, Baluchar, and Dhanekali. That was the golden age of Bengal’s economy and Angadesh also shared Bengal’s good fortune.

Anyhow, I thought that after going to the bathroom and washing up properly, I would go to bed early. If I could leave early in the morning, then I could make it to Monghyr early.

I went out of the bedroom and passed through the middle room in order to get to the bathroom. In the middle of the room I saw a beautiful rope hanging down. Perhaps they used to hang the lanterns from it. Near a window in the decaying plaster wall I saw an iguana. As soon as it saw me it jumped down and ran out. On closer inspection, I noticed that the beautiful rope was black with titmice. A pack of ucciḿŕe [a cricket-like insect] had entered the room and were scurrying about, enjoying a little light after the rains. A few titmice turned circles when they saw me. Perhaps they wanted to let me know that only they had the right to be there at night in that palace of the dead. It seemed almost as if the disembodied spirits were speaking from the unseen world and saying: “we have no objections if the titmice stay but this place is ours.”

I went into the bathroom and after washing my hands I passed again through that middle room. It seemed to me as if someone had been pacing about in the room in the meantime and had fled when they had seen me coming. I looked around carefully – no, no one was there. I was alone in the room, indeed in the entire house. Outside the crickets were letting me know through their continuous chirping that they were also alone. They also hadn’t found anyone around. I continued on into the bedroom. As I did I had a feeling that someone had been standing in the northwest corner of the room and had left when he saw me. Anyhow I laid down on the cot thinking that now I would be able to rest undisturbed.

Just as I was starting to feel drowsy I heard a strange noise. I opened my eyes and saw a black cat. It was looking towards the northwest corner of the room, its eyes completely dilated, alarmed by something it had seen. When it saw me looking at it, it seemed to regain some of its lost courage and left the room with a single leap. I looked toward the same northwest corner of the room which had left the cat stupefied and I had the distinct feeling that someone had been there in the meanwhile and had absconded when he saw me looking.

Everything was completely still and silent. From a distant banyan tree came the periodic hooting of the bhutum owl – hoom-hoom bok-bok-bok-bok, hoom-hoom bok-bok-bok-bok.

I turned over on my other side but I wasn’t able to sleep. What a bother! I had a feeling that whatever disembodied spirit was standing in that northwest corner of the room had a desire to approach me. Several times I called out in a loud voice: “Hey, bodiless one, who are you, standing in my bedroom this way? I don’t appreciate your behaviour at all. Be brave, come out face to face. Speak your mind. I don’t appreciate this kind of fooling around. As long as I am in this room, it’s better that you disembodied spirits cease with your games.”

After a little while I fell asleep again. I don’t know how much time passed, but sometime later I thought I heard a European lady and a man talking to each other. Although the woman was speaking English she spoke it with a French accent; the man’s accent was Cornish. The woman was saying: “You know, the people have lost patience with the tyranny of the niilkar sahebs. Those same farmers who could never think of confronting the Europeans, who used to flee in fear just hearing their name, are now chasing after them with their sticks and spears when they see them. The situation is not good at all! Here also, the houses of innocent farmers are being set on fire on your instructions; your men are dragging their daughters and wives out of their houses and taking them with them. People are being beaten for no reason and chased away with bullets. It’s horrible. These things are inhuman; the dignity of these women is being trampled into the dirt. As a woman I cannot put up with this. I will not put up with it. You have to put a stop to it!”

“The world is for the brave,” the man replied. “If you can’t demonstrate your power and authority in this world then you can’t survive. They have to be shaken up a little. This is the ruler’s philosophy.”

“If this ruler’s philosophy goes against humanity,” the woman said, “then I refuse to follow it. Whatever people may think, you can’t sever your ties with humanity. The foundation of everyone’s activities and work has to be humanity. Otherwise the demons in us will not only swallow our bodies and minds, but our entire human existence will end up crudified. That the consciousness which has evolved out of matter should return back to matter – no judicious human being would want that. So you give up your anti-humanity ruler’s philosophy.”

“If the indigo planters gave up the ruler’s philosophy,” he replied, “then the farmers would disrespect them and cheat them. So we deal with them according to the law: ‘First the stick, then talk’.”

“Then this coming Monday I’m going to take the ship from Calcutta back to England. I can’t bear this antisocial, one-sided, hellish affair.”

