16. Internal designs of feudal languages

[VED]

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[VED]

1. At steep heights and in deep pits

2. Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladders

3. Great men and those who are not great men

4. Marital bonds and the Inhi - Ningal ladder

5. Subtle social scenes created by the Inhi - Ningal ladder

6. Mental illness spreading through the ladder

7. The gap between principle and actuality

8. Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders that point to opposite directions

9. The value that must be preserved in words

10. Acquiring dominance through verbal codes

11. The battlefield created by language codes

12. Highest 'his' son versus lowest 'his' son

13. The cunning codes in communication

14. Gathering subordinates to rise to the heights

15. The transformation in demeanour upon becoming an official

16. The feeling that clamour should be controlled with clamour itself

17. The impulse to forget one’s origins

18. If Animals were granted technological prowess

19. Word codes flipped 180°

20. The phenomenon of destitution

21. The phenomenon of aura

22. Tents and palatial structures

23. The vector component

24. Honorific word as an offering

25. On the emergence of mental insecurity

26. Mapping mental stresses through word codes

27. Mental maturity in feudal languages

28. The language coding of outbursts

29. The fault lies not in individuals

30. The terrifying concept of equality

31. Indian management

32. The necessity of superior-in-hierarchy adornments

33. Being crushed under the weight of words

34. The social structure in languages

35. Communication with officials in Malabar

36. On addressing officials by name

37. On addressing officials by name in British-Malabar

38. The annexation of Malabar

39. On the binding nature of feudal languages

40. The claim of enlightenment for traditional fools

41. The design codes of Indian government official system

42. Shudra origins through feudal languages

43. The zeal to become a Shudra

44. About the shipai officers

45. Nampoothiri-Nayar official positions

46. Those who kept the Nampoothiris in check

47. When the armed forces mutiny

48. A mountain cannot be overturned

49. On the need to nurture great heroes

50. Those entitled to use disrespectful words

[VED]

The discussion is about a particular type of social design hidden within the languages of the South Asian subcontinent.

This matter needs to be addressed very clearly. Only then can one understand a key factor that led to the Mappila Rebellion.

The English East India Company officials in Malabar had no directive from their Board of Directors to overhaul the social system in Malabar or South Asia. However, English officials living in Tellicherry observed severe injustices prevailing in this region.

They endeavoured to rectify these injustices by establishing legal systems. This was certain to end in failure.

The reason is that the high quality of public life in England at that time was not due to the creation of a few laws.

In England, there were large landowners with vast estates. The same was true in Malabar.

For instance, near Deverkovil, there were approximately five small-scale landowners. I know firsthand that one of those families owned 3350 acres of land.

Many families living under this wealthy family, with immense riches and numerous stewards, were in perpetual poverty.

Below the farmers under these landowners, there were also slaves who lived like the cattle in the fields.

Now, let us discuss the coding in language codes. To illustrate the design of local feudal languages, various metaphors and examples may be required. One of them is addressed here.

The overall devilry of feudal languages has been mentioned earlier. Please check this link:

In Malabar, the address code between people is Inhi👇 - Ingal👆.

Ingal👆 refers to a superior person, and Inhi👇 to an inferior one.

At first glance, it may seem that people are connected in a chain of hierarchy similar to that in the English military.

However, that is not how it works.

Consider the Indian police system:

A 50-year-old Sub Inspector (SI).

Under him, a 45-year-old Assistant Sub Inspector (ASI).

Under him, a 40-year-old Head Constable.

Under him, Constables aged 24 to 35.

A person at the 1ˢᵗ level addresses a person at the 2ⁿᵈ level as Inhi.

A person at the 2ⁿᵈ level addresses a person at the 1ˢᵗ level as Ingal.

The relationship is thus Inhi👇 - Ingal👆.

This Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 personal relationship coding moves downward through each level of the hierarchy, from 1 to 4.

In other words, the person at the very bottom is at the lowest rung of this Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder.

Similarly, the person at the top is at the highest rung of this Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder.

This phenomenon is entirely absent in English. Some people are in deep pits, while others stand among the clouds atop mountains.

It must be understood that this social relationship chain generates complex emotional, physical, and other desires, limitations, aggressive thoughts, competitive instincts, and urges to demean others in every individual.

There are a few more things to say in this regard.

Readers may feel that what is written today has been mentioned several times in this writing. However, the intention is to convey something different.

This is all I am writing today. The rest, I believe, can be covered in the next piece of writing.

[VED]

Examine the hierarchical system in the Kerala Police.

A1. DGP
A2. IG
A3. DIG
A4. SP
A5. ASP
B1. SP (non-IPS)
B2. DySP
B3. CI
B4. SI
C1. SI (Promoted)
C2. ASI
C3. Head Constable / Senior Civil Police Officer
C4. Constable / Civil Police Officer

The hierarchy listed above has some minor inaccuracies. However, the list provided is sufficient for the point being made here.

From the lower rung to the rung immediately above, in Malabari language, the address is Ingal👆, and to the rung below, it is Inhi👇, forming an address coding system.

In other words, for each step upward, an Ingal👆 word code is used for address.

Understand that from the top downward, the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 system prevails.

Once this is understood, imagine this scene:

A 30-year-old IPS officer, an SP, and a 27-year-old police Constable are sitting in a room.

Between them, the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 word coding exists.

Seeing this scene alone, one might think there is only a single step of elevation between them.

It may seem that, with intellectual prowess, high social standing from family background, or significant political influence, the Constable could easily interact closely with the IPS officer, build camaraderie, address him as Inhi, or otherwise act familiarly.

Even if not addressed as Inhi, one might assume the IPS officer is just one level above.

However, the reality is different. There exists, invisibly, a ladder with many Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 steps between them. Though not visible, this is a tangible reality.

A point to briefly mention here: Police personnel up to the rank of Constable may dare to address anyone from the public as Inhi. In other words, they can view nearly three crore ordinary people in Kerala as beneath them.

However, an ordinary individual from the public can only address their immediate subordinates, family members, or others in this manner as Inhi.

This creates a remarkable difference in the language codes between a police Constable and an ordinary person. This personality distinction is absent in English.

One could discuss social design in this context, but that cannot be explored now.

However, this much can be said here: Ordinary individuals also stand on various levels of the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder.

Thus, a person speaking a feudal language is not like an Englishman in an English realm. In Malabar, every individual has a distinct, clear or unclear, position on various Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder steps.

Others are compelled to recognise this position.

This is because society, family, official establishments, and others determine how to interact with a person based on this position.

Such phenomena are entirely absent in English.

Another point to briefly mention:

Ideologies like Communism and Islam may advocate social equality. However, these ideologies have not succeeded in erasing the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder in local feudal languages. Thus, the concept of social equality cannot be realised by these ideologies.

One more point before concluding today’s writing:

In feudal languages, all individuals are positioned on some Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder steps. Therefore, the personality traits found in English individuals are not seen in those speaking feudal languages.

It is like how wearing a police uniform changes one’s behaviour—that is the case with feudal language speakers.

Individuals speaking feudal languages live as if wearing the uniform of various invisible Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder steps. As the ladder or their position on it changes with each situation, their behaviour also changes.

Knowingly or unknowingly, they operate in life imbued with various forms of subservience and command. This constantly affects their traits like keeping promises, honesty, punctuality, and many other characteristics. The same individual may exhibit different, often contradictory, behaviours.

This is a common matter, not a mental disorder.

However, for such behavioural traits to manifest in English speakers, a mental disorder would likely be required.

It can also be understood that many mental disorders arise from the functioning and interaction of language codes.

There are still more points to discuss in this flow of words. Those can be addressed in the next writing, I believe.

[VED]

Let me tell you about another social matter.

Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 Each step on the ladder is at a specific height.

When a person, without displaying any social status or distinctions, as is common in English, engages in communication or friendly conversation with someone on any step of this ladder, the other person evaluates them as either their equal, someone just below their step, or someone just above their step.

In other words, a person who is merely one Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 step apart.

If one interacts without displaying any status with those at the bottom of the social ladder, it can become a significantly negative experience.

At the same time, engaging in friendly conversation in this manner with someone on a higher social step can be a socially impressive experience. It can even lead to a significant advancement in the word codes associated with that person.

There is a problem that can arise when a socially elevated person, without displaying their marks of distinction, engages in a single Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 step relationship with individuals at the bottom of the social ladder.

The person at the bottom quickly perceives the other as being of their own level. (This has already been mentioned.)

Afterwards, if the elevated person’s marks of distinction begin to appear one by one, the other party may experience the sensation of the person rapidly ascending through multiple Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 steps. When this happens, one of the various emotional responses that may arise in the group could be intense personal resentment.

Feelings of contradiction may emerge, as if their own peer suddenly became wealthy, won a huge lottery, or the like. However, the source of such an emotional response lies in the inhuman software codes associated with these individuals.

One issue is that when a person, defined at the mere Inhi, Onu, Olu level, is suddenly seen ascending to levels like Ayaal, Mooppar, Oru / Olu, the word codes prepared for personal relationships and communication become inadequate. This creates a painful experience that spreads like wildfire in the person left below.

It feels as though the other person is slipping out of their grasp.

The reality is that such mental states do not exist in English.

There are many things that could be said in connection with these matters.

If someone, without displaying social status, wealth, official position, or high family connections, communicates with a person standing on one of the lower steps of the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder, the various social degradations of the person on that step may transfer to them.

The linguistic limits for social and professional communication, sharing ideas, and expressing intellectual prowess for a person on each step are directly tied to the height of that step. The height of this step can negatively affect the other person and their personal communication boundaries.

For this reason, most local individuals who set out claiming to uplift those living on the lower steps of the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder first impose indications of their own superiority or greatness on the lower people before embarking on such social endeavours.

Consequently, in South Asia, there will be great men and great souls in many directions. Similarly, there will be countless individuals standing at the bottom of the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder, sustaining these great souls as great.

Understand that such a flood of great men does not exist in the English language.

In feudal language regions, every individual carries the address of one or more steps on the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder.

By understanding in advance which step offers the highest value and worth among the various steps they occupy, and by pointing it out or subtly eliciting it through word cues, many people strive to secure a comfortable position in various communications. This is especially true when connecting with a new person or social gathering.

However, it is often not easy to erase the address of their social step’s ups and downs or to adopt the address of a relatively higher step.

It seems that most of these matters would be known to the reader.

[VED]

The reality is that there exists an invisible yet immensely powerful presence of word codes that exerts significant physical influence and coercion in various ways on everyone. This is evident in South Asian social communication, personal relationships, family ties, and employer-employee dynamics.

This has already been mentioned.

In feudal languages like Malayalam, the very existence of multiple Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders with their steps is something unimaginable in the English language. How can physical sciences comprehend such physically present yet intangible phenomena? This itself is a question.

It is astonishing to see those unaware of this matter and the inhuman power of software codes speak eloquently with vast knowledge about concepts like relativity and quantum mechanics in thermodynamics.

It seems that physical science still pretends not to see the intangible realm of software or assumes an attitude of claiming it as its own.

Let us return to the matter of Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 steps.

Such ladders with steps form the basis of most personal relationships in feudal languages.

The command strength and weakness often seen clearly in feudal languages seem to depend on the vertical distance between steps on such a ladder.

Orders given by a superior to those on adjacent steps carry less force. Conversely, commands from someone several steps above naturally carry greater authority. A mere hum can feel like an order with the weight of granite.

If asked whether it is the same in English, the answer is that in English, instructions and their compliance occur smoothly without any such word-code ladders. To put it more clearly, in a workplace fully using the English language, individuals across different levels often address each other by name alone.

Even highly elevated individuals may be addressed by subordinates with titles like Mr., Mrs., or Miss before their names.

This is facilitated by the fact that words like You, He, and She have only one form.

The presence of ladders in feudal languages affects personal life in many ways.

When deciding marital bonds, the position of the bride and groom on one, two, or more ladders is a crucial factor.

Understand that this factor does not exist in the English language.

In the wife-husband relationship, the husband may become Chettan, Annan, Ikkay, or Ningal, while the wife may be Nee or Inhi. Consequently, it is desirable that the social, economic, or occupational position of the groom and his family on the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder be higher than that of the bride and her family.

If the steps between them are only one apart, the husband’s command strength may diminish. For this reason, the lower the wife’s step, the more authority the husband naturally gains. If the wife’s position is very low, the husband’s family may view her as a slave or mere housemaid.

However, the wife can elevate her position by using sharp words or displaying disobedience.

One point worth mentioning here is that the position on the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder may vary depending on different perspectives. In other words, it may depend on the frame of reference.

Another matter to mention is that the wife-husband relationship is highly complex, especially in feudal languages. Therefore, this relationship cannot be confined to the matters mentioned above.

There are many things that could be said about the wife-husband relationship from the perspective of language codes, but there is no opportunity for that now.

However, let me indicate this as well.

A wife and husband standing at different heights on the social, communication, or occupational Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders may move socially and professionally and form friendships with individuals at their respective word-step levels.

This often compels the husband to control the wife’s social channels and professional movements.

Moreover, the question may arise: what is the issue with her speaking to others?

Such matters can quickly be defined as suspicion or paranoia.

For the same reason, the wife typically does not have significant concerns about the husband’s social or professional relationships. Generally speaking, the husband moves socially and professionally through relatively higher levels.

One matter that can only be briefly indicated is that the positions on the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders have varying values, connections, and codings in the transcendental software realms operating behind physical reality.

The various emotional and social status-related numerical values, codings, and connections of others on the same step can spread to an individual. I cannot write about this now.

I wish to write about the connection between marital life and language codes. If the opportunity arises, I hope to write more on these matters.

What remains to be said concerns a major twist related to the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders.

[VED]

I had intended to write about a major twist related to the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder, but before that, I think it’s worth mentioning a few more things.

Every individual living on the different steps of this ladder has a distinct numerical value position. This position becomes relatively positive or negative when compared to those on other steps.

This matter, too, has been mentioned somewhere earlier in this writing. In the past, the caste-based distance and untouchability were closely tied to this phenomenon. It can be understood that such aversion did not exist among ordinary people in the English community.

When a person on a higher step with a relative +200 numerical value is in the presence of someone with a relative -200 numerical value, they experience the intrusion of a negative numerical value.

What feels even more dangerous than mere presence is when the person from the lower step approaches the one on the higher step with an attitude of equality.

The person on the lower step views the one on the higher step with fear, reverence, respect, and subservience. When they perform actions like unfolding their mundu, bowing, lowering themselves in their words, or defining the higher-step person and their kin with elevated terms, no significant issues arise.

Moreover, by understanding and acknowledging the negative influence their presence spreads, and by maintaining sufficient distance and other protective barriers, the intensity and spread of the negativity can be limited, preventing serious problems.

However, if the lower-status person expresses equality toward the higher-step person in a manner similar to English, significant negativity accumulates in the person on the higher step.

This negativity radiates through the eyes.

It is not the eye radiation of a person addressing the higher-up as “Sir,” but the eye radiation of a person addressing them as Nee. In the latter case, codes that melt the body and mind pierce through the eyes of the higher-step person, disrupting their brain function and physical well-being.

If the lower-step person uses words like Nee, Avan, or Aval—indicators of equality—and the variations these words bring to other terms, the higher-step person may experience various forms of physical decline, mental unrest, and even illness.

English speakers have no knowledge of such matters.

There is one thing to mention here. During the spread of COVID, many measures taken to combat the virus were similar to those historically used to counter the influence of a lower-caste person’s presence. The air breathed by a lower-caste person was considered highly dangerous by those of higher castes.

The gaze or glance of a lower-caste person was also seen as highly dangerous.

It is akin to the spread of conjunctivitis. There was even a fear that looking into the eyes of someone with conjunctivitis could spread it. This seems plausible.

There is another matter to mention regarding the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder.

Each person on a specific step has a defined social and occupational position in feudal languages. If a person from one step is forcibly placed on another, it may cause various forms of distress or unease among others on that step.

Various personal relationship connections radiate from each individual to others. Some of these may reflect refinement, while others reflect dominance.

For example, a person performing a low-status job, defined by lowly terms in feudal languages, may connect with most people in society through links coded with subservient respect.

At the same time, they connect with those performing even lower-status jobs with links of great dominance.

If this person, based on some innate talent, is suddenly placed in a high social or occupational position, various forms of negativity may spread in that position. However, the novel abilities displayed by this person may make their place in that position feel secure.

It can be understood that none of these matters exist in English.

This is because, in English, words like You, He, and She have no distinction between high or low status.

To quickly grasp the profound and far-reaching influence of the above matter, consider these two sentences:

Please hold this.

Hey you, hold this.

Though both sentences have roughly the same meaning, they point to different levels of the You form. Depending on which step the speaker is on and which step the addressed person is on, various mental and social developments may arise.

Let me conclude today’s writing with one more illustrative scene.

A young woman is studying for the IAS-IPS exam. Her uncle is a police constable. She passes the exam, secures an IPS position, and joins service in her home state.

A few years later, around the age of 27, she is appointed as an SP.

One day, during a surprise inspection, she enters a police station. While conducting the inspection, her uncle walks in.

He can only see her as his niece. The IPS officer, too, must acknowledge him as her uncle.

The uncle inquires about her well-being, addressing her by her name and as Nee.

It is unclear whether such a scene is possible. But if it occurs, it could inflict a significant wound on the IPS officer’s official persona.

To erase this wound, she might work harder and display a tougher personality, or perhaps do something else.

It can be considered that such a wounding scene does not exist in the English language.

This does not apply in the Indian military either, but for a different reason.

Numerous subtle social scenes related to the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder in feudal languages could be highlighted.

[VED]

Every distinct Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder has a downward flow, smooth as silk.

This downward flow is akin to the film songs written by Vayalar Ramavarma and others for Malayalam cinema. In this flow, one can find the beauty, rhythm, melody, and elegance of great obedience, subservience, and servility.

If the directional word codes of this ladder are reversed, there is nearly a 100% chance that instead of the ladder’s musical beauty, an explosion will occur.

In other words, if Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 becomes Inhi👆 - Ningal👇, with Inhi upward and Ningal downward, the social structure will reach a point of explosion. If a “beautifully equal” Inhi (Inhi👆👇) emerges both upward and downward, the social structure will crumble to dust.

This is exactly what happened in the 1850s in the taluks of Valluvanad and Eranad in South Malabar. This matter has already been clearly written about earlier.

While discussing the downward flow of the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder, another matter comes to mind.

Every movement operating in feudal languages functions like such a ladder. One can only stand and operate within that movement from a specific step on this ladder. If an individual, like a loose bullet, moves freely up and down, spinning and turning without standing on any step, it creates significant unease among others on the ladder.

For example, if an ordinary person associated with a government department moves through various offices without showing subservience, addressing everyone as Ningal and wandering freely, it could cause significant issues within that department.

If this person is an acquaintance or relative of the highest-ranking officer in the department, there may be no serious problem. However, behaving with the same ease as one would in English, without indicating any higher status, will indeed cause a major issue.

Remember that none of these matters exist in English.

Another point to mention relates to the earlier discussion of language codes and their connection to the transcendental software codes linked to the human body.

When viewed through the virtual lens of these transcendental software codes, each person on a step may clearly display images of a welcoming gesture upward and a sharp spear poised downward, ready to pierce and destabilize.

Alternatively, other symbols representing such attitudes might be seen.

The spear in those at the lowest step will have immense force and sharpness.

In feudal language societies, individuals carry a dual mental state, a kind of mental illness. This is a condition that grips the entire society.

This societal illness can be recognized in various forms within the community.

In the past, those on the lower steps were identified as lower castes.

Today, this identification is gradually changing.

The emerging identification marker is the distinction between high-ranking government officials and ordinary people as the lower class. Over a few decades or centuries, this may evolve into a new caste system. Within these new lower castes, individuals at each level will view those below them with disgust and contempt, maintaining distance.

The short-term method used today to uplift those at the lower levels is reservation in government jobs and elite education. However, this only makes the society’s mental illness more complex.

[VED]

When South Asians migrated to English-speaking nations, the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder present within them naturally began to fade slowly, especially in earlier times.

This could be a significant reason for the gradual changes in their demeanor and the positive physical transformations seen in their children born and raised there.

In India, what is trumpeted as social reform or social elevation for the lower classes is the fraudulent scheme of reservations in government jobs and so-called elite education. This is not only a scam but also a complete waste and sheer deceit. I cannot delve into the depths of this issue now.

A lower-caste person is often at the bottom of at least two distinct Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders: one based on caste and another based on occupation. There could be others as well.

If such a person, with their various inadequacies, ignorance, and degraded mental states, is elevated to high positions or educational qualifications leading to such positions, it does not bring about social reform. Instead, it causes society to melt in various ways.

Imagine taking a housemaid, defined as the lowest in the local feudal language, and placing them in a high position in the household, granting them significant authority and the right to dine at the table with the residents.

This person would start addressing the homeowner and his wife as Inhi.

The house would stink.

Considering this stench as a grand reform requires academic brilliance.

These academic intellectuals may not understand what the problem is here.

It can be assumed that the English administration was unaware of the true negativity in these lands. Thus, their actions were not deliberate steps to erase this negativity.

However, since they were largely unaffected by this negativity, many of their actions inadvertently wiped it out.

When a lower-caste person spoke to them in English, the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder clinging to that person would, at least for that moment, disappear. Alternatively, the person might experience the mental sensation of climbing a few steps up the ladder for a short while.

The English administration likely dismantled the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder most effectively among those who directly interacted with them and their institutions in English.

This likely happened in places like Tellicherry through high-quality English-language education systems.

I feel compelled to write extensively about the educational institutions of that time, but this is not the occasion. Still, I’ll try to write a few sentences.

From the first standard onward, English schools had exceptionally high-quality yet profoundly engaging textbooks. For Intermediate and Graduation, students studied original works from English classical literature.

It’s unclear whether any academic genius today is aware of such a curriculum.

Those who grew under this system would carry the shadow of the refined personality naturally found among the English populace. Among them, caste-based or other forms of aversion, distance, and disdain would be minimal.

The primary reason is that, as they think and speak in English, the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder’s steps are erased to a great extent from their mental framework.

Thus, many of these individuals, who rendered the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder largely ineffective, were appointed as officers in high positions in the British-Malabar government service. They served as Deputy Collectors, Tahsildars, Judges, senior police officials, and more in the Malabar district.

Many were traditionally known as lower-caste individuals.

It is understood that corruption among these officials was unheard of.

Near these English educational institutions, local landlords, securing educational grants from the government, established schools emphasizing the local language. These schools taught students emerging Malayalam works from Travancore, grammar rules, poetry, poetic embellishments, and more.

Those who completed this education became peons, clerks, and, through promotions, minor officers in government service.

Among them, all forms of social hierarchies, the resulting untouchability, disgust, contempt, mockery, and envy reigned supreme.

It is also understood that many of them engaged in petty corruption and degraded the general public.

In other words, the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders they stood on gained even greater strength through this education.

Today, most educational institutions in India follow this same system. Those aware of the education introduced by the English administration might notice this. However, mentioning that education would likely displease today’s educational experts.

Many experts may not even know what it was.

Among those educated in feudal language systems, some at the lower steps of the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder are lower-caste individuals. They should not be appointed to high government positions through various reservations.

It seems today’s educational experts do not even know what public education is meant to achieve.

Feudal language education is filled with grand sermons and sky-high social reform ideals.

In English education, there is no need for such things. When thinking and speaking in that language, individuals are filled with invisible, refined mental values.

In 1925, three prominent local Mappila individuals in Kuttyadi village near Deverkovil established Salahul Islam Saba. In 1927, with the support of the English administration, this group founded Madrasathul Islamiya U.P. School (MIUP School) in Kuttyadi market.

Consider the stated objective of this organization:

To comprehensively uplift a region and community steeped in illiteracy, ignorance, superstitions, and practices like chanting, mantras, and traditions as their way of life.

There is no connection whatsoever between principle and actuality. One of the families that established Salahul Islam Saba was a major landlord family in Kuttyadi, owning thousands of acres.

If this organization had dared to eradicate the local language and the Malayalam imported from Travancore, replacing them with English, there would have been no need to specifically strive to eliminate illiteracy, ignorance, superstitions, chanting, mantras, or traditions. These are not the region’s primary ailments.

As mentioned earlier in this writing, elevating a person at the bottom without instilling any positive qualities is like lifting a venomous creature from the ground, giving it the chance to glare at those who raised it.

There will be no gratitude for the opportunity to stand elevated. Instead, they will harbor even stronger resentment. This is because the tug-of-war on the steps of the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder, created by the local language, persists within them.

If such individuals are granted various reservations, this resentment will persist across generations with great force.

Social reform must be achieved by completely eradicating local feudal languages.

[VED]

On the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder, individuals often have a clearly defined position. This position is indelibly fused into their physical personality, mental disposition, thought patterns, words, gaze, touch, and more, in a way that is difficult to erase or conceal.

The level of each individual can often be measured and recognized by the brain software of those standing nearby. To prevent or hide this revelation, many individuals attempt to do so through their words, the quality of their attire, and various other cues.

While English lacks the motivation for such efforts, there is a flaw in that English societies are rarely entirely English. Still, since individuals are not divided into levels like Avan, Ayaal, or Adheham, such matters seem to have significantly less relevance in English, or so it appears.

In chapter 16.05 of this writing series (Subtle social scenes created by the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder), I described a hypothetical scene where an IPS officer is addressed as Nee by her uncle, a police constable, in a police station.

It must be clearly understood that each of these individuals stands on different Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders: one as a high-status individual and the other as a low-status individual on the same ladder.

Generally speaking, in feudal language societies, there may be multiple Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders with incompatible steps.

The Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders of authority or occupation often clash or compete with another such ladder: age. Today, the age-based Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder has gained significant strength and influence in limited contexts.

It is unclear how much relevance the age-based Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder had in the past.

When viewed as a whole, the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders defined by social or authoritative positions held greater prominence back then.

In earlier times, this Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder was likely known as the caste system.

A higher-caste person (one with high social status) defined a lower-caste person using their name alone or words like Nee, Avan, or Aval. However, even then, among individuals of the same social status, age was likely a significant factor in claiming precedence. In other words, within each status level, an Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder likely existed.

Among the slave castes in Travancore, terms like Chettan or Chettayi seem to have existed. This suggests that even among those considered cattle-like by high-status individuals, claims of hierarchy may have persisted.

Issues of “not receiving respect” that arose in this context likely led to significant conflicts among them. The local police force of the time, likely composed of Nairs, probably managed and controlled such cattle-like people toward peace.

Today, when people clash in this manner, modern police control and guide them toward restraint with significant force.

