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In other news, my copy of MacGregor's Outline of Hindi grammar finally turned up--exactly where I thought I'd left it. I was seriously close to buying a new copy, figuring if I ever found the other, I'd just give it away to someone deserving like [ profile] tyrannio or [ profile] mollpeartree. I must've looked at the spot on the shelf where it was two dozen times over the past couple weeks without seeing it. Note to self: If you can't find a book you know is there, chances are you're misremembering the colour of the spine. (I kept thinking it would be purple. The cover is purple, but the spine is yellow.)

And my latest acquisition is the new edition of Teach yourself Gaelic. My bear friend at work came across it while moving and figured he was never going to put it to good use. It's so much better than the older version I have it's not even funny. Perusing it, you can actually imagine someone getting conversational from it. I was all excited about reading through it until the MacGregor turned up. (The bits of Urdu and Panjabi sprinkled throughout Sidhwa's book are putting pressure on me to revise those languages. Latest gem: الو کا پٹھا ullū kā paṭhā, a strong insult that translates literally to "tendon of an owl"!)
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Potatoes are so ubiquitous around the world now that one frequently forgets that unless your ancestors are Andean, they were never a part of your traditional cuisine. It takes more than a little imagination to imagine Hanukkah without latkes, Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes, steak without frites, or fried fish without chips. And so it's no shame to admit that when [ profile] tyrannio asked me today, "What did aloo used to refer to?" not only did I not have an answer for him, but I had to confess that the thought had never even crossed my mind before.

