While ‘Calcutta’ and ‘Kolkata’ allow for split personality complexities, ‘Bangla’ does away with such things

We have eventually discarded the West, albeit in name alone, to arm ourselves with practical derring-do. We have rocketed up an alphabetic list to position ourselves, not really on top of it, but certainly more loftily positioned than we were when we were West and so near the bottom. Change is achieved in many ways. One way is optics, that word that has of late acquired much political credence. To be seen to be on top of the game is better than to be not in the game at all.

On the other hand, there are all these niggling bits about identity and semantics, and infantile humour related to country liquor. Bangla has so far meant the Indo-Aryan language spoken by many millions in the eastern part of our subcontinental geography. Along with its many dialects and vocalisations. The second-most spoken language in India, that is Bharat. And seventh most-spoken of 6,500 languages in the world. That it has far more ancient roots, just like its people who speak the language, is neither here nor there. But preferably here, in the renamed Bangla, and our neighbour next door over the international border. Where too there are people who have roots but speak other tongues, which in most cases, have no linguistic or cultural connect with Bangla.

Then there are those who have not quite disposed of their colonial pedigree and say it should just be Bengal . After all Bengali is the term the erstwhile British rulers used. Though one cannot overlook the ironic fact that the word too is derived from the Hindi Bangaali, denoting the peoples and the language in one comprehensive hug, maybe a wink as well. Almost everyone, except the most nostalgic of people who wish to stay reminded of the east-west divide metaphorically represented by the River Ganga, agree that dropping the West was much needed. It was an anomalous naming during the 1905 partition of our “Shonar Bangla” along religious lines but retained by independent India with more gratuitous sentiment than anything else going for it. Overruled by the recent legislative decision, but first mooted in 1991, it is now Bangla, subject to the central government's approval. So like it, or lump it.

A long, long time ago, the rice growing and eating Bangali discovered ways to ferment the grain, convert it to alcohol (known as dheno from dhaan or grain), and get drunk. Given social acceptability and stature by incorporating the brew into the worshipping of the Goddess Kali over millennia, I remember it being called Kali marka in my school days. And banglu, and bangla. Once touted as the ambrosia for Bangali poets and writers for generations, liberalisation waylaid its charms with the licit availability of Scottish, Jamaican, Mexican, Russian and other international country liquors, far more sophisticated in their distillation, bottling, and marketing. The far-reaching consequences of globalisation. Today, bangla, the state’s indigenous liquor, has been cheaply branded into an insignificant concoction targeting only those who cannot afford even Indian Made Foreign Liquors; the lower case ‘b’ making all the difference.

The Indian union composes itself of states, many named to serve majoritarian identity fulfilment. Bangla, as the name of our state, achieves a similar sort of mega identity. While Calcutta and Kolkata allow for split personality complexities, Bangla does away with such things. The definition is not open to debate and marks territory, much as a dog lifting a hind leg does. As the controversial National Register of Citizens drafting in neighbouring Assam seems to be doing. Fears of xenophobia and communal polarisation are again raising their bogey heads for Bangalis and Bangla-speaking Muslims there. Will the peoples of other ethnic communities with roots in Bangla harbour fears along similar lines with our renaming?

Rabindranath Tagore composed Amar Shonar Bangla in 1905 at the time of the first Partition of Bengal, Bangla. The poet meant it to inspire the people of this beautiful part of the country to stay unified in thought, word and deed, since that partition was politically motivated with the British colonialists devious intentions of undermining the burgeoning freedom movement and dividing people along communal lines. History, as you see, tends to repeat itself. Bangladesh adopted the song’s first 10 lines as their national anthem in 1971.

Across the continents and oceans, 40 years after Tagore composed his ode to Bangla, US folk-singer Woody Guthrie wrote This Land Is Your Land in 1945. He meant it as a replacement to the popular God Bless America which he was sick of hearing. That it took on a political hue and context was probably more accidental than intentional. However, the last three verses seem to belie that fact: “As I went walking I saw a sign there/ And on the sign it said ‘No Trespassing’/ But on the other side it didn’t say nothing/ That side was made for you and me./ In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people/ By the relief office I seen my people/ As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking/ Is this land made for you and me?/ Nobody living can ever stop me/ As I go walking that freedom highway/ Nobody living can ever make

me turn back/ This land was made for you and me.”

Interestingly, both Tagore and Guthrie based the melodies of their unforgettable, inspirational anthems on other tunes. Tagore borrowed from Baul singer Gagan Harkara’s Ami Kothay Pabo Tare, while Guthrie adapted from a Baptist gospel hymn, Oh, My Loving Brother.

To reach the author, write to patrick.ghose@gmail.com.