The provocation for fights among certain animals may sometimes stem from the hierarchical attitudes existing among them. This is worth considering.

From the perspective of language codes, much could be written about the Indian police system, but I cannot delve into that now. However, I will briefly mention the Indian military.

The Indian military operates with the understanding that South Asian languages are feudal and contain various Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders.

In other words, multiple Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladders are not permissible in the Indian military. Only a single Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder is allowed, particularly among those below the rank of Commissioned Officers and in their communication with Commissioned Officers.

(It is noteworthy that training for Commissioned Officers uses English, while others are trained in Hindi.)

In other words, the Indian military only permits a single ladder with steps of Aap and Tu. Positions like uncle, aunt, father, mother, or elder sibling are rendered ineffective upon joining the military. The scene of the IPS officer and her uncle conversing in a police station is unimaginable in the Indian military. The uncle’s knees would tremble.

What remains to be discussed is a major twist related to the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder. Only after writing about this can the discussion be steered back to the Mappila riots that raged in two taluks of South Malabar from the 1830s.

[VED]

I had intended to discuss a major twist related to the Inhi👇 - Ningal👆 ladder, but some other aspects of the local language culture have come to mind.

I think it’s worth adding these as well, as there may not be another opportunity in this writing’s path to address such matters.

In the local language culture, individuals typically have either a high or low status in most social interactions.

Only when individuals of the exact same social level converse does this hierarchy disappear. In any other conversation or interaction, this hierarchy strongly persists in their gaze and tone. However, no one particularly notices this, as it is considered normal.

When school students see their teachers, they maintain the demeanor that the teachers are above them in their gaze and tone. Teachers, in turn, reciprocate this attitude. No one finds anything unnatural in this.

Teachers must maintain the demeanor that the student is Avan or Aval, while they themselves are Adheham or Avar. Failing to do so would cause them to lose their “value.”

This is precisely the attitude in society at large.

In society, workplaces, families, and other settings, it is often mandatory to maintain the attitude that one is at a certain level while the other is at a different level.

If someone considered Avan or Aval fails to display their lower status and behaves as if they are Adheham toward someone who considers themselves such, it creates a significant issue. An overbearing attitude emerges in conversation and other interactions, stalling communication and other matters entirely.

If someone considered Avan or Aval by their status does not display that attitude, many individuals create a social atmosphere in feudal language settings where they pretend not to see such people.

The issue is the individual’s “value.”

English is entirely unaware of this invisible yet profoundly present concept of “value.”

In an English social atmosphere, the hierarchical distinction between an Adheham with “value” and an Avan or Aval without it does not cast a shadow among ordinary people.

In all individuals, regardless of economic or age differences, a level and straightforward gaze and tone are observed.

Any gaze or tone deviating from this in English may seem unusual.

Here, something extraordinary comes to attention.

Many economically advanced individuals from South Asia aspire to go to England. However, upon arriving, they do not live among high-ranking officials or the wealthy. Instead, they live alongside ordinary workers of various kinds.

They work in ordinary jobs there.

In England, those with ordinary job skills earn more than government employees. Remember that government employees often lack specific job skills.

Living among the English is indeed highly appealing. However, these English are merely ordinary people there.

What’s noteworthy here is that living among ordinary workers and doing such jobs in South Asia is a nightmare for those economically advanced. Yet, in England, being able to live this way is seen as a grand dream come true.

Notice the difference between a social atmosphere where people view each other with hierarchy and one where they view each other with a level and straightforward gaze.

However, the influx of feudal language speakers into England’s social atmosphere is indeed a toxic intrusion. A heavy burden and an upward pull, like a disease, creep into the English gaze.

Some matters still linger in my mind to be said. I hope to address them in the next writing.

[VED]

I have already mentioned the hierarchical codes that radiate through the eyes, touch, words, tone, and other means of those who speak feudal languages.

This may be a complex, powerful, and intricate social and personal phenomenon.

Ordinarily, an individual living in a feudal language environment may have a clearly defined position within that society, particularly in smaller social settings.

Others interact with that individual with a specific hierarchical gaze, tone, and demeanour.

To a significant extent, this may affect the gaze and tone directed at the individual’s wife or husband. At times, it may even extend to their children and other family members.

This may, in reality, be a profoundly complex mental experience.

Much could be written about this, but I shall briefly touch upon it.

Typically, in feudal languages, a wife is someone of a lower status than her husband. If a person of higher status becomes a wife, that itself is a distinct phenomenon in feudal languages, which I shall not delve into now.

The level at which others—those above, equal, or below—view the wife with a specific gaze may be a significant matter. Those below may see her as a superior, an equal, or someone lower than themselves.

Such factors may often influence how much personal freedom a wife is granted. Sciences like psychology might define this as paranoia with their profound erudition.

I shall not delve into the complexity of this issue now. However, understand that such complexities do not exist in an English-language social environment. Everyone looks at each other with a level and straightforward gaze. English lacks the linguistic words for any other kind of gaze.

Now, let me address another phenomenon in feudal languages.

In English, behaviour can be categorised as nice or rude/rough.

This distinction exists in feudal languages as well, or so I understand. However, there is an additional step unique to feudal languages that is absent in English.

Deciding to behave nicely towards someone can be enacted in two ways. One is to interact with friendliness, often using words like Nee, Avan, or Aval. It can also be done otherwise.

The other way involves deliberately addressing or referring to the person with elevated words, standing in their presence, loosening the mundu, or standing with a slightly bowed head.

Such behaviour does not exist in English.

In feudal languages, this is often a mere opportunistic trick for achieving certain ends. This calculated subservience persists with those who hold significant social power, but it has little longevity with others.

This is indeed a cunning tactic absent in English.

Feudal languages instil a kind of poison in individuals’ minds from childhood, training them in such cunning.

By filling minds with this poison, mastering verbal manipulation, and, when the opportunity arises, overpowering others, trampling them, striking at their core, using subtle verbal tactics, or sometimes soothing, flattering, or healing through words, individuals learn to live as such. These individuals may be defined as clever or street-smart.

However, such cleverness, street-smartness, or practised skill is not seen amongst English speakers.

In feudal languages, it is possible to address or refer to people in a degrading manner socially and personally. This is something many people do.

Yet, such behaviour is often not interpreted as rude but as a natural positioning. In reality, it is a phenomenon that deliberately lowers an individual.

This, too, is a devilry absent in English. In other words, deceit and cunning tactics in everyday conversation do not exist in English.

In feudal language regions, individuals grow up confronting the mental influences of such phenomena. The grown individual becomes a seasoned practitioner of these tactics.

[VED]

The feudal linguistic social atmosphere is, in reality, a constant and perpetual battlefield. However, this is often very subtle, obscure, cryptic, and difficult to describe.

The reason why a person of lower status attempts—or has attempted—to undermine or overthrow someone of higher status is often only understood by carefully analysing specific verbal codes. This matter seems to have been discussed in Chapter 17 of the first volume of this work (The mental codes of the downtrodden).

This phenomenon has been a cause of incessant conflicts, coup attempts, subversive activities, and destructive acts within royal families and kingdoms across most South Asian countries.

It was a regular occurrence in the histories of these kingdoms for the king’s own relatives to attempt to dethrone him, for various nobles to form factions and clash with one another, or to try to overthrow the king.

V. Nagam Aiyya clearly states this in the Travancore State Manual. The English East India Company provided protection from such local and intra-royal family enemies, thereby enabling the kingdom of Travancore to survive.

Another phenomenon in local languages is that when someone is temporarily granted a high position, they often show great reluctance to relinquish it. This may not always stem solely from the individual’s own desire. Rather, their close associates may find it intolerable for them to step down from such a position.

When occupying a high position, others engage with the individual using elevated verbal codes. This powerful situation can also influence the individual’s own verbal interactions with their associates and others close to them.

In such circumstances, each individual builds their own loyal following, effectively becoming a commander, akin to a military general or warlord.

If the key individual loses their high position, not only do they lose their authoritative status, but everyone who thrived under their influence also faces a significant setback in terms of verbal codes.

Not only will others withdraw the deference previously shown in conversation, but these individuals will also lose much of the verbal freedom they once enjoyed with others. In effect, they may find it difficult even to speak freely thereafter.

It is akin to a military commander losing their army.

For example, in one of India’s present-day states, if someone suddenly becomes a minister, their close friends and relatives immediately rise in stature through verbal codes. Police officers treat them with great subservience, using deferential language.

In response, these individuals interact with police officers with considerable freedom, subtly belittling them in their speech. This fosters a sense of affection among the police, who perceive it as familiarity shown by those of higher status and even boast about it.

However, if the minister loses their position before their relatives and friends can amass significant wealth or lasting influence, the latter experience this as a major life crisis. They may even find it difficult to speak with the same police officers they once interacted with freely.

Yet, it is possible to anticipate such scenarios and prepare verbal strategies to mitigate them, though that is not discussed here.

Not only do the psychological, interpersonal, and social dynamics described above not exist in English, but it is also impossible to explain them to an English-speaking individual.

In this context, it is worth mentioning the case of Pazhassi Raja.

When Tipu Sultan waged war in Malabar, one of the kings who fled to Travancore for safety was the ruler of Kottayam and Kurumbranad, near Tellicherry. In his absence, temporary administrative authority over Kottayam was entrusted to a junior member of the royal family.

This member assumed the title of Pazhassi Raja and established dominance. However, when Tipu Sultan withdrew from Malabar and the Kottayam and Kurumbranad king returned, it is understood that Pazhassi Raja was unwilling to relinquish the position he had gained.

To overcome this development, it is understood that the Kottayam and Kurumbranad king resorted to various deceitful tactics.

QUOTE

and that the Kottayam cowl was likewise granted to a junior member of the family, afterwards known as the rebel Pazhassi (Pychy) Raja, the senior Raja having also taken refuge in Travancore.

As after events fully proved, however, the Kottayam nephew of Kurumbranad—the famous Palassi (Pychy) Raja was not amenable to control by his uncle, and the uncle was powerless to execute his own orders in the Palassi country.

[VED]

The narrative must now return to the Mappila riots that began to flare up in the two taluks of South Malabar from around the 1850s.

However, having started writing about the subversive codes embedded in South Asian languages, I feel compelled to continue. As the saying goes, “Since I’m already wet, I might as well take a bath.” Having written this much about these codes, I intend to exhaustively cover the thoughts that come to mind on this subject.

It is likely that the English administration introduced the concept of formal public education in South Asia. They probably lacked a clear understanding of this matter.

It seems there were individuals among them with differing perspectives. Some could be described today as leftists, who were aligned with the landed gentry and minor royals of British India.

Consequently, public education in British India, whether funded by the government or otherwise, took two distinct forms.

The first was either directly overseen by English individuals or maintained at a similar standard, providing primary education under the supervision of local individuals.

The second was overseen by local landlords and other social elites.

In the first, education and communication were almost entirely in English.

In the second, education and communication were entirely in the local feudal language.

In the first system, students were not addressed with derogatory terms like “nee” (lowest you) or “inhi” (lowest you), nor referred to with terms like “avan” (lowest he) or “aval” (lowest she). The school environment was akin to that in England—straightforward, egalitarian, and fostering mutual respect.

In the second system, students were addressed with terms like “nee” and “inhi,” laden with signs of subservience and affection, and referred to as “avan” or “aval.”

These two distinct educational approaches inevitably produced two different types of individuals.

It must be noted that both groups lived and operated within the same feudal linguistic environment.

Society was filled with groups and individuals living in mutual alienation. The two groups emerging from these different educational systems viewed these diverse societal groups differently.

Those educated in English were imbued with ideas of social equality, resulting in a more refined personality. Since the administrative system was almost entirely in English, their refined personality posed no disadvantage.

However, even among them, the tensions and competitive spirit created by the local feudal language persisted to a small degree. This is also a reality.

Many of these individuals came from economically disadvantaged, backward caste backgrounds.

In contrast, those educated in the local feudal language retained all forms of societal alienation, disdain, and subservience in a more rigid manner. This group included both individuals from elite families and those who were not.

Some among them emerged as prominent social reformers and revolutionary leaders, while others became their followers and supporters.

The relationship between these leaders and their followers resembled a guru-disciple dynamic, marked by an “ningal” (stature-neutral you) and “inhi” (lowest you) hierarchy.

It is likely that the followers, who dared not even sit in the presence of a revolutionary leader from an elite family—proclaiming to crush all forms of feudalism through fierce bloodshed—were products of this local language education.

These followers believed that such subservience to the elite leader was the first step toward revolution!

It seems that the English education system introduced by the English administration has largely disappeared today. For the children of ordinary individuals in India, it is now virtually unattainable.

In both English-medium and local-language-medium schools, the education that has now universally taken hold is one fostered by social reformers and revolutionary leaders through slogans, outcries, and agitation.

This is an education system where the teacher is “Ingal” (highest you) and the student is “inhi” (lowest you). These individuals firmly believe that the English language was deliberately taught by the English to enslave the local population, and their attitude is, “They won’t get us.”

One could say there is a kind of personality equality among students, as they are all “inhi” to the teachers. Teachers do not address any students as “ningal.” This, too, is a form of equality.

Many of the points mentioned above have been alluded to elsewhere in this work.

When discussing the equality among students, two points are often overlooked.

First, even among students, hierarchical relationships of “ningal” and “inhi” develop based on age.

As Rev. Samuel Mateer observed long ago, even among the socially marginalized castes relegated to the “rubbish bin,” there existed hierarchies, alienation, and disdain!

The second point is this:

While teachers may collectively address students as “avan” or “aval” to level them, if asked who a particular student is, discrepancies in this levelling may arise.

Isn’t that Chathu, the labourer? This is his (avan’s) son. Or, isn’t that Dr. Rajesh? That’s his (adheham’s) son.

None of this aligns with the principles of the Constitution of India.

The question of what basis justifies the right to compulsory formal education—a law with no apparent connection to these verbal dynamics—remains a profound one, awaiting a great awakening.

[VED]

It seems that among the English, both in earlier times and to some extent even now, the concept of entrepreneurship was viewed in a rather limited way.

In India, however, the situation is quite the opposite. For any worker in a private enterprise, the constant aspiration is to become a trader, industrialist, or similar, by exploiting any possible opportunity.

The desire to “become someone,” that is, to become a significant figure, is a fundamental coding in feudal language systems. In English, the relationship between employer and employee is marked by egalitarian verbal codes such as “You-You,” “Your-Your,” “Yours-Yours,” “He-He,” “His-His,” and “Him-Him,” allowing direct eye contact and conversation in the same tone.

In contrast, in local feudal languages, one must live in society and the workplace while maintaining and signaling hierarchies of high and low status. This affects not only the individual but also their relatives.

If a worker is addressed as “nee” (lowest you), “avan” (lowest he), or “aval” (lowest she), their spouse, siblings, and sometimes even parents are compelled to occupy the same lowly status.

An IAS officer is “Saar.” Consequently, his wife, mother, and aunt become “Madam.” And so on.

Related matters have been discussed in Chapter 15 of the first volume of this work (Self-respect and the urge to overthrow).

In connection with this, I recall something a trader in Bangalore said in 1985:

If an uneducated young man is employed in an office job in his business, one must be very cautious with “avan” (lowest he). This is because the young man will constantly try to steal trade secrets in some way.

Using the acquired trade secrets, he will attempt to start a rival business and won’t hesitate to bow before anyone or feign subservience to achieve this. This is because “avan” is already half a slave and a subordinate under the trader.

On the other hand, if a person with some education and English proficiency is employed in the same job, they are unlikely to rush into starting a rival enterprise. This is because it would be difficult for them to display subservience or feign servility to everyone. They would not dare risk losing the small respects they receive in their current position.

Another point related to this is worth mentioning.

A feudal language society differs significantly from an English society.

In an English society, individuals exist on a kind of flat plateau.

In contrast, the scene in feudal language societies is different. It resembles a collection of pyramids or upward-pointing tents, each representing a group of individuals. At the top is a prominent “adheham” (highest he), with a descending hierarchy of “inhi” (lowest you) to “ningal” (stature-neutral you) as you move downward.

In other words, the number of people increases at each lower level.

This collection of pyramids or tents constitutes the feudal language social environment.

When individuals from these tents converse, they automatically consider two things: the relative height of their respective tents and the specific level each individual occupies within their tent.

For example, a tent containing a prominent lawyer and their subordinates may be at a similar social height as a tent containing a private doctor and their subordinates.

However, there may be a height difference between the lawyer’s tent and that of a small-time tea shop owner nearby.

Second-tier individuals in the first set of tents may often converse with each other as equals in verbal terms.

However, second-tier individuals in the second set of tents may find it difficult to achieve the same equality.

When individuals from different tents interact, they assess the relative height difference between their tents and the specific level each person occupies.

While these matters may seem slightly complex, the human mind in a feudal language society can gauge them in an instant.

In social communication, these imaginary tents are a critical factor. Individuals at the top of tents of equal height can easily find verbal equality.

This equality can also be maintained among individuals at the same level within their respective tents.

“Who are you?” is a question that often needs to be explicitly asked. The answer significantly influences subsequent verbal interactions. Words define behavior, demeanor, closeness, and distance without any compromise.

This is a well-known reality. Therefore, when sending one person to meet another, this information is conveyed through coded words.

“I’m sending Ivan (lowest him) to you.”

“Ayaal (middle-level him) will come to meet you.”

“Adheham (highest he) is coming to meet you.”

Such coding is extremely powerful. It can affect a person’s mental state, facial expressions, body language, and more. Often, these attributes are already ingrained in individuals at each level.

In many cases, others can gauge a person’s status just by looking at them.

Such matters are extremely difficult to comprehend in an English social environment.

[VED]

In a feudal language environment, individuals constantly strive to stand above others.

There exists a group known as the “common man” in feudal language regions. This phenomenon of the common man is often not a specifically defined position in today’s society. However, those who are not common men assume in various ways that they are superior.

This is often an essential aspect of social communication in feudal language systems.

Various notions and backgrounds may elevate positions like doctors or lawyers to a higher status.

For instance, in India, a nurse carrying a tray of medicines, much like “hands sprinkled with animal musk,” may serve as a pedestal to elevate the doctor. Additionally, various licenses, authorities, and interactions with local feudal language terms further place them at great heights.

Consequently, elevated terms are used to address or refer to them.

Lawyers, with their clerks, attire, other adornments, courts, judgments, and various loopholes to manipulate the law, are similarly elevated above the common man in the local feudal language.

Everyone desires to rise from the status of a common man to a higher position.

Even the common man shares this mindset.

The most evident truth here is that the common man has little regard for other common men. This lack of regard is fostered by the derogatory verbal codes in feudal languages. From a young age, these codes of disdain are instilled in people through language.

In feudal languages, individuals often have a clearly defined hierarchy of high and low status. If such individuals are lifted from their lower status and placed in a higher position, it creates considerable unease in the social space. This has already been mentioned earlier.

Now, consider the following.

From around 1909, British India was largely governed by cabinets led by local individuals, though under the oversight of English officers.

Among English officers, there was significant communication equality. However, the administrative system was predominantly staffed by local individuals. Among them existed hierarchies, anxieties, concerns, and ambitions incomprehensible to the English mind.

Whenever English officers decided to implement progressive measures, local officials were preoccupied with how these would affect their status.

In England, a government clerk or officer is essentially a common man, often earning less than a skilled carpenter. In contrast, in British India, elevating an ordinary person to an official position brought about behavioral and attitudinal changes incomprehensible in English.

The tasks assigned to them became tools to extract subservience from the public. Since the concept of subservience does not exist in the English language, English officers may not have always taken its gravity seriously.

Despite this, local officials had limited opportunities to act freely. By around 1900, British India had largely removed local elite families from administrative roles.

They were replaced by a cadre of officers appointed through direct recruitment, highly proficient in English.

Beneath them were local language-speaking officials. Those known today as village officers, or then as lower-level officials, belonged to this group.

This topic cannot be fully explored here, but one point can be made.

The English administration was shaped by two distinct groups of officials: those who spoke English and those who spoke local feudal languages.

Now, to the main point.

By around 1937, local political movements had gained significant momentum. Many of their leaders were highly proficient in English. Yet, they were constantly seeking ways to maintain social and political dominance.

Due to the profound folly of the English administration, which introduced democracy in British India, politicians faced the challenge of constantly influencing people through local languages.

This topic won’t be delved into now.

In 1937, a Congress ministry led by C. Rajagopalachari came to power in the Madras Presidency.

This ministry controlled all government departments.

Politicians had to consider the interests of officials at all levels.

Officials sought elevation above the common man through their positions. Raising salaries was not an option, as English officers would not permit it, and the government lacked the revenue for it.

The alternative was to create more positions under each official. The more positions and subordinates an official had, the higher they climbed in the “inhi” (lowest you) to “ningal” (stature-neutral you) hierarchy.

The true significance of this was not fully understood by English officers. Britain’s involvement in a foolish war at the time gave local officials significant opportunities, which they exploited.

The Madras Presidency government recruited numerous individuals into service. This inevitably became a form of plunder.

This officialdom required revenue, leading to the rise of commercial taxes (sales tax/GST). Back then, the sales tax was understood to be 1 to 2 percent. Today, it is 18 percent or more.

Having said this much, I’ll add a bit more.

In South Asia, local elite families’ agents used to extract whatever they could from passing trade caravans.

This plundering system was curtailed by the English Company administration. Not only did their own trade caravans receive protection, but the British-Indian police also safeguarded all traders across British India.

Meanwhile, in kingdoms like Travancore, all forms of tax collection persisted. It must be clearly understood that taxes were collected solely for the ruling class to share among themselves.

A great folly often stated today is that government institutions are run by taxpayers’ money. Imagine the absurdity of lower-class people in Travancore saying this to their overlords. The same applies today.

For some time, government jobs will remain distinct from family possession. However, they will eventually become a hereditary right of official families. Only then will people understand the true meaning of paying taxes. By that time, the public will have been reduced to mere worms.

[VED]

I have mentioned this matter earlier in this work.

A promise made by someone with a subservient demeanor to a respected person carries immense value. Moreover, such a person strictly adheres to punctuality when dealing with the respected individual.

However, if, for some reason, this subservient demeanor is lost, and the person previously addressed as “oru” (highest he/she) or “adheham”/“avaru” (highest he/she) is reduced to “onu”/“olu” (lowest he/she), “avan”/“aval” (lowest he/she), or even “ayaal” (middle-level he/she), they will place no value on the promise previously given.

The attitude then becomes, “Inhi poyan” (lowest you, get lost) or “Nee poda” (lowest you, get out).

The person transformed into “avan” or “aval” will not even dare to ask, “Why aren’t you keeping the promise you made?” This is because, through this transformation, they have fallen several rungs down the “inhi” (lowest you) to “ningal” (stature-neutral you) ladder. Others above them may already define them with terms like “nee,” “inhi,” “eda”/“edi” (pejorative you), or “anu”/“alu.”

None of these phenomena exist in the English language.

This reality provided an invisible yet powerful advantage to the English East India Company as it advanced in South Asia. It is understood that local royal families, traders, and farmers found this phenomenon astonishing.

The English had no doubt that, regardless of what happened to the person to whom a promise was made, they would remain steadfastly defined by “He,” “His,” “Him,” “She,” “Her,” or “Hers.” It is understood that they never showed reluctance in keeping their word.

When the Mysoreans attacked Malabar, the English Company army besieged the Palghat fort and demanded surrender. Before complying, those inside the fort sought a direct assurance from English officers that they would not be harmed.

The Nairs, who had assisted in the siege from the rear, rushed to the front upon realizing the enemy had ceased firing. It was almost certain that this group would slaughter those surrendering. One could only expect negligible value for the promise given to those surrendering from them.

English officers would keep their word. However, locals would address the surrendered as “inhi,” “eda,” or “enthada” (lowest you) and slaughter them. This is the custom of this land, with no distinction based on caste or ethnicity.

This remains a reality today.

The chief condition of surrender was effective protection against the Nayars, who had joined Colonel Stuart and were employed in the blockade; but on the fire of the place being silenced, crowded the trenches and batteries, anxious for sanguinary retaliation, which it required very exact arrangements to prevent.

Such details have been provided earlier in this work.

The following point, I believe, has not been mentioned before.

This pertains to government officials.

In English, when a person becomes an official, they are merely an employee in a government office.

Moreover, the English language provides no impetus for them to antagonize the public or treat them as subordinates.

Their parents, friends, and the public address them as “You” and refer to them as “He,” “His,” “Him,” “She,” “Her,” or “Hers.”

In other words, almost any individual interacts with the official at roughly the same level of familiarity, requesting things without giving special weight to verbal codes.

However, in feudal languages, the situation is vastly different. Parents, uncles, aunts, elder relatives, elder siblings, friends, older neighbors, former teachers, and social elites address the official as “inhi” or “nee” (lowest you) and refer to them as “avan” or “aval” (lowest he/she).

Younger relatives, friends, or others may address or refer to them as “chettan” (elder brother) or “chechi” (elder sister).

The official maintains a personal closeness with such individuals through verbal codes. These individuals hold an invisible leash and commanding authority over the official.

In contrast, when a member of the public approaches the official, they must observe various restrictions and self-deprecating behaviors.

In many cases, the official acts as a representative and mouthpiece for their relatives and friends. If they pretend otherwise, in the verbal codes, they become a rogue, disrespectful, and arrogant.

This remarkable transformation in demeanor, induced by feudal languages in an official, is what we observe here.

In other words, when a feudal language speaker is placed in a government job, they turn their position into a platform for their close associates to act freely. This is a significant reality today.

I have heard of incidents in Trivandrum where police inspectors once behaved like goons serving their friends. For someone who can address a police inspector as “nee” (lowest you), the police station may feel like their personal armory.

[VED]

Hiuen Tsang, a Chinese traveller and scholar, while journeying through South Asia in the seventh century, recorded his observations and experiences, including the following:

The people are accustomed to a life of ease and prosperity and they like to sing. However, they are weak-minded and cowardly, and they are given to deceit and treachery. In their relations with each other, there is much trickery and little courtesy. These people are small in size and unpredictable in their movements.

When he mentions a life of prosperity, it can be inferred that he refers to the wealthy in the regions he visited. Historical records suggest that in South Asia, the social environment often excluded slaves, agricultural labourers, and others from consideration.

The focus here, however, is on his remark that “they like to sing.”

I, the writer, must make a couple of confessions.

First, during my youth—some thirty to forty years ago—I lived briefly as a habitual drinker. Since then, I have rarely consumed alcohol.