After hearing all this I became suspicious. I looked in the direction where the woman’s voice was coming from and could have sworn that a woman had just left. The man’s voice had been coming from that dreadful northwest corner of the room. When I looked over there I could understand that the Englishman had just left hurriedly. I looked around the house carefully but found nobody there but me. I was the only guest of that deserted, silent night. From the distant banyan tree the sound of the bhutum owl continued: hoom-hoom bok-bok-bok-bok, hoom-hoom bok-bok-bok-bok.

I turned over on my other side and tried to go back to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come to my tired eyes. What a bother I had landed in. I started scolding that unseen man in a loud and serious voice. “If you maintain a relationship of ruler and ruled in individual or social life then it will surely lead to disaster. Whenever the kings of former days gave excessive weight to the ruler-ruled relationship, it resulted in the strong devouring the weak, and that led to revolt by the people – it happened during the time of King John; it happened at the time of Louis XIV; it happened during the Buddhist era in the time of King Devapal the Second. Understood, bodiless one! Be careful, ‘Go softly, softly in the night’; ká kasya parivedaná.”⁽⁴⁾ My words bounced off the wall and came back. There was no other ear there to hear them.

For a little while I slept and again my sleep was broken by some people exchanging heated words. Some of the local, common-class farmers were having words with a sahib. The farmers were speaking Angika and the sahib was also replying in broken Angika.

The farmers were saying: “Sir, you are a high-ranking officer. You may not even be aware of what the people at the lower levels are doing. They are forcing us to sell the indigo to them for practically nothing, and if we don’t agree then they persecute us and beat us. They want to buy the indigo without paying what it’s worth. They want us to work but they don’t want to pay us for it. If people show any sign of speaking out about it they set fire to their house and abduct their daughters from their home. We’ve come to you because we have no alternative. Please save us. Rescue us from the violence and oppression of your oppressive workers. We will be forever grateful to you.”

The man replied: “I don’t give advice to my workers, I give orders. Whatever they do, they do for me. Do you think you can teach me how to treat dogs and swine like yourselves? I know very well.”

“But sir, we implore you. Save us. Our families’ survival depends on the indigo we sell. Don’t thrust us into the jaws of starvation.”

“Work hard and you’ll eat. What’s the big deal? If you say anything against my workers I’ll run you off with bullets.”

“Sir,” said the village farmers, “we fear you like we do the god of death himself. We’ve come to you out of fear for our lives and of being tortured. Please try to understand our situation a little.”

“I understand, I understand,” replied the man. “What’s happening in Nadia and Jessore has spread to Monghyr now. You want to light the fires of rebellion here as well. I’ll teach you a lesson or two.” Saying this, the sahib took aim at them and started firing recklessly and mercilessly. Several villagers fell to the ground twisting and screaming in agony.

“This is how we teach dogs a lesson,” the sahib said. “The late Dinabandhu Mitra has inflated your audacity by writing his book, Niiladarpana. I know how to make that audacity grovel in the dirt. Let this be a lesson to you.”

I couldn’t stand it. Let me jump up, I thought, and teach this sahib a lesson of his own. I opened my eyes but not a single villager was there. The sound of the sahib’s voice had been coming from the northwest corner of the room. I looked in that direction but there was no one there either. The room was as still as a tomb.

I was astonished and dumbfounded to hear such arrogance coming from this sahib. Are there really such people on this earth? “Listen bodiless sahib,” I said. “You really showed some temper with those villagers. Let me see you lose your temper in front of me! If I can see this temper of yours I will consider my human life successful.”

No one came out; no one answered my challenge. The room was completely silent. The chirping of the crickets had stopped but I could hear the steady patter of the rain. From the banyan tree in the distance I could hear the intermittent call of the bhutum owl – hoom-hoom bok-bok-bok-bok, hoom-hoom bok-bok-bok-bok.

I lay down and turned over from one side to the other. Can anyone sleep in such a state? The soft light of the hurricane lantern illumined the inside of the room; outside it was pitch black, completely dark. A few fireflies darted here and there over the rain-soaked earth. Seeing that I was not able to fall asleep, I thought it would be a good idea to go to the bathroom and rinse down my head and neck. If I could cool my body down a bit I might be able to get some sleep.

To get to the bathroom I had to go through that middle room. When I entered I pulled up, startled. Hanging from the rope in the middle of the room with a noose around his neck was a tall sahib. When the sahib saw me he said in a painful voice: “You know, I am completely alone in this place – solitary, companionless. No one comes here; they are afraid to. Everyone says it is a house of the dead.” In a passionate voice he said: “What can I do? Tell me!”

