[Blog] Language and the Politics of Chauvinism

 

 

 

 A friend shared an Instagram reel in a WhatsApp group about the impossibility of having a one word English translation of the Tamil word Ethanavathu (எத்தனாவது), and how it can only be achieved through convoluted and awkward translations such as "Which number in the sequence...?" which sparked a very interesting debate. 

 But this is not something new. I have often come across similar debates about how English requires a full sentence in place of a single word in Tamil. To return to this example which is actually a combination of two concepts: 

• எத்தனை (ethanai) = how many
• எத்தனாவது  (ethanaavathu) = which numbered position / which ordinal   

Tamil compresses the ordinal and the inquiry into a single word- எத்தனாவது (which numbered position) while English typically requires a descriptive phrase.

Such observations on the different ways languages operate is interesting but they soon turn uncomfortable when the argument is stretched to claim such differences as assertions of the 'superiority' of one language. 

Before I discuss the absurdity in this claim, I would like to trace the roots from which such misconceptions arise. What is indeed at the root of every lay person donning the mantle of a linguist?

Tamil Nadu's politics and popular culture had constantly reinforced a direct connect between our language and our identity. We have been told repeatedly that Tamil is the oldest language, the greatest language, the most refined language. Films take this pride to an absurd level speaking of Tamil heroism, Tamil culture, Tamil hospitality, Tamil values, Tamil sympathy, Tamil empathy, Tami tolerance and so on.. Public discourse constantly places the prefix Tamil before every virtue under the sun, as though courage, generosity, refinement, and dignity are unique to one people alone.

But this raises a simple question.

Is it not human to take pride in one’s language?

Is it not normal for speakers of every language to feel the same level of affection and reverence for their mother tongue? Are hospitality, bravery, compassion, and cultural refinement truly exclusive to Tamil society alone or are they qualities that exist in every civilization, expressed through different linguistic traditions?

Love for one’s language is natural.
But language chauvinism is not.

A mature appreciation of Tamil does not require us to believe that other languages are inferior. 

Some examples of words unique to Tamil

Here are a few examples of simple sounding words that carry an impressive range of meaning. 

Take the word சும்மா (summa). Depending on the context, it can mean “just like that,” “for no reason,” “idly,” “quietly,” or even “free of charge.” English requires several different words where Tamil uses one flexible conversational particle.

Classical Tamil literature recognizes emotional states with remarkable delicacy. The word ஊடல் (oodal) refers to the affectionate sulking that follows a lovers’ tiff—a culturally recognized phase of intimacy in Sangam love poetry. English must describe this behaviour while Tamil nails it.

Nature itself appears in fine detail in Tamil vocabulary.
பிஞ்சு (pinchu) refers to the earliest tender stage of the formation of fruit.
அரும்பு (arumpu) marks the very first moment of the bud stage.
சாரல் (saaral) describes the fine droplets carried by the wind, of hill landscapes or waterfall spray- something English approximates rather loosely as mist or drizzle.

Tamil also distinguishes subtle shades of affection:

• அன்பு (anbu) – compassionate love
• பாசம் (paasam) – nurturing attachment
• நேசம் (nesam) – affectionate fondness

English often uses the single word love for all of these nuances.

Even social and emotional interiority is expressed differently. Tamil preserves the word அந்தரங்கம் (antharangam), referring to one’s trusted inner sphere—the emotional space shared only with those who belong close to us. English splits this idea into several words such as private, personal, intimate, and confidential.

These are not accidents. They reflect the priorities of a relational culture.

Some examples of words unique to English

 English too has many concepts that Tamil expresses only through explanation rather than a single word.

Consider the sentence:

“I miss you.”

Tamil does not encode this as a verb in the same way. Instead, one must say something like:

“I feel your absence.”

The emotional experience exists in both languages—but it is structured differently.

Similarly, Tamil does not use a direct equivalent of the verb to have.

Instead of saying:

“I have a pen,”

Tamil says:

“There is a pen with me.”

Possession becomes existence.

English also contains compact expressions for modern psychological and social experiences that Tamil usually describes through phrases:

• privacy – not simply secrecy or solitude, but a personal boundary recognized as a social right
• awkward – a subtle social discomfort without a precise Tamil equivalent
• efficient – an industrial-age idea of optimized output relative to effort
• deadline – a compressed expression of time-bound obligation
• serendipity – a happy discovery made unintentionally

Even something as ordinary as weekend reflects a particular rhythm of industrial modernity rather than an ancient cultural category.