The realisation that the drinking culture in this land is utterly foolish was likely a reason for this change. There are other reasons as well. On a few occasions, I declined alcohol offered by others.

I never felt that drinking alcohol enhanced intellect, sparked creativity, or sharpened wit. During my college years, when peers experimented with mild drugs, I refused to partake.

Drugs might amplify imagination, but I won’t delve into that now. However, I wrote around forty books in English and sixteen volumes of this work in Malayalam without ever using alcohol or drugs.

Yet, when writing, there is often an intoxicating influence from one source: old Malayalam film songs.

There’s a paradox here, which readers may notice. While I write against feudal languages like Malayalam, the beautiful songs in these languages dance joyfully around me.

The fact that feudal languages contain exquisitely beautiful songs was noted long ago by Sir W. Ouseley in his Oriental Collections:

Many of the Hindu melodies possess the plaintive simplicity of the Scotch and Irish, and others a wild originality pleasing beyond description.

I won’t explore why this is so now, but I’ll say this:

The otherworldly beauty of songs in feudal languages is like a narcotic offered on a filthy street corner, reeking of human decay. Many strive to lure people to that street with this beauty. Resisting such temptation requires mental strength and discernment.

Now, to the main point.

During my college days, I observed something worth mentioning first. The atmosphere was unpleasant. Some took pleasure in trading verbal barbs. Meaningful conversation topics were scarce, and when present, they quickly escalated into heated arguments. Everyone was eager to prove their superiority, which felt like an intoxicating pursuit.

Occasionally, however, group singing would break out. Personal grudges, competitive spirits, and hierarchies would drown in the ocean of song.

Everyone’s mind would sway in an ecstatic dance. But when the singing stopped, the intoxication would fade. Reality would resurface, and awareness would return.

The verbal jabs, competitive urges, anxieties, unsettling thoughts, personal rivalries, caste-based alienation, political enmity, religious conflicts, status differences, and associated hierarchies that existed before the singing would re-emerge in minds and the atmosphere.

Even more invigorating than singing are slogan-shouting and cheering. These hold immense value in feudal languages.

Slogan-shouting is itself intoxicating, fuelling fervour. It also amplifies the urge to raise one’s voice.

The land fills with noise and commotion. Controlling this requires a stern police system. Anything less may seem insufficient.

The maxim would be: “Clamour must be controlled with clamour itself.”

[VED]

In feudal languages, expressions about gratitude (nanni or nandi in Malayalam) are commonly found.

Phrases such as:

“Do not forget the path you came from.”

“Do not anoint your head, forgetting your roots.”

“Be grateful for the food you eat.”

and many similar sayings are prevalent.

In feudal languages, gratitude and ingratitude are significant mental and social concepts.

When faced with a problem, one often requires the help of others. Those who are expected to help first look for signs of subservience. Without this, seeking assistance from strangers is often perceived as sheer insolence or overstepping boundaries.

The subservience offered in desperate times may not always be sustainable. For instance, if someone of a lower status helps you regain your standing, maintaining subservience towards that person can be immensely challenging.

This is because someone high on the “inhi” (lowest you) to “ningal” (stature-neutral you) ladder cannot, in linguistic terms, show subservience to someone on a much lower rung. This applies not only in direct conversation but also when referring to that person in discussions with a third party.

Such behaviour is defined as ingratitude. However, this is often the only way things function. Consequently, there arises an impulse to distance oneself from those of lower status who provided help, removing them from one’s social stage.

Since the concept of subservience does not exist in this manner in English, the issue of ingratitude does not arise in the same way. While forgetting a favor can occur in specific situations, it is not shaped by linguistic boundaries as in feudal languages.

Now, let me describe another form of this ingratitude.

This concerns lifting someone from a low rung of the “inhi” to “ningal” ladder to a higher position.

To illustrate, consider the example of a film actor.

This individual is seeking good roles in films, tirelessly meeting producers, directors, and their associates, addressing them with deferential terms like “Saar” or “Chetta” (elder brother).

The person has acting talent and an attractive appearance. Yet, this alone is insufficient, as thousands of similar individuals exist in the region.

Skill takes many forms. A mason, an architect, a tree-cutter, or a house painter each possesses expertise in their field.

The skill of a film actor is relatively trivial. However, when this minor skill is magnified ten thousandfold through the medium of cinema, it spreads across the land.

There is a Malayalam proverb: “You need a wall to paint a picture.” This applies here.

The actor’s voice is provided by others, their appearance and charm are enhanced by stylists, costumes and adornments are arranged, dialogues are written, scenes are set with lighting and decorations, songs and their melodies are composed, musicians play instruments, singers perform, directors instruct how to act, cinematographers shoot, and editors refine the footage. The story and screenplay depend on the writer’s talent.

All the actor must do is stand before the camera, delivering pre-rehearsed dialogues or pretending to sing as directed. This is not easy; scenes often require multiple takes.

In truth, there is little remarkable about this.

I often write for others in English. Some express amazement at my writing ability. But I know it is a trivial skill.

I know people who have built numerous buildings or repaired vehicles. Compared to their skills, mine is insignificant.

However, if someone amplifies my writing to reach lakhs of people, I could become renowned. This is the tactic employed by Gandhi and other great figures.

The actor’s raw footage is transformed by dubbing polished dialogues, adding songs, melodies, and external video clips, editing out unnecessary parts, and stitching together short clips. The editor and their team turn this into a polished film.

These workers possess professional skills. The actor, however, has little real expertise. Yet, the actor is the “wall” for their artistry. Their work paints the picture on this wall.

Even this does not guarantee success. Distributors bring the film to audiences, wielding significant influence over cinema theatres in the state. The film reaches the public through them.

They are unlikely to nurture someone who lacks subservience.

Producers and directors assess the aspiring actor, who bows before them, often addressing them with deference. They are typically addressed as “nee” (lowest you) and referred to as “avan” (lowest he).

If this person is given a good role, the many workers mentioned above see them as the wall for their artistry. They labor diligently, working tirelessly to elevate the actor. The actor’s rise is their rise.

Elsewhere, others compete as similar “walls” on the same stage.

Producers and directors know that collective effort results in a film that makes the actor famous. Cinema is such a medium.

In earlier times, newspapers and magazines served a similar role. Gandhi and Nehru used them to gain prominence.

With collective effort, the actor soars skyward like a firework, touching the clouds through cinema. They become a cultural icon. People refer to them as “adheham” (highest he), and honorifics like “Chettan” (elder brother) are appended to their name.

Book publishers, newspaper owners, and others face similar issues. Those who rise through their platforms become towering figures. In feudal languages, this creates problems, as the facilitators struggle to share in the resulting glory.

The transformation from “avan” to “adheham” does not occur in English.

Someone on the lowest rung of the “inhi” to “ningal” ladder leaps to the top in a single bound.

However, the producer needs the film to succeed commercially, which is also essential.

The producer may themselves be a small-time figure. It was before them that the future star stood, addressing them as “Saar” with great subservience. The producer and director could control the actor by addressing them as “nee” and “avan.”

The film becomes a massive success. The producer and director rejoice. The lead actor gains popularity. The public overlooks that the actor was merely the wall for many workers’ efforts, as they never see that artistry.

The actor leaps from the lowest rung of the “inhi” to “ningal” ladder to the top. They secure roles in numerous films. Major producers and directors vie for their time. They address the actor as “Saar” and refer to them as “adheham,” which becomes commonplace.

The producer and director who gave the actor their first break now find themselves relatively lower on the “inhi” to “ningal” ladder.

The star, now a cultural leader, finds it uncomfortable to be addressed as “nee” or referred to as “avan” by those of lower status. The language itself dictates this. “Nee” and “avan” are controlling words.

This mental experience sometimes fuels an impulse in the actor to forget their origins. Being belittled or controlled by small-time figures on various stages becomes an unpleasant experience.

The example above is merely the easiest to illustrate. In reality, feudal languages encourage such ingratitude in many contexts.

[VED]

Image

The image, dated 1961, depicts a white-skinned individual wearing a hat, identified as Michael Rockefeller. It is understood that he was later consumed by the tribal people shown in the image.

It is a fact that many animals possess abilities beyond human capability. However, most cannot walk upright or use their limbs as humans do. This represents a significant limitation.

Yet, many animals share human-like emotions: hunger, thirst, sexual desire, reproduction, family life, jealousy, insecurity, pain, despair, aspiration, a yearning for freedom, the need for a secure habitat, and affection for their young, among others.

It is also understood that many animals exhibit clear hierarchies, subservience, and elevated behaviours in their personal and social relationships.

The experience of animals caught by humans mirrors, to some extent, the plight of enslaved populations in historical South Asia.

Enslaved people were confined to small plots of agricultural land for their entire lives. They were placed at the very bottom of the “inhi” 👇 (lowest you) to “ningal” 👆 (stature-neutral you) ladder, treated much like animals. (Note that this experience did not apply to animals in English households.)

They lived their lives subsisting on meagre food, toiling under the sun with weathered bodies, and devoid of worldly exposure.

They harboured great fear toward those of slightly higher castes, intense reverence for overseers like Nairs, and awe for their landowning masters.

To these enslaved people, landowners were god-like figures, akin to supreme lords. Nairs, in turn, were seen as their visible lords and ladies.

Yet, even among these half-animal-like enslaved individuals, hierarchies, respect, subservience, and titles like “chettan” (elder brother), “chettayi,” or “chettathi” (elder sister) persisted.

Moreover, enslaved men often developed deep emotional bonds with their wives, which became a significant mental chain.

In Travancore, however, landowners disregarded these bonds when selling or leasing enslaved people among themselves. They treated them like cattle or oxen, shuffled across regions without regard for their relationships, separating and regrouping them arbitrarily.

Their children were sold like poultry from a household yard.

This was the sight witnessed by missionaries from the London Missionary Society upon arriving from England in Travancore. These missionaries took it upon themselves to humanise these individuals.

By then, significant changes had occurred in Malabar, where slavery had been outlawed.

However, the freed enslaved were akin to household livestock. Releasing cows, buffaloes, or chickens onto the streets created a crisis for the English Company administration.

Who would provide them food and shelter? Many preferred to remain under their former masters, receiving food and a rudimentary hut in exchange for performing menial tasks at the landowner’s estate.

For some, Islam offered a significant path to liberation. However, they brought some of their primal behaviours into the fold. Nonetheless, Islam undeniably brought profound changes to their lives.

Others joined European-run agricultural plantations in certain areas, securing better-paid labour. These plantations offered relatively higher wages and greater personal freedom.

This dealt a severe blow to local landowners. During harvest seasons, they faced labour shortages in their fields. Landowners found a simple solution to this crisis.

They allowed freed enslaved individuals to maintain huts on their agricultural land. Men and their wives could live there, creating clusters of such huts. While men worked at European plantations, women and children remained in these huts.

Men could not take their wives to the plantations, as other semi-human men might attempt to encroach upon them.

During harvest season, men returned to work the fields. Additionally, they had to pay rent for the huts.

Men returned because they held the concept of “their wife” in their minds. Otherwise, they might have abandoned their wives and children, seeking freedom elsewhere in British India.

Legally, British India offered complete freedom. However, local individuals often viewed these freed people as akin to livestock, a perception that persisted for some time. The presence of primal behaviours among them was likely a reality.

The realisation that these semi-human, semi-animal beings were human first dawned on the English, Christian missionaries, and certain Arab-influenced Muslims in the southern taluks of Malabar.

It appears that no cultural or spiritual leaders native to this subcontinent reached this understanding.

It seemingly took the English administration decades to humanise these semi-humans, a process that instilled great fear in local populations.

Even among those who remained aligned with Brahminical systems, many continued to exhibit subservience. It seems that, for many, no upward movement from the lowest rung of the “inhi” 👇 to “ningal” 👆 ladder has occurred even today.

However, in Malabar, many Christians, Muslims, and others have reached great heights on this ladder today. In other regions, this progress appears to be lacking.

Dian Fossey, an American woman, lived among gorillas in Africa. Her experience revealed that gorilla families were remarkably similar to human families.

She found gorillas to be dignified, highly social, gentle giants with individual personalities and strong family bonds.

Fossey opposed killing gorillas for food. She and the gorilla parents and relatives physically resisted the capture of gorilla young for zoos. Twenty gorillas were shot to capture their young.

Many such incidents occurred.

I won’t delve deeper into that story now.

The point here is different, though words have run unrestrained:

Within the crowds standing on each rung of the “inhi” 👇 to “ningal” 👆 ladder, various hierarchies exist. For example, the lower castes of Travancore and Malabar. If these people, while retaining their feudal language, are collectively elevated to higher positions, they will perpetuate the same hierarchies in their new status.

Some may become doctors, others major entrepreneurs, engineers, lawyers, nurses, political leaders, vehicle drivers, or industrialists, occupying various societal levels. Yet, this merely creates a new layer of hierarchy within society.

Their new religion may keep them as a distinct group.

Society will not undergo meaningful change. Instead, it will become more complex. The intentions of missionaries and English administration will not be realised.

What appears as social progress or great human capability today is merely the result of technological and digital advancements placed in human hands. Most individuals with such capabilities lack even the ability to swim ten metres.

If the beings hunted as “animals” today were granted such technological prowess, they would likely surpass most humans in ability and competence.

It may be true that the enslaved lower castes possessed greater physical and mental capabilities than upper castes. Keeping them collectively at the bottom of the “inhi” 👇 to “ningal” 👆 ladder posed no issue for those living higher up.

However, equipping them with advanced technology and setting them free creates significant problems. Once empowered, they would use the “inhi” 👇 to “ningal” 👆 coding to oppress others, wielding advanced tools to hunt fellow humans.

Related to this insight, another matter comes to mind, but expressing it now presents certain difficulties.

[VED]

The strength of social and personal relationships in the English language is directly opposite to the strength maintained through feudal languages.

In English, there is no significant hierarchy in linguistic terms between individuals within any organisation.

However, feudal languages maintain this hierarchy. The stricter it is, the stronger the organisation and personal relationships within it.

In feudal languages, the lowest-ranking individual in an organisation has the ability to impart intense negativity to another person. This is because that person stands at the lowest rung of the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder.

If this individual stands to show respect and others witness this, the respected person’s personality radiates immense influence on that stage. Everyone knows that person is oru, adheham.

Conversely, if the subordinate remains seated, showing no subservience, it feels like a slap in the face to the other person on that stage. In others’ minds, that person becomes merely onu, avan, eda, edi, etc.

Ordinary people in England had little precise knowledge of these dynamics.

If a DGP speaks at an event while an IG stands nearby, the DGP’s influence is surpassed by the presence of a police constable standing subserviently. The constable’s deference is a thousand times more impactful than the IG’s. It must be so.

The constable wouldn’t sit alongside. Nor would they question the DGP’s words on that stage.

In earlier times, though Nampoothiris felt disgust and contempt for their enslaved people, those same slaves offered boundless deference, affection, and respect.

Thus, the social presence of these slaves was a great strength for Nampoothiri families. These slaves never referred to Nampoothiris as anything but oru or olu. They wouldn’t sit with them.

However, lower-ranking Nampoothiris, Ambalavasi families, or occasionally Nair families with some social or economic power might not offer the same subservience to prominent Nampoothiri families.

Just as police constables’ families typically show deference to a DGP’s household, the families of an IG or DYSP might not, in the same way.

I’ve heard of SIs and DYSPs privately referring to IPS officers as avan or aval.

Note that those at the lowest rung offer immense deference upwards. Words like ingal, saar, adheham, avaru, oru, olu are used even for the children of higher-ranking individuals. These people are the greatest asset to the social organisation, lending it strength.

Constables in government departments, including the police, must show this boundless deference for the organisation to gain immense strength. More on this later.

Now, anyone on any rung of this ladder possesses word codes that can flip 180°. English speakers lack this entirely.

The same slaves or constables who use deferential words like ingal, saar, adheham, avaru, oru, olu can also use their opposites: nee, inhi, onu, avan, olu, aval, eda, edi, enthada, enthadi. This is the great problem.

If a constable, alone or in a group, uses nee or inhi towards a DGP without subservience, the organisation will shake. It will destabilise, lose strength, and fall into disarray.

Instead of standing as subordinates, constables collectively become aggressors.

When the English administration was established in Tellicherry, introducing written laws in Malabar, this issue persisted slightly. It gave those under landlords an opportunity to confront them.

This reflects harshly in the local language, shadowing every word. Over time, those once called oru become ayaal or onu. Even the lowest family members adopt these terms.

Social and personal relationships are built through words. Such shifts create upheaval.

However, since the English administration operated in English, those who adopted the language largely escaped this explosive dynamic.

Additionally, landlords deliberately blocked social advancement for those beneath them.

Courts established by the English administration were controlled by prominent local families. They systematically kept lower strata as inhi, onu, olu.

Even a lower-caste lawyer would do the same. By keeping others as onu while being oru, they gained social strength.

English officers from England, working in this administration, didn’t fully grasp these dynamics. The local information they received was often curated by prominent locals.

Thus, despite implementing beneficial measures, English officers were often surprised by the lack of visible impact on locals.

In places like Tellicherry, those who adopted English distanced themselves from the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder. Thus, they rarely experienced word codes flipping 180°.

Another possibility in this ladder: the highest-ranking person begins defining subordinates with elevated terms instead of nee, inhi, avan, onu, olu, aval. After learning some English, they avoid derogatory words.

This is a dangerous stage. The ladder dissolves. Elevated terms at the top unravel the structure’s ties.

The English administration faced this risk. In some places, they experienced its painful consequences but didn’t understand its core.

In most cases, locals protected them by using terms like saar, memsaab, madam, oru, olu in the vernacular, shielding them from this risk.

In South Malabar’s Valluvanad and Eranad taluks, Nampoothiri families and their Nair-like police constables in the 1850s faced their slaves flipping word codes 180°, confronting them.

A single 180° flip turns a helper into an aggressor. The English people, even today, remain unaware of this.

Saiyid Fazl Thangal’s call to lower-ranking Mappilas was: if their Nair overlords address them or their women and children as inji, respond in kind.

To modern English rulers, it might seem trivial. But everything lies in word codes, which they still don’t understand.

[VED]

The true face of poverty in India today may not be as starkly visible in Kerala as it once was.

About 20 years ago, in a northern Indian region, a middle-class individual remarked with surprise:

In Kerala, every household has at least one person working abroad.

Though they didn’t elaborate, this unspoken fact hides a significant national secret.


In 1947, India’s inception laid the groundwork for a massive economic scheme that allowed a small percentage of people to amass vast wealth. This was achieved by devaluing the Indian currency.

Today, a large portion of India’s wealthiest individuals have reached their status through this national scheme.

I, the writer, and you, the reader, along with most people in Malabar and Travancore, likely benefit directly or indirectly from this artificial national policy.

But that’s not the focus here.

The point is that destitution is a natural trait of feudal languages. English-speaking nations today have poverty because they are now filled with feudal language speakers.

In the past, English nations had economically disadvantaged people, who could be called “poor people” in English.

However, destitution is a distinct mental and social phenomenon. The English word for it seems fitting: destitution. In Malayalam, it translates to paramadaridryam, a state of utter deprivation.

English people who never travelled beyond England in the past wouldn’t have understood destitution. Even if they encountered it, they couldn’t comprehend it.

Kerala has those who experience destitution, as well as those who, while not economically destitute, embody its mindset.

Meanwhile, in many Indian states outside Kerala, a significant percentage live in destitution.

India’s 1947 economic policy weakened them financially. Additionally, the degradation inherent in feudal languages has turned them into a kind of pariah. Among them, I’ve seen individuals with immense personality and others with utterly deplorable, repulsive traits.

These people live at the lowest rungs of the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder in their local feudal language. Even among them, a sub-hierarchy of respect and degradation exists.

Interacting closely with them requires wielding word code armours carefully, or it’s dangerous.

About 20 years ago, a young woman with an MSW degree, working in a social development NGO, shared something striking.

Her superiors gave clear instructions: when their team visited remote villages to “improve” people, they were to address even the most destitute person as thoo (inhi, nee) and refer to them as uss (avan, aval).

Moreover, when speaking among themselves, they were to use elevated terms like un (adheham, avaru), saar, madam, saab, or memsaab to clearly distinguish the destitute and reinforce their place.

English speakers would have no knowledge of such a social development approach.

Here, it’s not about people being good or bad. Language codes dictate behaviour. Deviating from them causes harm and pain to mind and body.

But that’s not the main point. Here’s the crux:

A wealthy person, even if not explicitly stated, is adheham or avaru.

A poor person, even if not explicitly stated, is nee, inhi, avan, or aval.

Age plays a role: older age slightly reduces degradation, while youth intensifies it. But let’s set that aside for now.

A poor person’s degraded status reflects in their mind, face, body, words, eyes, movements, and even clothing. It also appears in their relationships and how they refer to others.

When such a mentally, personally, and socially diminished person meets a socially elevated individual, they don’t see a mere he or she as in English, standing in neutral commonality.

Instead, they see someone radiant in elevated terms like ang (ingal), un (adheham, avaru), saab, or memsaab.

In other words, a destitute person at the absolute bottom of the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder stands before someone at its towering peak, dwelling among the clouds. The mere sight of this destitute person evokes a profound negative thrill in the elevated individual—a visceral disgust that makes their hair stand on end.

The destitute person may feel immense subservience in the presence of the elevated, unless harbouring resentment or rivalry.

For any work done by such a destitute person, the elevated individual feels no mental urge to pay a just wage. Instead, they’re inclined to offer a trivial amount. Paying more would allow this repulsive person to climb the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder, which no one desires.

Feudal language speakers have infiltrated English-speaking nations, spreading this mindset. They subtly work to keep those beneath them at the bottom of the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder, unnoticed by others.

In English, wealth or lack thereof doesn’t influence language. Thus, the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder doesn’t exist. Consequently, the phenomenon of some languishing in a “foul pit” while others reside on a “fragrant hill” is absent.

The poor simply work for wages. Their labour doesn’t suppress their language.

Now, another point.

Indian cinema often portrays a poor hero: a good man, strikingly handsome, with glowing cheeks, eyes brimming with richness, and words resonating with divine rhythm.

Villains betray and hurt him. He fights for justice.

Audiences can’t bear seeing such a noble poor character tormented. They root for him.

This poor hero is, at first glance, a great man. In word codes, he’s adheham or oru. He should be addressed as ang. Terms like chettan or ettan echo in the audience’s minds.

Why? They know this character is a superstar, familiar from many films. They add ettan to his name. He owns expensive cars and caravans.

Now imagine if a truly destitute person, in their real avan, onu, inhi, nee form, played this role. Which audience would watch?

In Slumdog Millionaire, a Hindi-English mix, the slum-dwelling hero was portrayed by an Indian-origin actor born and raised in Britain.

By casting someone with an English-language demeanour as a slum-dweller’s son at the bottom of the Hindi inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder, the film deceived Indian and global audiences.

Similarly, Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi fooled the world. It brought immense political gain to the Congress Party in India, despite being a fabricated tale.

[VED]

Feudal language words can create a distinct phenomenon in the human mind and body.

This can only be understood through direct experience, revealing its mental and physical reality.

In English, the word aura exists, but it seems to be understood merely as a physical phenomenon.

In English, it’s perceived as a circular glow around a divine person’s head or enveloping their body, limited to a 2D influence.

Even a deeper understanding doesn’t stir significant movement in English words. But in spaces filled with feudal language speakers, they sense their linguistic inadequacy, however slightly.

Their words cannot prompt bowing, falling at feet, touching feet in reverence, or standing with folded hands. Their language offers no such pathways.

This divine aura is a distinct mental, physical, and tangible experience in feudal languages.

It can be explained thus:

A person once defined as inhi, nee, avan, or onu becomes a teacher—saar or mash.

Before a group of students, this person transforms into saar, mash, adheham, or oru, while the students remain nee, inhi, avan, aval, onu, or olu.

A profound divine personality takes root in the teacher’s mind, vividly felt.

This mental aura reaches the students’ attention. They can detect it—or, if you will, sense it, as no precise Malayalam word exists. The students grasp it.

This sudden mental shift is experienced in various ways, tangible through feeling.

For example, a person with no street-vending experience, selling in a train compartment, will recognise this mental shift. They feel it.

Passengers see them as a vendor, a seller of goods, creating a profound mental experience. They become a specific type of entity before them.

In English, some mental aura may exist, but it’s not like that in feudal languages.

In England today, there are homeless people living on the streets—a relatively new phenomenon there.

In English, this phenomenon lacks the harshness of feudal languages.

In feudal languages, living in a small house, a cheap house, a thatched hut, on the street, or sleeping on a shop’s veranda affects language negatively. It creates a negative aura in the mind, body, and reality.

This also adversely affects the word codes and behaviour others use toward them.

The English administration was unaware of this phenomenon’s true scope.

While English officers, without crafting personal auras, focused on writing laws and creating systems in this subcontinent, locals eager to leap into social leadership sought paths to become saar, saab, memsaab, or ji.

Using the printing press, newspapers, magazines, loudspeakers, public speeches, photography, and accounts of discussions with Englishmen in England, they arrived at a radiant, star-like aura.

Among those who succeeded through such schemes were Gandhi and Nehru. Ask what good they did for this nation, and they’d list the above.

The phenomenon of a teacher and students sitting in a mindset of inferiority mirrors the feudal language stage: a wooden platform, a loudspeaker, an audience, and a speaker transformed into a grand divine leader.

When people see or hear of this scene, a vast gap in word codes emerges. The speaker becomes saar, ji, or saab, while the audience is reduced to nee, ningal, avan, or ayaal.

Such a vibrant phenomenon doesn’t exist in English.

Another example:

Today, retired police officers on YouTube narrate crime investigation stories. They admit to taking the law into their own hands, acting criminally, using inappropriate words, or employing force, all from within their divine aura’s illusion.

Yet, enlightened audiences, like Travancore’s pariahs or pulayas standing deferentially before their Nair overseers, comment under these videos with great subservience.

They can only address these officers as saar. This isn’t anyone’s personal fault; it’s the boundary of language codes.

Addressing a retired police officer as ningal would shake the language. Calling them nee would cause an explosion.

(Note: Active police officers shouldn’t post YouTube videos about official or personal matters.)

However, in videos by filmmakers, comments addressing presenters as nee are common.

These two possibilities don’t exist in English. Profanity may offend, but it doesn’t cause an explosion.

One final point to close today’s writing:

A lofty state can be ignited in the human mind, radiating through thoughts, attitudes, and body language—both positively and negatively.