I started to say something but he stopped me by saying: “First go and rinse your head and neck and cool yourself down. Then you can give an answer to a worthless fellow like me. You know, I really am a worthless fellow, the garbage of human society, the refuse of a dustbin. I came to this earth and only increased its burdens. Even dead I am still a burden. But please, first wash your head and neck and then come.”

I went to the bathroom and cooled down by rinsing my hands and face, then went back into the middle room. I looked again at the hanging rope – but where had the sahib gone? The rope was swinging gently, swayed by a damp gust of wind coming from outdoors. The titmice started to flee in fear when they saw me. Not finding the sahib, I started again for the bedroom to lie down but just as I took a step I heard the voice of the sahib behind me. He was saying: “Please sir, don’t leave me this way. I wasn’t certain how to talk to you, so for a few seconds you didn’t see me hanging from the rope. Now I’ve figured out what to say. Do you see me hanging here now?”

“Yes, indeed, I do. I swear I do!” Then I continued in a harsh voice: “Why did you have to die this way?”

“But please, sit on that stool over there,” he replied. “I’ll tell you my story in brief.

“At the beginning of the British administration indigo was a booming business. On one side there was the oppression and tyranny against the farmers, and on the other our pockets were filling up with money. This was the biggest indigo factory in Monghyr District. Millions of rupees worth of indigo were exported from here to Europe each year. I was the head manager of the factory. It is normal human psychology that when there is oppression, at first the timid people keep their mouths closed and put up with it. Even courageous people think: ‘Let me see how things go for the time being. Then I will take action.’ When the oppression increases even more, the cowardly-natured slap their heads and curse their fate, and the brave call out in loud voices and fall on their oppressors. When tyranny reaches its limit then even the faint-of-heart start roaring like lions and mercilessly take revenge on their oppressors.

“Maddened by delusions of power, and bereft of the knowledge of right and wrong in our greed for money, we niilkars forgot this historical and psychological truth. The result of this mistake of ours was the Niilkar Rebellion in Jessore and Nadia. The rebellion, however, never completely broke out in this Monghyr District because no such oppressive niilkars had come to this area besides myself. I set the steamroller of tyranny loose on these ordinary farmers. I earned huge amounts of money and in the process I sold my humanity in exchange for a few gold coins. I went hell-bound step by step, transforming myself from a conscious human being into no better than an inert stone. I had no remnant left of my common sense. Maddened by pride, I fired recklessly on those village farmers who came to me peacefully with their grievances and needs. I even killed seven men. After that I hadn’t the slightest sense of what-to-do or what-not-to-do. There was no one around to give directions or orders or advice.

“After firing on the villagers, I sent a letter to the district magistrate informing him of the affair. He sent back an immediate reply by letter-bearer informing me of the situation: ‘The indigo rebellion has broken out in Jessore and Nadia. Under these circumstances it is best that you observe certain limits in all matters. Do not do anything that can make the situation get out of control or law and order get out of hand. For several days now I’ve known that the village farmers have been disturbed by your conduct. You have even fired on and killed several innocent farmers. I can guess that they will become even more agitated. Under these circumstances I will give you this counsel: you should start for Calcutta this very night under the cover of darkness. It is no longer safe for you to remain there. It will take you approximately five days to reach Calcutta by horse-drawn carriage. To ensure your safety I will send some mounted soldiers to ride in front of and behind your carriage. In this matter I cannot rely on native sepoys.’”

The sahib let out a long sigh and said: “The advice of the district magistrate was quite sound, but at that time I was not in the right mind to accept his counsel. Because of my arrogance I had completely lost my common sense. My ruler’s philosophy was prodding me continuously, telling me – What! Will I flee under the cover of darkness out of fear of a few ordinary farmers? Never! It is against my ruler’s philosophy. I will have to do something to save my respect. On and on I went thinking like this until I was at a complete loss. There was no one to give any clear directions or orders. That day my wounded pride told me – the only way to salvage my honour is to tie a noose around my neck and hang myself with this rope. That is the only path to salvation. In this way my honour, my prestige, my reputation, will be saved.

“So thought, so done.