These words exist because English developed within a different historical environment.

Languages grow out of their worlds

What we must recall is that languages are not created in competition with one another.

They evolve inside landscapes, responding to climate, livelihood, social structures, emotional habits, and philosophical priorities.

Tamil developed in a monsoon-fed agrarian civilization with deep kinship structures and long poetic traditions describing love, nature, honour, and moral duty. It is therefore rich in vocabulary related to ecological observation, relational experience, and ethical living—words such as அறம் (aram), which carries the combined meaning of virtue, justice, and moral harmony.

English, shaped by maritime expansion, industrial transformation, and modern political thought, developed vocabulary suited to mobility, administration, technology, psychology, and individual autonomy. 

 Languages can be learned and loved for their individual merit. It is but natural for a person born into the Tamil community to love Tamil since it is beautiful, ancient, poetic and has successfully carried the cornerstones of right living through millennia.

But true love for a language does not require comparison, all it requires is understanding.

When we recognize that every language preserves something unique about the human experience, pride transforms into humility. 

[Blog] Myth and Modernity: Kaliya Mardhana and the Afterlife of Fear

 

Myth and Modernity: Kaliya Mardhana and the Afterlife of Fear

Modern psychology offers a useful vocabulary for what happens to us under threat: fight, flight, or freeze. These are adaptive responses, mechanisms by which the self seeks survival in the face of danger.

But myth often asks a deeper question. Not just how do we survive threat? but what do we become when threat remains unresolved?

The story of Kaliya Mardhana can be read in exactly these terms.

Kaliya is not a figure of abstract evil, initially. He is first a being under assault. Garuda persecutes him relentlessly, and so Kaliya does what the vulnerable often do - he flees. He leaves his native waters and hides in the Yamuna. This is flight in its pure form.

But escape is not the same as freedom.

What follows is a kind of freeze. Kaliya, though no longer under attack, his inner world remains organized by fear. The danger has passed, but its structure remains alive within him.

And then the story makes its most perceptive move: fear does not remain fear forever. Prolonged and unprocessed, it often hardens into aggression.

Kaliya begins poisoning the river. Symbolically, this is profound. He does not simply protect himself; he turns the environment into an extension of his wound. His trauma transforms the atmosphere. Fish, birds, trees, cattle, children—everything suffers. The myth refuses the comforting fiction that pain stays private. Unresolved fear reorganizes the world around it.

This is what makes Kaliya such a modern figure. His aggression is not original strength but defensive excess. His venom is fear that has stopped fleeing and begun to fortify itself.

At this point, a predictable story would answer force with greater force. But Krishna does something else.

He enters the poisoned waters, ascends Kaliya’s hoods, and dances.

Krishna neither recoils from the danger nor does he mirror its psychology He pits rhythm against frenzy, composure against toxicity, order against fear. If Garuda represents the logic of overpowering, Krishna represents the logic of transformation.

And then the story goes further still. Krishna does not merely subdue Kaliya; he addresses the original condition of fear. Kaliya is sent back, under protection, to his rightful home. The symptom is restrained, but the cause is also answered.

How often, in leadership, in institutions, in relationships, do we encounter people whose destructiveness is really armoured fear? How often do we answer by escalating force, assuming pressure is the only language threat understands?

The Kaliya episode suggests otherwise.

The highest form of strength may be the capacity to enter a poisoned space without becoming poisonous oneself.

Not passivity.

Not indulgence.

Not naiveté.

But freedom.

[Translation] Saeed Rahi's Tum Nahin, Gham Nahin Sharaab Nahin

 

 

This ghazal is a long time favourite of mine mostly for it's spectacular rendition by Jagjit Singh.  

Original:

Tum nahin, Gham nahin sharaab nahiN
aisi tanhaayi ka jawaab nahiN
gaahe gaahe ise paDha kije
dil se behtar koi kitaab nahiN
jaane kis kis ki maut aayeee hai
aaj ruKh pe koi naqaab nahiN
wo karam oongliyoN pe ginte haiN
zulm ka jinke kuch hisaab nahiN

 

Source: http://lyricstranslate.com/en/Jagjit-Singh-tum-naihin-gham-nahin-sharaab-nahiN-lyrics.html#ixzz3cxv0H9RQ

 

Translation  

 

If it weren't for you, there would be neither pain, nor the need to drink 
Such loneliness too would have no parallel

 

Recall this time and again
There's no book greater than the human heart.

