17. Scattered thoughts in my mind

[VED]

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[VED]

1. A matter which trivial English cannot achieve

2. What can be done from a distant background

3. The analogy of the beehive

4. Dual demeanour

5. Convention and efficiency

6. The land of cunning minds and beastly dispositions

7. Upper class - lower class

8. To make a gentleman a warrior

9. To purify the wicked

10. On learning multiple languages

11. The condition of releasing toxic fumes

12. The spider web of language and the train accident

13. Into the backstory of mental disorders

14. To make the exalted a fool

15. The gems from antiquity

16. The public examination system for government job

17. On the futility of educational qualifications

18. The offensive word - Ningal (stature neutral you in Malayalam)

19. The true nature of the royal family

20. Comparing the official systems

21. Officialdom and police heritage in Travancore

22. On turning British-Malabaris into Keralites

23. Roots of official misconduct

24. Watching the dance without knowing the story

25. The power of officials

26. The clash of two vile cruelties

27. A land’s stench can be traced through its laws

28. The plight of the lower castes

29. Brutal officials in a brutal kingdom

30. History of ethnicity scrubbed out into oblivion

31. Police and custodial interrogation

32. The police system in Travancore

33. Reforms with only superficial changes

34. A Police Act in British-India

35. Organised resistance and language codes

36. Creating a governance system with high social equality

37. The officials left in the lurch by the English rule

38. Various government positions

39. Fearsome-sounding official titles

40. Matters in Malabar

41. About the piling up of blunders

42. That not even a single paisa will be increased

43. English Official Procedures

44. Human rights of government officials

45. When the reins of Malayalam words are unleashed

46. This language which has a hypocritical mindset has to be banished

47. The language and words that induce epileptic seizures

48. Mansabdari in words

49. The Satanic language is the problem

50. Auspiciousness and inauspiciousness signs displayed by individuals

[VED]

Look at this provided image. It is a painting from 1800 or thereabouts. You can see a servant serving food to Nair women. This person is likely a Nair individual as well. Nevertheless, the title of a servant of the superiors is evident on this person.

In this person, you can observe a mechanical bow, a stoop, or some other servile gesture. This is a gesture that shapes the design of linguistic words. If this gesture is expressed, it suggests to the superior that a Nee - Ingal personal relationship exists.

At the same time, if this servant behaves without bowing, it might create an impression that this person is addressing someone who should be called Saar as Ningal. In other words, it’s akin to an ordinary person addressing a government official as Ningal.

This is something a government official would not tolerate. The reason being, they prefer the gesture mentioned earlier. A Ningal - Ningal relationship is unbearable for them.

Sometimes, the subordinate who behaves without bowing might even evoke a sense in the superior that they are being addressed as Nee. In other words, an outright insolent. This is not something that can be permitted in any way.

The reality here is that the subordinate person has not used any words at all. Instead, they simply did not bow their head or body. This creates significant ebbs and flows in linguistic words.

This phenomenon can be defined, if you will, as a non-verbal signal. It is indeed a significant matter in feudal languages.

In complaints like, “I didn’t say anything bad, yet he got very angry with me,” such a factor often plays a role.

In husband-wife relationships, worker-employer relationships, police behaviour, government clerks’ conduct, and many other contexts, such a matter can cause major outbursts.

However, creating such an explosive non-verbal signal in the English language is indeed difficult. To achieve such an outburst in English, one would need to carefully orchestrate deliberate steps.

From here, I move directly to another matter: the phenomenon of the mental platform, or the mental upper tier or lower tier.

In feudal languages, individuals are said to stand on various rungs of a ladder, from Inhi👇 to Ingal👆, put very simply.

This exists as a mental state in individuals. For example, “I am a doctor,” “I am an IPS officer,” “I am a police constable,” “I am a teacher”—such languages establish a sense of superiority in the respective individuals.

This kind of upper-tier mentality is usually very firm. In feudal language regions, people strive hard to acquire and stand on such a firm mental platform.

The reason is that if one manages to secure such a platform, no remarks from others can dislodge them from it.

Words like Saar, Doctor, Maadam remain unshaken on their platform. Words like Adheham, Avaru, Oru, Olu cannot, in ordinary circumstances, be displaced by minor slanderous stories.

However, the situation is entirely opposite for those who fail to secure such a platform. Individuals referred to as Avan, Aval, Onu, Olu can be spoken about in any manner. In other words, they suffer from a profound lack of strength.

A person in the Ayaal position has less positional strength. A small slanderous story is enough to push them into the pit of Onu or Olu.

Yet, many individuals in society who lack such a high formal platform live on a good mental platform. To maintain their platform at an elevated level, they or those standing with them must act strategically and efficiently.

Connections with high-status individuals, indications of great financial strength, stories of receiving grand respect, or holding a highly prestigious job position—these must be spread in society, both explicitly and implicitly, through conversations and hints.

This must be provided most powerfully to individuals of lower status in society or nearby areas. Their respect is an absolutely essential nourishing element in feudal languages. If they lack respect for you, your position is as good as finished.

Sometimes, the hints given in this manner may be hollow. Ordinarily, this poses no danger. However, a companion who, unintentionally or otherwise, reveals that such hints are hollow through words or suggestions is indeed dangerous.

For example, I say to a socially lower-status person living nearby, “I bought this car.” Then they respond, “Your friend told me this car was only given to you temporarily by your uncle!”

What happens here is that, through various verbal hints, a few of the bamboo poles on which a person stands above the social pit are cut from below. The person quickly falls into a socially dangerous pit, a state that spreads through words in society.

This can also impact the spoken codes associated with that person’s other family members. It’s enough to turn a wife from Oru to Olu.

It’s also worth noting that such mental disturbance does not exist in the English language. No matter what anyone says, words like “You,” “Your,” “Yours,” “He,” “His,” “Him,” “She,” “Her,” “Hers” remain unshaken. Personal relationship links do not budge.

Let me illustrate this with an example once more.

A person’s elder sister married a high-status individual in society. In other words, this person is the younger brother of Oru or Adheham’s wife.

However, this person’s younger sister married someone defined by low-value words in the local language. In other words, this person is the elder brother of Onu or Avan’s wife.

This person gets into a problem. At the place where the issue occurs, everyone knows this person is the younger brother of Oru or Adheham’s wife. This provides them with significant protection. However, neither this person’s elder sister nor her husband comes to the scene of the issue. There’s no need for that. Merely indicating their connection is sufficient.

At the place where the problem occurs, it’s this person’s younger sister and her husband who show up. They come to help. However, they commit a grave assault in terms of spoken codes.

“Is this the elder brother of Onu’s wife? Is Olu his younger sister?”

With this, the reins of words are lost. Words like Eda, Nee enter the conversation. A direct blow to the face might even occur.

No such disturbances are possible in the trivial language of English.

[VED]

The matter I am about to discuss was intended to be included in the previous writing but was omitted.

An IPS officer, both in their professional domain and in private settings, remains an IPS officer. In other words, when this person is seated in their professional arena, no one can suddenly, from some distant place, reduce them to the rank of a police constable.

Such occupational positions are inherently secure in this manner.

Similarly, a household servant, regardless of the setting, remains a household servant. No one can suddenly, from a distant platform, elevate this person to an IPS officer.