“I tied a noose around my neck with this rope and hung myself. You may call it suicide, cowardliness or sin. But in the state of mind I was in that day I could see no other path open to me. So knowingly, perhaps, I took this sinful path in order to salvage my honour.”

His voice choked. “You know, now I am completely alone in this place – solitary, companionless. No one comes near me. Everyone is afraid; everyone says that this is a house of the dead.”

“Then?” I asked.

“Today I realize what a horrendous mistake I made. Human beings’ benevolent consciousness leads them towards greatness and evil crudifies them. This path of suicide that I have taken to save my honour has crudified me so much that even after such a long time I cannot find any deliverance. These days I am utterly helpless. Please consider my helplessness and give me some direction, some order; tell me what to do. Where is my path of welfare, my road to providence?”

“Look here, sahib,” I said. “There is no limit to the injustice you’ve committed. You’ve treated human beings as if they were worse than dogs or swine. Anyone who heard the history of your sins would hate you; but no one could help but feel sympathy had they heard your heartfelt remorse today. Still, in this situation I really don’t know what I can do to help you. Think for a moment and tell me what I can do that might be of some good to you. If I have the capacity to do it then I certainly will.”

This time the sahib replied in even a sadder voice. “Afterwards the people buried my body underneath that banyan tree where the owl lives. If you look over there you can see a place where there are a lot of fireflies gathered; I am buried just in that spot. A few bones from my skeleton still remain. It seems almost as if those bones have bound me to this soil. Oh, what a painful bondage! Is there no path left open to me to attain peace! Is there no ointment I can apply which will soothe the burning of my bondage!”

“Sahib, it saddens me to hear your repentant words. It brings tears to my eyes. But tell me, what can I possibly do for you?”

“There is one thing you can do for me.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“No one on this earth has ever loved me. People look at me like they were looking at a vicious animal, and for good reason. No one has ever said: ‘Sahib, may your soul attain peace.’ You could say those words, just once. If I could just hear them then I would be satisfied.”

I looked towards the trunk of the banyan tree where the owl was calling and while looking there I told him: “Sahib, it is true that you are completely alone in this place, completely solitary, altogether companionless. People are justifiably afraid to come here. For good reason they call it a house of the dead. Having heard the story of your secret agony I can honestly say with all the benevolent wishes of my mind: May your soul attain peace. Sahib, you are a cruel, vicious creature, but still I love you.”

I turned with sympathetic eyes to look at the sahib but there was no one there. Only the rope, damp from the gusts of wind, and a few titmice flying around. I looked all around me; I was alone in the room, completely alone. Not only in the room – I was the only human being in that entire huge house. There was no second entity. The sound of the crickets had stopped and now the patter of the rain also ceased. After a long pause, a half-call of the bhutum owl floated in from the distant banyan tree – hoom-hoom bok-bok-bok-bok.

Slowly and silently I went to my cot and lay down. After a few minutes I fell asleep and no one disturbed me, no one prevented me. I woke up a little late, hearing the tapping of the iron door-handle; I went to open it and found my driver standing there, smiling.

“If we can start from here at first light,” he said, “then we should be able to arrive in Jamalpur early this morning by taking the Telia-Talaw road. The rain has stopped and the sky is starting to clear up. The road has been washed out in two or three places but we should be able to get the car through by laying down some brick and stone in those spots and putting some planks down on top of them. I’ve already set some people to work on it.”

“I’ll be ready within five minutes. I need to arrive in Jamalpur within two hours.”

Looking over at the distant banyan tree, I saw the red sun peeping over the horizon. The call of the bhutum owl had ceased. Surely he is sleeping peacefully now in his dark hollow.

Upanaya/Upanayana

Upa – nii + lyut́ = upanayana. Upanayana and upanaya have the same meaning. Etymologically they mean “to bring near”. Their colloquial meaning is “to meditate on the effulgence of Parama Puruśa in the hopes of fulfilling one’s sádhaná”. The Rgveda’s sixty-second rk, third mańd́ala, tenth súkta centres around this upanayana. The rk goes as follows:

Tatsaviturvareńyaḿ
Bhargo devasya dhiimahi
Dhiyo yo nah pracodayát⁽⁵⁾

“I meditate on the venerable effulgence of the father of the seven lokas so that He might guide my intellect to the path of truth.”

At the beginning of the mantra is the line oṋḿ bhúr-bhuvah-svah from the Atharvaveda. The use of this additional part was added in subsequent times.