The terrifying sense of being saar can be projected onto someone before you. This is a distinct physical and emotional experience.

Conversely, the sense of not being saar can also be projected, sometimes unintentionally, causing great disturbance in feudal language settings—being deemed insignificant.

If desired, a person’s divine aura can even be projected into an animal’s mind. This is another mental and mechanical system. If it reaches an aggressive animal’s mind, the beast may bow, bend its knees, and touch its head to the ground. That, too, is real.

More on this path in the next writing.

[VED]

In the previous writing, I discussed the profound mental, physical, and personal transformations when an ordinary person in a feudal language becomes a teacher. From an English perspective, it’s like stepping into an astonishing leadership role.

This involves the teacher ascending to the top of the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder, while students sit far below—an invisible backstage scene unimaginable in English.

This alone strongly suggests that formal education in English differs vastly from that imposed in feudal languages.

They are two distinct entities. What’s happening today is the selling of one under the guise of the other. The certificates granted may bear the same name, but whether education experts are aware of this stark difference or its reality is unknown.

In feudal language societies, this structure permeates all human relationships. The entire society resembles countless small and large tents, each with sharp bamboo stakes, as mentioned before.

Visit a shop, and the relationships there follow this pattern. Enter a home, and it’s the same. Step into a workshop, a madrasa, a Christian gathering, or a Brahmin (Hindu) assembly—it’s identical.

At a police station, this structure holds to a significant extent, though not with absolute certainty.

In an Indian military unit, however, the structure is rigidly certain. This firmness comes from language word codes standing like solid steel blocks.

Within these tents, immense subservience and obedience prevail. But just outside, such behaviours often don’t apply. Some tent-dwellers may try to extend their subservience and obedience to those nearby, but this often fails.

Instead, it may end in fights or conflicts.

In feudal language societies, communication among people is riddled with fissures spread across the community. It’s understood that some feudal language societies may differ, but that’s not the focus now.

When a person from one subservience-obedience tent enters another, it often weakens the first tent. This is because they shed one link of subservience and adopt another.

This adds value to the person at the top of the new tent. For instance, a political leader’s follower sitting at a rival’s speech stage triggers invisible, intricate software-like shifts and value changes.

A wife suddenly joining a private institution can evoke a similar experience in her family and her husband’s mind and personality. These are incomprehensible in English.

In feudal languages, a wife is beneath her husband. In language, she’s inhi, nee, aval, or olu. The husband is chettan, annan, ingal, oru, or adheham.

Even if a wife temporarily enters another tent and is repositioned, the links tied to these words may shift, or new links may attach.

These are, in truth, massive positional shifts in individuals and their surroundings within the design view of intricate software platforms.

None of this can be explained in English.

Even psychology, which boasts vast knowledge of the human mind, knows nothing of this.

Now, another point.

In feudal languages, individuals align like tents everywhere, unlike in English. Even if individuals are set free as in English, they instinctively recreate tents when interacting closely.

In old England, convicts were sent to Australia. They weren’t doctors, scientists, mathematicians, or teachers—just ordinary Englishmen. They built the nation of Australia.

If continental Europeans had gone instead, they’d have created a South American-style nation.

If Malayalis had gone, they’d have built a nation with a few living in palatial houses and many in huts.

More related points remain to be discussed.

[VED]

The intent was to discuss what happens in a social setting when individuals reach a teaching position, but the previous writing veered off course.

Now, the focus is on the positional shifts in intricate software codes when individuals move from one word-tent to another.

This brings to mind something detailed years ago in Shrouded Satanism in Feudal Languages, specifically in Chapter 10: The Concept of Route.

The words of English writer Somerset Maugham come to mind:

Words have weight, sound and appearance.

Maugham’s words carry profound truth. Yet, viewed through feudal languages, words reveal qualities beyond what English can convey.

In feudal languages, the weight, sound, and form of words expand into vast dimensions.

But there’s another dimension unique to feudal languages: the vector component.

Feudal languages don’t merely create a 2D ladder concept. Instead, they form a 3D expanse, with each downward step branching into more steps in multiple directions.

Thus, words don’t just create height and depth; they also generate trigonometric components, crafting varied positions across a 3D space.

When one person is beneath another, they may not be directly below. They could be positioned slightly higher or lower, to one side, relative to another at the same level. This imagery is conceivable for feudal language speakers.

Moreover, this person is linked to others in various 3D positions, with word codes reflecting diverse hierarchies. Some may be far above or below, or even higher than the person’s immediate superior—or the opposite.

Though these scenes are real, one physical stage may not reveal others. Still, their influence may appear in a person’s mental state.

This, too, is a mental reality operating in the background. Thus, in feudal languages, a person’s mental personality may exist in a dynamic state.

In English, such a concept may be imagined but lacks connection to the vivid imagery of feudal languages.

When a person takes a job, their English pronouns—he, his, him—remain unchanged. Whether they rise to a high position or fall under another, their words see no shift.

The writing has strayed again. The point is this:

A person rides a two-wheeler from Calicut to Trichur or vice versa, stopping midway to park under a tree’s shade by the roadside.

A friend in a passing bus sees them resting on their vehicle. It’s clear they’re travelling, but their direction—where they’re coming from or going to—isn’t.

Yet, travel has a direction: either Calicut to Trichur or Trichur to Calicut.

Everything in the universe has such a vector component.

Even a photograph of an object in space isn’t enough; its direction of movement must be specified.

This applies in English too.

This same logic answers a famous philosophical question:

A glass is half-filled with water. Is it half full or half empty?

Shrouded Satanism in Feudal Languages addresses this.

The answer depends on direction.

If water was poured in, it’s half full. If poured out, it’s half empty.

Everything has a vector component.

In feudal languages, humans and certain matters have an additional vector component.

Consider a young woman working in a high position at a private firm. Various vector components may be observed.

One is this:

She’s addressed as Miss, Madam, or ingal—established as oru or avaru.

One day, a man visits, speaking to her with respectful words. They grow close, and he marries her.

Initially addressed as ingal, she’s now called nee, inhi, olu, or aval by him.

Her vector component shifts: from ingal to nee, inhi, olu, aval (ingal 👉 inhi, Madam 👉 olu).

Now, consider another woman, married to a socially elevated man but bored at home. She sees other women finding joy in work.

Her husband and his family define her as nee, inhi, aval, or olu.

One day, she joins a private firm. Impressed by her personality, the owner offers her a job.

She accepts, despite her husband’s disapproval, and joins in a high position.

Colleagues address her as ingal, Madam, oru, or avaru.
Both women work in private firms, seemingly on similar paths, both ingal, oru, or avaru at work.

Yet, both are ingal at work and inhi at home.

However, the second woman’s vector component differs.

She moved from nee to avaru or oru (nee 👉 ingal).

The first woman’s path is ingal 👉 nee.

These distinct vector components shape their personalities and minds through feudal language codes. A casual glance may not reveal this.

Others may spread awareness of these dynamics.

The key point: this 👆👇 vector component doesn’t exist in English. Yet, a vector component exists in everything.

This is a form of software coding. Those working with software know the surprising power of seemingly trivial words.

[VED]

In an English-only social environment, individuals strive to erase hierarchies in words.

In feudal language settings, it’s the opposite.

Here, every person observes another’s words, actions, and tone for precise subservience or dominance. Those below must show subservience; those above must display dominance.

A person steeped in feudal language, positioned low on the ladder, creates trouble by casually addressing others by name in English settings. Their lowly status is already registered in others’ mental software.

Thus, merely speaking English isn’t enough. The feudal language influences embedded in mind and body must be erased for a person to be non-disruptive in an English setting.

Many foreigners infiltrating English-speaking nations today are, from this perspective, potentially disruptive.

When a group of feudal language speakers lives together somewhere, they gradually—or swiftly—form a pyramid-like hierarchy. Once solidified, the person at the top becomes a grand figure.

Those below become degraded, and those at the very bottom may turn worm-like.

To counter this precarious state, those at the bottom may shout, display physical prowess, or create chaos to hold their ground.

This doesn’t yield an English-like personality.

Often, multiple pyramids form instead of one, as fierce struggles for position split the structure.

Yet, in a feudal language society, various leadership hierarchies exist. While absent in English, corresponding human groupings may still form.

For example, an automobile workshop in a feudal language setting creates a pyramid with a strong inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder.

English workshops have human relationships but lack this ladder’s traits.

Within these feudal language pyramids, human relationship word-links stand like sturdy pillars.

The person at the pyramid’s peak wields immense command over those below. Simultaneously, those below develop deep affection and obligation upward.

Those in the middle gain subservience from those below by clearly showing subservience to those above. If they act defiantly toward superiors, those below withdraw their subservience.

Thus, this subservience-dominance link is interdependent, cohesive, and carries clear vector components.

In feudal language regions, this often sparks the phenomenon of a gang or group.

This phenomenon emerges even when feudal language speakers live together in English-speaking nations. However, if subsequent generations reduce their ancestral language use, this gang phenomenon weakens, especially if they shift their mindset to English.

Italians migrating to the US created underworld Mafia groups. A key trait was their use of the Sicilian dialect of Italian, which sustained the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder essential for the Mafia’s longevity.

Using you instead of inhi where required weakens the gang/Mafia leader. No effort can revive it if the other person doesn’t know the feudal language, turning grand play into mere farce.

Reading Mario Puzo’s The Godfather, which depicts the US Italian Mafia, with this in mind reveals unspoken truths in the story.

In India, a gang culture is evident in many places, naturally arising in feudal language regions. With money or similar assets, people align under someone, offering honorifics like chetta as if presenting an offering.

The honorific word is itself an offering.

This doesn’t happen in English.

[VED]

In feudal languages, a person’s assets—wealth, knowledge, connections with high-status individuals, authority, physical stature, strength, courage, or skill—profoundly influence word codes. This significantly impacts the minds of feudal language speakers.

These assets fill word codes with immense value, elevating avan (he) to adheham or avaru (honorifics). Such assets have the power to shift linguistic status upward.

In English, assets don’t affect words like you, your, yours, he, his, him, she, her, or hers. English lacks alternative words for different status levels.

These assets lead feudal language speakers to various mental behaviors, the most prominent being jealousy—a manifestation of insecurity, a sense that one’s position lacks stability or safety.

What position lacks stability? In feudal languages, the statuses of avan, ayaal, adheham, nee, ningal, or saar are prone to shaking.

This topic won’t be analysed further here, as it leads to complexities beyond the scope of this writing.

As mentioned, many personal relationships in feudal languages resemble tents with sharp peaks. To illustrate:

Two years ago, I asked a regular reader of this series, in English, why they don’t share these writings with their acquaintances, given their high praise for it. Initially, they said their contacts are intellectually backward and uninterested in such topics.

When I pointed out that most readers are ordinary people, they clarified:

Sharing these writings would damage my personal relationships. Each relationship has either an elevation or a lowering. The information here erases or questions these dynamics. So, I don’t share it.

Most personal relationship groups resemble peaked tents. In some, a person stands at the peak; in others, on a lower rung.

Every person strives to create tent-like groups where they stand at the peak. Such mental urges don’t arise in English-speaking minds.

In these tent-like groups, the person at the peak strives to maintain a sense of superiority. The presence of assets—knowledge, skill, or expertise—in those below threatens this superiority.

For example, if someone below shows knowledge or skill, it’s a danger. It infuses their word codes with authority.

If avan becomes ayaal, adheham, or avaru, even slightly, the tent’s structure shifts. The person at the top feels a tremor and positional displacement.

Psychology might call this mere perception, perhaps with a fancy term. But the reality is far deeper.

In South Asia, a historical social truth held that enemies weren’t just those who directly confronted you. Those below, to an extent, were also dangerous. The mindset was to deny them any path to rise.

When the English Company established Tellicherry, it opened a clear path for those at the bottom to escape.

Feudal language speakers know it’s wise to suppress any superior skills in those below. Those lacking this wisdom are deemed fools.

From this perspective, English Company officials were utter fools.

They offered paths for those showing great subservience to learn English, inadvertently teaching them to erase that very subservience, respect, and servility.

Even today, those in power in India silently work to discourage the lower strata from learning English.

The mental states created by feudal languages can be complex. An issue doesn’t impact just one place; it twists, turns, and strikes elsewhere.

In these tent-like groups, many at lower levels may share the same status in one context but differ vastly in mental and physical standing in others.

This can be problematic. If one person at a shared level displays profound superiority in some aspect, even unintentionally, it sparks intense resentment in others at that level.

This mental state is absent in English.

To counter this, peers may publicly belittle them, portray them as ignorant, backstab, spread defamatory stories, call them fools, or highlight their lack of physical prowess.

This becomes a daily amusement, especially when other entertainment is scarce.

[VED]

This 16th volume attempts to examine the design patterns of hidden interpersonal relationship links within the communication machinery of feudal languages.

Some points here may echo or expand on ideas briefly mentioned in the first volume.

In this volume, the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder concept was introduced, aiding in explaining many unique traits of feudal languages.

In languages like English, a person’s job or actions don’t alter words like you, your, yours, he, his, him, she, her, or hers.

But in feudal languages, individuals must constantly protect the word codes tied to them. This creates a persistent mental stress in both society and the individual.

I recall a remark by an acquaintance, an official, who said:

When dealing with people, you must stand with weight. Otherwise, they won’t respect you.

Such a mindset is unimaginable among English speakers interacting with other English speakers.

However, when English speakers engage with feudal language speakers and grow familiar, this mindset may creep in. They might sense a sinister, incomprehensible malice lurking beneath the warm, friendly demeanor of these groups.

Here, “standing with weight” means acting brusquely, speaking abruptly, causing distress, creating confusion with counter-questions to reasonable queries, or insisting on unnecessary documents.

Successfully making someone repeatedly address you as saar or madam signals that you’ve effectively imposed this weight. This doesn’t exist in English.

To clarify: saar and madam in Malayalam are not translations of English Sir, Madam, or Ma’am. In English, Sir or Madam don’t alter you, your, yours, he, his, him, she, her, or hers. In Malayalam, saar and madam cause significant shifts in many words.

What is heard about a person or seen in their actions affects their position on the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder. This is a major issue in feudal language regions.

This naturally creates societal fissures, layers, and divisions.

While people may freely mingle in chaotic marketplaces, without such crowds, interactions align with their tent’s internal hierarchy.

This is evident in Kerala’s commercial buildings. Each office is kept pristine, but the public streets outside are often filthy.

The problem is that the hierarchical design within each tent holds no relevance or recognition in external settings.

When closely engaging with someone lower on the inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder, one displays their higher status through demeanor, tone, and actions.

Failing to effectively demonstrate this risks damage to word codes in other settings, potentially leading to accidents or conflicts later.

What can or cannot be said about someone is often automatically regulated by their local status—whether avan, ayaal, adheham, chettan, chechi, saar, or madam.

People are thus cautious when interacting with those at the ladder’s bottom, for this reason.

The notion of someone “at the bottom” is itself complex.

To illustrate, consider a specific workplace with an inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladder from top to bottom, where each rung represents a job position.

This is a clear picture.

But each rung holds further complexity.

On one rung, a group of skilled workers stands at the ladder’s mid-height, with a defined word-code status.

Above them are multiple tiers of ingal individuals; below, tiers of inhi individuals.

This picture isn’t overly complex.

Yet, within that same rung, various inhi👇 - ingal👆 relationships exist.

Age is a powerful ladder.

Thus, even on the same rung, individuals experience stark hierarchies. These micro-ladders can influence the demeanor of people on other rungs.

This creates significant barriers in feudal language societies. Often, people disregard these hierarchies, causing major issues, even mental or psychological distress.

These tensions don’t exist in English.

When closely engaging with someone lower, questions arise: Are they superior, subordinate, or defiant? Such dynamics create barriers, chaos, and noise in feudal language communication.

This is a major cause of mental stress among feudal language speakers.

Its influence is vast and real.

Analysing conflicts by mapping individuals onto an inhi👇 - ingal👆 tent framework, connecting them via word codes, and observing the oscillations in these links allows precise identification of mental stress points in individuals and society.

[VED]

In Malayalam, the word pakvata (maturity) exists, often linked to advanced age. In English, it seems to align with mature.

However, mature in English and pakvata in Malayalam share only a superficial resemblance. At a glance, they appear similar, but that’s where the connection ends.

A young person growing up in an English-speaking environment typically exhibits a mental maturity and resilience not seen in a peer raised in a feudal language setting.

Today, many young people in England may lack this, as they grow up alongside children from feudal language backgrounds, and many of their teachers are feudal language speakers.

Still, the maturity instilled by English is a constant mental state. From birth, an English-speaking youth’s identity is firmly rooted in words like you, your, yours, he, his, him, she, her, or hers, unyielding like a rock.

In contrast, a youth raised in a feudal language faces a different reality. From birth, their identity is fluid, defined by words like nee, inhi, avan, on, aval, olu, eda, edi, ing vaada, ing vaadi, athu, or ithu, melting their sense of self.

As they grow, they encounter oscillations between aniyan (younger brother) and chettan (elder brother), or aniyathi (younger sister) and chettathi (elder sister)—opposing identities. One is a diminished self; the other, mature. Here, ningal or ingal (respectful) clash with nee or inhi (demeaning), stirring the mind.

Readers must remember: this person grows within a social pyramid built on inhi👇 - ingal👆 ladders.

This breeds mental anxieties, competitiveness, and aggressive impulses.

In adolescence, these identity shifts disrupt the mind, pushing the individual to prove they’re not small but grand, chasing various impulses.

In the past, smoking cigarettes or growing a long beard to mimic an intellectual was a path to this. Yet, their minds often held little beyond trivial newspaper gossip.

Entering adulthood, they step toward ingal, ningal, or ayaal definitions but remain tethered to inhi, nee, avan, on, aval, or olu for years.

Only when those defining them thus die do they fully escape these word codes, reaching complete pakvata.

This is a phenomenon in feudal language regions. A youth once seen as a fool transforms into a respected ettan (elder brother) with age.

In reality, age doesn’t guarantee maturity or wisdom. Feudal languages, however, forge this link.

English allows addressing a child as an equal, mature person. Feudal languages don’t.

The difference between someone raised in a feudal language and an English speaker is stark, evident to those who interact closely.

Given power or skill, a feudal language speaker’s first act is often to linguistically diminish others nearby.

English speakers, among fellow English speakers, lack any linguistic trigger for such desires.

But when encountering feudal language speakers, recognizing their mindset may spark a desire to distance oneself, potentially misread as prejudice.

Conversely, feudal language speakers eagerly cling to English speakers, realizing no matter how much they provoke, the English speaker lacks linguistic tools to demean them mentally—a profound revelation.

This is the warm allure of English speakers’ perceived prejudice.

Continental Europeans are a different, complex case, not explored here.

In settings where one is called nee or inhi, maturity may diminish.

Take drivers of commercial or private vehicles. A young driver, universally defined as inhi or nee, is likely to exhibit significant mental immaturity.

This may manifest as speeding, unnecessary honking, startling others on the road, or racing other vehicles.

As this person ages and rises to ingal, ningal, saar, chettan, chechi, madam, achan, or amma, their driving reflects growing maturity and decorum.

This evolution of mental maturity appears across all activities in feudal language settings.

Those defined by lower word codes view the world oppositely to those with higher codes. Close interaction may spread their mindset to others.

Occupations deemed low-status by language infuse word codes with immaturity. A worker resisting this is deemed unfit for the job.

Here, striving for maturity is seen as defiance.

Applying English norms in Malayalam invites hostility.

Another point: a maturing person may desire to keep subordinates immature, itself a problem.

These dynamics of immaturity and maturity are hard to instill through English.

In feudal languages, mental maturity isn’t truly tied to age or knowledge but to one’s position.

Historically, upper-caste children (e.g., age 7) held lower-caste elders (e.g., age 60) in place with names or words like inhi, nee, avan, or on, exuding immense maturity while the elder’s identity melted.

This doesn’t exist in English, where youths address older friends by name without diminishing them.

Many early English East India Company officers and district collectors were teenage English youths.

A 16-year-old district collector once wrote to William Bentinck, British India’s first Governor-General, declaring he’d defy the Company’s Board if sati occurred in his district, sending police to arrest the perpetrators.

Whether such defiance reflects immaturity or profound maturity is unclear, perhaps warranting debate.

[VED]

After completing my graduation (BSc degree) in Trivandrum in 1982, until around 2002, I had the opportunity to engage in various activities across different parts of the country. During this time, I closely interacted with people from diverse social strata and, on occasion, lived among them.

As someone who keenly observes language codes, these experiences, when I reflect on them now, appear as a vast intellectual treasure trove.

The opportunity to closely engage with people from various social levels is likely an experience many in this country have had.

However, I had little desire to join government service. My lack of interest in working under others shaped my life in many distinct ways. Additionally, my attempt to view individuals as I would in English led to a variety of experiences.

From a young age, reading English classics and related texts set my mind on a different plane compared to many others.

The things I saw, heard, and experienced were processed through a mindset distinct from the thoughts, perspectives, analyses, critiques, and evaluations of others. This tendency to filter experiences through unique mental pathways likely shaped my personality.

Most local people were unaware that a physical world, with entirely different customs and interpersonal relationships, existed beyond what could be conceived in Malayalam or other South Asian languages.

Similarly, English speakers were unaware of a physical world beyond what they could conceive in English.

If one behaves in Malayalam or other South Asian languages according to English norms, it might be perceived as a form of madness or outright arrogance.

Related to this, I recall a trivial incident from around 1982.

At that time, my mother had just retired as the head of a government department. My sister was practising as a senior house surgeon at Trivandrum Medical College.

Due to a minor illness, my sister took me to Trivandrum Medical College for a check-up, which included an X-ray.

Ordinarily, it seems unlikely that the families of senior government officials or the financially well-off would visit Trivandrum Medical College.

Back then, those who went to Trivandrum Medical College for treatment were typically people who, like cattle, stood obediently in long queues, enduring misery while developing great affection for the doctors they saw.

I don’t know how things are today, but it seems unlikely that much has changed. The language used there remains the same.

I had some acquaintance with my sister’s colleagues, doctors who visited our home, and I conversed with them.

In those interactions, the word “you” [Ningal] was used mutually.

For follow-up check-ups at the Medical College, I had to go multiple times, standing in long queues to see the doctor. However, on the first visit, I saw the doctor without waiting in any queue.

One day, while asking a doctor something during a check-up, I inadvertently addressed them as “you” [Ningal]. I didn’t even have a chance to lower my head.

The young doctor lost his composure. That day, I realised that a single word in Malayalam, a small piece of language coding, could so quickly trigger symptoms of what is foolishly called schizophrenia in psychiatry.

When he shouted in agitation, he used the word “thaan” [pejorative you]. Had I responded by addressing him as “thaan,” I now understand it would have caused a major uproar. Do words carry such power?

Security guards would have come, dragged me away, and locked me in a room for the mentally ill. Yet, it seems no one there would have noticed that it was the doctor displaying schizophrenic symptoms.

When I mentioned this to some English speakers, they thought I was sharing some foolish nonsense. Could a mere word like “you” cause an outburst in a crowd?

The reasons I used such a word, capable of triggering schizophrenia-like reactions, are many.

First, I was aware of the influence of a senior government official’s environment at home.

Second, my experiences were shaped by navigating the profound nuances of the English language.

Third, my occasional visits to North Malabar. Back then, in Malabar, officials, teachers, doctors, fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, brothers, and sisters were addressed as “you” [Ningal] or “highest you” [Ingal👆].

However, by around 1990, the term “Saar” [highest you/him] began to emerge in North Malabar. A circular boundary had formed around the use of “you” [Ningal].

Once, in 2002, I urgently visited an unfamiliar dentist in a nearby village for a dental check-up. I tried speaking to the dentist in English, but he couldn’t speak it.

So, I spoke in Malayalam. During the conversation, I accidentally used “you” [Ningal]. Schizophrenia-like symptoms surfaced in the dentist.

The point here is not the doctor or the dentist’s condition, but the local language itself.

However, there’s an issue with solely relying on a language that spreads this condition. These individuals become carriers of this linguistic virus. To filter out this virus and speak without transmitting it, knowledge of English is necessary.

Wearing an English language mask on the tongue and mind would prevent this virus from spreading from many people.

What I’ve come to say involves a couple of other points.

Most individuals across society and professional fields, regardless of their social level, possess similar intelligence, thinking abilities, and general knowledge.

If you speak to each of them about ordinary matters as if you were their equal, this becomes clear. However, an invisible hierarchy exists within each of them. Though invisible, it can be recognised and understood. (The positioning on the ladder from “lowest you” [Inhi👇] to “highest you” [Ingal👆].)

Their words and thought patterns are bound by feudal language codes, maintaining a Lakshmana Rekha-like circular boundary.

If one fails to maintain clear subservience, their words and thoughts will breach, shatter, or transgress this boundary. Such freedom in speech and thought becomes an act of great defiance.

Instead of communication, violence and outbursts may occur. To put it plainly, if you speak your mind, you’ll be told you shouldn’t.

Article 19(1)(a) of the Constitution of India, which states: All citizens shall have the right to freedom of speech and expression, was clearly written without any understanding of the inner workings of Indian languages. I won’t delve into that now.

High-ranking individuals in local society often judged their subordinates as lacking intellectual substance, assuming “he won’t understand this.”

However, with smartphones and the internet now in the hands of the lower strata, it’s not intellectual substance that has emerged, but the ability to cross the Lakshmana Rekha maintained by feudal languages in their words and thoughts.

But this isn’t what was needed. Breaking down walls doesn’t foster a peaceful social environment.

What was needed was a linguistic environment without walls, where they are unnecessary. To achieve this, the feudal language must be replaced with the widespread use of high-standard English.

[VED]

In 1982, as mentioned in the previous writing, I addressed some doctors, colleagues of my sister, as “you” [Ningal] at home.

Looking back, I now understand that being the brother of a doctor created the context for addressing those doctors with equality using “you” [Ningal].

In Travancore, even then, addressing superiors as “you” [Ningal] was seen by the public as a bold challenge and an act of lowering their status. Most of the hierarchical distinctions in the Travancore kingdom remain untouched, then and now.

However, when I addressed an unfamiliar doctor as “you” [Ningal] at Trivandrum Medical College hospital, it triggered an outburst in words.

The linguistic environment crafted by feudal languages designed, controlled, and pulled the strings behind these two contrasting incidents. The individuals speaking within this environment were mere string puppets.

Feudal language word codes can pull individuals and their emotional behaviours back and forth, make them stand still like stone, bow, tremble, act like clowns, become villains, appear innocent, and more.