The mental states of both these groups, as well as how others evaluate them, are firmly inscribed in local feudal language word codes, as if written on a rock with a steel tool.

However, for individuals operating in society without any positional status, such a rock-solid social standing is nowhere to be found. Remember, this pertains to the context of a feudal language social environment.

Such individuals are rare in society. This is because most people operate from some secure positional status. This helps each individual project a distinct personality.

Yet, some individuals, without any support from social or occupational positions, proclaim a lofty personality and operate across various platforms. From an English perspective, this is a common matter.

However, in feudal language regions, this is a form of deception. If people recognise this person’s lack of positional security, they will mockingly point it out. Who does he think he is?

This is one aspect of the matter.

There is another side to this same issue.

Some individuals may have dual social standings in the background—one of great eminence and another of diminished status. However, they may lack a position that clearly grants them a defined status. Nevertheless, they use their own personality and other attributes to operate on lofty platforms and get things done.

The dual standings in their background exist as a dangerous physical reality. When such a person operates in a highly serious professional domain with an air of great eminence, certain significant individuals in the background pull their status down to a lower level. How this is done is not detailed here.

Imagine the scenario where an IPS officer, confronting a major social upheaval with the eminence of their professional position, is suddenly reduced to a police constable from the background. The IPS officer becomes ineffectual. The task they were handling falls into disarray.

A person of great intellectual strength can be seen transforming, in a mere moment, into a feeble, enervated individual. Such a development typically affects those who, without maintaining or being able to maintain a clear social platform, operate while proclaiming an aura of lofty intellectual exchange.

What has been described is a physical reality. In other words, the truth is that behind physical reality lies a transcendental software platform that binds everything together.

In feudal languages, individuals are connected to many others through various subservient links and other ties. These others have the power to either energise a person or render them inert.

From here, the writing points to another matter. That can be addressed in the next writing.

[VED]

Just as we observe an ant colony or a beehive today, English individuals should have viewed South Asian crowds in a similar way. However, they lacked the insight to do so. They encountered people in South Asia, Africa, the American continent, and even continental Europe who bore a striking resemblance to their own physical nature.

Consider an ant colony.

Among those ants, there exist intricate social and personal relational links that are invisible and incomprehensible to us. Some ants may be great leaders, while many others belong to various subordinate classes. There may also exist intense loyalty, allegiance, subservience, and more among them. Yet, we cannot discern any information about these matters.

Similarly, when English people encountered South Asian populations in earlier times, they failed to grasp many aspects.

Personal relationships in feudal languages differ from those in English. Elder brother, elder sister, mother, father, younger brother, younger sister, teacher (male), teacher (female), neighbour (male), neighbour (female), and others are distinct in feudal languages compared to their English counterparts.

Likewise, wife, husband, their relatives, and friends are equally distinct.

In English, all such personal relationships lack any hierarchical codes, directional cues, or links that can pull or push someone out.

However, in South Asian languages, all such relationships are governed by Inhi - Ingal words that either stand firm like an immovable rock or toggle like a place experiencing constant tremors. These two words also influence the form and movement of countless other words.

If such fixed or unstable links, prone to positional shifts, existed only between two individuals, it would create a relatively minor complexity.

However, the web of links across all the personal relationships mentioned above resembles a beehive teeming with bees, buzzing, frothing, and humming.

Some strive to maintain the hierarchy in each link, while others attempt to dismantle it, aiming to establish a new link that places them higher. This process may occur silently and covertly at times, or openly with great fanfare at others.

This beehive phenomenon is not something observable in an English language social environment.

For this reason, workplaces, marital relationships, and other contexts in a feudal language social environment possess a profound complexity unimaginable in English.

Small-scale words can wield immense power in critical positions, much like pulling the trigger of a gun with a slight press of a finger. But when the trigger is pulled, the gun fires. A massive explosion may occur, potentially causing injury or harm to another.

One thing worth mentioning here is the concept of kuthithiripp (backbiting). It’s unclear if there’s an equivalent English term for this.

In feudal languages, this kuthithiripp seems tied to the oscillations of eminence and degradation within word codes.

Referring to someone previously addressed as Saar as Ayaal, or someone addressed as Ayaal as Avan, even with an innocent or utterly pure demeanour, can cause a seismic shift in personal standings.

However, the matter I intended to address here is something else.

In a personal relationship community buzzing like a beehive, if a critical positional shift in word codes occurs at a decisive point for an individual, it can affect their mind, personality, mental state, and physical energy.

Imagine an IPS officer leading hundreds of police constables in a situation requiring great leadership skill. Suddenly, the sensation of being demoted to a constable rank enters their mind and energy as a software coding.

While this scenario may seem improbable, many equivalent situations are possible in feudal language personal relationships.

Before concluding today’s writing, let me recall a song from the film Chemmeen.

The song Pennaale Pennaale.

In a feudal language environment, marital relationships contain personal relational links, with codes of loyalty, allegiance, closeness, distance, deceit, and betrayal, that surpass what can be imagined in English.

When translated into English, such actions may appear devoid of any deceit.

A slight elongation or shortening of these links, or a minor pull in any direction across 360°, can cause strengthening or weakening in the connected individual.

If a wife stands and shows subservience (respect) in the presence of someone competing with her husband in word codes, it can cause a depletion of energy in the husband’s physical being. Many such scenarios exist, which we can explore later.



Song Lyrics Translation: Not errorfree

In olden times, a fisherman went for pearls,
Lost in the western wind’s dive.
His waist-bound girl sat in penance,
And the sea mother brought him back.
If the fisherman goes in his boat,
You are his guardian, oh!
Hoy, hoy!
Your man, your man, isn’t he your husband?
Or he won’t see the shore.
Oh girl, oh lapwing-eyed girl, dark-fish-eyed girl!

[VED]

Let me begin today’s writing by discussing the concept of kuthithiripp (backbiting) mentioned in the previous writing. In feudal languages, this is indeed a perennial phenomenon. While something similar can be done in English, the mental predisposition that naturally inspires or provokes such behaviour is absent there. English lacks the word codes that facilitate this.

A society in a feudal language is a complex collection of 3D webs. The links in these webs consist of various levels of indicant verbal codes. While one might say that the most fundamental words among these indicant verbal codes are Nee, Ningal, and Thaankal, in reality, their shadows and influence persist in the various forms and expressions of thousands of other words.

The words Ingu vaa (come here) themselves, when paired with Nee, Ningal, or Thaankal, undergo changes in form and tone.

Although English lacks a similar phenomenon, the words “You come here” can be modified to “Can you please come here?” or “Could you please come here?” to introduce slight variations in expression and corresponding tonal shifts.

However, in a large web of English-speaking individuals, such changes do not cause significant tension or structural shifts.

In feudal languages, the situation is entirely different. In feudal languages, a large group of people is interconnected by You, He, and She words of varying levels.

Here, the phenomenon of kuthithiripp often operates by expressing opinions about individuals or by sharing private or previously unknown information about them.

This action activates a mechanism in feudal languages that does not exist in English.

To put it simply, an individual may shift from Avan to Adheham or Oru, or from Adheham or Oru to Avan. However, even without changes to words like Adheham or Avan, the numerical strength of the codes within their inner layers can shift.