Actually, it's not true to say I had no answer. I am a UofC graduate, after all, and so never one to let appalling ignorance get in the way of an earnest discussion. I told him that the first place I would look for information would be Platts' Dictionary of Urdu, Classical Hindi, and English available online through the good graces of my alma mater. And, sure enough, it furnishes a solid lead:
آلو आलू ālū, आलु ālu [S. आलु], s.m. An esculent root, Arum campanulatum; potato, Solanum tuberosum
The only challenge now is tracking down what Arum campanulatum refers to. Apparently this is a disused term for Amorphophallus paeoniifolius, which goes by the lovely English common name of "elephant foot yam" and the not-so-lovely alternative "corpse flower". That last term probably gives you and idea why when Solanum tuberosum became available, the Indians dropped this root crop like a hot...
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'बेकार' नहीं होंगी कार कंपनियाँ
'bekaar' naheeM hoMgee kaar kaMpaniyaaM
'useless' not will-be car companies
  1. बेकार has a wide range of meanings including "idle", "invalid", and "obsolete". It consists of the Persian element کار kaar discussed previously with the privative prefix بے be "without".
  2. होंगी is an inflected future form of होना honaa and can be translated both as "will be" and "will become".
Lede: अमरीका सरकार ने कहा है कि वह देश की संकटग्रस्त कार कंपनियों को अल्पकालिक वित्तीय सहायता देने को तैयार है.
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मीडिया के लिए नए दिशा-निर्देश जारी
meeDiya ke lie nae dishaa-nirdesh jaaree
"New directives in force for the media"
  1. दिशा-निर्देश is an interesting compound. Both elements are Sanskritic borrowings from the same root, दिश diśa meaning "point, direction". So the meaning is something like "pointing out the direction".
  2. जारी is another Arabic participle in Hindi guise, in this case the active participle of جري "to run". So it's the etymological equivalent of "current" and has the meaning of "in force" when applied to laws and regulations.
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ग्वांतानामो के लिए समय सीमा तय
gvaaMtaanaamo ke lie samay seemaa tay
Guantanamo of received time limit decided
"Time limit set for Guantanamo"
  1. Hindi has a number of compound postpositions which require a simple postposition, usually का kaa "of", to intervene between the object and the governing word. लिए is in origin an oblique form of लिया liyaa, the past participle of लेना lena "take".
  2. तय tay also looks like a Hindi past participle to me, but one of my sources labels it "Arabic". I think the etymon may be طی ṭai which Platts glosses as "folding".
  3. By itself, this isn't a complete sentence, since it lacks a recognisable verb. तय normally appears with a "light verb" such as होता hotaa "be" (when intransitive, e.g. यह बात तय है "This matter is settled") and करना karnaa "do" (when transitive, e.g. इस बार यही तय किया है "This I have decided this time").
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जूते चलाने वाले पत्रकार की 'पिटाई'
joote chalaane vaale patrakaar kee 'piTaaee'
"Shoe-throwing journalist's 'beating'"
  1. चलाना chalaanaa is the causative of yesterday's चलना calnaa "move, go". वाला vaalaa is a very productive derivational suffix; added to infinitives, it forms compounds that answer to both English agent nouns and participial modifiers[*]. So the sense is something like "the one who made the shoe(s) go".
  2. पत्रकार patrakaar "journalist" is a compound of पत्र "paper, letter" and Persian کار "action, work", a common suffix for deriving agent nouns.[**]
  3. पिटाई "beating" is derived from पिटाना piTaanaa, which is the causative of पीटना peeTnaa "beat". Hindi has a very extensive system of verbal derivation including both causatives and double causatives. पिटाना could be translated as "have someone beaten" or "have X beat Y".
[*] In some cases, the latter are more fluidly translated as relative clauses, e.g. हिंदी सीखनेवाले विद्यार्थी hiMdee seekhnevaale vidyaarthee "the students who are learning Hindi".
[**] The Urdu equivalent is the Arabic-derived صحافي sahaafee (cf. Ar. صحافي ṣihāfī "idem", صحيفة ṣahīfah "newspaper", etc.).
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बग़दाद में बुश पर चले जूते
baghdaad meM bush par chale joote
Baghdad in Bush at gone shoes
  1. पर par has several possible English translations including "at", "on", and "over".
  2. The basic meaning of चलना chalnaa is "move, go", but in reference to weapons it means "be discharged" (guns) or "be brandished" (swords). I'm not sure which class of deadly objects a shoe is more akin to.
  3. जूते joote is plural; the singular जूता jootaa can mean both "a single shoe" and "a single pair of shoes". Even though the shoes involved belonged to a single pair, the use of plural emphasises that they were deployed separately. Note that the intransitive perfective participle चले agrees with its subject in number and gender.
  4. In English, the use of the participle without any sort of auxiliary would be ungrammatical outside of "headline style", but the above represents an ordinary full sentence in Hindi.
  5. Hindi is to some degree a topic-prominent language. Moving the subject, जूते, to final position marks it as the rheme (i.e. the most important new information in the clause) and also stresses its indefiniteness, i.e. these shoes are not ones which have been discussed already. (Hindi lacks an equivalent of the definite article the.)
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खिड़की / کهڙکي / ਖਿੜਕੀ khiRkee "window" (Skt. खडक्किका khaḍakkikā; cf. खण्ड kaṇḍa "piece, section")
Not much to say about this one, so in the interests of padding out the entry, I'll note the English loan विंडो viNDo used particularly in computer contexts, e.g. प्रलेख विंडो pralekh viNDo "document window". And, of course, in the name of the world's most ubiquitous software, विंडोज़ / ونڈوز / ਵਿਂਡੋਜ਼.
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इतिहास / اتہاس / ਇਤਿਹਾਸ itihaas "history"
تاريخ / ਤਾਰੀਖ taareekh "history"
I'm not sure if anyone else has been following Language Log's continuing coverage of attempts to discern the identity of those responsible for the recent terrorist attacks in Bombay, but I'm finding them quite interesting. Naturally, they're focussing on linguistic evidence. Both those favouring a Pakistani origin for the terrorists and those arguing for a domestic origin are finding support for their theories; the only point of agreement seems to be that the chances that the "Deccan Mujahideen" is actually from the Deccan are small. In fact, if the recorded conversation broadcast on Indian news proves to be genuine, then the trail leads directly back to Panjab.

Ah, but the Indian states of Panjab or the Pakistani one? The jury's still out on that. Those arguing for an Indian origin focus chiefly on vocabulary; one commentator quoted in the Language Log article singles out the words प्रशासन prashaasan "administration" (Sanskritic), सरकार sarkaar "government" (Persian), and इतिहास itihaas (also Sanskritic). I'm not sure what the proper Urdu equivalents are for the first two, but is seems clear enough that Arabic تاريخ is preferred in the last case.