English language words, however, lack such abilities. To elicit such behaviours in English, a clear script would need to be written.

For instance, to make someone bow, one would have to explicitly say, “You bend.”

In feudal languages, by addressing someone with demeaning terms like “lowest you” [Nee], “lowest he” [Avan], “pejorative you” [Eda], or “what’s that?” [Enthada?], without any specific instruction, the person will bow and remain bowed.

If these words fail to define the person, their behaviour will be entirely different.

Here, too, lurking in the shadows is the ladder from “lowest you” ‘Inhi’ 👇 to “highest you” ‘Ingal’ 👆.

At the hospital, there were people on the lower rungs of this ladder and the doctor standing at great heights. Standing on the lower rung and addressing the doctor as “you” [Ningal] as an equal was, in truth, a grave offence.

Even the familiar doctors who visited our home would behave similarly in that same linguistic context.

In one linguistic context, a person may behave kindly, but in another context within the same language, they might act cruelly. Such strange scenarios are common in feudal languages.

These matters are inconceivable in English.

Let me move a bit further and add a few more points.

Generally, in feudal languages, people in different professional roles or performing jobs of varying status cannot converse or discuss matters as they would in English.

In India, when a local doctor speaks with an ordinary computer professional about technical details, language codes create various barriers. However, if these individuals speak in high-standard English, such barriers do not arise in their minds, words, or the environment.

An incident I observed about ten years ago comes to mind.

A young man, through close personal association with me, had soared to great heights in English conversational standards. Around the same time, he had gained considerable expertise in computer use.

While working at a travel agency in another district in Kerala, he had to explain some online processes to a doctor sitting nearby. The doctor was preparing to fly to the US but was not very familiar with computer use.

To be clear, in Malayalam at that time, this young man held no professional status comparable to a doctor. Back then, doctors’ status seemed even higher than it is today. This was around 2010 or so.

The two spoke in English. Moreover, this young man had the experience of addressing me with “Mr.” before my name, a mental elevation rare among most people in this region.

In the conversation with the doctor, only his computer knowledge served as a valuable contribution. No sense of hierarchy entered their words.

The next day, while speaking with me, this young man received a phone call. The doctor, sitting at home in front of a computer, was asking questions. The young man explained matters in English.

After the conversation, he shared the incident with me. During this, I noticed a great sense of personality elevation in him. The clear reason might be that he was, in reality, living in a local linguistic environment.

Had this conversation occurred in Malayalam with the same sense of elevated personality, the doctor might have experienced mild mental distress, I believe.

Here, it was not the young man’s personality or computer expertise that maintained the conversation’s smoothness. In Malayalam, the word “you” [Ningal] alone could cause significant trouble. Other words, ready to spark major outbursts, stand close by.

I have had experiences at completely opposite angles in such matters.

The issue lies in having English in my mind, coupled with family connections that demonstrate great elevation in local language codes. Yet, I lacked any desire to live by maintaining the elevation of local language codes.

Adopting a superior attitude with inferiors and a subservient one with superiors—this ambivalent mindset was extremely difficult for me to express in body language and words. (Though, there have been isolated instances where I behaved this way.)

This was experienced as a major flaw in Malayalam.

The lower strata would not respect me, while the higher-ups would see me as an outright rogue.

Addressing officials as “Saar” [highest you/him] became necessary while running a commercial enterprise. Even then, the flaw persisted: this word was not reflected in my body language.


Once, an officer in a department remarked: “You don’t know how to behave with officers. You talk back.”

My response was even more foolish:

“I speak very politely even with my workers.”

The officer, in great personal offence, clarified:

“Are you supposed to behave with officers the way you do with your workers?”

Neither the officer nor the office provided a context to speak in English.

However, when speaking in Malayalam with a high-ranking person in an educational institution, he erupted. People around him were present with great subservience.

I then switched to English. From there, the conversation moved to great cordiality.

Such an environment existed in Kerala until around the 1980s. Those who knew English would converse with English-knowing officials, accomplishing tasks while maintaining great personality. This caused significant resentment among those stuck in Malayalam.

Foolish questions like, “Do English-knowers have horns?” were written by many in Malayalam newspapers back then.

Later, efforts were made to recruit people with no English knowledge into government jobs. As a result, everyone became trapped in Malayalam.

Today, even English-knowing officials are reluctant to speak English with the public. The reason: ordinary people might rise to their level, which they are unwilling to allow.

Once the pleasure of being addressed as “Saar” [highest you/him] seeps into the mind, no one allows it to be tampered with.

I recall an incident from long ago in a distant place where I got entangled.

A person was on the verge of death. The police opened their room, and I had to enter along with them.

This person was brought to a government hospital. Two middle-aged doctors were examining them, maintaining a highly superior attitude. It was clear they assumed I, standing nearby, was a person of no consequence.

I asked if I could check the room to see what the person might have consumed. I spoke without any breach of etiquette.

However, in a scene where everyone was bowing, my standing upright without bowing, despite having no notable status, clearly seemed distasteful to them.

I took a car, went to the room, collected some items, and gave them to the doctors, yet their superior attitude persisted.

But the fault was not in them.

In a Malayalam linguistic environment, on the ladder from “lowest you” ‘Inhi’ 👇 to “highest you” ‘Ingal’ 👆, those on the lower rungs must distinctly stand apart to adopt the freedom and body language of someone on the higher rung. Otherwise, merely displaying superior body language is intolerable for those on the lower rungs.

What I expressed was likely not the attitude of a superior person but merely the demeanor of trivial English knowledge. However, even to display English knowledge, certain other factors must be in place. I won’t delve into that now.

In the past, even lower castes would not tolerate someone from their group acting superior.

Before concluding today’s writing, let me remind you of one more thing.

During English rule, the British administration in Malabar enforced a custom where ordinary people had to directly meet the government officer, not clerks or peons—a testament to the administration’s strength that must be acknowledged.

However, it’s worth noting that the administrative machinery then operated in English.

[VED]

Today, I intend to discuss a few points about the concept of equality.

It seems that, in the past, the word “equality” did not hold much relevance for discussion among the English. Yet, equality did not exist in England’s social environment either.

There, you had the king, queen, and royal family, nobles and their kin, big capitalists, small-scale employers, ordinary citizens who might be deemed “high-ranking” in Indian languages, senior naval officers, workers on ships, ordinary labourers, those doing jobs that Indian languages might call “filthy,” traditional fishermen, and more.

Additionally, there were senior government officials, clerks, those akin to “peons” in Indian languages, military officers, ordinary soldiers, police officials of various ranks, and so on. These exist even today.

The situation in modern England is somewhat complex, so I won’t delve into it now. This writing focuses on the social hierarchy in England before 1947. Back then, South Asians and other feudal language speakers were scarcely present there.

I’m not considering the Irish, Scottish, or Welsh populations in Britain for this discussion—only the English.

It’s clear that England had people of various social levels. It doesn’t seem that, in the past, there was any notion that they were all equals. Nor does it seem so today.

Yet, no one in England raised a revolutionary flag for individual equality, social equality, or employer-worker equality. Though Karl Marx wrote communist ideology in England, no workers’ revolution emerged in the country that saw the world’s first industrial revolution.

Today, some pompous fools on Wikipedia claim that the hardships of England’s poor were documented in English classical literature.

However, having read some English classics, I’ve realised that the struggles of England’s poor would seem like a five-star life to India’s poor.

The fact that everyone, regardless of status, is addressed with the same “you,” “your,” “yours,” “he,” “his,” “him,” “she,” “her,” “hers” is truly a magical linguistic experience.

These words undergo no alteration or transformation, keeping many other words in the language as steadfast as a steel sculpture. Ordinary conversational words cannot stir any movement in an individual or their mind.

From the perspective of feudal languages, this is an utterly impossible software coding.

The traditional owners of the English language are its ordinary people, the Anglo-Saxons.

England’s royal family descends from bloodlines in what is now Germany. Similarly, England’s noble families trace their lineage to continental Europe.

Though these two groups subjugated England’s ordinary people through historical events, the common folk, through their language, shaped both groups to conform to English word usage.

In other words, the king, queen, royals, nobles, and their families are confined to mere “you,” “your,” “yours,” “he,” “his,” “him,” “she,” “her,” “hers.”

For these two elite groups, living among the English was indeed a profound mental elevation.

When English officials arrived in British India, the subcontinent’s people placed them on the upper rungs of the “lowest you” ‘Inhi’ 👇 to “highest you” ‘Ingal’ 👆 ladder, adorning them with terms like “Saab,” “Memsahib,” “Aap,” “Un,” “Ingal,” “Oru,” “Adheham,” “Avaru,” “Saayipp,” “Maadam.”

Meanwhile, local elites on the upper rungs pinned those on the lower rungs with words like “Tu,” “Us,” “Inhi,” “Nee,” “Onu,” “Olu,” “Avan,” “Aval,” smearing mud on their faces and minds.

The mental difference between English commoners and South Asians is evident from this.

Just 22 kilometres across the sea from England lies France, a feudal language country. That’s where the French Revolution occurred, raising the globally famous slogan liberté, égalité, fraternité (liberty, equality, fraternity) (swathanthryam, samathvam, sahodaryam).

Some academic ignoramuses might point to this, claiming England’s philosophical poverty and France’s profound intellectual superiority. But the reality is strange. In English, this famous slogan has no relevance.

All continental European countries, including France, engaged in colonial activities, fought among themselves, and established nations of little quality.

South American countries were founded by the Portuguese and Spanish. Today, many from those nations pray daily to enter the USA.

In early times, England used Australia to exile petty criminals. These uneducated English commoners built the magical nation of Australia.

Consider this: if South Asians had gone there in the past, they would have created numerous fragmented nations filled with India’s social degradations.

In Indian languages, equality is an inescapable speck of dust. It’s delightful to discuss philosophically, compose revolutionary songs and epics, sing them, hold victory marches, and stage street protests.

But equality is an intolerable concept. In every conversation, one must clearly state whether the other person is inferior or superior. Without doing either, discussing anyone is impossible.

When a small-time film director mentions a great actor, every word must affirm their own inferiority and the actor’s greatness. Equality is a dangerous idea. If, in the past, the director addressed the actor as “lowest you” [Nee], today they must deliberately use “Saar” [highest you/him] when quoting those words.

If, claiming historical honesty, they use “lowest you” [Nee] or “Inhi” in today’s reference, the great actor won’t forgive. The director might face ruin.

This isn’t a mental flaw in the great actor but a fence in the language. Words pointing to a palace must carry regality, while those pointing to a roadside hut must be smeared with mud to lend weight and grandeur to the spoken words.

In feudal languages, for a people’s communist revolution to gain poetic beauty, one must stand on the lower rung, look up, clench fists, and chant slogans or sing revolutionary songs. On a flat platform with workers and employers standing together, the revolutionary fervour that ignites the blood won’t blaze in the chest.

Watch the video clip below 👇.

Here, equality becomes a terrifying thing, and no grand academic research is needed to understand why.

The speaker and the person mentioned are on different rungs of the “lowest you” ‘Inhi’ 👇 to “highest you” ‘Ingal’ 👆 ladder.

If a small-time director uses “lowest he” [Avan] for a great actor as an equal, it might not be demeaning, as the actor could reciprocate with “Avan.”

The same applies to “middle level he/she” [Ayaal].

But that’s not how language coding works. Pulling someone from the upper rung to the lower rung shakes the actor’s personality, secured by word codes, like an earthquake rattling every rung of the “Inhi” 👇 to “Ingal” 👆 ladder.

Where exactly a young great actor might be demeaned requires case-by-case examination—a topic vast enough for major research. For anyone seeking a doctorate, this is worth exploring.

Such issues don’t exist in English. Yet, speakers of other languages may persistently try to place the English on their “Inhi” 👇 to “Ingal’ 👆 ladders. If the English resist, feudal language speakers might brand them racist, baring their teeth.

This is the root of continental Europeans’ traditional admiration and resentment toward the English.

[VED]

In the 1990s, the phenomenon of BPO (Business Process Outsourcing) entered India. This was facilitated by the magical web of the internet. Before that, England, the USA, and other such places were, for most Indians, as distant as Mars is today.

Subsequently, software companies from England and the USA actively worked to train Indians in software skills. As a result, these advanced technological skills permeated the expertise of Indians.

Following this, many Indian entrepreneurs started commercial enterprises related to these fields and established them in England and the USA. An Indian cultural society in England (I cannot recall the name of this organisation) declared that the time had come for English people to work under Indian employers.

I recall that this organisation even published a guideline on how English workers should behave under Indian employers. It included instructions such as bowing before the employer and saluting with folded hands. I believe this was published after 2000.

During that period, there was a flood of articles eloquently discussing Indian management. However, no one clearly articulated the essence of Indian management.

An employer and employee both speaking fluent English—where the employee is instructed to salute with folded hands or bow—would only come across as a farcical performance.

What is called Indian management is essentially the coding inherent in Indian languages.

When one thinks and speaks in these languages, actions like bowing, standing up, or adjusting one’s attire come naturally with great dignity, without requiring special training. No one perceives these as comical.

According to precise Indian management principles:

A superior must be addressed with terms like Saar, Maadam, App, Ang, Angunn, Ingal, Saab, Memsahib, and similar words.

When referring to or addressing a superior, a word indicating respect must follow their name, such as Chettan, Chechi, Ettan, Echi, Chettayi, Saab, Memsahib, Ji, Bai, Swami, Thangal, Mash, Saar, Moulavi, Achan, Amma, Pithav, Annan, Ikka, and many others across different languages. Terms like Adheham, Oru, Olu, Avar, Un, In, and others are also used.

Subordinates must be addressed with terms like ‘thoo’, Nee, Inhi, or simply their name.

When referring to subordinates, terms like ‘us’, Avan, Aval, Onu, Olu, or just their name are used.

Subordinates must interact with each other without any respect or deference, addressing and referring to one another accordingly.

Indian management involves precisely using these linguistic practices to organise individuals hierarchically. I have personally observed this being meticulously implemented in Tamil Nadu, the interiors of Karnataka, and the industrial sectors of North India.

The person at the very bottom is often treated as mere filth. However, this is not an absolute truth, and I won’t delve into that topic now.

Without altering this linguistic environment, no change can be brought to the social atmosphere of such places. Both workers and employers are equally trapped in this coding. For this reason, the notion that employers are inherently evil holds no truth.

Around 1989, in what was then Uttar Pradesh, I recall an incident where an individual named Rajan Nair raised a revolutionary flag in the Telco industry. Such initiatives only result in superficial cleansing, akin to powdering one’s face.

When discussing the great Indian management, if the points mentioned above are clearly stated, it becomes evident that this is a malevolent system of human organisation. Hence, many people wax eloquent about the unparalleled possibilities of Indian management without addressing this truth.

I won’t delve into the depths of these unparalleled possibilities now. I return to the flow of my writing.

The structuring of individuals in Indian management, as described above, is not a simple arrangement. The superiors and subordinates mentioned earlier constitute a highly complex system.

From my limited understanding of Japan’s feudal language, it seems there was only a single ladder of Inhi👇 to Ingal👆, much like in the Indian military.

However, the situation in South Asia is entirely different.

Here, various ethnic groups from different parts of the world converged, likely causing significant blending and confusion in social communication.

The Inhi👇 to Ingal👆 ladder was restructured by age. This means that at every rung of the Inhi👇 to Ingal👆 ladder, age created another sub-ladder of Inhi👇 to Ingal👆.

Over time, there existed a societal Inhi👇 to Ingal👆 ladder, and within each rung, another smaller Inhi👇 to Ingal👆 ladder based on age. This was the primary structure of South Asia’s social atmosphere.

The arrival of the English East India Company introduced a massive virus into this social structure.

This societal ladder, rigid as a piece of iron in the local language, was thrown into chaos and upheaval. Individuals from each rung were shuffled into different levels, disregarding the local linguistic coding, much like scrambling playing cards in a game of chance.

Alongside this social shuffling, had the English East India Company also banned local feudal languages, much of the associated social pain could have been avoided.

If readers wonder how the English Company could have done this, consider that this same company managed to abolish slavery, which had persisted for centuries.

It also banned the charming custom of burning women alive, which had existed for centuries.

Furthermore, it suppressed the Thugees, who for centuries had been a source of terror and nightmares along the trading streets of northern regions.

These were all seemingly impossible feats. Yet, the Company’s officials never grasped that the root of all malevolence lay hidden in the local languages.

Instead, their great revelation was that ancient Sanskrit texts existed in remote Brahmin households across the subcontinent and that these should be brought out for everyone to read and study.

Another discovery was that local language songs possessed the beauty of the moon’s silver crescent. However, they failed to realise that this beauty was merely honey coating venom. Even today, it seems they haven’t grasped this truth.

When Sanskrit words, phrases, particles, prefixes, inflexions, puranas, and Vedic literature were stuffed into local vernaculars, the people in each region forgot their ancestral ethnic identities.

Such matters vanished from social consciousness. This is how everyone became heirs to the Hindu tradition.

I intended to write about something else today. Looking back, my words have stretched far. Therefore, I think I’ll address the intended topic in my next piece of writing.

[VED]

I am writing about managing men and women through local feudal languages.

This topic requires delving into multiple aspects. As I begin writing, I haven’t charted a clear path in my mind. Let’s see what ideas flow into this path as I write.

In England, associated with the royal family, there existed grand displays of pomp—elaborate attire, crowns, palaces, thrones, regal titles, ranks, and honours. These were maintained and showcased to fill the minds of the people with the grandeur of the monarchy.

However, it’s worth noting that the royal and noble families in England were not truly of English heritage. Yet, the people there accepted the social precedence of these royal and noble families and lived accordingly.

This paradoxical reality in England struck me only after a long time.

Before that, the inconsistencies and self-contradictions in England’s international policies had been a source of confusion.

I cannot delve into the depths of this topic now.

Still, I’ll say this much: for centuries, the English lived alongside royal and noble families rooted in continental European ethnicity, as well as feudal-language-speaking Irish, Scottish, and Welsh communities.

What distinguished the English from these feudal language speakers was the absence in their language of word codes that insist on demeaning the common people.

This single factor set the English common folk apart from those in South Asia.

In South Asia, ordinary people show extreme subservience to those in power but demean each other.

Yet, for centuries, England’s international stances and policies were managed by individuals not of English heritage.

This is, in truth, a significant observation.

The English East India Company established the nation of India in South Asia. It seems that the company’s owners and most of its employees were ordinary English folk.

However, the company’s owners came to realise that South Asia had a far more pervasive and deeply entrenched social subservience coding than existed in England.

Thus, they often appointed a nobleman from England to the highest echelons of their Indian operations. A clear example was Robert Clive, who is credited with establishing the Indian nation in South Asia.

I understand that the English monarchy later bestowed the title of Lord upon him.

British rule began in parts of South Asia in 1858. Prior to that, it was the English Company’s administration.

In places where feudal languages and hierarchical systems prevail, social and political affairs require a group of ‘authorities’. Here, ‘authorities’ is a Malayalam word, a direct translation of the English term ‘authority/authorities’.

Yet, one is not an exact translation of the other.

I cannot explore this now.

When the English Company communicated with small kingdoms in South Asia, the elites of those kingdoms consistently addressed the company in English as the ‘Honourable Company’.

This likely stems from the local language’s term for ‘respected’.

However, it must be noted that the English word ‘Honourable’ does not precisely convey the Malayalam sense of ‘respected’.

Yet, in South Asian feudal languages, this is how the term could be understood, as the English concept of ‘Honourable’ is hard to pinpoint in these languages.

I cannot delve into this now either.

In India’s judicial system today, it is customary to prefix justices’ names with ‘Hon’ble’ (meaning Honourable). This seems like a meaningless addition, written without understanding its import.

I cannot explore this now either.

The English East India Company was unwilling to dethrone local ruling families. Yet, its English officers were enthusiastic about bringing significant social changes.

However, after spending some time in South Asia, these officers clearly understood that to implement anything, a company official had to organically assume the status of an ‘authority’.

This ‘authority’ status is truly shaped by words. When such words take form, the individual is unwittingly placed at the top of the local language’s Inhi👇 to Ingal👆 ladder.

The mechanism here works as follows:

Instructions from Adheham are obeyed.

Instructions from Ayaal are received with slight resentment, accompanied by doubts about their right to issue them.

If Avan issues instructions, it leads to outright uproar.

This dynamic is absent in English.

In England, the Queen issues an instruction. She issues it. The Queen is Her. Yet, the title of Queen persists and is not forgotten.

Even if there’s a slight lapse in upholding the dignity of that title, the terms She and Her remain unaffected.

However, when this same Queen, through the English East India Company, took control of India, she had to be proclaimed Empress of India. A mere Queen’s authority was insufficient for South Asian royal families to align under.

It must be understood that, over time, royal families and other elite individuals in South Asian kingdoms maintained their elevated status before the public through various means.

They possessed and displayed royal insignia, adornments, body ornaments, elephants with howdahs, daytime lamps, five-wicked lamps, multicoloured umbrellas, five types of musical instruments, canopies, carpets, palanquins, and more. These were reserved for them, denied to commoners, and some were publicly showcased.

Despite possessing all this, there’s no evidence that they ever considered elevating the common people.

This remains the case today. When people see the grand symbols, adornments, cars, and umbrellas of an IAS officer, they fall into a state of intense adulation.

However, the English administration went beyond this, assessing their own efficiency differently.

In truth, a district collector’s efficiency should be judged by how quickly a person entering a village office receives a requested certificate. Yet, local languages provide no impetus to think about or value such matters.

Next, I must address how official interpersonal relations are maintained in feudal languages. I think that can be covered in my next piece of writing.

[VED]

In local feudal languages, individuals show the greatest obedience when they are successfully demeaned. From an English perspective, this is utterly unimaginable.

Readers may have observed this themselves. Consider a private doctor who employs someone of low social and personal standing. This ‘lowly’ persona is itself a construct of linguistic word codes.

However, if this is pointed out to the employee, they would react with fierce opposition. They would feel intense loyalty and respect towards their employer.

Compared to the doctor’s persona, the subordinates belong to an even lower rung. The doctor addresses them as Inhi. When addressed this way, the subordinate offers obedience and respect to the doctor without any premeditation.

Yet, this same individual will meticulously categorise the patients who come before the doctor. They will address anyone they deem fit with Inhi. This isn’t limited to young people; sometimes, even those aged 20 or 25 are addressed as Inhi.

Often, there’s no need for such address. Still, they might ask a pointless question just to use the term Inhi. This is an act of enforcing obedience and demeaning others, with no other utility to the question.

When behaving this way, the individual gains a sense of social elevation, perceived as a form of authority.

At the same time, the doctor receives immense social respect only if they have notably inferior subordinates. Employing those who could rival the doctor in personality or skill risks shifting patients’ mental focus towards them.

The question of who is Adheham and who is Ayaal quickly arises in such settings.

In feudal languages, there’s a constant competition for elevation. Thus, no one capable of challenging one’s status can be kept as a subordinate.

When subordinates are women or from lower castes, such behaviours—and their intensity—escalate significantly. Many in these groups are trapped by the social and linguistic constraints of these language codes.

When they address someone as Inhi, the act of demeaning carries immense force.

If someone suggests not using terms like Inhi or Nee towards subordinates, it’s perceived as an encroachment on their authority, potentially sparking fierce resentment.

English concepts like politeness and courtesy have no real relevance or presence in feudal languages. These languages encourage suppressing those who behave courteously.

When an opportunity to demean arises, it must be seized. This is seen as a great skill. Those unwilling to exploit such opportunities are generally viewed as incapable, labelled as lacking leadership qualities.

Leadership quality is a prestigious label in feudal languages.

For someone addressed as Oru, leadership qualities come naturally. But someone addressed as Onu constantly seeks opportunities to display leadership.

These are human abilities and tendencies entirely absent in English.

Most subordinates working under doctors, lawyers, and others fit the profile described above.

In English, however, a doctor’s assistant or a lawyer’s clerk is typically a highly competent individual who behaves with great politeness.

Here, I’ve focused on the subordinates of doctors and others, but the situation is similar for doctors and lawyers themselves.

An MBBS student from Calicut Medical College, fluent in English, shared an observation. Professors and other teachers at the medical college address students in Malayalam as Nee, using terms like Avan and Aval. They refuse to teach without wielding these terms.

Consequently, new doctors trained this way replicate these terms—or their variants—on economically weaker individuals they encounter. Only by doing so can they liberate themselves from the servile mindset instilled by their teachers.

Consider the Malayalam translations for the English word ‘polite’: words like ‘sabyamaya’ (civil), ‘vineethamaya’ (humble), ‘yogyamaya’ (appropriate), or ‘maryadayulla’ (courteous).

Reading these words doesn’t convey the English meaning to someone unfamiliar with English fluency. The term ‘polite’ exists within the context of other English words.

Translating English words into Malayalam is impossible without evoking a distinctly Malayalam mindset.

Yet, the matter is complex here too. In Malayalam, age is a significant factor. Older individuals must be addressed with terms like Chettan, Chechi, Annan, Akka, or Ikka following their name.

But doing so is fraught with risk.

An English maxim states: ‘Give respect and take respect.’

Respect in English and respect in feudal languages are largely unrelated. I won’t delve into that now.

In Malayalam, offering respect and expecting it in return often results in a verbal hammer blow to the head.

Thus, when someone with a semblance of authority faces another, this verbal hammer is wielded.

However, in a setting where the other person’s age, high professional status, or social elevation is evident, terms like Inhi or Nee cannot be used. Instead, individuals resort to calling them by their bare name, an act that carries great zeal.

This too is deeply unsettling. Assistants to doctors, lawyers’ clerks, bank clerks, medical lab employees, and others use bare name-calling without hesitation.

(There are related issues with courier delivery personnel using this practice, but I won’t address that now.)

To an extent, this serves as a protective shield for them. It helps them cope with the mental strain of being demeaned by their superiors, offering a sense of life’s fulfilment.

But the language used is Malayalam, not English.

In English, formal address involves prefixes like Mr., Mrs., or Miss before the name, without demeaning the speaker.

In Malayalam, formal address requires suffixes like Chettan, Ettan, Chechi, Echi, or Ikka after the name.

This is the proper convention in Malayalam. Yet, Malayalam perceives respect as subservience. Calling someone ‘Chetta’ or ‘Chechi’ prompts the addressed to use Inhi or Nee in return, as the language encourages this.

Thus, many avoid it.

This issue, particularly concerning government employees, warrants serious study.