A change in the word codes associated with one person alters the form and expression of numerous related words. Moreover, it affects the word codes linked to other individuals connected to that person. Some may shift from Avan to Adheham, or the reverse may occur.

This can create an experience where the entire web of people sways and trembles.

In feudal languages, every organisation has a flow of focus directed upward from the bottom. This flow moves through everyone in the organisation toward the top. If an individual with a mental disposition contrary to this flow joins the organisation, words, tones, information, and more that oppose this flow will spread from that person into the organisation.

If the upward flow is strong, others will push this disruptive individual out. Otherwise, that person may spread a state of malaise within the organisation.

Let me mention another matter related to individuals joining organisations. When a person joins an English organisation devoid of any hierarchy, their natural character and behaviour remain largely unchanged. This is because others within the organisation address and refer to them in the same way as people in the outside world.

However, when a person joins an organisation in a feudal language, they undergo immediate mental, personal, and body-language transformations.

In the outside world, this person may be addressed by others as elder brother, younger brother, Adheham, Avan, Thaankal, Ningal, Nee, and more. They live with a specific mental and personal disposition that shifts according to the context of these interactions.

But upon joining the organisation, this person continues to live bound by a variety of links distinct from the word-based relational links of the outside world.

Feudal languages are languages that proclaim and project big person and small person in every word.

If a person who was a big person outside becomes a small person within the organisation, it can cause significant mental distress.

If a person who was a small person outside becomes a big person within the organisation, the word codes may create a dominant mindset in their psyche.

Which rung on the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder a person occupies when joining the organisation, and what their word-based position was on that rung, is a major factor. I won’t delve into that here.

Simply put, the person inside the organisation is often markedly different from the same person outside.

Another related point is that within the organisation, a person does not operate or behave as an individual.

Inside the organisation, that person becomes part of a larger link. In feudal languages, a person is not an independent individual with a free personality as imagined in English.

Walter Lawrence, an English official in British-India, observed the social environment in Kashmir and reportedly described it as follows:

Kashmiri Pandit officials may have been individually gentle and intelligent; as a body, they were cruel and oppressive.

The Kashmiri Pandits referred to here are the Brahmins of the region. As individuals, they are highly refined people. However, toward the communities under their control, they behave collectively with great harshness and cruelty.

This, too, is a distorted disposition created by feudal languages.

In everyone who speaks feudal languages, this dual nature persists.

[VED]

This writing currently focuses on describing the inner coding of feudal languages. While addressing the Mappila Rebellion in South Malabar, I briefly began writing about the invisible yet immensely powerful coding in the local language of this region, which has turned into a lengthy discourse.

Some matters being written now may have been touched upon earlier.

This writing continues. After this section, I plan to return to history.

Most aspects of local feudal languages differ from English. In fact, one could even consider English people and feudal language people as two distinct species. However, as English people poured all their resources into feudal language communities, both groups began to feel there was little difference between them.

The social standing and claims of various South Asian communities shifted with the arrival of British-India. I won’t delve into that now.

Let me first discuss individual efficiency. Among an ordinary crowd speaking only English, there exists a general standard of efficiency. Upon closer inspection, variations and differences may arise due to each individual’s interest in their work, skill, and other factors.

However, the situation is different for a group of ordinary individuals speaking a feudal language.

A mental focus, almost entirely absent in English, persists within them. Every action they take, every person they interact with, every occupational position they hold, and more, is governed by the thought of whether it will positively or negatively affect word codes.

The foundation of this thought is whether their actions will make them Adheham, Ayaal, or Avan.

Joining a particular occupational position raises the question of whether they will fall under Adheham, Ayaal, or Avan. This is closely tied to a state of anxiety—a profound anxiety, indeed.

Indicating a particular relationship also raises the question of whether it will make them Adheham, Ayaal, or Avan.

While these may seem trivial when written here, in reality, those operating in expansive social and professional arenas know well that such matters significantly influence behaviours and actions, positively or negatively. Doors open or close based on how others evaluate these factors.

Ordinary individuals speaking only English, operating in various positions among their peers, do not experience this mental confusion. Words do not create significant hierarchical shifts between individuals.

However, in feudal languages, even among ordinary people, various personal relational links exist. Joining any occupational position can result in feelings of tension, pressure, and more within these links.

The focus here is on efficiency, though the writing seems to veer in another direction. Let me return to efficiency.

In feudal languages, every individual in their operational arena carries an air of subservience and dominance. Even in the lowest social or occupational arenas, individuals maintain this mental disposition.

Among English people, the concept of a socially degraded occupation does not exist in word codes. However, a lack of interest in a job may exist, but it does not cause shifts in language.

In feudal languages, there is a concept called keezhvazhakkam (convention). It is often said to be the Malayalam equivalent of the English word “convention,” which is accurate in many contexts.

However, in feudal languages, this word does not align perfectly with that translation.

In every occupational, social, or familial position, an individual operates and behaves most efficiently when in harmony with the subservience-dominance relational coding. This is the keezhvazhakkam of such positions. Adhering to this convention is what manifests as the highest efficiency in that individual.

Correcting flaws or errors in the operational arena, identifying such issues, and informing others is not seen as efficiency. Instead, it is perceived as a disruptive mindset.

Alternatively, it may create the impression that the individual is trying to elevate themselves.

This is not an incorrect perception either. The nature of language words can only interpret such behavioural errors or operational flaws in this way.

Avan correcting Adheham is an act of defiance and creates an explosion in the flow of communication.

Adhering to established conventions often leads to significant personal successes.

However, systems and operational arenas become filled with uncorrected errors.

At the same time, while English systems may also accumulate various errors, individuals in various positions continuously correct them.

However, if more than one feudal language individual is placed in any part of an English system, errors may begin to accumulate uncorrected. Moreover, negative mental dispositions may creep into individuals’ mindsets. That space ceases to be an English mental arena.

[VED]

Locally insignificant Indians go to English-speaking nations. There, they display remarkable abilities. People, both in India and from afar, loudly proclaim that Indians possess such great skill and talent. Indian online media constantly trumpet this fact.

However, the reality is broader. In English-speaking nations, individuals from Africa, South America, continental Europe, Middle Eastern countries, the Far East, South Asia, and beyond frequently exhibit similar abilities and personalities, growing explosively in lofty directions—a common sight in these nations.

It’s worth considering why Indians, who display such ability and personality in English-speaking nations, cannot do the same in their native South Asia.

There is another side to this. Today, in India, Indians and citizens of other third-world nations demonstrate great expertise in the IT sector. That topic is not being discussed here.

This discussion could be framed by imagining rats and ants given technical skills and advanced tools. However, this writing does not intend to pursue that path.

I know firsthand that India has many individuals with profound English proficiency, exceptional communication skills, and more. However, these individuals can only operate in this country by confining their lightning-fast communication and the efficiency it brings within their own circles.

As an example, I had an experience around 2007.

I contacted the Indian office of an internationally operating IT company for technical support. I spoke rapidly with various technicians, switching between them. However, it was discovered that the core of the technical issue lay with an IT department owned by the Indian government.

Until then, all technicians and customer support staff had communicated in English, addressing each other by name without any hierarchical distinctions.