 

Those visited by death - of them we know not,
Today, the spirit gleams forth, veil lifted

 

Those who carry no record of their tyranny  

Bewail the paucity of favours.

 

 

 

[Translation] Bharathiyaar's Kannan Mana Nilaiyai

 

 

In this love song the poet touches upon a deep seated love, the pangs of separation, the yearning, the restless of a love lorn woman.'The imaginary auditor here is Thangam, who is referenced in almost every line which enhances the musicality of the poem. I have translated Thangam as O precious one. In the second verse, the speaker adopts the royal 'we,' while expressing her feelings. 

Although the poem is about finding Kannan's state of mind, it is in effect the exploration of the speaker's mind in a steady stream of consciousness. It documents the speaker's range of emotions from calmness, to pride, to threats, to curses ending on a note of complete despair.  

[Original] 
kaNNan mananilaiyai Thangame Thangam
kaNDuvara vENumaDi tangamE tangam
eNNam uraittuvidil tangamE tangam - pinnar
Edenilum seyvamaDi tangamE tangam

 
kannigai yAyirundu tangamE tangam -- nAngaL
kAlangaL kazhippamaDi tangamE tangam
anniya mannar makkaL bUmiyiluNDAm--ennum
adanaiyum solliDaDi tangamE tangam
Oh Thangam, tell him I might spend

sonna mozhitavaRu mannavanukkE --engum
tOzhamai illaiyaDi tangamE tangam
enna pizhaigaLingu kaNDirukkiRAn?--avai
yAvum telivupera kETTuviDaDI

maiyal koDuttuviTTut tangamE tangam---talai
maRaindu thiribavarkku mAnamumuNDO?
poyyai yuruvamena koNDavan enRE --kizhap
ponni uraitha thundu tangamE tangam

ATrangarai adanil munnam orunAL - enai
azhaithu thani idattil pesiyadellam
Thutrri nagar murasu sATruvEn enRe
solli varuvaiyaDi tangamE tangam

cOram izhaittu iDaiyar peNgaLuDanE - avan
sUzhccit tiRamai pala kATTuv dellAm
vIra maRak kulattu mAdariDattE
vENDiya dillaiyenRu solli viDaDI

peNNenRu bUmitanil piRanduviTTAl - migap
pIzhai irukkudaDi tangamE tangam!
paNNonRu vEynguzhalil Udi vandiTTAn - adaip
paTRi maRakku tillai panjai uLLamE

nEra muzhudilum appAvi tannaiyE - uLLam
ninaindu maRugudaDi tangamE tangam
tIra orusol inRu kETTu vandiTTAl

 pinbu deyvam irukkudaDi tangamE tangam! 

 

 

 

[Translation] 

I bid you, O precious one, seek out and bring word
Of Kannan's state of mind
I would decide my future course
If he were to speak his mind clearly, O precious one.
 
 Tell him we might remain
A maiden for the rest of our lives, O precious one
And there are princes born of kings of foreign lands
Who roam the earth with open arms, O precious one.
 
 A king who forsakes his word
Finds no kinship anywhere, O precious one
What are the faults in me he perceived 
Let him list those, O precious one.

After inflaming my heart, O precious one 
He wanders incognito, unabashed
Now, I have heard old Ponni's say,
He is the very embodiment of falsehood, O precious one   

He spoke words of love in the past 
when he bid me come to the river bank, 
O precious one
Warn him that I shall proclaim to the world
Those very words, O precious one.

He has mastered many tricks, O precious one
From his practice with unsuspecting cow maids
Tell him they will not work 
upon a woman born in a warrior clan, O precious one. 

he life of one born as a woman, is fraught with misery
O precious one,
He came bearing an ethereal song on his flute 
Now this parched heart refuses to let go, O precious one.  

In all my waking moments 
My heart frets upon that wretch, O precious one
Bring one clear word from him, 
I shall entrust my fate in god’s hands, O precious one. 
 