The foolish committee that recommended making Malayalam the language of administration and education, without studying linguistic implications, buried such critical issues. They submitted this absurd report to the government around 2011.

Reading the report made it clear it was written by pompous fools with PhDs.

Searching online for ‘Writ petition against compulsory Malayalam study’ reveals details of a writ petition filed in the Kerala High Court against this.

Creating Malayalam equivalents for English words doesn’t justify recommending such a language shift.

Switching from English to Malayalam for administration and education causes a social and administrative earthquake.

Many individuals are crushed under the weight of feudal language words. Since many have long lived this way, they don’t notice it distinctly.

What brings them great joy is that, while they live crushed, a few using English live freely without this burden. Forcing Malayalam would end this freedom. They applaud, crushed under heavy words.

There’s no room for them to aspire to learn English and live free from this crushing weight. Malayalam doesn’t allow space for such thoughts.

Like stringing pearls, Malayalam lulls people into a trance with mesmerising melodies, divine rhythms, and intoxicatingly beautiful words.

Around 2000, an earthquake struck Gujarat. Countless multi-storey buildings collapsed. People were trapped, crushed for days. Afterwards, government workers brought bulldozers to level the debris.

No one seemed to consider that living people might still be trapped inside. Preserving personal honour was everyone’s highest thought.

I understand that IAS officers gathered in Delhi at the time shared this mindset. I was in Delhi then and saw hints of this anarchic mentality in English newspapers.

Local language newspapers are less likely to reflect this, as a government employee, merely ‘He’ in English, transforms into Adheham, an exalted official, in feudal languages.

This is akin to the folly of those recommending Malayalam as the language of administration and education. Thoughts of hefty commissions may have filled their mouths with saliva.

What does it matter what happens to those crushed under words? Send your own children to England or the USA if possible. Let earthquakes ravage here.

[VED]

Each language creates distinct social, administrative, and other systems.

This holds true for English as well.

However, since continental Europeans established their royal and noble families in England, the English language had to incorporate a few newly crafted words here and there to accommodate them.

It must be clearly understood that the royal and noble movements in England were not organically designed by the English language.

If the English language were given the freedom to create a social atmosphere, it would not produce the one currently defined by England’s royalty and nobility. I cannot delve into the depths of this topic now.

Many local languages in South Asia seem to have been quite small in scale. Tamil, however, is relatively large and appears to have a strong feudal (hierarchical) character.

I’m unsure whether languages in northern South Asia, like Pali, Magadhi, Ardhamagadhi, and Prakrit, had a feudal character. Additionally, numerous other small languages existed in the northern regions.

The ancient language of Malabar is understood to have been inherently feudal. However, it seems to have been free from Tamil or Sanskrit influence. This language was likely quite small. Its origin in Malabar is also worth pondering.

When Sanskrit words and phrases were infused into South Asian languages over centuries, the rigid hierarchy and aestheticised notions of hierarchy from Sanskrit permeated these languages.

These points have been mentioned earlier in my writing.

The social atmosphere created by these rigidly hierarchical languages likely resembled that of the Travancore kingdom. However, the presence of various ethnic groups in each region would also influence this social structure.

For instance, if Arab families from Yemen settled in a region with significant social prestige, the local language might need to incorporate their distinct social and communicative practices.

This includes how to refer to them and what words they should use for other local ethnic groups.

If these groups lack significant social prestige or power, the local language would suppress them. That’s a reality too.

Much could be said about each of these points, but I cannot divert this writing to them now.

In one of the volumes of my writing, there’s a chapter titled ‘About the concept of a fundamental script’. It’s worth a look.

The discussion was about the social atmosphere created by modern Malayalam, as developed in Travancore. This language may have a significant connection to Travancore’s Tamil linguistic heritage.

The traditional language in Malabar, also called Malayalam, was equally feudal in character.

However, as English administration gradually gained strength in Malabar, by around 1900, a highly refined English-influenced bureaucratic movement had taken root, creating significant changes in social communication in some small pockets.

Yet, in most parts of Malabar, the arbitrary dominance of local landlord families prevailed.

Travancore’s Malayalam shows influences from Malabar’s traditional language. I’ll try to address related insights later.

Both languages shape society in a specific way.

At the top is an elite class, within which various hierarchies exist, possibly due to different ethnic groups entering this stratum.

It’s much like today’s IAS/IPS hierarchy:

1. Those who directly pass exams to become IAS/IPS.

2. Those who rise from lower state cadre posts to IAS/IPS.

3. Those who join higher state cadre posts and get promoted to IAS/IPS.

4. Those from reserved categories who directly become IAS/IPS.

5. Those from reserved categories who join lower state cadre posts and rise to IAS/IPS.

6. Those from reserved categories who join higher state cadre posts and get promoted to IAS/IPS.

From the outside, all are seen as IAS/IPS, but within, their distinctions are clearly understood.

Below elite Brahmin and royal families are their employees, the Ambalavasi.

In Malabar, Ingal-Inhi word coding likely existed between Brahmins and Ambalavasi.

I’m unsure of the exact word codes in Travancore, but similar hierarchical coding would have existed.

Such word coding is what South Asian historical studies should meticulously document. I’m unaware if anyone has done so.

Instead, history studies are filled with names and accounts of kings and wars, which lack significant relevance.

In early times, Shudras may have been appointed by Brahmins as foot soldiers, overseers, or supervisors of general labour classes. They were a kind of lower ethnic group.

However, their role as executors of Brahmin commands, shaped by language codes, would cause widespread manipulation. They could address anyone below them as Inhi and were likely organised and armed.

Remember, there was no concept of public law then. The English Company likely introduced it.

Historical writings hint at such dynamics, though I haven’t studied them deeply. It’s highly plausible.

Brahmins and Ambalavasi likely addressed Shudras as Inhi or Nee.

Shudras, in turn, likely addressed those above them as Ingal in Malabar. In Travancore, the elite term Ang is seen, and other terms may exist.

Any ethnic group migrating to Malabar from anywhere, once they learned the local language, would be suppressed through the Shudra’s Inhi term.

Additionally, terms like ALe, Ane, Eda, Edi, Onu, OLu, Avan, AvaL, or bare names would further suppress them and sow discord among them.

Below Shudras lived countless people and ethnic groups. Local feudal languages could keep them divided.

Moreover, different social strata of ethnic groups initially harboured intense rivalry. Over time, each group settled into its assigned status, with individuals competing, backstabbing, deceiving, and betraying one another.

Gaining the favour of superiors is a deep desire instilled by feudal languages.

This is the social structure created by local feudal languages. Wherever these language speakers go, they recreate this atmosphere.

I haven’t reached the intended topic for today. That can be for the next piece.

[VED]

The present-day state of Kerala is, in reality, a region formed by the amalgamation of two distinct historical traditions.

One is British-Malabar, and the other is the Travancore kingdom. Though the Cochin kingdom existed between them, for the purposes of this writing, it is treated as a shadow of Travancore’s bureaucratic and social culture.

Cochin was a small region. Without the constraints of British-India, Travancore could have annexed it at any moment.

There was also a region called British-Cochin adjacent to the Cochin kingdom.

The people of British-Malabar and Travancore were markedly different.

Nevertheless, it seems that some high-caste families from Malabar were invited to Travancore, provided with palatial residences, and their men were used to produce offspring with women from the Travancore royal family and others, forming a cultural practice.

Similarly, it appears that Nairs and others from Malabar were settled in Travancore, with successful efforts to intermingle their bloodlines.

That’s not the point I intended to discuss.

In British-Malabar, the bureaucratic system attempted to establish a You-You communication relationship with local people proficient in English.

This can be inferred from Mrs. CPS’s words. During her college years (1930s-40s), most students conversed in English among themselves.

They referred to their teachers by prefixing their names with ‘Mr.’

However, there was a Malayalam teacher in Travancore’s language. He alone was referred to with the suffix ‘Mash’ after his name. When mentioning him, the students’ egalitarian ideals faltered, implying a lapse in social equality.

The local language was a blend of Malabari and the Malayalam brought by Travancore migrants. Consequently, teachers were addressed as ‘Sir’ rather than with ‘Mr.’ prefixed to their names.

The weight of the local language is evident here. The teachers were locals, not Englishmen.

In the local culture, the superior was Ingal, and the inferior was Inhi—Oru and Onu.

Among superiors, the term Ningal was used, i.e., Oru-Oru, Ayaal-Ayaal, or Oru-Ayaal. This is a more complex space, which I won’t explore now.

For women, the dynamics were even more intricate, but I won’t delve into that either.

Numerous castes and their internal hierarchies also existed.

People generally addressed officials as Ningal, and officials reciprocated with Ningal.

However, socially backward individuals addressed officials as Ingal, and officials might have addressed them as Inhi.

Backward individuals would not sit in the presence of officials. Even if offered a seat, they would refuse, as language codes frame such an act as impertinence or disrespectful behaviour.

Sometimes, when backward individuals visited Mrs. CPS’s home to clarify property-related queries, they sat on the floor or stood hunched.

Even when asked to stand straight, they couldn’t. Being told to address an official as Inhi would feel similarly impossible to them.

This was in the 1960s. They weren’t behaving this way because the English demeaned them. Rather, this was the social education imparted by their social superiors.

Mrs. CPS never addressed these individuals as Inhi, as far as I observed. Instead, she addressed them by their names.

However, junior officials who entered service through the local language addressed them as Inhi.

Thus, it seems the communication system between officials and people in British-Malabar comprised four distinct interpersonal codes:

English officials and English-proficient locals: Likely used highly egalitarian English word codes.However, English or British officials were few in number in a district. The district collector, district police chief, senior forest department official, and high-ranking British-Indian Railway officials might have been British. That’s about it.

English-speaking local officials and English-proficient locals: Conversations in English, with officials addressed as ‘Mr.’ prefixed to their names. The same applied in return if the individual was socially elevated.Only a small percentage communicated this way with officials. Though English was prevalent in places like Tellicherry, the vast majority didn’t know English.

Socially grounded individuals addressing officials as Ningal: Both sides used Ningal, along with Oru or Ayaal.

Socially backward individuals addressing officials as Ingal, with officials addressing them as Inhi.

Individuals showing such subservience to officials would also display the same to their social superiors, internalising their own inferiority.

None of this was taught by the English administration in Malabar.

It’s worth noting that the lower-class Mappilas of Valluvanad and Ernad in South Malabar likely fell into the fourth category. However, Islam might have cast shadows of significant mental elevation among them. This was a major social engineering project.

Merely switching from Ingal to Inhi when addressing a Nair superior wouldn’t bring social progress. It would spark a massive backlash.

Society cannot be reimagined in Malabari language as it is in English or the Arabic of contemporary Yemenis. Social communication must be reformed by expelling the malware of communication software.

In other words, malevolent languages must be eradicated.

Violent incursions into homes and places of worship won’t dismantle the explosive codes simmering within society.

Next, we need to examine Travancore.

Afterwards, I’ll try to discuss aspects of the communication system prevailing within Kerala’s bureaucratic movement today.

[VED]

In feudal languages, whenever someone speaks to another, the word You lingers in the background, ready to oscillate between Ingal and Inhi variants.

Similarly, an awareness persists that He/She, His/Her, and His/Hers words are poised to shift, altering numerous other words and interpersonal dynamics.

To stabilise this volatility and maintain a fixed hierarchy, people constantly exert mental and physical effort.

This mindset is not produced by the English language.

If one person needs to do something and another has a different task, the latter’s role becomes one of authority. That’s how the language functions.

At a sales tax checkpoint near Bombay, I’ve seen lorry drivers address the Sales Tax Department peon, tasked with moving a bamboo barrier across the road, as Saar or Saab.

No individual can be blamed for this.

If the lorry driver addressed the peon by name, they might not be allowed to leave the checkpoint. The act of name-calling could be accused of obstructing the peon’s duties. If the driver used Nee or similar, they could face allegations of aggressive behaviour.

Here, neither the lorry driver nor the peon can be judged as good or bad. Both act according to the roles their environment assigns.

The question of how to address an official by name in Malabari or Malayalam has surfaced in local minds.

This, too, was not imposed by English rule.

In the mindset of English governance, a government employee was merely a minor worker in the nation, with wages not significantly different from other labourers.

Consequently, in British-Malabar, the public had little interest in government service.

Most government office workers spoke in the local language, making it impossible to disregard its customs and constraints.

In Malabar, the practice evolved of addressing senior officials by appending their designation after their name.

This likely prevailed in most private sectors in the local language as well.

While an English-speaking government officer wouldn’t demean others, most other officials would address socially weaker individuals as Inhi. Their wives would also be addressed as Inhi and referred to as Olu.

Those holding the position of Adhikari (today’s Village Officer) used these terms harshly.

Around 1977, in a village office, I witnessed a scene where a farmer with a dignified appearance and his wife stood before an Adhikari. The Adhikari said:

“What’s your (inte - lowest you) wife’s name? Tell her (oLodu - lowest her) to come here. Let me take a look at her (oLodu - lowest her).”

The woman, not lacking in dignity, seemed to melt, standing with her head bowed. Her body trembled slightly, her right hand unconsciously raised as if to cover her face, her eyes fixed sideways.

The Adhikari was well aware that such humiliation could be inflicted swiftly.

This authority wasn’t granted by English rule. It’s inherent in the local language.

In the Madras Presidency, Calicut was the capital of Malabar district. The lone English or British district collector couldn’t alter this social malice.

If officials were instructed to change these practices, the government system would descend into chaos and farce, with no real transformation.

This was because the locals were collaborators, participating in and upholding these language codes.

This remains true today.

Online platforms are rife with comments harshly criticising police and government official behaviour.

Yet, those writing such comments would behave similarly if they joined government service.

For government employees and the public to communicate with the refinement of English, the public must gain proficiency in English.

Since officials come from the public, they would naturally become proficient in English too.

Implementing such a massive change isn’t particularly difficult. A government decision to prioritise high-quality English education would suffice.

Public education could be streamlined to focus on high-quality English learning.

It’s worth noting that the current 10, 15, or more years of education often provide little benefit to most. I can’t delve into that now.

Whether today’s educational experts understand what constitutes high-quality English is unclear. Over the past seven or eight decades, high-quality English has been systematically erased from education.

Since the inception of Kerala, a group with a vested interest in erasing English from people’s minds existed in Malabar and Travancore. These individuals claimed the title of cultural leaders.

Though not formally organised, they may have been united in mindset and personal interests.

When Calicut district was formed in 1957, this group likely renamed it Kozhikode in English, proclaiming their immense patriotism.

In 2011, I filed a writ petition in the Kerala High Court against mandating Malayalam in education and administration. Behind the scenes, efforts were made to trivialise this petition.

Nevertheless, the Chief Justice heard the arguments and accepted the petition.

The Chief Justice also formally stated in court that English is an egalitarian language.

No Kerala newspaper discussed this news. A person with close ties to a newspaper told me that cultural leaders had instructed all newspapers to suppress even a hint of this.

If people gain proficiency in English, Malayalam newspapers and magazines would face a severe setback. Even today, many journalists display intellectual prowess by translating English content.

Around 2000, a senior official at a major Kottayam newspaper openly told me:

“Malayalam is our market. If people learn English, we lose our market. So, we tell people not to learn English. Doesn’t every enlightened Malayali fall for our words? Isn’t that why Malayalis pride themselves as enlightened?”

If the public becomes enlightened in English, another group that would suffer is Malayalam filmmakers. Some, in earlier times, drew grand inspiration from late-night English movie screenings.

Travancore-legacy filmmakers weave tales of the English trampling and humiliating their beloved enslaved people into scripts, profiting gleefully.

Yet, no one seems to have questioned why Travancoreans were so certain British-India functioned this way.

Turning fabricated tales into films yields mesmerising profits, as such stories evoke intense emotional and physical thrills.

Today’s writing seems to have veered off course.

I intended to discuss the communication customs in Travancore’s government bureaucratic system. It feels like the writing wandered slightly into the wilderness before reaching that path.

[VED]

The requirement in Malabari and Malayalam to append a respectful word after a person’s name is also mandatory in Hindi and other South Asian languages, though Hindi is somewhat simpler.

In Travancore, an official is Saar, and a common person is Ningal. However, a school teacher is Saar, while a school student is Nee or Thaan, placing the student a step lower.

In the 1980s, when I joined college, I noticed some teachers addressed students as Ningal or Thaan, avoiding Nee. There seemed to be a perception that Nee carried a degrading, almost satanic connotation. However, teachers trained in Malabar generally used Nee.

During pre-degree studies, many classmates used Thaan among themselves, and this was also my experience in school.

In North Malabar, it seems Inhi or Nee was prevalent everywhere. I’m unsure about Kasaragod. In South Malabar, it might have been Ijj. I don’t know precisely.

The key distinction is that degradation was harsh in Malabar then, and still is.

However, a socially grounded person and a government official were roughly on the same level, likely due to English rule’s influence.

In Travancore, a person seeking education wasn’t heavily degraded, but family status influenced this, especially in rural areas.

A hierarchy existed between officials and socially grounded individuals: the official as Saar and the individual as Ningal.

A socially ungrounded person was Nee before an official in Travancore, and others would address them similarly.

In Travancore, Ningal was understood as a degrading term, though this is a complex picture.

Friends used Nee or Thaan among themselves. Less familiar peers used Ningal. If a socially lower person used Ningal, it was seen as degrading.

In Malabar, the term Saar was largely unknown until the 1980s. Teachers were addressed as Ningal or Ingal, as were officials.

Thus, in Malabar, Ningal was a respectful term.

The origin of Saar in Malayalam (Travancore’s language) is unclear. Many assume it derives from English Sir.

If true, Saar should have existed in British-Malabar, but it didn’t.

Native Life in Travancore notes that Saar is a Persian word meaning “head” or “leader”. Sarkar (government) also comes from Persian.

Quote: Sirkar Pers. Sar, head; kar, business The native Government. End of Quote

Saar doesn’t seem to exist in Hindi, though Hindi has Saab and Memsaab.

While Saar can be used like English Sir, its semantic scope is tenfold greater. Only a small fraction of its usage aligns with Sir.

Saar impacts many word forms in Malayalam, unlike Sir, which doesn’t affect other English word forms.

In British-Malabar, terms like Saar likely lacked longevity among those interacting with officials or engaged in major commerce, as English was widely used.

Moreover, Travancore’s legal restrictions—prohibiting ordinary people from wearing dignified clothing or jewellery—were absent in British-Malabar.

British-Malabar’s people lived under an English administrative framework, while Travancore’s lived under their royal family.

These are vastly different in quality: the former a mesmerising framework, the latter a shadowy one.

It’s like comparing a taxi driver in old England to one in modern India—distinct life experiences. Many aspire to leap from the latter to the former.

When high-quality, low-cost textiles from Manchester’s mills flooded British-India, many in places like Tellicherry, including lower-class individuals, embraced refinement—a fact.

Yet, many elite families and social reformers opposed this and the English language.

Some of these elites, who shed crocodile tears over weavers’ plight due to imported textiles, had for centuries indifferently enjoyed their slaves’ suffering in their fields.

In 1947, Britain’s leftist Prime Minister handed British-India to his London associates, Nehru and Jinnah, splitting it. Suddenly, British-Malabar and Madras Presidency fell under North India’s Hindi empire.

Much could be said about this, but I can’t delve into it now.

Post-1947, Malabar faced a strange experience.

One group sought to erase Malabar’s English veneer. Another aimed to replace Malabar’s language with Travancore’s Malayalam. Note that old Malayalam film songs, Vayalar, and others didn’t exist then.

Malabar was a delightful region for Travancoreans—a point I’ll elaborate on in the next piece.

I’ll later discuss changes in Madras Presidency’s government service. It became Madras State, then was carved into new states.

In Travancore, government employees received low salaries, like in Malabar, but with the understanding they’d take bribes. The royal family reportedly had no issue with this corruption, as it allowed low salaries.

Jobs were given to those loyal to the royals. Many government roles were licences to extort, requiring only loyalty to the royals.

This is documented in Native Life in Travancore or similar texts.

Thus, Travancore had low-paid but high-earning government officials.

The foolish notion that raising salaries would curb corruption is also noted in that text.

When British-India’s southern regions became Nehru’s empire, efforts were made to erase English administrative systems. Traitors in each kingdom facilitated their annexation into Nehru’s empire.

As each kingdom was absorbed, these betrayers became the region’s big shots. Those who betrayed their kings and kingdoms were enshrined as freedom fighters and leaders in official histories.

Travancore’s merger into Nehru’s India posed a major threat to Malabar’s English systems. Whether anyone understood this then is unclear.

[VED]

With the formation of Kerala on November 1, 1956, Malabar’s stature plummeted sharply.

The new state’s capital was Trivandrum. From there, Malabar seemed like a remote corner at the edge of the world, where people couldn’t even speak Malayalam properly.

The state legislature, government department headquarters, PSC, and military battalions were all based in Trivandrum. Over the decades, smooth highways and infrastructure sprouted there.

Moreover, Travancoreans monopolised government jobs across Kerala. Once employed as a clerk, the priority was to secure a transfer to Travancore.

Many lacked interest in serving in Malabar’s government offices, as most employees were Travancoreans. Consequently, the PSC planned district-based recruitment for clerks. Malabarians didn’t yet realise that government jobs were a pathway to leap into the Saar status.

Many Travancoreans used Malabar relatives’ addresses in application forms, securing jobs in Malabar’s government offices through district quotas. Few Malabarians appeared for PSC exams, it seems.

In truth, awareness about the Kerala PSC was minimal.

In Travancore, it was well-known that roles like Sub-Inspector of Police or Forest Range Officer required hefty payments to PSC members.

A certain percentage of PSC members were representatives of ruling political parties, with seats covertly reserved for each party.

This was openly discussed in Trivandrum, but in Malabar, no one believed it. In the 1980s, when I mentioned this to a Malabarian, they dismissed it as a fabrication, saying such things would appear in newspapers like … if true.

In Travancore, government appointments involved behind-the-scenes dealings. Junior Saars eagerly complied with senior Saars across departments.

For Travancoreans joining Malabar’s government service, it was intolerable that locals addressed officials as Ningal. Many felt like they were sitting on thorns in Malabar offices.

Conversely, ordinary Travancoreans found it unbearable that Malabarians addressed socially inferior people with terms like Inhi or Nee, even without familiarity.

Corruption hadn’t yet taken root in Malabar’s government service then. Officers who joined the Madras State Civil Service through English proficiency, later transferred to the Kerala cadre post-Kerala’s formation, were senior officials in most Malabar government departments.

For MBBS and engineering admissions, there were Malabar Merit and even Thiyya Merit quotas in Kerala.

The notion that Malabarians were fools was somewhat prevalent in Travancore, though an opposing view also existed.

English-proficient young officers were an alien phenomenon in Travancore’s government service. There, senior officials were typically clerks who rose through promotions, not IAS or IPS officers.

Despite wartime railway construction in Travancore post-Kerala’s formation, travel between Malabar and Travancore remained arduous until the 1990s.

Train journeys ended at Mattancherry Terminus, where another engine was attached to reverse the train, continuing to the destination. This caused a one-hour wait at Mattancherry, with passengers sweltering inside.

Moreover, an influential Kottayam group ensured the railway was routed through Kottayam, significantly lengthening the distance to Trivandrum.

A few decades after Kerala’s formation, Malabar became a region with a large population lacking educational qualifications. Meanwhile, Travancore brimmed with BAs, MAs, BScs, MScs, and even double or triple MAs.

Yet, many of these degree-holders couldn’t speak four English sentences without pronunciation errors. Travancore’s government educational institutions taught substandard English.

In British-Malabar, such qualifications were unthinkable. In Travancore, they were handed out like street vendors banging iron spoons on pans to sell fish along Kozhikode’s coast.

Parallel and tutorial colleges mushroomed everywhere, becoming an industry where the educated taught others.

Many Malabarians visiting Travancore were clearly perceived as outright fools.

Malabarians were seen as Malabaris or Madrassis, while Travancoreans were called Stateukar in Malabar.

A prevailing thought in Travancore was that Malabar gained education and cultural refinement only after merging with Travancore.

A lower-class Christian from Trivandrum, visiting Malabar relatives, returned saying Malabar was a vast jungle, describing their stay near a forest. Such perceptions existed in parts of Travancore.

Hearing this, I wondered what they meant.

Some knew of the Thiyya community in Malabar. Senior officers transferred from Malabar to Travancore included Thiyyas, leading some to believe Thiyyas were an elite group. However, local Ezhavas claimed Thiyyas were merely Ezhavas by another name, a claim Thiyyas refuted. Ezhavas were unwilling to relinquish the polished English proficiency and fair complexion associated with Thiyyas.

Yet, some who visited Malabar and saw Thiyyas in certain areas felt they lacked such refinement.

Travancore’s government was riddled with corruption. Seeing senior Malabar officers who took no bribes, Travancorean officials thought they were mad.

A bribe-free officer was a phenomenon discussed with astonishment, as I’ve heard by chance.

Travancore’s police behaviour in the 1980s mirrored Native Life in Travancore by Rev. Samuel Mateer: arbitrarily arresting, beating, and abusing ordinary people with vulgar insults targeting parents and family in crude terms.

However, society itself had a rough culture, so the police likely reflected local norms.

In the 1980s, at Peroorkada in Trivandrum, police took someone to the station without cause. The Inspector privately revealed:

“I gave him a kick. Who knew he’d die?”

Custodial deaths were likely common.

Police constables were beyond the Inspector’s control in this regard, and no senior officer would curb their right to assault.

This was the region Malabar was annexed into.

The writing seems to have veered into history. My aim was to explore the hidden dynamics of feudal languages.

More needs to be revealed on this path, but the focus remains the language’s inner workings.

[VED]

The writing now navigates through the inner dynamics of feudal languages. However, it seems to have slightly veered into history. I’m unsure how this happened.

The aim is to view Travancore and British-Malabar as distinct regions and outline their differences systematically. Delving into detailed explanations for each point is not feasible now, as it could lead the writing down vast, divergent paths.

Travancore appears to have been a Tamil-speaking region.

Malabar had no Tamil heritage.

The two regions were inhabited by ethnically distinct populations.

However, both regions likely had social dominance by Nampoothiris or other Brahmins.

This Brahmin supremacy may have created similar lower social strata in both regions, with local ethnic groups occupying these lower tiers.

Both regions saw migrations from various parts of the world. These newcomers, unaware of the local linguistic coding, likely ended up in the lower social strata over time.

In Travancore, Jews and Syrian Christians, recognising the dangers of the local language codes, displayed intellectual prowess early on. They secured social status equivalent to Nair overseers, formalised in writing by the local king.