But when Indian government IT department officials entered the scene, everything turned chaotic. They operated in the local language, exuding a sense of great eminence. Speaking with them was difficult. While they knew English, their dominant disposition was rooted in the local feudal language.

The efficiency of the IT company’s technical support collapsed at this juncture.

A kind of anxiety, absent in English-speaking arenas, persists in many Malayalam-speaking arenas. However, in lofty arenas where hierarchies stand firm like rock, this anxiety is absent.

This anxiety affects the precision required in individuals’ work. Often, people hesitate to ask questions that could avoid errors, even when opportunities arise.

One reason may be the mental turmoil within. Alternatively, it could be the need to express subservience in words. Or it might be uncertainty about whether they or the other person holds a higher position in word codes.

Let me share a firsthand experience.

During the initial phase of the Aadhaar Card project, I completed the biometric process for a young person’s Aadhaar Card. When asked for the name, I provided it. When the Aadhaar Card arrived, there was a spelling error in the name written in English. This became a serious issue, as it would affect other related documents. Correcting the Aadhaar Card posed several difficulties for various reasons.

What I observed was that many individuals operating in the local language environment repeated such spelling errors. None of them had the disposition to confirm the spelling before writing it. The spelling they wrote bore no relation to the actual name—it was simply what they assumed.

It’s easy to ask questions of those who clearly display subservience. However, there’s reluctance to ask those who don’t stand on this path.

In government departments, many individuals make various errors. The reason isn’t a lack of skill or knowledge. Rather, it’s the absence of the natural refinement found in English speakers and the fact that they operate in a feudal language environment.

I haven’t felt that English individuals possess extraordinary knowledge or wisdom. Such extraordinary knowledge isn’t necessary. What’s needed is a language environment that allows courteous, continuous communication. With this, much of individuals’ anxiety would vanish.

Having read Kalidasa’s works or the Bhagavad Gita, or holding a doctorate in quantum physics, doesn’t bring the natural refinement of English speakers to an individual.

The operational experience of Indians living in English-speaking nations is entirely different.

In India, a competitive mindset prevails among people in all matters.

Who is he? Who does he think he is?

If he gets this, even his wife will become arrogant. Then what will her attitude be?

He needs to be put in his place before giving this to him. Otherwise, he won’t value it or us.

This mindset of arrogance and value is absent in English.

The English word for “arrogance” is arrogance. There may be arrogant people in English.

However, in Malayalam, the phenomenon of “ahankaaram” (arrogance) is created by the hierarchical nature of Malayalam words. Thus, this form of arrogance is not seen in English.

An ordinary person enters a government office in India. If the person is willing to stand beneath the hierarchies among the staff, no major issues arise. Still, the staff may try to suppress them, finding satisfaction in doing so.

If the person refuses to stand beneath these hierarchies, the atmosphere turns harsh. This is because someone defined as Avan is trying to act superior. He must be subdued to move forward.

This experience doesn’t occur in a government office in an English-speaking nation.

An ordinary person enters an Indian police station. The lowest-ranking police personnel are present. The visitor must display deference in body language and words. Even so, most people are addressed with low-level words like Nee, Avan, or Aval by police, including constables.

In English-speaking nations, a person entering a police station can sit with their personality intact. The police there are obligated to adhere to the definition of “gentlemen” in the English language.

In India, police must behave discourteously in a feudal language to gain respect. A retired IPS officer stated in a YouTube video that people will only obey if treated discourteously.

In English, obedience itself is a different concept, which I won’t explore now.

Many believe the excellence in English-speaking nations stems from advanced technology and economic strength. That’s not the true reason.

Their true excellence lies in the fact that people there don’t live or operate under feudal languages like those in India or in such linguistic environments.

An Indian in an English language environment may appear to have great skill and personality, which may be true. But it’s the English language environment that enables this.

In the US, Sundar Pichai, a top Google executive, addresses the American President as Mr. followed by their name. This is because Google operates in an English-speaking nation.

If Google were relocated to India, even Pichai couldn’t address a mere police constable as Mr. followed by their name. It might work initially, but once the American image fades, Pichai is just another Indian.

No need to mention those working in lower positions at Google. If they tried to act superior in an Indian police station, they’d not only get slapped but other Indians would applaud the police.

The situation for an ordinary person entering government or private hospitals in India deserves separate discussion.

Even while saying all this, we must remember that anyone entering any arena is a local individual. The disposition burning within them is shaped by the local feudal language. It’s this that other organisational members react to with opposition, defense, or counterattack.

Life in India requires navigating with cunning tactics against various individuals. The ability and intelligence of a person lie in navigating this way, earning high praise from others.

In a feudal language, every individual views those beneath them like a hawk views its prey. They wound the prey and ensure it remains pinned under their talons, never letting it escape.

Thus, India today is a land of cunning minds and beastly dispositions. The fault lies not in the individual but in the language.

When these people go to English-speaking nations, they experience a sense of landing in paradise.

However, their linguistic disposition and cunning may sometimes manifest there too. When this happens, English speakers perceive it as a ferocious, terrifying presence—an incomprehensible, menacing entity infiltrating their midst.

[VED]

Today, I plan to write some scattered thoughts.

The first among these is the social concept of the upper class. At a glance, this concept seems to exist in every social environment. It is visible in England too. However, when England’s upper class interacts with the common class, words do not carry a significant feudal tone.

What I refer to here is the interaction between England’s royal family, noble families, and ordinary people. Nevertheless, specific words and phrases have been crafted in English for this purpose. Some have argued to me that this itself proves a feudal character in the English language. We can explore that later.

There are specific words used only for addressing the king, queen, royal family, nobles, and their families. However, these words do not typically affect or influence the ordinary English words You, Your, Yours, He, His, Him, She, Her, Hers, or the thousands of other words associated with them.

That’s not the focus of this discussion.

The reason is as follows. Centuries ago, a European continental king invaded England and established dominance. How long this lasted is unclear. But this led to a continental European upper-class dominance in England. While these rulers may have become English speakers, the presence of these non-native English individuals persisted in England’s upper echelons.

Moreover, within Britain, Ireland, Scotland, India, and Wales—three Indian regions—coexisted alongside England, with Hindi.

These factors remained blemishes on the purity and clarity of the English language.

We can’t delve into that now either.

What I meant to say is that, in reality, the concept of an English people does not exist in the English language. Instead, there are occupational positions and familial roles. These do not influence the ordinary words You, Your, Yours, Avan, His, Adhehamal, Avalol, Ayan, or Her, or the thousands of associated words.

In English, words like Sir, Madam (Ma’am), Mr., Mrs., Jehovah, and Miss. exist. There’s much to say about these, but I won’t go there.

These words are typically used at the start of an address for someone of higher status. However, they do not affect or influence the ordinary words You, Your, Yours, He, His, Avan, She, Her, Hers, Hersal, or Ayalal, or the thousands of associated words.

How obedience is enforced in an organisation is a question many have pondered. Most who think this way are feudal language speakers. Similarly, English organisations working closely with feudal language speakers have adopted many of their methods.

For example, the English East India Company. In its early days, its officials didn’t know Malabari or Malayalam. But within a few decades, some reached a level where they could handle these languages. The Company saw this as a great advancement.

In reality, this led to the Company’s decline. Its values and policies plummeted. This set the stage for its downfall.