Upanyása

Nyása means “to place”. For example, the placing of the first brick when inaugurating the construction of a house is called shilányása [laying of the foundation stone]. In olden times houses were built out of shilá, or stone, so we say shilányása rather than iśt́akanyása [iśt́aka means “brick”]. That person who has placed himself or herself completely at the service of ideology is sam + nyásin = sannyásin (in the first person singular, sannyásii). One who is a true ideologue, that is, one who has placed oneself at the service of Parama Puruśa is sat + nyásin = sannyásin (in the first person, singular sannyásii).

Upa means “near”. If any material object (object of enjoyment or edible) is kept near a person then that is called upanyása, in Farsi pesh karná. This upanyása can be done either with respect or without respect. If a wooden trough is filled with chopped hay or with bran well-mixed with flax, and that is placed near a cow’s mouth, then this nyása is done with respect or care. If paddy or broken bits of grain is scattered or spread for the hens or pigeons then this is also upanyása. And if pieces of dried bread are thrown for a dog lying on the road then that is also upanyása. To place something near is upanyása. The word upanyása is also used in the sense of “introduction”, “preface” or “prelude”. In this case one thing that should be borne in mind is that the Bengali synonym for the English words “novel” or “fiction” is not upanyása; rather it is, or should be, kathányása. There is no relationship between the words “novel” or “fiction” and the word upanyása, so it is not desirable that the word be used mistakenly.

Previously I mentioned scattering broken bits of grain or paddy for the pigeons or hens; a person who does this should properly be called aopanyásika. Indeed, while the word upanyása is used incorrectly in very recent times in Bengali, Hindi and several other eastern Indian languages, it has not lost its meaning in the other Indian languages. I have never seen the word upanyása used to mean “novel” or “fiction” in Marathi.

Upaniśada

Upa – ni – sad + kvip. Its etymological meaning is “that which brings near”; colloquially it refers to a certain philosophical portion of the Vedas which, despite being theoretical, is dependent on God. Although upaniśada can be spelled with sa, it is normally spelled with śa in Bengali in accordance with Gaod́iiya usage (Bengali usage).

Upapada

That word or part of speech which is not important or which stands by itself when used to form another word or part of speech is called upapada. Upapada is also the name of a system of making compound words.

Upamá

The etymological meaning of upamá is “that which comes nearby when measured”; its colloquial meaning is “qualitative proximity” or “close in quality”. Tulaná means “closeness or proximity by measure”. About Krśńa it has been said, Tulá vá upamá krśńasya násti [“Krśńa has no parallel or equal”].

Upala

Upa – lá + d́a. Its etymological meaning is “that which does the work of a container or base but which cannot do it well or permanently” – it slips down or goes away or falls behind. Colloquially, upala means “a piece of stone” or “pebble”, in Hindi roŕe, in Urdu and Farsi saḿreje.

Utpala means “that which has bloomed upwards”; its colloquial meaning is “lotus flower”.

Upahata

Hata means “extinction of existence”; upahata means “where the existence has been pervasively influenced”. For example, we sometimes use the words mahátmá [great-souled], durátmá [wicked], pápátmá [sinful], puńyátmá [virtuous] and so forth. However the átmá [soul] can never be great or wicked, nor can it be sinful or virtuous. “A virtuous soul” or “a sinful soul” – the words pápátmá or puńyátmá cannot be so derived by using these as explanations of their compounding. The proper compound expressions for pápátmá or puńyátmá are pápopahata átmá or puńyopahata átmá, and their method of compounding is madhyapadalopii karmadháraya.

Upashama

Upa – sham + ac. Sham means “to be peaceful” or “to decrease”. Upashama means “to be somewhat peaceful” or “to decrease a little”. Upasama means “nearly equal” or “quite near”.

Upasampadá

Buddha, employing philosophical language, used to call the Supreme Principle sampada or sampadá; that which brought a person close to the Supreme Principle was called upasampadá. Buddha used to use the word upasampadá to mean taking initiation into the path of sádhaná.

Upádána

Upa – á – dá + lyut́. Upádána means “ingredients for preparing something”; for example, milk-curds and sugar are the upádána used in the preparation of rasagollás [a milksweet].

