Loan Ranger

Originally posted at http://indopersica.blogspot.com

It’s difficult for us sometimes to speak a sentence in our regional tongues without inadvertently throwing in an English word. And not just an English-derived word, but an actual, true-blue English word having its own place in the Oxford dictionary. And not because our vernaculars lack terminology for these things/ideas, but because the ‘native’ terminology simply hasn’t gained currency and the English word has stuck.

And thanks to the fact that our country was always a much sought-after tourist destination, even in historical times, we attracted people from the world over, including Persia, China, Greece, Portugal, the Netherlands, France and Britain. Some of these people stayed on longer than expected, and left behind their legacy, in terms of architecture, cuisine, administration and of course, language.

While it may be common knowledge that our subcontinental languages possess a vocabulary deriving – to varying degrees – from these tongues, noteworthy is the morphing these words go through when being absorbed into the vernaculars.

The very reason this process of morphing came to my mind was when I noticed the presence of the same Portuguese-origin word in two unrelated languages – Tamil and Konkani.

What Tamil calls a ஜன்னல் /ɟənnəl/ and Konkani a जनेल /zɔnɛl/, is known in Portuguese as janela /ʒanɛlə/, and in English as ‘window’ :-)

These two Indian languages, spoken on different coasts of India, and belonging to two different language families, both use terms derived from the same Portuguese word, albeit with very different pronunciations as you can see above.

Tamil approximates the Portuguese /ʒ/ to /ɟ/, while Konkani approximates it to /z/. Also, the Portuguese vowel /a/ becomes /ə ~ ɐ/ in Tamil, while turning to /ɔ/ in Konkani.

Similarly, Arabic نصیب /nɑsˁiːb/ ‘fate’, is pronounced only slightly differently in Hindi/Urdu - /nəsiːb/, but quite differently in Marathi - /nəʃib/, and even more differently in Konkani - /nɔʃib/, after going through appropriate ‘naturalisation’ processes in each language. In fact, the Marathi and Devanagari Konkani spellings for this word reflect this naturalisation - नशीब

Let’s select an English word that is more or less found in most subcontinental languages today, in order to compare the phonetic metamorphoses that loan words go through in these various languages - Office

Hindi /ɔfɪs ~ aːfɪs ~ aːpʰɪs/, with the latter more likely to be found in rural areas

Urdu /aːfɪs/, since Urdu speakers seem to get around better with the /f/ sound. Not too different from Hindi

Bengali /ɔfɪs ~ ɔpʰis ~ ɔpʰiʃ/, again with the latter typical of a rural accent

Gujarati /ofis ~ opʰis/ – Was there ever any doubt :-)

Marathi /ɔfɪs ~ ɔpʰis/

Kannada, Telugu, Tamil /ɑːfis ~ ɑːpis/ – The open /ɔ/ is normally beyond the phonetic means of an average speaker of these languages

Malayalam /oːfis ~ oːpis/ – Malayalam is an exception among Dravidian languages in that the open /ɔ/ is replaced by closed /o/ instead of even more open /ɑ/, resulting in that characteristic ‘Mellu aaksend’!

Poor Microsoft must have had a hell of a time deciding how to transcribe ‘Microsoft Office’ into these languages during localisation.

While most of us can trace the ‘foreign’ origins of a word in our regional languages quite easily, in most cases when the word is from English or Persian/Arabic, the majority of us are oblivious to loan words that have come from other languages, such as -

Hindi चाय /caːj/, Marathi चहा /caɦaː /, Gujarati ચા /caː/, Kannada ಚಹಾ /caɦaː /, Urdu چائے /caːj/, Bengali চা /caː/ –
from the Cantonese pronunciation of the Chinese character 茶 /tsʰɑː˨˩/ – Tea

Tamil கக்கூஸு /kɐkkuːsɯ/, from Dutch kakhuis /kakhøjs/ ‘shit house’ – Latrine

Hindi चाबी /caːbiˑ/, from Portuguese chave /ʃaʋə/- Key

Marathi गरज, /ɡərəz/, from Arabic غرض /ɣɑrɑdˁ/– Need (n.)