The Company’s local officials in Malabar shaped many of its cultural standards. Some may have tried to impose local social subservience on English officials. More likely, they defined these English officials linguistically at the same level as traditional local rulers for the common people. The locals lacked the English knowledge to do otherwise.

This is how, in northern South Asia, English officials were elevated to the status of Saab and Memsahib.

While English officials may not have fully grasped this, they too may have gradually risen to lofty heights in the local language.

Today, things have changed. The work culture in many English/American companies operating in India is no longer shaped by people ignorant of English. Instead, local individuals with profound English proficiency work in these companies.

In many English/American companies in India, not only Sir and Madam (Ma’am) but also Mr., Mrs., and Miss. are absent from workplace communication.

In an American company with a major branch in India, everyone, including the CEO, addresses each other by first name. However, this company selects employees with great care, choosing those with high English proficiency and alignment with its linguistic culture.

If such companies hired individuals capable of passing IAS, IPS, UPSC, or PSC exams, they would inherit the culture of Indian government departments.

Another example is Queen Victoria. She was England’s queen. When the English royal family took British-India from the English East India Company, the title of mere queen became problematic. South Asian maharajas would not accept being under a mere queen’s protection. Their status would diminish before local peers.

Someone in India (British-India) likely suggested that Queen Victoria’s title in South Asia should be that of an empress. Thus, the title Empress of India was proclaimed.

Moving forward, if English people start various organisations worldwide, initially hire those with great English proficiency, and carefully select others to join, exceptional organisations would spread globally.

In such English organisations, both junior and senior employees would gain an intangible mental elevation. This is because, unlike in India today, language would not create an upper class or lower class.

To achieve this, they must completely reject local feudal language cultures.

[VED]

Thoughts scattered in the mind continue to linger.

From the perspective of feudal language, it appears that the English were a crowd of people ignorant of the ways of the world and utterly naive. It seems that the modicum of discernment and wisdom that existed among them was due to the presence of Celtic language speakers intermingled within their midst.

Feudal language speakers do not attempt to uplift individuals who are socially, intellectually, or economically diminished. Even if they make such an effort, it is only after ensuring that this elevation does not affect their own status in linguistic terms.

There are certain hidden truths at play here. One of them is the ladder of Inhi👇 - Ingal👆.

In other words, the words like You, He, She, and the many other words associated with them, which define a person languishing at the bottom socially or economically, are the same in English as those associated with a person of higher standing.

However, in feudal languages, the words like You, He, She, and the many other words associated with a person of lower status are inherently inferior. There are even clear angles to the invisible links that connect such a person to one of higher standing.

When elevating such a person, what happens is that the individual is raised from one rung on the ladder of ഇഞ്ഞി👇 - ഇങ്ങൾ👆 to a higher rung.

Words like lowest you and lowest he undergo a shift in position.

Many individuals who previously saw this person as stature-neutral You will now find themselves relegated to being addressed as lowest you from the perspective of this person’s new status. This is not something they can easily tolerate.

If a person of high standing elevates a lower individual to stand as their equal, it creates an opportunity for someone previously addressed as highest you or highest him to be addressed as lowest you.

This kind of folly has been committed only by the English in this world.

If an opportunity is given to address someone previously called highest him as lowest you, it does not foster great respect, gratitude, or affection in that person. Instead, it breeds intense resentment, hatred, and a thirst for revenge. Memories of being demeaned by this person or their kin in the past will fester in their mind.

When opportunities are provided for a person at the bottom to improve, their position in linguistic terms, as well as that of their kin, shifts. From then on, they view those who helped them and their kin from the perspective of their new linguistic position. In other words, the person after receiving help is not the same as the person before.

Many forms of subservience in them may vanish.

While they might display subservience towards the person who helped them for a short time, this change in them becomes a significant source of discomfort for others. This is because, in their minds, the person they had placed in a certain position has disappeared.

This person now appears in a different position. Maintaining them in this new position requires a tremendous struggle in linguistic terms.

The English have positioned many ethnic groups across the world as their equals in linguistic terms. This includes continental Europeans, black Africans, people from the Far East, Asians, South Asians, and others.

However, even though all these groups stand as equals to the English in the English language, it is often understood that many among the English have felt some invisible difference persisting among them. Yet, they lack any knowledge from their studies in thermodynamics, chemistry, biology, political science, or social sciences to understand what this difference is. The only insight they gain is that some form of racial conservatism exists within them.

Pointing to this as a flaw in the study of thermodynamics, chemistry, biology, political science, or social sciences is possible. However, if this is mentioned now, the reader may not accept it. We can revisit this later.

If a person is shifted, either through linguistic terms or environmental influence (ambiance), from one rung on the ladder of Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 to a higher rung, it is likely to bring about significant mental exhilaration in them.

Conversely, if the same person is shifted, either through linguistic terms or environmental influence (ambiance), from one rung on the ladder of Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 to a lower rung, it is highly likely to cause significant mental distress. They may behave erratically or even become violent.

Often, they may not attack the person who demeaned them linguistically but instead target someone else within the system that facilitated this situation.

English is a language that allows for simple communication and interaction with people of varying statuses in a workplace setting. However, even in this language, it is not possible to interact without noticing status differences entirely. This is not a flaw in the language but rather a reality created by the existence of different positions in the workplace.

However, during social communication, factors such as a person’s workplace, job position, age, or their parents’ job position do not affect the interaction.

In feudal languages, however, when engaging in such communication, as long as details like workplace, job position, age, or parents’ job position are concealed, there are no significant issues. But if one person in the group reveals their job position, the tone and form of the words used by many in the conversation will change.

This also affects the social fabric of South Asia.

If there are any further corrections, additional text, or clarifications needed, please let me know, and I’ll address them promptly. Thank you for your patience!

[VED]

The next in the scattered thoughts lingering in the mind.

In feudal languages, the distinction between the exalted and the lowly exists everywhere. Yet, this is rarely seen as a significant issue. For it is an eternal truth and an immovable reality in society, like an unyielding rock.

It is only after becoming accustomed to English, a language with flat codes, that one realises this reality does not exist in English.

Some who have gained this mental awareness in English have experienced a bitter lesson when attempting to apply the same social and personal relational links they experienced in English to a feudal language.

Imagine a great capitalist addressing both his highest-ranking officer and the person who sweeps his office as lowest you.

From a quick glance through the lens of English, both these subordinates appear to show subservience to the great capitalist and address him as highest him. Thus, it might seem that both subordinates stand on equal footing with each other.

But that is not the reality. In the intangible reality of the ladder of Inhi👇 - Ingal👆, which is hard to grasp in English, these two groups stand at vastly different levels.

The great capitalist offers a seat to his high-ranking officer. But he never offers a seat to the person who sweeps.

However, a great capitalist accustomed to the English language offers a seat to the sweeper as well.

In the intangible reality of the ladder of Inhi👇 - Ingal👆, several rungs explode dramatically, creating a seismic shift in that work environment.

In other words, English is one thing, and Malayalam is another.

In Malayalam, if a person socially held at the bottom is given a chair, a table, or other amenities at an inopportune moment, for the giver to retain the existing respect, they must firmly suppress that person through strict verbal codes.

Otherwise, providing a chair, table, bed, or other amenities to that person will only diminish their respect and gratitude towards the giver.