(Not universally, however; there seems to be clear indication in the form of 800+ Ghits that the absence of اتہاس in Pakistan has been overstated. Incidentally, here's where I confess that I've been guilty of a certain distortion when it comes to my discussions of "Panjabi" in these posts, since my point of reference is Indian Panjabi. There are several reasons for this bias: One is that I read Gurmukhi far better than Perso-Arabic script, which automatically makes me dependent primarily on Indian sources. Another is that Panjabi is hardly a written language in Pakistan anyway, where the prestige variety is Urdu, Moreover, as I mentioned in the last entry, Panjabi written in Perso-Arabic script is difficult to distinguish from Urdu in any case.)

Although some derivational elements are rather indiscriminate in their ability to combine with stems of varies origins, most collocate with terms of similar origin. Urdu/Pakistani Panjabi تاريخ دان marries the aforementioned Arabic element with Persian دان daan, a previously-discussed element meaning "receptacle". Indian Panjabi ਇਤਿਹਾਸਕਾਰ itihaaskaar, on the other hand, incorporates a different Persian stem کار kaar meaning "doing" and--by metonymy--a doer. इतिहासकार itihaaskaar also exists in Hindi (whereas the presence of اتہاس notwithstanding, اتہاسكار garners no hits at all) where it coexists with इतिहास लेखक itihaas-lekhak, a mere "history writer" (Panjabi ਇਤਿਹਾਸ ਲੇਖਕ).
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पुस्तकालय pustakaalay, ਪੁਸਤਕਾਲਾ pustakaalaa, کتاب گھر / ਕਿਤਾਬ ਘਰ kitaab-ghar, دارالکتب daarulkutub "library"
So far, there's been great unanimity in the vocabulary I've been presenting, but that isn't by design. It's a by-product of the fact that I've been sticking mostly to basic vocabulary, which tends to show little difference between Hindi and Urdu (and Panjabi, in most instances). But you don't have to stray very far into the realm of "higher vocabulary" before you start hitting divergences.

The word किताब / کتاب / ਕਿਤਾਬ kitaab for "book" (from Arabic via Persian) will be understood anywhere, but that doesn't mean it's always the preferred usage. Shapiro's Primer, which explicitly teaches the sort of "shuddh-Hindi" found in the Indian educational system, ignores it completely in favour of पुस्तक pustak (a direct borrowing of Sanskrit पुस्तकं). (Always a bit more practical, McGregor alternates between the terms, but with noticeable bias towards पुस्तक.)

ਪੁਸਤਕ pustak is also the first translation listed in the Mahan Kosh Panajbi lexicon and enters into more compounds and collocations in the Singh Brothers dictionary than ਕਿਤਾਬ. But the latter is the only term used by Shackleton in his basic Panjabi grammar; it also beats out its Sanskritic rival 44,700 Ghits to 8,820. Perhaps needless to say, but Teach Yourself Urdu recognises only كتابيں kitaabeM and not *پستكيں pustakeM.

Since all the common terms for "library" basically equate to "book house", it's not surprising to find divergent NIA equivalents. The second element in the Hindi word listed above is Sanskritic आलय aalay "abode" (as in हिमालय Himaalay "abode of snow"), which has the Panjabi form ਆਲਾ aalaa. Panjabi ਪੁਸਤਕਾਲਾ gets about ten times the hits of ਕਿਤਾਬ ਘਰ kitaab-ghar which is literally a "book house", but I suspect that's because only Indian Panjabis commonly use Gurmukhi. Pakistani Panjabis rarely write their language and, when they do, many words are indistinguishable from their Urdu cognates. (کتاب گھر kitaab-ghar is, naturally, good Urdu as well.)

It's impossible to determine easily the relative frequency of کتاب گھر and دارالکتب in Urdu because the latter is lifted wholesale from Arabic. Literally, it is a "dwelling place (daar) of books (kutub)". If you're wondering about the different spelling here, it's because this word incorporates an Arabic "broken plural", a usage typical of higher registers of Urdu, Persian, and other Arabic-influenced languages.