Here is a lovely ragamalika rendition of the song 

 

[Short Story] The Dance of the Tiny Blue Feet

 

---

The sun had gone down behind the neem tree, and the house smelled of ghee and sandalwood. Aditya and Dharma sat on opposite ends of the carpet, arms crossed, faces turned away from each other. Between them lay the wreckage of the afternoon — a board game knocked over, a torn drawing, and the kind of silence that follows when two people have said things they didn't mean. Little Arjun was sprawled on his stomach nearby, driving a toy car in slow circles across the carpet, Arti sat on Paati's lap, thumb in mouth.

Paati didn't ask what happened. She never did. She tucked her feet under her sari, adjusted her glasses with exaggerated slowness — the way she did when she was pretending she hadn't noticed something and said:

"Looks like the room is moody today. Look, even fan is spinning slowly, like it's also upset. Neither child laughed. But Dharma's mouth twitched.

"Fine, fine. Sit like two statues. It is actually nice and decorative. But remember, statues don't get snacks, shame since I made mysore pak just this afternoon."

A pause. Aditya's eyes darted, toward the kitchen.

"Ah-ah, not yet. First, I have a story to tell you. It has a snake in it. A big one."

"We're not babies, Paati," said Aditya.

"Who said anything about babies? This snake would scare grown men. He scared an entire river. Now — are you listening or are you going to keep sitting there like two people waiting for a bus?"

---

"There was once a river," Paati began. "The Yamuna. So beautiful that the sky used to look down and get jealous — am I that blue? I don't think I'm that blue. Fish jumped through her like they were showing off. Children played at her edges. Cows stood in the shallows and thought deep, philosophical cow-thoughts."

Dharma snorted.

"And then Kaliya came. A serpent. Not a garden snake but a serpent with many hoods. Imagine a cobra, but with, how many heads do you think?"

"Five?" said Dharma.

"More."

"A hundred?" said Aditya, reluctantly interested.

"Let's say enough that you would not want to count them. And each hood carried a different kind of poison."

"Venom," Aditya corrected.

"Venom is what comes from the teeth. This was something else. This came from the hoods. One hood dripped with pride — you know what pride is, Aditya? It's that thing where someone builds a tower of blocks taller than anyone else's, and instead of being happy about it, they spend the whole time making sure everyone else knows their towers are shorter."

Aditya went very still.

"Another hood," Paati continued, eyes twinkling, "Dripped with jealousy. Jealousy is a funny poison. It's the kind where your brother gets the slightly bigger piece of mysore pak, and suddenly life is unbearable, the world is unjust, and nobody in this entire family understands you —"

"Paati, that was ONE time," Dharma muttered.

"Did I metion names? I'm talking about a snake. Listen..."

She waved her hand grandly.

"Another hood carried anger. The quick kind. The one that comes even before you decide to get angry — like when someone accidentally knocks your painting off the table yet you say something so sharp that everyone flinches. The words just spurt, don't they? like a cobra striking, and then you can't put them back."

The torn drawing on the carpet seemed to pulse between them.

"Kaliya settled at the bottom of the river, and his poison spread through the water. Dark, dark water. The fish ran away! wait, do fish run? They swam away, very fast, which is the fish version of running. The birds that flew over the river fell from the sky. Even the trees on the banks began to wither, like they were saying nope, we're done here. And the people who had loved that river? They stopped coming."

"And then Krishna came," said Aditya. "We know, Paati."

"Oh, do you? Everything? Tell me then, why did Krishna dance?"

Silence.

"Hmm. That's what I thought. So maybe don't skip ahead in Paati's story, OK!"

---

"When Krishna dove into the Yamuna, he sank all the way to the bottom. And there, in the dark, in water so poisoned that nothing else could survive, he found Kaliya. Now, this is the part no one tells you — Kaliya wasn't always bad."

"He wasn't?" Dharma leaned forward.

"He was an ordinary serpent once. He lived in the ocean. But, the great eagle Garuda, huge, powerful, hungry, hunted him just like he hunted other serpents. Kaliya was attacked over and over. Slowly, something began changing inside him. You know that feeling when you've been teased so hard, that you stop feeling sad and start feeling, um... hard? You want to turn into someone that scares people away so they can no longer tease you?"

She looked at Aditya. Not pointedly. Just a glance.