The trouble with Goan Place Names

Originally published at http://indopersica.blogspot.com

Sure, we’ve all heard of the ruckus created by the vandals of the MNS and Shiv Sena about changing the names Bombay and Poona to their Marathi equivalents. Their task is not yet complete though, with names like Sion, Parel, Sewri and Versova still waiting to be changed to शीव, परळ, शिवडी and वेसावे – in English I mean.

Since these organisations love to engage themselves in the occupation of name changes under the banner of getting rid of colonial vestiges, I wonder how they'd fare in Goa. Goa is rife with village names not just being spelled the Portuguese way, i.e., according to Portuguese spelling rules, but in some cases with names suitably modified to suit the Lusitanian tongue.

Take the classic case of the capital city of Goa, written पणजी in Devanagari and pronounced /pɔɳʥĩ/ in Konkani. The Portuguese of the 17^th century AD would quite obviously not have been able to pronounce the hard, retroflex /ɳ/ (written ण in Devanagari Konkani), and would have simply approximated it with a normal /n/ (represented न in Devanagari Konkani). Neither would they have been able to pronounce ज /ʥ/ very well, and would have replaced it with the sound /ʒ/, very common in Portuguese.

What they would have been able to pronounce rather easily is the nasal twang at the end of the word, with the जी being spoken through the nose. Portuguese is full of such nasal endings (take for example the Portuguese word for 'yes' - sim, pronounced /sĩ/).

Taking into account all these phonetic conveniences, one would arrive at the new Lusitanised spelling of Pangim, pronounced /pɐnʒĩ/ the Portuguese way.

And a similar metamorphosis would have occurred with Goa’s second largest city, written मडगांव in Devanagari Konkani, and pronounced /mɔɽɡãw/ in Konkani. Again, the hard ड or /ɽ/, would have proved a tongue twister to the descendants of Vasco da Gama, and therefore was suitably modified to a /r/. The /-ãw/ ending would conveniently be spelled –ão in Portuguese. Hence, one arrived at the new spelling of Margão, now pronounced /mɐrɡãw/.

This, however, was just the tip of the iceberg. With place names such as कळंगुट, हणजुणें, म्हापशें, and पाळोळे next in line, one needs to be rather conversant in the Portuguese way of writing to figure out that these are the (now) famous locations of Candolim, Calangute, Anjuna, Mapuçá, and Palolem.

The region itself, known in Konkani as गोंय /ɡɔ̃j/, came to be rechristened Goa /ɡoə/ in Portuguese.

Goa passed on to Indian hands on the 19th of December, 1961 (since known as Goa Liberation Day). The place names with Portuguese-based spellings now came to be pronounced according to English spelling rules, resulting in a phonetic orgy –

- Pangim, now morphed into Panjim, came to be pronounced /pʰændʒɪm/, nowhere close to the Konkani /pɔɳʥĩ/.

- Candolim, originally /kan̪d̪ɔɭĩ/ in Konkani, turned into /kʰændəlɪm/, which might more or less be how you currently pronounce it!

- The southern Goan taluk of केपें /kɛpɛ̃/, which the Portuguese spelled Quepem, now came to be called /kwɛpɛm/.

Below is a (growing) list of Goan place names in Konkani, Marathi, Portuguese and English, with the English names being pronounced according to English spelling rules in most cases, resulting in the 'funny' sounding names one seems to encounter in Goa today. The progress in most cases is clear, with the Portuguese name/spelling being derived from the Konkani name, and the English name/spelling being a corruption/derivation of the Portuguese name.

Click here to view the list.

It should prove to be some sort of guide to how the place names are intended to be pronounced, irrespective of spelling.

Interestingly, Bombay too was an English corruption of the original Portuguese name, Bombaim /bɔ̃bãĩ̯/. Contrary to urban legend, this name had no connection with the original Marathi मुंबई.