And if this terminological richness weren't enough, there is also the recent English loan लाइब्रेरी / لايبريري / ਲਾਇਬਰੇਰੀ laaeebreree. I'm not sure exactly what niche it fills in the respective languages' ecologies, but certainly the related borrowing लाइब्रेरियन / ਲਾਇਬਰੇਰੀਅਨ laaeebrerian seems to be giving native coinages like पुस्तकाघ्यक्ष pustakaadhyaksh ("book supervisor") and ਪੁਸਤਕ ਪਾਲ pustak-paaL ("book protector") a run for their money. (I have to confess, I was kind of hoping for "library-wallah" myself.)
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सिलसिला \ سلسله \ ਸਿਲਸਿਲਾ silsila "chain; connexion; series; descent"
चेतावनी \ ਚੇਤਾਵਨੀ chetaavanee "warning, notice, alarm"
ज़िंदगी \ زندگي \ ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ zindagee "living, lifetime"

I'm awfully tired, so today's post will be expanded tomorrow. In the meantime, can anyone tell me what the three words I've picked have in common?

ETA: Only one taker? These are three words that, according to an article which appeared in The Hindu were misspelled in the manifesto of the hitherto unknown "Mujahideen Hyderabad Deccan", which has claimed responsibility for the deadly attacks in Mumbai, and are held up as evidence that the document was originally composed in Urdu rather than Hindi.

I'm not going to speak to the plausibility to that, I'm just going to observe what a lovely triad we have here. Silsila was familiar to me because it shows up so often on Arabic-language publications. The basic meaning is "chain", but in a publishing context it means "series". Zindagee is also familiar, being a straightforward Persian nominalisation of the word زنده "alive".

The only term that was new to me is चेतावनी chetaavanee, which you'll notice has no equivalent in Urdu. That's because it's a recent coinage (from the Sanskrit participle cetavya "making known") probably intended to oust long-standing borrowings like عبرت and فہمايش. Only one of my Panjabi dictionaries has it, indicating it is a recent arrival there as well (though one fully accepted in Indian Panjabi to judge by the Ghits).
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बोटी / بوٿي / ਬੋਟੀ boTee (cf. Sanskrit वटक vaṭaka "small lump") "small piece of flesh"
The inspiration for today's word came from yesterday's lunch. So why didn't I post it yesterday? Because I had a more ambitious post planned that would discuss the systematic use of feminine gender to derive diminutives in NIA. Maybe next time. For now, all you need to know is that बोटी has a big brother बोटा boTaa which does not seem to be in common use nowadays, but which is more likely to be a direct descendant of वटक.

Another common morphological process in NIA is reduplication, as seen in the Panjabi expression ਬੋਟੀ ਬੋਟੀ ਕਰਣਾ boTee boTee karNaa "cut to pieces". Hindi equivalents include बोटियाँ काटना (काटना kaaTnaa "cut"), बोटियाँ उड़ाना (उड़ाना uRhaanaa "blow"), and टिक्का-बोटी करना tikkaa boTee karnaa where टिक्का is a near-synonym borrowed from Persian (تكه). (By the way, टिक्का tikkaa / تكه tikka provides a rare instance of a true morphological divergence between Hindi and Urdu. In Hindi, the common Persian suffix -ah is treated as -aa, whereas in Urdu, it is pronounced short.) Another less grisly verbal expression is बोटी चढ़ना boTee charRhnaa "become fat or plump".
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गांड़ / گانڙ gaaMR "arse, buttocks" (< Sanskrit गण्डः gaNDah "cheek"; cf. Panjabi ਗੰਡ gaND "idem.")
This is a vulgarity used liberally in the modern Mumbai crime novel I'm reading, so I was more than a little surprised to find not only it in Platts but also a variety of idioms incorporating it. For instance, the worrying गांड़ फटना gaaMR phaaRnaa (lit. "arse tearing") "get into a funk, ge frightened, come under pressure" and the puzzling गांड़-गलत gaaMR galat (lit. "arse-error") "senseless, stupefied". Of course, more literal expressions were there as well, e.g. गांड़मराओ gaaMR-maraao (lit. "arse-strikee") "catamite". (As I told [ profile] monshu, best not to think too deeply about what Victorian Englishmen would need such vocabulary for.)