However, those unable to demonstrate such intellect were relegated to Pulaya status or similar, forced into degrading labour.

Rev. Samuel Mateer’s Native Life in Travancore mentions the Cunnar Pulayars of Alleppey:

Cunnar Pulayars: They speak in a dialect peculiar to themselves, which cannot be well understood even by natives of Alleppey. They are perfectly ignorant as to how they came to their present settlement. They number about 150 souls in the neighbourhood above referred to, and about the same number twelve miles off.

Summary: The Cunnar Pulayars spoke a unique dialect incomprehensible to Alleppey locals. They were unaware of how they arrived there, with about 150 people in one area and another 150 twelve miles away.

If a group arriving at Alleppey’s coast was classified as Pulayars and chained to agricultural labour like cattle for centuries, their worldly knowledge would be reduced to that of caged chickens today.

Another group worth mentioning is the Mala Arayans. Native Life in Travancore notes that the Ayyappa temple at Sabarimala belonged to them, with their divine figure, Ayyappan, believed to surpass Hindu gods in power.

How the Mala Arayans and their temple fell under Brahmin deities is unclear. History often obscures such details.

The Mala Arayans were a proud group, living apart from lower communities in Travancore’s high mountains to avoid subjugation by higher castes. Falling into their hands meant being bound by terms like Nee, Ava, Edi, and relegated to Pulayar or Parayar status, forced into degrading work.

Falling into the hands of feudal language speakers is a trap. Engaging in low-status work while adopting their language is like carrying a venomous snake on your shoulder—it will coil and crush you. Only immense collective strength can break free from this binding. That’s it.

When a new ethnic group enters a feudal language region, they must strategically align with the caste or ethnic identity of a socially dominant group if they have some wit.

A Kerala cadre officer entering Delhi’s Secretariat will be slotted into the local hierarchy based on the identity they present—IAS, Deputy Commissioner, Sub-Inspector, Constable, or Peon.

There’s a notion that North Malabar has Greek (Yavana) bloodlines. Some Thiyyas in Marukkatha once claimed this, though I didn’t believe it then, as many Thiyyas had very dark skin.

However, the Malabar Manual mentions “Jonaka/Chonaka Mappilas,” noting they were Mappilas with Yavana blood. This seemed plausible, as I recalled seeing Muslims with strikingly fair skin in Cannanore.

When I discussed this with Mrs. CPS, she mentioned seeing large Muslim joint families in Tellicherry with fair skin and tall stature, distinct from other local Mappilas.

This reminded me of seeing Thiyyas with similarly radiant skin in my childhood in North Malabar and later in Cannanore. By the 1990s, many from these families married darker-skinned Thiyyas, blending bloodlines.

Mrs. CPS’s mother was very fair-skinned. Among her nine children, the eldest daughter and two sons had radiant skin, while the others didn’t, suggesting diverse ethnic bloodlines.

The fair-skinned daughter married a dark-skinned man, and the two fair-skinned sons married women without fair skin, all to secure affluent alliances.

Wealth holds immense sway in feudal languages.

Some Thiyyas, engaged in agriculture, were suppressed by language codes, while others amassed land, rose in status, and evaded such suppression. This created divisions, disdain, and distance among North Malabar Thiyyas, shaped by language codes.

Still, the Malabar Manual speaks highly of these people, noting that their women had European-like skin tones. That these women lived semi-nude then is unimaginable today.

Consider the provided image.

The point of this discussion is to highlight that South Malabar had a distinct Thiyya ethnic group, possibly migrants from Central Asia.

When they arrived on South Malabar’s coast, they likely didn’t attain Nair status. Instead, they were assigned the Thiyya identity, which didn’t threaten the Nairs’ dominance.

When North Malabar Thiyyas learned of this, they imposed restrictions on South Malabar Thiyyas.

North Malabar Thiyyas refused marital ties with South Malabar Thiyyas, not recognising them as their ethnic or social equals.

The key takeaway is that in these regions, a new ethnic group could only join or cling to an existing social slot.

Otherwise, like the Yavana/Jonaka/ancient Greek Mappilas of Cannanore/Tellicherry, they had to live entirely apart from society, requiring immense social strength. Failing to resist social hierarchies could lead to a fate like the Cunnar Pulayars in Alleppey, replicated in North Malabar.

[VED]

In British-Malabar, officials who rose to high government posts through English proficiency held a distinct view on corruption, starkly different from those in Travancore, the subsequent Travancore-Cochin state, and later South Kerala districts.

Across South Asia, many ethnic groups historically viewed plundering as a respectable livelihood. The English East India Company curtailed this practice in many regions.

Yet, some groups preserved their cultural traditions despite this suppression.

In the late 1990s, while living in Delhi, I learned that residents of certain villages outside the city lived in great wealth without clear income sources. Their primary activity was allegedly robbing isolated vehicles at night on roads beyond Delhi.

These robbers led respectable family lives, often with religious faith.

To those within their community, their looting wasn’t seen as wrong.

Similarly, I recall visiting a large building in another state housing young women engaged in sex work.

Among them, they seemed no different from other local women, except they lacked any sense that their work was immoral.

Extracting a large sum from a client by dominating them brought these women immense pride and joy.

(Further details could be shared, but I’ll refrain for now.)

A similar mindset prevailed among Travancore’s officials. Humiliating an ordinary person visiting a government office, forcing them to address the official as Saar, and extracting money brought immense satisfaction to both male and female officials. They found life’s fulfillment and divine grace in this.

If told their actions were fraud or theft, they’d perceive the accusation as sheer madness.

There’s also a linguistic dimension. These officials didn’t take bribes with the demeanor of a thief or courtesan. The notion of bribe as understood in British-Malabar by English-proficient officials was a misunderstanding.

South Asian languages frame such payments as kanikka, archana, or kazhchadravyam—offerings to the powerful, akin to tribute. This concept was likely unfamiliar in England at the time.

This led to significant issues for Robert Clive, but I won’t delve into that now.

It’s a kazhchavasthu offered by a Nee (you) bowing before an Angu (they). In English, it might be called homage.

The greater the offering, the more it reflects the inferior’s respect for the superior.

An ordinary person entering a government office without an offering is seen as a thief by officials. In local feudal languages, an official is a divine figure, revered by devotees.

An ordinary person presenting offerings and standing in worshipful reverence will receive everything from the official.

This was a long-standing custom in Travancore, both Malabars, and likely across South Asia, upheld by local feudal languages.

For British-Malabar’s English-proficient high-ranking officials, such offerings were not only unknown but also distasteful.

In English, someone bowing, calling Saar, and begging is seen as erratic behavior or a servile disposition.

These officials worked under English superiors, emulating their mindset, conduct, language, attire, honesty, efficiency, punctuality, integrity, and social dignity. They found life’s success in this emulation.

Taking money from someone visiting a government office was outright theft to them.

It’s like saying bus passengers wouldn’t pickpocket those standing nearby. Anyone doing so is a thief.

Imagine a thieving ethnic group boarding a bus. Seeing money in someone’s pocket, they’d feel compelled to steal it, taking pride in success.

This was the mindset of Travancore’s government officials.

When I was about three, a government clerk from Travancore joined Mrs. CPS’s office in Malabar on transfer. He seemed a good man with fine manners. But within days, he reportedly developed resentment. The absence of a bribe system was seen as incompetence and mental poverty by Malabar’s officialdom, he allegedly remarked.

Hearing that ordinary people could directly meet the head official with applications, he seemed distressed, as if wondering what kind of place this was.

In Travancore, allowing ordinary people to meet senior officials directly was risky. Many wouldn’t waste the chance to lecture the Saar on laws and regulations.

When Malabar was merged with Travancore in 1956, Malabar’s senior officials likely felt they’d landed among a village of robbers.

Travancore officials, however, saw it differently.

They likely viewed Malabar officials as servile fools, slaving away without offerings or devotees, drained by meaningless government work, beaten by the English, learning their language, and living in subjugation.

Only upon arriving in Travancore did these “traditional fools” gain wisdom, discernment, enlightenment, and awakening, they might have thought.

[VED]

It appears that rigid hierarchies were embedded in the languages of Malabar, Travancore, and most South Asian regions, shaping their social atmospheres.

From this perspective, similarities likely existed between Travancore and British-Malabar in local social hierarchies, official authority, and the subservience shown by ordinary people.

In Travancore, government officials were subordinates of a royal family operating in the local language. These officials might include Brahmins, Ambalavasis, and Nairs.

Below them, Ezhavas could perform menial jobs in government offices, as defined in the local language, but were barred from similar roles in Brahmin temples due to restricted access.

While North Malabar’s matrilineal Thiyyas may have faced minimal caste-based exclusion, Malabar as a whole had various forms of social distance, disdain, and alienation, as mentioned earlier.

Compared to Travancore, the key difference in British-Malabar was that the highest authority was initially the English East India Company and later the British administration.

This led to the gradual emergence of an officialdom in British-Malabar aligned with English language norms and personality traits.

However, this was not an easy or swift process.

Nearly 99.9% of British-Malabar’s population thought and operated in the local language.

Thus, they naturally engaged with distasteful expressions and malevolent thoughts provoked by the local language.

Yet, the officialdom fostered by the local language did not take root in British-Malabar—a crucial point.

This raises the question: what kind of officialdom does a local language naturally cultivate?

The officialdom seen in Malabar today is not that of British-Malabar. It evolved after British-Malabar was merged with Travancore-Cochin, absorbing the latter’s official practices into Malabar’s system.

I plan to discuss the profound changes this caused later. Let the writing continue.

Let’s depict the officialdom created by local feudal languages.

In Travancore, the royal family and Brahmin families held the highest positions, likely collaborating and mutually supporting each other.

This support was overt, expressed in words both directly and indirectly. Failing to offer verbal support was akin to a social attack, comparable to a military assault.

This concept is incomprehensible in English.

Brahmins needed a group to perform cleaning and ritual-related tasks in their temples—Ambalavasis.

Ambalavasis were not necessarily seen as officials, but high-ranking official posts were often held by Nampoothiri or, occasionally, Ambalavasi families.

Below them were the Nairs.

In truth, Nairs were the lowest tier of officials.

This structure differs from an English social atmosphere, where officials at all levels are either subordinate to or equal to ordinary citizens.

Here, I refer to the social atmosphere created by the English language, not England’s political system.

British-Malabar’s administration envisioned an officialdom shaped by the English language.

In contrast, the officialdom envisioned by local feudal languages placed ordinary people in multiple layers below the lowest officials.

In other words, ordinary people were stratified below Nairs.

In British-Malabar, a clash occurred between these incompatible designs of officialdom. Gradually, the English-language-based officialdom gained ground.

By around 1900, local authoritative families were likely sidelined from officialdom in many areas.

Instead, a practice emerged where locals with high English proficiency filled senior roles.

For this new officialdom to gain strong social support, most people needed to know high-quality English. If the public began speaking English, social issues would slowly diminish.

Preventing this was the silent agenda of local elite and landowning families.

In Travancore, no English-based officialdom existed. There, a vast lower populace existed beneath the Nairs.

This design mirrors India’s current officialdom. I plan to delve into its inner workings in the next piece.

[VED]

This writing was deliberately delayed by a couple of days.

The delay was due to drafting YouTube comments related to Cochin’s toxic gas issue and some vehicle accidents, along with sending their copies. This was done to avoid information overload.

Today’s focus is the officialdom shaped by feudal languages in Travancore. This may apply, to varying degrees, to both Malabars and most South Asian regions.

However, the influence of diverse ethnic groups’ traditional languages and distinct historical events in each region likely shaped these dynamics.

In Travancore, high-ranking authoritative families were likely the royal family and Nampoothiris in ancient times. I’m unsure how accurate this is, as Travancore seems to have been a Tamil region.

Yet, it appears Shudras were appointed as overseers for these elite families. Whether Shudra denoted a specific ethnic group is unclear—it might have been akin to calling someone a household servant today.

In wealthy households, servants often treat lower-class visitors with a superior air, using terms like Nee, Avan, or Aval. These visitors bow before them.

This is evident today in large commercial establishments, where gatekeepers scrutinize visitors, categorize them as Adeham or Avan, and treat them accordingly.

I won’t delve into Malabar now, as it would complicate matters.

It seems Travancore believed Shudras were the lowest caste among Aryans. Thus, many Shudras themselves used the term. Nampoothiris’ claims of Aryan supremacy may have reinforced this notion.

This belief—that they were part of the great Aryan lineage—likely instilled immense confidence in Shudras. However, it’s uncertain if Shudras were a single ethnic group, as social experiences vary daily, and few dwell on the past.

Instead, individuals and ethnic groups strive to elevate their future.

This remains true today. For instance, a specific Mappila subgroup in Malabar, possibly descended from South Malabar’s enslaved ethnic bloodlines one or two centuries ago, may be unaware of this history.

Similarly, lower-class Christians migrating from Travancore to Malabar often conceal their heritage from future generations. Texts like Native Life in Travancore may evoke deep resentment in them.

Both groups craft anew, glorified historical narratives.

This is common across ethnic groups. For example, Ezhavas migrating from Travancore to Malabar adopt the Thiyya caste name.

The existence of two distinct Thiyya groups is irrelevant to them—they act as if both are one. Telling them they’re Ezhavas, not Thiyyas, often provokes visible distaste.

Thus, Shudras in Travancore were likely a lower populace across regions, appointed as overseers by Nampoothiris.

Nampoothiris claimed Brahmin status, so those under them naturally acquired the Shudra label, much like police constables are the lowest rank under IPS officers.

Travancore’s Shudras can be compared to British India’s police constables, soldiers, kolkars, peons, or clerks.

Over centuries, various ethnic groups likely joined the Shudra category. Though akin to Nampoothiris’ laborers, they stood above many incoming ethnic groups—a concept incomprehensible to English speakers.

Any prestigious ethnic group migrating to Travancore would be taught the local language by the community. If successful, they’d be defined by terms like Nee, Avan, Aval, Eda, Edi, Enthada, or Pennu, drastically lowering their status.

Their next task was to demean a lower group and rise above them, securing a stable position.

Failing this, or not attempting it, led to a fall to society’s bottom—Parayan, Pulayan, or Cheruman status. These groups likely included diverse ethnicities.

Word codes bind them to the lowest tiers. When multiple social layers suppress them through these codes, the oppression manifests in the faces and bodies of their children.

Providing minimal food and squalid living conditions turns each generation into a festering mess.

No one feels sympathy for such groups, as feudal languages silently urge the suppression of others.

As more ethnic groups fall under Shudras, the latter gain increasing superiority and authority.

To subjugated groups, Shudras become Thampurans and Thampurattis, suppressing them with Avan, Aval, and Nee.

Subjugated individuals comply, finding psychological relief by addressing those below them as Nee.

If someone resists, Shudras crush them, offering strong support to those they address as Nee. This creates and sustains chains of social subservience, discipline, and obedience.

This dynamic partly explains why patients’ relatives attack doctors in many places today—a point I’ll elaborate on later.

[VED]

The focus here is Travancore, where the language was likely Tamil.

Tamil is a profoundly feudal language. Speaking politely in Tamil often provokes condescension and mockery, stirring an urge to demean the speaker.

Honouring the superior, enabling their dominance, and prostrating at their feet are the paths to success, social elevation, and status above others.

Being demeaned in feudal languages creates a mental, social, marital, familial, and occupational state unimaginable in English.

The Inji👇 - Ingal👆 ladder phenomenon does not exist in English. Descending this ladder diminishes one’s communication and other abilities. Physical strength, muscular build, or loud protests yield little benefit.

Let us continue.

Shudra overseers gradually organised and consolidated in society. Among them, clear hierarchies of superiors and subordinates emerged.

However, the subservience shown by subjugated ethnic groups below them stemmed from observing Shudras’ own subservience to Nampoothiris above.

For ethnic groups from foreign lands who fell to Travancore’s social bottom, their true heritage likely faded within a few generations. All they knew was their place on some rung of the Inji👇 - Ingal👆 ladder below Shudras.

Yet, the desire to attain Shudra status was intense, akin to today’s fervour to secure a government peon’s job.

An On or Inji could swiftly transform into Saar, Madam, Or, Ol, Addeham, or Avar. This shift is inconceivable in English.

Such a verbal elevation would draw admiring gazes from many men and women. The person’s words, tone, and touch could gain a divine aura, their mere thought evoking positive energy in others’ minds and bodies.

A once-demeaned individual could ascend to divinity overnight. Some women might even cast longing, love-filled glances.

In reality, Shudras were likely a lower populace. But in feudal languages, gaining authority reshapes language dramatically, embedding new words and personality traits. This affects all spoken terms, profoundly altering everyone’s mindset.

Nampoothiris, like today’s IAS or IPS officers, gazed downwards from above, demanding absolute obedience from those below. Without it, they would lose potency.

Meanwhile, ethnic groups below Shudras needed their presence. Feudal languages bred hatred, rivalry, and anxiety among them.

To these groups, the most familiar Shudra was a visible deity, ensuring protection in their daily lives.

Shudras also ensured that groups below them would not upend the social order—meaning they upheld the caste system.

Everyone aspired to Shudra status. Today, many would pay hefty bribes to become a police constable—a similar zeal likely prevailed then.

It seems unlikely one could bribe Nampoothiris to gain Shudra status, as they controlled all economic resources. Nampoothiris likely faced their own mental, familial, and social anxieties, constraints, and boundaries.

They, too, had linguistic fears. They had to visibly uphold their claim to Vedic Aryan bloodlines, mastering Vedic literature to reinforce this.

This linguistic superiority assured their dominance.

In Malabar, some Mappila families with Arabian bloodlines maintained spiritual claims, offering partial protection through word codes. Nampoothiris’ Aryan lineage likely functioned similarly.

Today, Vedic literature holds little practical value for most Nampoothiris, so many avoid studying it, focusing instead on government jobs or emigrating to America.

However, descendants of former lower castes show enthusiasm for Vedic studies, believing it’s a remarkable heritage they can leverage for prestige.

Nampoothiris likely endured the anxieties of feudal languages, retreating to their illams or agraharam villages, much like IAS or IPS officers isolate themselves today.

Nampoothiris reportedly shielded their women from lower groups’ gazes, akin to how Muslims concealed their women, as noted in Travancore.

A Brahmin from another region recorded Nampoothiri women’s seclusion in Travancore, quoted from Native Life in Travancore:

The women are guarded with more than Moslem jealousy: even brothers and sisters are separated at an early age. When the Nambdri lady goes to worship the village god or visit a neighbour, a Nair maid, who accompanies her, commands the retirement of all the males on the road, while the lady moves all shrouded in cloth, with a mighty umbrella, which protects her from the gaze of profane eyes.

[VED]

In British-Malabar, the government officialdom that the English administration sought to establish likely resembled the officialdom found in England.

However, the sole fact that people in South Asia spoke feudal languages made it impossible to create an officialdom akin to England’s.

The reason is the profound hierarchy among ordinary people. If a subordinate addresses an official as Ingal, the official would, quite reasonably, address them as Inji.

How, then, could an officialdom like England’s be established in such a context?

Shudra individuals were likely equivalent to today’s police constables. They could thoroughly suppress the numerous lower groups beneath them. Simultaneously, these lower groups would show great respect and loyalty, striving to earn the Shudras’ affection.

This immense social reverence for Shudras caused some discomfort to Nampoothiris and, to a lesser extent, Ambalavasis under them. Yet, society functions as a vast machine. No one can unilaterally alter its operational mechanics significantly.

At the same time, various rivalries and intrigues would unfold among Shudras, as distinctions between greater and lesser among them emerged over time.

Initially, Shudras likely received meagre wages, but this was no limitation.

By using words like Nee, Avan, Aval, Eda, and Edi in the local language, they could extract anything from the lower groups.

These lower groups could not organise against this, as linguistic word codes kept them divided.

The status bestowed upon Shudras by Nampoothiris was highly valuable. Losing it would lead to social ruin, a fate more harrowing than a police constable losing their job today.

The phenomenon of grand favour is a significant feature of feudal languages, entirely absent in English.

In English, providing someone with a good job does not lead to any significant personality development in them or their family.

In feudal languages, however, certain jobs trigger explosive growth or disintegration in the word codes associated with the individual and their family.

When such a reward is promised, the individual and their family would be willing to offer anything in return.

Whether the matrimonial custom known as Sambandham between Shudra and Nampoothiri families was crafted this way is unclear. However, I believe feudal languages foster such a mindset in people.

Shudras did not merely receive a good job but gained social authority. Those who failed to attain this status lived like worms in society.

There seems to be a slight inconsistency or logical gap in the above.

I understand that Nampoothiris did not seek Shudra women for sexual needs at will.

The eldest Nampoothiri could marry within their community. Younger Nampoothiris could enter Sambandham with Shudra households. Most such relationships were short-lived, which could have been either a problem or a relief.

I won’t delve into that, as I believe it was addressed earlier in this writing.

Another point is that feudal languages embed word codes that naturally evoke profound respect and subservience in women toward superiors. If a superior approaches them sexually, some women may find great fulfillment in it. Variations of this may also occur in men, I believe.

The peculiar Nampoothiri Sambandham likely produced a unique generation among Shudras—children without fathers. However, in early times, this did not seem to manifest as a flaw, limitation, inadequacy, or deficiency in these children. Their maternal uncles filled the father’s role.

This led to a family system progressing through female lineages among Shudras—namely, the matrilineal Marumakkathayam system.

The recognition that these children carried Brahmin blood likely earned these Shudra families immense societal respect.

This could have spurred significant psychological growth among them.

Over time, they likely began appending Nayakan, Nayan (singular), or Nayar (plural) to their names—a profound shift and advancement.

This is akin to today’s police constables being redesignated as Civil Police Officers. This elevates them beyond mere peons, freeing them from the obligation to perform menial tasks.

Generally, many constables in government service are not expected to perform petty tasks. In settings where they are defined by word codes as superiors, even their senior officers cannot ask them to fetch a glass of water. This is because constables recognise themselves as Grade 4 officers.

The culprit is the local feudal language.

However, in the police force, it was clear that a constable was not an officer. Often, in forest operations, constables were tasked with fetching water or performing other menial duties for officers.

Going forward, new constables may need to be appointed for such tasks. Yet, the issue persists—they, too, are government officials.

In feudal languages, at times, a glass of water can carry the weight of a boulder.

[VED]

It seems that Indian feudal languages share a particular type of coding. While not identical across all languages, broadly speaking, South Asian languages exhibit a similar pattern of hierarchy.

In other words, if these languages are given free rein, they will, over time, create a specific kind of social atmosphere.

However, South Asian history has seen the arrival and intrusion of various linguistic groups. Their influence and pressures have left marks on the region’s social atmosphere.

Yet, it appears that most ethnic groups entering this subcontinent adopted the local languages of their respective regions. In doing so, they assimilated into the local social atmosphere, embracing and adapting to its hierarchies.

The English, however, seem to have distinctly distanced themselves from this linguistic atmosphere. That said, some Britons appear to have acted contrarily, becoming friends with local social elites in British-India, and even turning into liabilities or adversaries to the English administration itself.

Today, I intend to discuss another matter.

The arrival of English rule in South Asia, for the first time in the region’s history, enabled the emergence of a governance system that disregarded local feudal languages, along with numerous other developments it fostered.

The presence of this English-language administration shook the entrenched social structures of these regions to their core, overturning and suppressing them in many places.

Generally speaking, in the social atmosphere created by feudal languages, a class like Nampoothiris is inevitably formed. Below them emerges a class like Nayars.

In Malabar and Travancore, these groups were known as Nampoothiris and Nayars. In other South Asian regions, they likely bore different local names.

A smaller version of this social design can be observed in various power collectives across these regions.

In government civil departments, police forces, among doctors and their aides, lawyers and their clerks, RTO officials and associated driving school staff, and so forth, feudal languages invariably create this design of an upper tier with an attached lower tier.

Below this collective lie the ordinary people.

However, it is worth noting that most institutions seen in India today were initiated by English rule. (In places like Travancore, many government institutions were created by emulating British-India’s systems.) Thus, it will take time for the organisational framework established by the English to fully erode.

The English-language atmosphere does not foster collectives like those mentioned above, but I cannot delve into that now.

Today, in Kerala, government officialdom, including the police department, is gradually reverting to the Nampoothiri-Nayar design.
In Travancore, this structure persisted largely intact until around 1947. After 1947, lower castes began entering this framework.

Though Ezhavas and other lower groups ascended to Nampoothiri and Nayar positions, the organisational structure remained unchanged. New Nampoothiris and new Nayars emerged, now including lower castes.

Just as Nayar overlords once beat people, breaking their limbs, the new Ezhava ‘Nayar-position holders’ might do the same as police officials. In other words, though the ethnic groups changed, the feudal language continued to shape individuals in these roles with the same disposition.

Things were different in British-Malabar. However, by 1956, British-Malabar’s officialdom was effectively dismantled, reduced to a mere name. Travancore’s systems took over entirely.

I recall a line spoken by a character in an old film:

If one who does not stink begins to stink, they become supremely foul.

Malabar’s officialdom and other systems fell into a similar state.

The British-Indian administration, which had upheld Malabar’s English rule systems from above, vanished abruptly one day. Much could be said about this, but I won’t pursue it now.

In truth, the social elevation of Nayars through word codes likely caused some unease for Nampoothiris and, to an extent, Ambalavasis.

For Nampoothiris to move about publicly, they faced a situation akin to today’s IAS or IPS officers under the local language. Namely, the escort of a Nayar individual or individuals was mandatory.

Without this, they could not freely roam streets, markets, or village fairs.

With each passing generation, some Nayars amassed wealth and social respect, much like today’s police constables and those just above them.

Nayar families once organised into collectives known as Arannooru (six hundred). I lack detailed information on this, but I understand it involved four Nayar families from each thara, totalling 150 families per Arannooru.

They declared their responsibility to protect the caste structure, meaning no individual from one caste could enter another. Each family was obligated to continue their hereditary occupation across generations. The Nayar position was reserved solely for Nayar families.

This is akin to appointing only the children of police officers as police officers, or police families hereditarily remaining police officers.

Moreover, only family heads participated in these Arannooru collectives. These included local chieftains, mediators, and dignitaries.

Those who fell under their authority were trapped. Like today’s officialdom, these Nayar collectives grew powerful.

This organisational strength could be likened to today’s NGOs or police associations. Their leaders began offering warnings, advice, and directives to Nampoothiris and royal families, likely continuing to provide protection as before.