Upádhána

Upa + ádhána. Its etymological meaning is “that which gives shelter nearby”; its colloquial meaning is “pillow” [bálish]. The word bálish is common in both Bengali and Maethilii. During the Mughal era different varieties of páshbálish were called masland. At one time very high quality maslands were produced in Bengal’s 24 Paraganas and Midnapore districts. At one time Bengal’s silk and velvet maslands were famous throughout the world.

Pásh-bálish is called “bolster” in English and from this come the words balástár, bálistár, balistárá which are prevalent in various parts of northern India.

Upádhyáya

Upa + adhyáya. Upádhyáya means “assistant professor” or “lecturer”. Upádhyá → uájhjháya → uájhá → ojhá → jhá. That is, the meaning of ojhá or jhá is “teacher”. Cat́t́opádhyáya cat́t́ojhjhá → cát́ujhajhá → cát́ujje. Due to mispronunciation it became “Chatterjee” in English. It is completely unwarranted to use the word “Chatterjee” in Bengali. If the word is to be used then either Cat́t́opádhyáya or Cát́ujje can be used according to one’s choice.

Uluka

The meaning of the root verb ul is “to be improperly ostentatious about oneself” or “to improperly think great things about oneself”. Ul + uka = uluka. The etymological meaning of the word uluka is “one who is desirous of improperly and ostentatiously promoting oneself”. Its colloquial meaning is “owl” or Indra [king of the gods]. During the day the owl makes its home in the dark hollows of trees. According to some people’s conception, the owl thinks: “Now that I am taking rest in the hollow of my tree the other birds and animals can move about without being afraid. At night, when I go out, they all go into their respective holes out of fear of me. Oh, how cowardly they are! How courageous I am!”

According to one story in the Puranas, Indra also used to think great things about himself. After taking the help of the blessings of Brahmá, Viśńu, Maheshvara and the other gods to kill the demons, he used to boast of what he had accomplished. Thus another meaning of the word uluka is Indra.

One thing you should keep in mind is that you should not spell uluka with a double la, that is ulluka, even by mistake. Ulluka means the clever, cunning, red-faced monkey. They are similar to human beings in many ways. People who put on monkey dances generally use these ullukas for their dances and games. It is much more difficult to put on such exhibitions with other varieties of monkeys.

The feminine form of uluka is ulukii. One meaning of ulukii is “female owl” and the other is Indráńii. A woman can be called ulukii both as a form of praise and as a form of slander. In other words, ulukii can mean “ugly as an owl” or “as beautiful as Indráńii”. One will have to get the meaning from the context of the situation.

Although the two words pecaka [owl] and uluka have the same colloquial meaning, their etymological meanings are different. The etymological meaning of pecaka is “that which expands”. One meaning of the root verb pac is “to expand”. By adding the suffix drt́ (drk) we get the word pecaka. The other colloquial meanings of the word pecaka are “elephant’s tail”, “cloud”, and “bed”. All of these expand, so pecaka refers to all of them.

Footnotes

(1) The name of the opening instrumental section in north Indian classical music.

(2) Roughly speaking, this river-basin has two parts: Monghyr District’s Khaŕgapur (Habeli), Tarapur and Saḿgrámpur tháná [administrative area covered by one police station], and Bhagalpur District’s Belhar tháná. The Belharnii River forms the border between these two districts in most places. During the time of the Santhal Rebellion in 1855 there was a great battle between the British and the Santhals in this river-basin’s Saḿgrámpur. Hence the name Saḿgrámpur [battle city]. At the beginning of the war the British were losing the battles. On one side the Santhals entered the city of Bhagalpur and on the other side the cities of Suri and Rajnagar. The Divisional Commissioner of Bhagalpur was killed in the battle. Still today one part of the city of Bhagalpur bears the name of the leader of the rebellious Santhals, Tilakámájhi.

(3) The people of Burdwan, Hoogly and Howrah have yet to forget the destructive Damodar flood of 1912. The Tárakeshvara temple was on the verge of being completely submerged in that flood. Calcutta was also mostly under water. In order to save Calcutta, the British managed to divert the greater part of the Damodar’s waters into the Dvarakeshvara (Rupanarayana) via the Begorhana-Mundeshvari rivers. After that the Damodar lost its force as it headed downstream in the Begorhana, that is, in the Amta, Bagnan and nearby areas, and Calcutta was thereby saved from the flood.

(4) The quote comes from Shankaracharya, from a passage which describes the transitory nature of existence. –Trans.

(5) This shloka is the “Savitr Rk”. See pp. 98-100. –Trans.