These matters are part of a point discussed in the previous writing.

In connection with this, I recall a conversation I had. Long ago, there was a company under English ownership. Today, its owners are a South Asian family.

They brought about a social reform in this company.

In the past, an English language atmosphere prevailed in this company. Today, the English elements have been erased, replaced by a Tamil language atmosphere. That was one social reform.

The second was an even more spirited reform.

During the time of English ownership, high-ranking officers and lower employees had separate canteens for meals. But today, people of all levels eat in the same canteen.

The person working there today described this with great emotional fervour.

But I asked a question.

In this canteen, don’t the high-ranking officers address the lower individuals as lowest you, while the lower individuals address the high-ranking officers as highest him? That was my question.

The person who heard the question was taken aback. They had never known anyone to ask such a foolish question.

Yet, today, every movement in India aiming to bring about social reform would falter at this question. Driving out English, replacing it with grand air-conditioned rooms and other amenities, will not bring social reform to human minds or relationships.

Now, another matter.

English does not distinguish individuals based on age, job position, social status, economic level, or family standing in its verbal codes.

Thus, in feudal languages like Malayalam, it is a daily amusement to separate individuals with distinctions such as one friend being a doctor addressed as highest he, while the other, a mason, addressed as lowest he; or one being a teacher addressed as highest he, while the other, a student at that school, addressed as lowest he; or her being the daughter of highest him, and so on. No one sees any significant malevolence in this.

However, in English (and it seems in Arabic too), such a process of separation does not exist. Father, mother, son, and daughter all live within the same level of He and She verbal codes.

It is only when a feudal language speaker gets the chance to refer to these people that they realise, as an epiphany, that such a problem exists in the world.

There is another aspect to this.

A great person and their son—highest he and lowest he.

A lowly person and their son—lowest he and lowest he.

However, in the past, when lowly people looked at great people, they had to maintain the great person and their son as highest he and highest he.

This is the verbal elevation that great people absolutely require. If lowly people attempt to disrupt this by not granting it, they risk having their limbs broken. The great ones knew that maintaining this terrifying fear was the only way to prevent the lowly from disrupting them.

The public sees both an IPS officer and a police constable as highest he and highest he. For if they were referred to as highest he and lowest he, the police constables would be roused with resentment to thrash those who did so.

However, blaming individuals for such matters is futile. The culprit is the feudal language itself, with its malevolent nature and software virus-like environment.

If this language is replaced with the high-quality English, a great mental elevation will naturally arise in these wicked individuals. The wicked will become virtuous.

The physical sciences have no knowledge of such matters. Yet, there is no lack of claim that the final word on the reality of the universe lies with these sciences.

[VED]

It cannot be said that the facial expressions of lowly people have a deformity. For, on the ladder of Inhi👇 - Ingal👆, both the exalted and the lowly may stand on the same rung.

However, among those on the same rung, those who fall to the lower end may exhibit a sense of being mentally and physically suppressed. This may apply to people on every rung.

Some of those who are thus suppressed strive to break free from this oppression through mental exuberance, clamour, boisterousness, or loud merriment.

Such individuals can be quickly identified when driving a vehicle. Loud honking, intense competitiveness, and discourteous driving towards other drivers can be seen as identifying markers.

This phenomenon is absent in English.

Another thought lingering in the mind is about learning multiple languages. Today, on social media, one occasionally encounters individuals claiming to know many languages.

It is almost 100 percent certain that the human brain operates through a brain software. This brain software not only shapes social structures, human thoughts, and emotions but also designs the physical universe for the human mind.

Language, as a tool for communication, is itself a part of this brain software. However, language encompasses more than just communication coding. It likely influences and controls the brain software’s functioning, behaviour, character, and disposition.

In most living beings, similar communication systems and other mechanisms can be observed. These systems may encode various social structures.

For example, a colony of ants has a specific communication system and language, along with a prescribed social hierarchy and order. The ant colony lives and interacts according to this system.

However, if another language system is introduced into this ant colony, the existing social discipline might become chaotic. Alternatively, individuals in the colony may diverge into groups with different behaviours and social disciplines.

The same applies to humans.

In a region where only Tamil is spoken, if the Malayalam language spreads, minor changes may occur in the social structure.

However, since Malayalam and Tamil share similar hierarchical tendencies, no significant social division would occur.

But if English, a language untainted by any hierarchical degradation, spreads among these people, a significant division would indeed occur in that society.

Those who know English would appear distinctly different. The subservience and deference seen in Tamils would not be found in them.

Now, consider what follows.

If an individual learns multiple South Asian languages like Malayalam, Tamil, Telugu, Hindi, Kannada, Oriya, or Marathi, minor variations in behaviour might emerge in their brain software.

However, since all these languages share similar traits of subservience, inferiority, and dominance, no significant opposing tendencies would necessarily arise in the individual’s brain software.

But if the same individual learns English in its pristine, unadulterated form and uses it for thinking, imagining, and behaving, a distinctly different personality would visibly emerge in them.

In other words, learning multiple languages within the Indian subcontinent does not lead to a dual or conflicting personality in an individual.

However, if English is learned at its highest level alongside South Asian languages, the likelihood of a dual or conflicting personality emerging in the individual is very high.

This is, in fact, a mental disorder by the definitions of the foolish science of psychology.

For the purpose of this writing, the brain can be imagined as a computer. Computers have something called an Operating System, such as Windows 8, Windows 10, or Windows 11.

The different Operating Systems mentioned here have minor differences. They can collectively be referred to as Microsoft Windows.

However, Linux and macOS are entirely different Operating Systems. Typically, no one installs multiple Operating Systems on the same computer, as there is no need for it.

Moreover, installing different Operating Systems on the same computer may cause them to operate incompatibly. Still, some people do install multiple Operating Systems on a single computer.

For most people, this is an unnecessary endeavour.

The same applies to learning multiple distinct languages. In reality, it is better for others and the individual if a human brain with English installed does not have another language installed.

Similarly, if a human brain with Indian languages installed also has English installed, to fully benefit from the English language software, the Indian languages must be uninstalled from that brain.

Understand this: one software has characteristics opposite to the other.

[VED]

Around 1989, I first wrote extensively in English about the phenomenon of feudal language. Various efforts from multiple platforms were made to prevent that writing from reaching the public eye. I won’t delve into that now.

However, around 2002, I published a lengthy book online titled March of the Evil Empires: English versus the Feudal Languages. With that, the term feudal language began appearing in Google Search and other platforms. Initially, these searches pointed to my book and other writings.

But soon after, a system emerged in these search engines that began diverting online searchers elsewhere.

There are many things to say about this, but I cannot go into them now.

Another phenomenon emerged. Some individuals assigned a completely different meaning to the term feudal language—one entirely unrelated to what I intended—and began promoting it on online platforms.

Today, if you search for feudal language on Google’s Bard.ai (https://bard.google.com/), you’ll find a definition that has no connection whatsoever to the meaning I described in my writing.