In other words, Nampoothiris and royal families could not make unilateral decisions without heeding these leaders. They could not appoint whomever they pleased as Shudras or Nayars.

Some Indian academic scholars, with exaggerated knowledge, even proclaim this as a grand democratic tradition that evolved in South Asia.

To sum up, with the disappearance of English rule, old institutions are resurfacing. The peculiarity is that no one seems to notice this profound shift. Each generation only knows what they have seen since birth.

A person born during English rule perceives a vast empire seized by the English. That is what they hear and know.

[VED]

I am currently writing about the fundamental structure of the officialdom naturally created by South Asian feudal languages.

Those at the highest level first select some of their lowest subordinates and designate them as Shudras.

These Shudra rank-holders gradually suppress numerous ethnic groups beneath them using linguistic word codes.

Thereafter, they secure certain privileged positions within these word codes.

Over a few centuries, many of them amass significant wealth and social prestige.

With this, they move toward organisational strength. Eventually, their leaders reach a stage where they can speak face-to-face with Nampoothiri rank-holders, discuss matters, assert their rights and authority, and more, making this a tangible reality.

One point omitted in the above outline is that these Shudra individuals produced Brahmin offspring through their women.

One might wonder which husband would consent to this.

However, in the social atmosphere of that time, such a question held little relevance.

Consider further: which father would live in a nearby region without showing any affection or acknowledging their bond with their own son or daughter?

Which mother would take pride in her children having multiple high-ranking fathers?

Which man would feel or show greater affection for his sister’s children than his own?

In Travancore at that time, Shudra individuals were likely not true Shudras. They may have been appointed as Shudras by Nampoothiris. This position was paramount to them under linguistic word codes.

The firm belief that their sister’s children carried their own bloodline would prevail in every family member. However, Shudra men of that era had no such assurance about the children born to their wives, nor did they seem to harbour significant grievances about it. That was the norm.

What society demanded was authority.

Being handsome, honest, respectable, affectionate toward children, deeply devoted to one’s wife, or highly knowledgeable held no relevance in social interactions.

An authoritative person is Addeham, a Thambran, or a Thamburatti.

A person without authority is Avan, Aval, mere Nee, or addressed as Eda or Edi.

With each generation, the proportion of Brahmin blood in these Shudra individuals likely increased, infusing their linguistic word codes with great prestige.

Consequently, these Shudras transformed into Nayars. In reality, they may not even have been true Shudras but rather pseudo-Shudras.

This could have been an issue for the Nayars of that time. Any lower individual could attain the same Shudra status by providing various favours to Nampoothiris.

This likely posed a social threat to established Nayars, much like the threat police officers face today.

Today, anyone can rise to any rank in the police through competitive exams. Someone beaten by the police could, years later, join the police department as a senior officer.

Nayars organised to halt this. Their stated justification was that protecting the caste system was their duty.

These organised Nayar leaders could, to an extent, keep Nampoothiris in check, much like police union leaders today can control IPS officers.

More accurately, the police department as a whole can keep the government in check. This is not widely understood today.

Imagine if Nayars went on strike one day.

The lower groups would break free and act recklessly. They would storm Nampoothiri illams, produce offspring with their women, desecrate Brahmin temples, and seize wealth stored in Nampoothiri homes. They might even do worse.

When Sultan Tipu invaded Malabar, and Nayars fled for their lives, it was these lower groups who ran amok. This reality underscored the importance of Nayars’ presence to Nampoothiris.

Around the 1930s, when lower ethnic groups seized Brahmin temples and other sites in British-Malabar and other British-Indian regions, Nayars and their equivalents in those areas did not remain loyal to Nampoothiris. This was because, in such regions, English rule had replaced Nampoothiris’ authority.

In Travancore, however, Nayars seem to have protected Brahmin institutions. I am not certain of this.

In earlier times, it likely worked like this:

Nampoothiris stood as overlords over Nayars. However, Nayar leaders provided fitting directives, advice, and warnings to Nampoothiris.

An incident around 1982 in Trivandrum illustrates this, which I plan to include in the next post.

[VED]

The narrative concerns what would happen to the Nampoothiris (Hindus) and the temple-dwellers who stand with them if the Pariahs leave and the Nairs, collectively organised, go on strike for a while.

With the advent of English rule in Malabar, the Nairs withdrew their traditional loyalty to the Nampoothiris. Moreover, they lost a clear line of leadership. This was because 29 kingdoms were unified, and the English administration introduced a police system to enforce written laws across these regions.

Consequently, when the lower-caste Mappilas ran riot in Valluvanad and Eranad, the Nairs were rendered helpless. The issue was not that they went on strike at the time.

Before the English rule, the Nairs had organisational strength in each kingdom. If they withdrew their support, the Nampoothiri households would fall into disarray.

I cannot recall precisely, but this pertains to an event that occurred around 1982.

Without any warning, the police force in Trivandrum city vanished for a day.

I came across a mention of this event on a YouTube channel that crafts cinematic stories. The channel described it as a communal riot in Trivandrum that lasted a few days. When history is recounted, this serves as an example of a story lingering in memory without any factual basis.

I was in Trivandrum at the time. Though I did not witness all the events firsthand, I saw parts of it.

It may well be true that this event had a communal backdrop.

The previous year, in Alleppey, a procession celebrating the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday was underway. It seems a police vehicle entered the procession, leading to a verbal dispute. A clash ensued between the police and the procession members. The police vehicle was set ablaze, and one policeman, likely the driver, died.

In Travancore, Muslims are generally referred to as Methanmar, as I understand it. Among them, there are various ethnic groups. Many lower-caste individuals likely converted to Islam. However, I lack detailed knowledge about these people. Still, they differ, to an extent, from the Mappilas of Malabar.

In Travancore, I understand that the term Mappila refers to Syrian Christians.

Provocation often begins with words, and most violent acts stem from them.

In those days, news from Malabar rarely reached Travancore, and vice versa. There were only three radio stations, each audible clearly only in their immediate vicinity.

Additionally, there were two major Malayalam newspapers based in Kottayam and Calicut, along with smaller local papers confined to their respective regions.

English newspapers had very few readers. However, they were of a distinctly higher standard than regional language papers.

In Alleppey, a policeman was killed. The police likely apprehended the culprits—or those they suspected—and dealt with them harshly. The Muslim faction was part of the ruling coalition, and accusations may have arisen that the culprits were protected.

It seems a massive protest grew within the police department in Travancore.

I believe there was no police personnel union at the time. Yet, the police force secretly conspired, devised a plan, and included disruptive elements, saboteurs, thugs, and looters loyal to them in the scheme.

It seems that on the anniversary of the Alleppey incident, the police vanished from Trivandrum city.

In the morning, it was evident that the previous night, all Muslim commercial establishments had been looted. A few days later, as the city moved towards peace, a newspaper published a vivid image of a gold shop owner weeping while clutching the Chief Minister’s shoulder. I vaguely recall the shop’s name as Karim’s.

Initially, for a couple of nights, only Islamic businesses were looted. Thereafter, the looting lost its communal character. It underwent a significant social transformation, shifting from communal to secular looting.

One day, while walking through Thampanoor, I saw shops with broken shutters, looted. A few small roadside stalls were still operating.

One such stall sold cassettes and cassette players. I witnessed a group of people storming in, shouting vile abuses, slapping the shopkeepers, smashing shelves, grabbing whatever they could, and fleeing.

This happened around three or four days after the initial incident.

I heard that in areas where people lived in thatched huts, arson took place at night. It was said to have been communal in nature, though this is hearsay, and I cannot confirm its truth. Stories circulated that sand-filled sacks tied to sticks, soaked in kerosene, and set alight were thrown onto thatched roofs at night.

There were also tales of intruders entering homes and molesting women. Who attacked whom remains unclear, and whether these stories are true is uncertain. However, it was the police department itself that orchestrated these events from behind the scenes.

A radio broadcast announced that martial law had been imposed in Trivandrum. The next day, a convoy of military vehicles from the Pangode military base, a few kilometres away, moved slowly through Trivandrum’s streets. Each vehicle was equipped with mounted guns, manned by expressionless soldiers.

For the soldiers, it might have been a pleasant city patrol, a refreshing break from the monotony of camp life and parades.

The city was silent. It was the Indian Army that had been deployed. When the British-Indian Army imposed martial law in Amritsar in 1919 to quell a communal riot, people paid a heavy price.

However, in 1982, it was the Indian Army that enforced martial law in Trivandrum. The city fell silent at night. Discussions took place between the government and the police faction.

In this police force mutiny, IPS officers likely had little involvement, as many were not from Trivandrum or Kerala. Who led such a severe conspiracy and mutiny within the armed forces remains unknown. I have read that under the Indian Penal Code (IPC), sections 34, 120, 323, 334, 409, 447, 506, and others could lead to punishment.

Given that the IPC itself is a relic borrowed from British-India, I am unsure what to say about these provisions.

Mutiny in the armed forces, I understand, is punishable by death.

Another realisation is the connection between looting movements and the police.

I do not wish to delve into such matters.

The point was to discuss the hold that Nair organisational leaders had over the Nampoothiris.

Police constables, inspectors, DySPs, and IPS officers follow government directives. However, their organisational leaders wield significant influence.

Similarly, the Nairs showed great subservience to the Nampoothiris, which was the foundation of their existence. At the same time, the Nampoothiris, royal families, temple-dwellers, and others must act cautiously to avoid inviting trouble.

Below the Nairs are numerous subjugated ethnic groups, who are not entirely non-violent either. Local feudal dialects likely instilled various destructive tendencies in them as well.

[VED]

I was discussing the social atmosphere created by feudal languages and the bureaucratic system within such societies.

The hallmark of this bureaucratic system is the dominance of elites like the Nampoothiris and the Nairs who stand beneath them. Clinging to the Nairs are groups that reflect their abusive language, the shadow of their authority, and their lack of decorum. These groups exist under every Nair establishment. That is the picture.

Below this structure are various ethnic groups, living in layers, betraying one another, stabbing each other in the back, and showing immense subservience to the bureaucratic system.

This is the simplified depiction of South Asian social design.

In such a structure, those who serve as bureaucrats—defined in feudal languages as authorities—amass vast wealth. This means that approximately 80 to 90 percent of the income from a region’s resources is acquired by these elites and their administrative cohorts.

The clear reason for this is that seeing greater wealth among those deemed superior is perceived as a justification for the reverence given through language and physical deference. This is a source of gratification.

Realising that a person perceived as superior lacks significant wealth or power creates unease, as if one has been deceived.

Moreover, when superiors and their followers use words like you [nee], he [onu], she [olu], that one [ane], this one [ale], hey [eda], get lost [poda/podi], boy [mone], girl [mole], lad [chekkan], lass [pennu], or just a name, it devalues the individual. This instils a self-imposed belief that one is entitled only to a meagre income and basic comforts.

The mere act of sitting in the presence of a superior is perceived as spreading filth in their environment, a thought that takes root in the mind of the subjugated.

There is some truth to this mindset. If a person of the lowest rung expresses equality with a superior, the superior is shamed. This, too, is a reality in feudal languages.

It means that superior language is a language that shames people.

Let me mention another matter.

Many children of India’s wealthy elite today migrate to English-speaking nations. There, they work alongside ordinary labourers, performing similar jobs. Yet, they would not deign to live among those doing the same jobs in India.

I seem to have strayed from the point.

The point was something else.

Feudal language is the language of governance today. However, India’s Constitution is written in English, embedding notions of human dignity and rights.

This country is a democracy.

Let me state a fact. Until 1947, this country was democratic. The English administration clearly understood that bureaucrats were mere servants of the people.

In 1947, a group of minor bureaucrats loyal to Nehru roamed South Asia, subjugating surrounding nations and making them pledge allegiance to him.

Thereafter, bureaucratic supremacy grew steadily. Today’s bureaucratic system is not the same as that under English rule.

Yet, per the Constitution, bureaucrats are merely the people’s servants.

This means an ordinary person can address IAS or IPS officers as you [ningal]. Even addressing them as you [nee] would not be unconstitutional.

However, if an ordinary person spoke this way, other ordinary people would find it intolerable. They would seize the person, beat them to a pulp, hand them to the police, and feel satisfied.

It is worth recalling that in British-Malabar, a system existed where ordinary people could address IAS or IPS officers as you [ningal].

In Malayalam, the language of governance, IAS or IPS officers are expected to address their subordinates—DySPs, CIs, SIs, head constables, and others—as you [nee].

Yet, I doubt there is a 30-year-old IAS or IPS officer in this land with the courage to address a 45-year-old head constable as you [nee]. It is unlikely. In Tamil Nadu, it might be seen, but Tamil operates differently, and I cannot delve into that now.

Per Malayalam’s governance norms, a 30-year-old IPS officer must address their DySP, CI, SI, head constable, and others as you [nee]. This is their linguistic and official responsibility.

Instead, this IPS officer and their subordinates would dare to address a 50-year-old ordinary person without respect, using words like you [nee], hey [eda], or what’s that [enthada]. This boldness elicits awe from other ordinary people, who may even regard the IPS officer as a great figure.

However, with Malayalam as the governance language and India’s Constitution in place, an ordinary person can enter a government office, address anyone there as you [nee], and demand services. Legally, there is no fault in this.

Yet, I doubt even a single judge in this country is aware of this.

Terms like uniformed officer or uniformed policeman are often heard.

I first heard this phrase in 1983, in a personal matter.

An IPS officer said:

You must understand that a uniformed officer arrived there.

It seems that IPS officer lacked understanding.

Many government employees wear uniforms: chief peons [dafedars], gardeners, building and toilet cleaners, street sweepers, vehicle drivers, staff in government-run residential facilities, postmen, KSRTC bus employees, peons and higher ranks in Excise, Central Excise, and Customs, police constables, and their superior officers—all wear khaki as their uniform.

Airlines owned by the government use uniforms with different colours.

The military also has uniforms.

It is astonishing that many high-ranking individuals are unaware of what these uniforms represent.

These uniforms signify only that the wearer is a servant paid by the people’s wages. The moment they don the uniform, they must address any citizen as sir [saar], brother [chettan], sister [chechi], or similar respectful terms.

They must not use words like you [nee], hey [eda/edi], a plain name, he [avan], she [aval], mone (child), or mole (child).

Most Malayalam speakers would likely consider the above utterly foolish.

This is also true, as it does not align with Malayalam’s social design.

Malayalam’s linguistic codes point in the opposite direction. In this language, the common person is merely a foul entity, a notion most ordinary people often agree with.

There is no point discussing the Constitution, human dignity, or rights in this foul language. Those advocating for such matters define others in the same foul language.

The human dignity and rights in the English-written Constitution can, in truth, only be implemented by a society living in English.

Speaking of English-language rights in an opposing language is sheer folly and a waste of time.

Let me conclude with one more point.

In English, the word tenure means the holding of an office—the duration of a job, with no connotation of authority.

An IAS officer’s time as a District Collector can be described as during his tenure as the District Collector.

In Malayalam, however, tenure is often translated as period of authority or reign.

In English, a District Collector merely performs a job in that role, with no right to rule. Governance is by the people, through elected representatives.

A policeman checks a vehicle. In English, they have no authority to impose a fine, only the responsibility and duty to do so.

Yet, if one realises there is no authority, only responsibility and duty, the vehicle owner might act superior—a possibility rooted in Malayalam’s coding.

This coding creates specific mental attitudes.

Blaming anyone is pointless.

[VED]

I had decided not to weave history into the current trajectory of this writing, as it focuses on depicting the inner workings of local feudal languages.

However, having written about the Nampoothiri-Nair social positions created by feudal languages, I intend to mention a couple of points about their natural progression before steering the narrative elsewhere.

Readers must understand that the Nampoothiri and Nair social positions are not ethnic distinctions. These positions are crafted by local feudal languages. Over centuries, various ethnic groups likely strove to ascend to these roles. Each century spans 100 years, and one can only imagine the events unfolding in a small kingdom annually.

Records indicate that among Nampoothiris, some were of true Brahmin lineage, while others from different ethnic groups climbed into Brahmin status. Additionally, some fishermen [Mukkuvars] became Brahmins.

In Native Life in Travancore, Rev. Samuel Mateer writes:

….. that it is difficult to find pure Brahmans or Kshatriyas anywhere, more especially in the south of India, the popular traditions may embody some fragment of truth regarding the transformation of fishermen into Brahmans by Parasuraman investing them with the sacred thread.

Dr. W. W. Hunter remarks:

The Brahmans throughout India are of two classes — more ancient settlers, and aboriginal superior natives raised, as tradition generally asserts, to this rank. The Namburis, for example, are said to originate from fishermen: But in spite of their descent from a low caste fisher-tribe and semi-aboriginal customs, they make high claims, and despise other Brahmans.

These excerpts, provided earlier in this writing along with their Malayalam translations, clarify that Nampoothiri and Nair may be akin to today’s IAS/IPS and police constable—distinct social positions. Over centuries, many lower ethnic groups likely ascended to these roles in various kingdoms, while some high-ranking individuals may have lost their status.

Today’s Nampoothiris in India are akin to IAS/IPS officers, while Nairs resemble police constables.

Both groups constantly conspire to ensure their positions remain within their families.

Comparing them to British-India’s bureaucrats is foolish, as those were employees of the English administration. Today’s bureaucrats are authority figures in a local feudal language governance system.

In every small kingdom, some Nairs emerged as great warriors, hailed as heroes by the subjugated masses, who worshipped them from a slave-like status.

The enslaved masses would sing praises of Nairs’ six-foot stature, refined physical grace, and exceptional weapon skills, believing these Nairs were protectors of their kingdom, king, and themselves.

From Johnston’s Relations of the most famous Kingdom in the world (1611 Edition): At seven years of age they are put to school to learn the use of their weapons, where, to make them nimble and active, their Sinnewes and Joints are stretched by skilful fellows, and annointed with the Oyle Sesamus: By this annointing they become so light and nimble that they will winde and turn their bodies as if they had no bones, casting them forward, backward, high and low, even to the astonishment of the beholders. Their continual delight is in their weapon, persuading themselves that no nation goeth beyond them in skill and dexterity.

The reality, however, is different. These Nairs, with immense wealth and grandeur, do not come to protect the enslaved masses, whom they view as mere filth. While they may create epic tales of valour through internal conflicts, they do not exert themselves to protect their kingdom, king, or Nampoothiris when faced with a formidable enemy. They occupy the Nair position for social prestige and wealth, not to risk injury or death for others. Those who did were the fools, not typical Nairs.

When Mysoreans attacked under Sultan Tipu’s leadership, Nairs fled—not for lack of courage, but because their loyalty was only to themselves and their families. Moreover, local languages do not foster collective resistance against enemies.

Similarly, when lower-caste Mappilas attacked in Valluvanad and Eranad, Nairs fled.

They displayed superior weapon skills and physical prowess daily, surpassing today’s Indian soldiers. Yet, when a strong assault came, their training proved worthless.

This is said to address today’s new Nairs—the Indian military and police.

They are tasked with protecting this land’s citizens, for which they receive substantial salaries. They do fulfil this duty, but they protect the enslaved masses of this nation. Their salaries range from 10 to 50 times that of an ordinary citizen.

They show little affection for these enslaved masses, defining ordinary people with words like you [nee] or you [thu].

Ordinary people lack mutual respect, a mindset created by this land’s feudal language.

Yet, the sight of soldiers in gleaming uniforms with robust physiques inspires awe and the belief that they will protect us.

The police’s role was discussed earlier. In Trivandrum, the police demonstrated their indispensability by orchestrating chaos through calculated moves, showing that their absence breeds anarchy.

Today’s Indian police force is formidable. If they decide to act from any corner, their organisational strength allows them to ensnare anyone anywhere.

This reassures the enslaved masses in many ways, as it did in the past. Every subjugated person has private property to protect, and the Nairs’ presence ensured this.

However, when the English East India Company’s police arrived, people realised who had truly protected them all along.

Now, consider the military.

In 1947, when Clement Attlee divided the British-Indian Army between Nehru and Jinnah, India’s territory included several self-governing regions. Telangana, Goa, Jammu & Kashmir, Sikkim, and Rajasthan were never part of British-India. Parts of Karnataka, Chhattisgarh, Kerala, Maharashtra, Orissa, Punjab, Gujarat, and Himachal Pradesh were also excluded. Many northeastern regions resisted being handed over to India by Attlee.

When Nehru’s bureaucrats annexed these regions, significant issues arose in some areas.

In most regions, people focused on their own affairs, striving for high posts in the new nation. Elsewhere, independence movements emerged, many crushed by the Indian Army. The methods used are not detailed here.

The enslaved masses view soldiers quelling these movements as great heroes. Media campaigns celebrate their high salaries, weapons, aircraft, and ships. Consider this: purchasing a fleet of fighter jets reportedly costs Rs 1.5 lakh crore—1.5 trillion rupees.

But reflect: will a military with such vast salaries and privileges protect this nation’s enslaved masses?

In the past, only military officers sent their children to English-speaking nations. Now, ordinary soldiers strive to do so, as their income allows it.

In England, soldiers earn salaries comparable to ordinary private-sector workers. They are part of their people, not heroes of an enslaved mass.

(Today, things may change in England, as it fills with foreigners. It would be foolish for their army to fight to protect them.)

In northern Malabar, the enslaved masses sang ballads praising their Nair heroes. Things remain much the same today.

But how long can this nation’s enslaved masses sustain a military amassing such wealth?

Having said this, let me add one more point.

Youngsters aspiring to join the military or police are like those who once sought Nair status.

These recruits are not villains. They do not enslave people. The local feudal language designs the social structure.

[VED]

All the books I have written are available as PDF digital books. However, they were best suited for use on laptops or desktop computers, which was a limitation.

A few weeks ago, I painstakingly developed the technical expertise to create versions that can be comfortably used on mobile devices. Being engrossed in this task caused my mind to drift away from the flow of this writing.

I am now resuming the flow of this narrative.

This writing currently focuses on depicting the inner workings of feudal languages.

I left off discussing how South Asian feudal language social environments naturally create a Nampoothiri-Nair dominance. These terms, Nampoothiri and Nair, are merely replaced by names suited to the local language in each region.

The clear pattern in this social structure is to define those at the bottom with derogatory words and to display self-debasement to the fullest extent possible towards those above. One cannot behave otherwise in these languages. Failing to conform is considered sheer insolence.

To illustrate, let us examine a few interpersonal systems:

The police system

The lawyer and lawyer’s clerk partnership

The doctor and doctor’s assistant partnership

The RTO officers and driving school staff partnership

Feudal languages divide people into two groups: those at the bottom and those at the top. This is a relative definition.

In South Asian feudal languages, youth is often a personal flaw that facilitates one’s degradation.

Generally, individuals engaged in jobs deemed degrading by local derogatory languages are spoken to in demeaning terms when interacting with higher interpersonal systems. The lowest ranks in these systems use disrespectful words without restraint towards those designated as inferior by the local language.

The source of this behaviour lies within these systems.

Senior police officers use derogatory words towards police constables. Constables, in turn, must show subservience through self-debasing language towards their superiors.

A lawyer uses similar derogatory words with their clerk, who responds with subservient, self-debasing language.

The same dynamic exists between a doctor and their assistant.

A driving school owner displays immense subservience to RTO officers while using derogatory words with their own employees.

These employees, in turn, speak demeaningly to learners deemed inferior by language codes.

The common thread is that an ordinary person can only show subservience.

If a patient’s relative asks a doctor’s assistant to speak more respectfully, the complaint ultimately targets the doctor. The doctor addresses patients deemed inferior as you [nee], and patients cannot protest. If they do, the doctor develops intense personal animosity.

An ordinary person entangled in a legal case would not dare confront a lawyer’s clerk similarly.

An ordinary person seeking a driving licence typically hesitates to demand respectful behaviour from a driving school employee.

This is because, during the driving test, RTO officers address the ordinary person with disrespectful words.

It is crucial to understand that in each of these interpersonal systems, the subordinate aligns with being demeaned by their superior. This is the only way local derogatory languages can design such systems.

The demeaned subordinate finds life’s fulfilment and satisfaction in degrading others.

What we see here is a malignancy and mental disorder—disrespectful language—spreading from top to bottom.

However, the true source of this mindset is not within the interpersonal systems illustrated.

Local feudal language schools are the origin of this toxic mental state.

Teachers place students at a low level, addressing them as you [nee], you [inhi], he [avan], she [aval], he [onu], she [olu]. These teachers position themselves as sir [saar], master [mash], you [ang], you [thangal], he [oru], he/she [oru], he [adheham], she [avaru], madam [maadam], or you [ingal].

This interpersonal system design matures into the partnerships mentioned above.

Students are distinctly kept at a lower level. English-only students lack this inferior status, but they never adopt the superior mindset of sir [saar], master [mash], you [ang], you [thangal], he [oru], he/she [oru], he [adheham], she [avaru], madam [maadam], or you [ingal].

Students educated in feudal languages develop a mindset below equality. They show immense subservience to those who control them, displaying deference and self-subjugation.

However, they show no subservience to those without authority over them, often using disrespectful words, even if sparingly.

South Asian feudal languages inherently compel the use of hierarchical word choices, directly or indirectly. I won’t delve into that now.

Individuals raised at a lower level exhibit competitiveness and aggression absent in English, with a deep-seated mindset to prevent others from advancing.

This linguistic mindset does not foster a natural inclination to queue. Instead, barging in to achieve one’s goal is seen as efficiency and capability. Standing behind someone deemed linguistically inferior is a personal insult in local feudal languages. A car or lorry driver cannot follow a two-wheeler in an orderly line.

Related points are discussed in Chapter 17 of Volume 1 of this writing: The mental codes of riff-raff behaviour.

There are further language-related matters, but I cannot address them now.

Those raised at a lower linguistic level must never be granted mental equality by those at a higher level. In local feudal languages, higher-status individuals enjoy various social and linguistic privileges.

These privileges are denied to those at lower levels. Even if equality is proclaimed, this disparity is evident in many social systems.

This fosters intense personal animosity in the lower-status individual towards others.

If a higher-status person uses equal language codes with a lower-status individual, the latter does not rise. Society, through widespread derogatory language codes, keeps them degraded. Rising from this is not easy (though ways exist, which I won’t discuss). Instead, the higher-status person’s standing diminishes.

If a high-status individual maintains their social prestige while mingling with lower-status people, they are hailed as a great figure. However, if lower-status individuals begin using language that erodes this prestige, the great figure turns into a great villain.

This is not a personal flaw. It is the only way local feudal languages can sustain interpersonal relationships.

[VED]

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