More recent idioms incorporating the word include गांड़ मत्ती gaaMR mastee (lit. "arse intoxication") which seems to mean something along the lines of "screwing around" and गांड़ चौड़ी करके घूमना gasaMR chauRee karke ghoomnaa (a vulgar twist on लम्बी चौड़ी हांकना lambee chauRee haMkaa "boast"). But by far the most common derivative in modern use seems to be गांडू gaaNDoo [note the lack of lenition] which originally meant "sodomite" and is now a general term of a abuse, particularly for a weak or timorous man.

Strangely, the word गांड़ isn't in Shabdkosh, but a term of similar meaning is गुदा / گدا / ਗੁਦਾ gudaa "anus" which appears in such phrases as गुदा द्वार / ਗੁਦਾ-ਦੁਆਰ gudaa dwaar "arsehole" (द्वार dwaar "door, entryway") and गुदा मैथुन gudaa maithun "anal sex".
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प्याज़ / پياز / ਪਿਆਜ਼ pyaaz "onion"
A quick one today, inspired by [ profile] wwidsith. Not much to say about this term, since it's a straightforward loan from Persian. It does however spawn the nisbah adjective प्याज़ी / پيازي / प्याज़ी pyaazee which in addition to meaning "oniony" has the extended meaning "of reddish colour". (For Hindi, Platts gives "crimson" whereas my Panjabi sources agree on "pinkish". Anyone have an opinion on how to describe the hue of Indian onions?)

Another term (which may well be more common in Panjabi) is गण्डा gaNDaa / ਗੰਢਾ gaMDhaa, which looks tadbhava, but I'm unsure of the exact origin. The Panjabi diminutive ਗੰਢੀ gaMDhee has among its meanings "clove [of garlic]" (i.e. ਥੋਮ ਦੀ ਗੰਢੀ). Garlic also has an assortment of names in NIA--so many in fact, they're probably best explored in another post.
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For today's word, I'd like to have a closer look at the second element in the compound धूपदानी/ਧੂਪਦਾਨੀ dhoopdaanee posted earlier. Not that the first isn't interesting in its own right (although here it means "incense", its most common modern sense is actually "sunshine"), but the second has undergone a curious shift as well. It seems to be a diminutive of दान/ਦਾਨ, a concrete noun from the Old Aryan root दा dā- "give". So is the development something like "gift" > "alms" > "poorbox" > "small receptacle"? Or "gift" > "gift box" > "box"? Impossible to say with the tools at my disposal. Incidentally, the earlier meaning of धूपदानी was a box for incense; only later did this come to mean something incense could be burned in.

Other compounds with -दानी/-ਦਾਨੀ:
चायदानी/ਚਾਹਦਾਨੀ chaaydaanee/chaahdaanee "teapot"
राखदानी/ਰਾਖਦਾਨੀ raakhdaanee "ashtray" (राख/ਰਾਖ raakh "ashes")
कामदानी kaamdaanee "diaper; nappy" (lit. "work receptacle"![*])
चूहेदानी/ਚੂਹੇਦਾਨੀ choohedaanee "mousetrap" (चूहे/ਚੂਹੇ choohe "mice")

[*] Platts glosses this as "A kind of embroidery work on net or muslin", so perhaps we have an example of recent metonymic euphemism.
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चाबी / چابي / ਚਾਬੀ chaabee "key"
कुंजी / کنجی / ਕੁੰਜੀ kuMjee "key"
Again, I'm left with intriguing questions about distribution of variants and no obvious place to seek answers. My dictionaries all list both words, but my grammar books list only one each--चाबी / چابي chaabee for Hindi/Urdu and ਕੁੰਜੀ kuMjee for Panjabi--so I can only assume from this that these are the more common variants in each language.

When I learned चाबी, my first reaction was That looks suspiciously like Portuguese, so I was quite chuffed to see that Platts agrees with me in deriving it from chave. That derivation would also explain the earlier Hindustani variant चाभी chaabhee, as I can't think of any other word that shows this sort of variation in medials.

Since, as mentioned before, Panjabi preserved the inherited contrast between /v/ and /b/, this would indicate that ਚਾਬੀ must be a borrowing from Hindustani. Still, that doesn't stop it from entering into a number of idioms. ਚਾਬੀ ਘੁਮਾਉਣਾ caabee ghumaauuNaa "turn[*] the key" means "tutor" and ਚਾਬੀ ਦੇਣਾ "give key" is to wind a watch or clock. (In Hindi, the latter is चाबी भरना chaabee bharnaa "fill key".)