It claims that feudal language refers to the social hierarchy and structure that existed in continental European societies long ago. It even lists words as examples of feudal language:

Vassal, Lord, Knight, Castle
Manor, Serf, Peasant, Tenant
Rent, Fief, Homage, Fealty
Surrender, Ransom, Crusade
Tournament, Joust, Heraldry

If this definition were translated into Malayalam, feudal language would be defined by listing words like:

King, Queen, Steward, Nair overlord, Police Sub-Inspector, Doctor, Commoner, Maid, Slave, Lorry Driver, Arrest, Obeisance, Salutation, and so on.

However, feudal language is none of these. These words represent social positions or behaviours. Behind them, certain languages operate, some of which are feudal languages. These words themselves are not feudal languages.

In society, when people in various job positions, with different age gaps in personal relationships, or with varying economic capabilities interact or refer to each other, the address term You and reference terms like He and She have different levels in many languages.

For example, in Malayalam, the word You exists in various levels: lowest you, stature-neutral you, you-sir, you-madam, highest you, and so on.

Languages with such word forms are called feudal languages. These word forms are not synonyms. Each has a distinct social or relational positioning, and they cannot be used interchangeably.

To illustrate the different human experiences provided by feudal languages and English, let’s take the word slavery.

In English, this word is Slavery.

In an English social environment, the experience of Slavery for black people was akin to receiving the refined gentleness of the English language atmosphere from the lowest rung of the Inhi👇 - Ingal ladder in African regional languages. In other words, a person who was lowest you under many rungs became stature-neutral You.

However, in South Asian languages, slavery meant dragging vibrant communities down to the lowest rung of the Inhi👇 - Ingal ladder of local feudal languages.

In other words, a person who was you-sir became lowest you.

This distinct human experience was not enabled by two different words—slavery and Slavery. Rather, it was the languages encompassing them.

South Asian employees at companies like Google and Microsoft, along with some continental Europeans, have strenuously worked to conceal the existence of the feudal language phenomenon from public attention. Some may have directly participated in this.

However, the owners of these companies or all their employees may not be aware of such conspiracies.

This itself is a feudal language phenomenon.

In any organisation operating in feudal languages, there are personal relationship links that often go unnoticed. These are often invisible networks created by word-based relationships like lowest you, highest him, elder brother, elder sister, lowest he, highest he, and so on.

Within these networks, various information, discussions, secret stories, or activities with specific intentions may exist. Each word-code route may hold specific secrets and conspiracies.

Those not entangled in these word-based relationship links will have no connection to or awareness of the activities within these invisible networks. Yet, these covert activities occur right beside them.

At the same time, such secretive personal relationship networks do not exist in English platforms without deliberate planning. This is because, in English, personal relationship links do not move through corridors formed by word-built walls.

Bard.ai concludes about feudal language as follows:


In other words, it claims that feudal language is a social structure that existed in Europe long ago.

But the reality is different. The many hardships experienced by people in countries like India today are directly caused by these languages. Feudal languages are an invisible, terrifying entity that profoundly and adversely affects the human mind and personality.

For South Asians and continental Europeans working in English-speaking nations, the spread of such information in those countries could be problematic.

However, concealing this malevolent truth does not seem beneficial. Hiding such information is akin to opening the lid of a bottle filled with toxic fumes.

In 2011, I filed a writ petition in the Kerala High Court, arguing that Malayalam is a harsh feudal language and should not, under any circumstances, be made the language of education, administration, or judicial proceedings. Granting statutory validity to this malevolent language would divide the state’s citizens into at least three distinct levels.

There was a deliberate behind-the-scenes plan to turn this writ petition into a mockery and have the High Court Chief Justice publicly dismiss it in court.

However, when the Chief Justice heard the arguments, took the matter seriously, and accepted the writ petition, every effort was made behind the scenes to ensure no media outlet reported it.

At the time, I was grappling with various personal issues and could only experience these events firsthand.

It was also a fact that many academics and high-ranking officials from Kerala had family members working in global online platforms.

Some in critical positions made significant efforts to conceal the topic of feudal language. I experienced this directly on international online platforms at the time.

The inspiration to write about these matters now came from seeing recent accounts by individuals who retired from companies like Google, sharing their work experiences.

They enjoyed an extraordinary work environment, unlike anything found in local Indian companies.

However, what they all fail to mention is that they worked in a remarkable platform sustained by an English language atmosphere.

None of them seem interested in acknowledging the historical significance of English, and thus England. Many believe the exceptional work experiences they had were due to some great mental skill or superiority within themselves.

If the language atmosphere within Google had shifted to Malayalam, Tamil, Hindi, or Telugu, that work environment would have been poisoned. However, in the US and other English-speaking nations, where an English language social atmosphere prevails, it would take time for this toxic spread to take hold.

[VED]

This is not what I intended to write about now—that is, the railway accident that occurred two days ago.

The Archaeological Department might claim, through observational studies, that trains existed in India 30,000 years ago and that they have discovered the rail tracks on which they ran.

However, the railway system in India today was inherited from British-India.

This began in British-India in the 1830s, known as the Indian Railway.

In British-Malabar, there were Indian Railway stations, and trains operated.

Although it can be said that there were no trains in Travancore, a metre-gauge railway line to Madras via Aryankavu (through a mountain pass) had been established by 1904.

This likely provided the Travancore royal family with a shortcut to Madras. In Madras, royal family members could walk the streets freely. In Travancore, they led confined lives within palace walls.

For many lowly individuals, this route may have been a path to escape to British-India.

What I meant to discuss is something else.

The Indian Railways, or British-Indian Railway, was, as I understand, an institution operated through an English communication system. Therefore, those working within it likely communicated in English.

Many Anglo-Indians seem to have been a significant asset in this institution.

Those working in it earned modest salaries but maintained great personal charisma.

Things changed in the India born in 1947.

The internal communication language of the railway itself changed. The flat-natured English was wiped out, and the railway system shifted to Hindi, the common language of India’s lowest communities.

Official salaries soared to the skies.

Around the 1980s, the fading English and the rising Hindi seem to have clashed fiercely within the railway system. Trains began to run late.

I recall trains being delayed by 24 hours or more.

However, Hindi gradually drove out English. With that, the railway system regained great efficiency.

The highest you - lowest you (Ingal - Inhi) personal relationship created a military-like discipline.

The advantage of this military discipline is that the machine operates on predetermined paths without any deviation.

This efficiency persists in all platforms where the superior person is highest you and the subordinate is lowest you.

However, in such mechanical systems, clearly identifiable highest you and lowest you individuals must occupy each position. If a person of the same mental calibre is absent in the lowest you position, the system may stall or operate erratically.

Even a trivial instruction may fail to be executed.

Moreover, at critical moments or in dangerous situations, individuals wait for clear instructions from above. They lack the courage to make decisions or take action independently.

This is because such actions would be perceived by the language’s verbal codes as a challenge to those above.

This has genuinely affected historical events in many South Asian regions.

QUOTE from Malabar Manual:

Tippu had, unfortunately for himself, by his insolent letters to the Nizam in 1784 after the conclusion of peace with the English at Mangalore, shown that he contemplated the early subjugation of the Nizam himself.

It seems that Tippu Sultan used lowest you instead of highest you when addressing the Nizam of Carnatic in his letters. Tippu may have believed he was now the emperor.

This was a customary act in ancient times when a king became an emperor. Some historical events related to this could be mentioned, but I won’t go into them now.

Defeating Tippu Sultan likely became a personal necessity for the Nizam.