"Kaliya decided that if the world was dangerous, he would become the most dangerous thing in it. He came to the Yamuna and poisoned it, because a poisoned river meant nobody would come close. And nobody coming close meant nobody could hurt him."

Dharma said, quietly: "That's like when Aditya tells everyone at school he doesn't want to play with them, but actually —"

"I DO NOT —"

"Shh, shh, shh," Paati said, holding up a hand. "Nobody is like anything. I'm telling you about a snake. The snake is the snake. Now listen."

But she gave Dharma a tiny look that said: "Yes, exactly, but we don't say it out loud, we let the story do the work."

---

"So there stood Krishna — a boy, remember, not much bigger than you, Aditya — in front of this enormous, ancient, wounded creature. And what did he do? Did he bring a sword?"

"No."

"Did he bring an army?"

"No."

"Did he call Kaliya names and tell him he was a terrible snake and should be ashamed of himself?"

"...No."

"No! He climbed on top of those many hoods, and he danced."

 

"He DANCED! On the head of a hundred-hooded serpent! Because - and this is the cleverest thing, you cannot fight poison with more poison. If someone is angry and you yell back, what happens?"

"Bigger fight," said Dharma.

"Bigger fight. Always. Like that time you two were arguing about who gets to watch TV. It started as a small thing and ended with a milk tooth knocked out! Thank god for that! And the blood! The emergency doctor though was amused!"

Despite themselves, both children almost smiled.

"But joy, that rises from inside of you — that is the thing poison cannot survive. Krishna danced so beautifully that the poison had no room left. Hood by hood, something shifted. The hood of pride bowed, not because it was forced down, but because when someone is dancing with that kind of freedom, what is there to be proud about? Pride suddenly looks silly, like wearing a crown in a swimming pool."

Dharma giggled.

"The hood of jealousy softened, because jealousy only works when you're keeping score, and can you keep score when there's music? The hood of anger went still, because anger needs you to grip tight, and the dance was all about letting go."

Paati swayed her hand through the air like a dancer's gesture.

"And, underneath all those hoods, once the poison drained away, Krishna saw what was really there. Do you know what it was?"

"What?"

"A frightened creature. That's all. A serpent who had been hurt and had forgotten how to live without his armor. And this is what I love about this story — Krishna did not kill him. He said: Go back to the ocean. Garuda will not chase you again. You are safe. You don't need the poison anymore."

---

Paati picked up the torn drawing from the carpet. She held it up. It was a drawing Dharma had made — of two boys on a swing, one pushing the other, both of them laughing. She studied it for a moment as though it were a painting in a museum.

"Nice drawing," she said. "The swing looks like our swing. Is this one supposed to be Aditya? You got his hair right — always sticking up, like a coconut tree in the wind."

Aditya touched his hair self-consciously.

"You know, this afternoon, whatever happened between you two, I wasn't there, so I don't know the details, and also I don't want to know, because who started it is the most boring question in the world. Every Kaliya thinks he was provoked. Every Kaliya thinks the other one started it."

She put the drawing down gently.

"The interesting question is: who will dance first? Not dance dance - but the wisdom to say, "This fight is smaller than us."

---

Nobody spoke for a while. The ceiling fan turned. A mynaah bird made its evening racket outside. Somewhere in the kitchen, the mysore pak sat on its plate, waiting.

Then Aditya slid the board game pieces toward the center of the carpet and started setting them up. Quietly. Without looking up.

Dharma watched him for a moment. Then she picked up his torn drawing, placed both halves together, and said, "I can fix this with tape."

"The tape is in the blue drawer," said Aditya.

"I know where the tape is."

"I know you know."

"I also know," said Paati, rising from the carpet with the theatrical groan she reserved for moments of victory, "that the mysore pak is waiting and nobody in this house has the sense to eat it before the ants find it. Come."

She shuffled toward the kitchen. Behind her, she heard Aditya say to Dharma: "I'll save your piece while you get the tape."

And Dharma mumbled, "Get the big piece. Not the corner ones."

"They're all the same size!"

"They are NOT all the same size, Paati cut them crooked —"

"I HEARD THAT," Paati called from the kitchen. "My mysore pak is PERFECT. The pieces are ARTISTIC. Now come eat before I feed it all to the birds."

---

— For children who fight, and grandmothers who know that the right story at the right time is worth more than a hundred lectures.