Panjabi ਕੁੰਜੀ has the extended sense of "note, annotation" whereas its Hindi counterpart कुंजी is mapped to English "key" in its computer terminological uses, e.g. कुंजीपटल kuMjeepaTal "keyboard"[**] (with पटल "covering" apparently used as a kind of collective suffix) or आंकड़ा गूढ़लेखन कुंजी aaMkRaa guRhalekhan kuMjee "data encryption key". Again, if Platts is to be believed, the ultimate etymological root is the surprising कुञ्च kuñja "elephant tusk". I suppose we have a working hypothesis on what early Indian keys are made from!

[*] Causative of ਘੁੰਮਣਾ ghuMNaa "rotate".
[**] Beside borrwed कीबोर्ड keeborD, of course.
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बीड़ी / بيڙي / ਬੀੜੀ beeRee "cheap cigarette"
This is a word I've wondered about for some time. If you read much Indian fiction or watch enough Indian movies--particularly crime stories--sooner or later you'll hit references to smoking "bidis". For a long time, I thought this was simply a name for cigarettes you rolled yourself. Then, when I noticed characters carrying packs of bidis, I thought they were small cigarillos. The second impression was nearer the mark, although the leaf which serves as a rolling paper comes from the Coromandel ebony or तेन्दू tendoo (a relative of the persimmon).

This is actually an interesting case of transference. The Sanskrit etymon is विटी viṭī "betel plant" and Platts actually defines बीड़ी as "a flake of pān or betel for eating"; the related word बीड़ा / بيڙا / ਬੀੜਾ beeRaa still retains this meaning. Even though cigarettes are smoked rather than chewed, the experience was apparently similar enough to the long-standing Indian habit of chewing betel that an older word was given new meaning.

For ordinary cigarettes, the loanword सिगरेट / ਸਿਗਰਟ sigret is preferred, e.g. एक सिगरेट देना कामरेड! "A cigarette, comrade!"
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चेला / چيلا / ਚੇਲਾ chelaa "disciple" (Sanskrit चेटकः ćeṭakah "slave, servant")
As a name for followers of a guru, this word has found its way into English-language New Age usage. There's a rhotic variant in Indo-Aryan, चेरा / چيرا / ਚੇਰਾ cheraa which retains the original meaning of "servant".

Another Sanskrit word for "slave" or "servant" is दास dāsa, which survives in the daughter languages nearly unchanged (i.e. दास / داس / ਦਾਸ daas). The original meaning is uncertain, but it seems to have been applied to various hostile peoples in contact with the early Aryans; as these people were subjugated, it acquired the meaning of "slave".

दास has also made it into religious use, acquiring more positive connotations in the process. In some traditions, it may even be used as a title for a sat guru or pure teacher, as this is a "servant" of the true god. Likewise, it has been incorporated into various theophoric names. For instance, the ancient Sanskrit author कालिदास Kālidāsa was literally a "servant of Kali". Mahatma Gandhi's given name, महात्मा Mohandaas, indicates devotion to Krishna; he had brothers named रामदास Raamdaas (also a Marathi saint) and देवदास Devdaas (the protagonist of an eponymous Bengali novel--and now a hit movie starring Shahrukh Khan!). Panjabi singing star ਗੁਰਦਾਸ ਮਾਨ Gurdaas Maan has a given name which memoralises devotion to the Sikh Gurus, two of whom (ਅਮਰ ਦਾਸ Amar Dass and ਰਾਮ ਦਾਸ Raam Daas) had the same element as a surname.
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शादी / شادي / ਸ਼ਾਦੀ shaadee "wedding" and शाबाश / شاباش / ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼ shaabaash "bravo!" are two words that I never expected to be connected. The link, unsurprisingly, is through Persian, where شاد shâd means "joyful". شادي, being the derived abstract noun, originally had the meaning of "joyfulness, mirth"--still the primary sense in modern Persian. In Hindustani, the meaning was extended to "joyful occasion; festivity", particularly a wedding feast. शादी की बधाई shaadee kee badhaa'ee (lit. "increase of joy") is the Hindi equivalent of "Congratulations!" or "Best wishes!" to a new bride or groom.

शाबाश / شاباش / ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼ shaabaash (with assimilation and loss of /d/ immediately before /b/) is actually a compound of شاد with باش bâsh, the imperative stem of بودن bûdan "to be". So, quite literally, "Be happy!"[*] In modern Indo-Aryan, however, it is treated as a noun. In Panjabi, you can ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼ ਦੇ shaabaash de (lit. "give shaabaash", i.e. "praise; applaud") and Hindi has the derived intransitive verb शाबाशना shaabaashnaa.

[*]Other Panjabi equivalents include ਅਸ਼ਕੇ aashke (lit. "tears"), ਵਾਹ ਵਾਹ! vah vah (also used sarcastically), and ਬੱਲੇ ਬੱਲੇ! balle balle--the last of which should be especially familiar to any fans of bhangra music.
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Despite my best intentions, I'm stalled in Hindi at the moment. I was working my way concurrently through two different textbooks and have hit the chapter on numbers in both of them. True to its memorisation-heavy ethos, the McGregor is like, "Here's the list; learn 'em all." Now, for most languages, this would be a trivial exercise. But when it comes to numbers, Hindi is not most languages.

Two things that virtually all languages have in common when it comes to number systems (Pirahã, please leave the room you total freak): They all have a certain base (most commonly decimal, though other systems are attested and often there is some mixing) and the names of the number are compositional. That is, the names for larger numbers are created by combining the names of smaller ones in a predictable fashion. A few languages are, for all intents and purposes, 100% compositional. Chinese is a good example of such a language. "21" is expressed as "two tens one" (二十一). Where this isn't the case, the exceptions tend to come early. Most Western European languages, for instance, are non-compositional in the ones up until some point in the teens and in the tens up until 100. (I haven't met a language yet that was non-compositional in its hundreds, but I'm sure one exists.)

For instance, Spanish numbers are non-compositional up through quince "15"; dieciseis is nothing more than a respelling of diez y seis "ten and six". Catalan, on the other hand, has setze and then continues on with semi-compositional disset, divuit, dinou (cf. deu "ten"). Whether English is compositional in the teens or not depends on how much leeway you allow. If you're willing to call "teen" just a variant of "ten", then "fifteen" is also the last irregular number; otherwise, they're non-compositional up through 20.

Hindi is unlike every other language I have learned in that every number below 100 is completely non-compositional. That is, knowing the words for "20" (बीस bees) and "1" (एक ek) will not, in any straightforward manner, give you the name of "21" (इक्कीस ikkees). Sure there are patterns--e.g. all the twenties end in -ीस ees, but then so do all the thirties and forties as well (e.g. इकतीस ikatees "31", इकतालीस iktaalees "41", etc.)--but there are so many irregularities, they're of limited use in remembering any particular number.

What happened here? Well, essentially the same thing which happened in languages like English, only on a larger scale. Our numbers were apparently once 100% compositional as well (or at least closer to it than they are now). The "-teen" of "thirteen" and the "-ty" of "thirty", for instance, are both cognates of Proto-Germanic *teXan which owe their different outcomes to difference in stress and inflection in earlier times, and the "thir-" element is simply a metathesised and shortened variant of "three".

Similarly, the Sanskrit teens are transparent compounds of the first nine numbers with daśa "ten", i.e. ekādaśa, dvādaśa, trayodaśa, caturdaśa, etc. (Although there is already a bit of variance here due to the rules of ablaut, e.g. the independent form of "4" is catvāraḥ.) However, later sound change has regularly turned the /d/ of daśa to /r/ between vowels and aspirated the /ś/, yielding the opaque modern forms ग्यारह gyaarah, बारह baarah, तेरह terah, चौदह chaudah.

The only real difference between the two systems is that in the Indo-Aryan languages (Panjabi is the same), these changes took place not just in the teens but in every single number up to 100. Language change is constant struggle between the forces of regular sound change (which seek to generalise phonological rules to all situations in which they could possibly apply) and those of analogy (which seek to preserve existing patterns of inflexion and derivation). Sometimes analogy wins out and we end up saying "twenty-one", "thirty-one", "forty-one" instead of *"twentiun", *"thirtiun", *"fortiun". But other times it loses, and you have no choice but to memorise ikkees, ikatees, iktaalees.


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