Similarly, when Tippu Sultan clashed with the English Company’s army near Palghat, the linguistic barriers within the Mysorean army became a significant liability, as I discerned from the Malabar Manual.

but from an official neglect to send the order to a picquet of 150 men stationed at, the extraordinary distance of three miles, five hours were lost

This cannot be understood from England.

The fools in England might think the English rule spread worldwide solely due to the English’s great courage and valour.

In those days, Brahmins in South Asia acted as messengers. They were generally not attacked. No one obstructed their path. Moreover, they received lodging and food at Brahminic temples wherever they went.

However, they carried messages only for the exalted.

In other words, the social and linguistic status of the sender, the messenger, and the recipient was a key factor in the messaging process.

In such a malevolent region, the English East India Company established a postal department that could deliver letters even from a low-caste person.

Returning to the point.

Every organization has a pace at which things normally proceed. For example, imagine ten tasks per hour.

At this pace, efficiency issues don’t arise. A slow-moving vehicle straying one foot or ten feet off the path causes no trouble.

But in wartime conditions, tasks move at a frenetic pace—say, ten tasks per minute.

The density of actions in time increases drastically.

On a highway with vehicles speeding at 100 km/h, a vehicle drifting an inch off could cause a massive accident.

The shift from a scenario where straying ten feet is harmless to one requiring 100 km/h speed is a moment of high action density.

When soldiers are idle, whether instructions are followed or not matters little. But during a war, a small error can lead to disaster.

This is where the difference between English and feudal language systems becomes evident.

Feudal language organizations form a spider web of highest you - lowest you word-based relationships.

If action density surges unexpectedly in wartime conditions, and clear highest you - lowest you personalities are absent in each position, instructions won’t move forward.

Ideas and directives wander, seeking the right person to carry them. They don’t progress. Instructions fail to reach their destination on time.

This is a moment of high action density.

Events rush forward like a speeding train, leading to catastrophe.

Where a single word could ensure vast efficiency, a major disaster strikes.

If investigated thoroughly, the initial cause of the train accident in Odisha could likely be traced to language code errors.

This is because highest you - lowest you positions may be occupied by individuals under immense economic, social, familial, or other pressures, either suppressed or elevated.

Such words can stir intense emotions. Normally, railway operations have controls to restrain such emotional outbursts.

However, immediately after the first accident, the failure to efficiently manage other trains rushing to the same spot was where rational directives faltered, lost in confusion over who should send, carry, or receive messages.

This problem has now crept into English-speaking nations and institutions.

Feudal language speakers work in groups across various platforms in English-speaking countries today. English speakers can only see their English behaviour. They cannot see the personal relationship threads moving through feudal language words or the intricate webs of relationships within them.

Another issue with Indian Railways is the roster system of reservation.

This sows explosive seeds in the highest you - lowest you obedience-authority chain. A low-caste person entering as a junior officer quickly ascends to exalted positions.

In other words, a lowest you becomes a highest you, and a highest you becomes a lowest you.

I don’t know the full picture here.

But at critical moments, when directives must flash forward at lightning speed, these chains break.

Passengers on trains are unaware of this. The journey they enjoy is a marvel established in the 1800s by English East India Company officials in this subcontinent.

Today’s Indian officials, filmmakers, media workers, and academics call those English individuals thieves. They shed crocodile tears over human suffering in disasters, relishing the misery.

[VED]

The English administration in South Asia undertook various efforts to understand the social environment and ethnic groups. In the early days, the diverse communities of South Asia were as incomprehensible to them as many other living creatures.

One of the initiatives related to this was conducting a Census every ten years. These censuses recorded individuals’ characteristics, occupational skills, dependencies, shortcomings, and more, providing a comprehensive review of each aspect.

While quickly reading through Castes and Tribes of Southern India, Volume 2 by Edgar Thurston years ago, the following sentences caught my attention:

Writing concerning the prevalence of insanity in different classes, the Census Commissioner, 1891, states that “it appears from the statistics that insanity is far more prevalent among the Eurasians than among any other class..........”.

The subject seems to be one worthy of further study by those competent to deal with it.

This is genuinely connected to the terrifying ability of feudal languages to induce mental disturbances. Studying this requires a deep understanding of the various characteristics and traits of feudal languages, which cannot be gained from any academic study today.

Back then, Eurasians referred to individuals born to European men and local South Asian women.

It can be assumed that many of these individuals were of English-speaking lineage. Such people likely spoke fluent English among their fathers and their associates. This mental state would foster significant mental freedom in them.

In other words, they would possess a mindset unbound by the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder of local languages. The verbal barriers created by elevated word codes and the mental inferiority induced by lower word codes would not penetrate their minds in this language environment.

However, their mother’s family was often entirely rooted in local languages. Frequently, they belonged to the lower strata of society, standing on one of the lower rungs of the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder.

To them, this individual would be someone beneath them.

In other words, a person at the level of lowest you, lowest he, or lowest she.

The local community would also attempt to evaluate this individual based on their mother’s family’s status.

This creates a mental phenomenon absent in English.

In English settings, this individual would exhibit a grand personality and a vibrant mental state. In English, this is merely a normal mental standard.

However, when this same individual interacts with their local family or other local people in the local language, they are forcefully pressed down to the lower rungs of the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder, as if crushed.

The person existing in English is not the one present here.

This creates starkly contrasting personal relationship links through words and interactions with numerous individuals.

The mental impact of this is severe.

Words carry immense power.

If a father addresses his son as lowest you, there’s no issue. But if the son, with great composure, addresses the father as lowest you, the very concept of father in Malayalam would vanish.

If a policeman addresses a commoner as lowest you, it’s not a problem. But if a commoner addresses a policeman as lowest you, an explosion could occur.

The fact that words possess such power is still unknown to English-speaking nations.

In most parts of South Asia, there exists a latent potential for violent outbursts at any moment. Often, this remains a mere shadow, not erupting. This is because various silent precautions exist within institutions to prevent such outbursts.

Yet, explosions do occur at times. When analyzing such violent incidents, observers fail to discuss which conversational word triggered the outburst.

Instead, they cite entirely innocuous reasons.

If it’s reported that a policeman asked a man his name, and the man shouted at the policeman, the fact that the policeman pulled the trigger by using lowest you is omitted.

The report would be clearer if stated thus:

When the police constable asked this gentleman, “What’s your name?” in a lowest you form, the gentleman responded rudely to the constable.

Such a report would make things clearer to the listener.

Husband beats wife, wife beats husband, husband beats wife’s relative, wife’s relatives beat husband, neighbors escalate from a small argument to physical violence.

Sometimes, without any outburst, a student or employee commits suicide. Occasionally, a teacher, female teacher, or employer commits suicide.

Investigating these incidents through language codes could reveal which word, used in which context, caused provocation or intense mental stress.

Explanations like low marks or a superior demanding clarification lack clarity.

Yet, everyone avoids such granularly precise explanations.

The husband is highest you, the wife is lowest you. The teacher is highest him, the student is lowest you. The policeman is highest him, the commoner is lowest you.

This coding affects numerous other words in the language, maintaining a ladder-like structure in personal relationships.

Living subjected to such degrading word codes is less likely to cause issues, provided one has the mental state to endure it.

But resisting this word coding creates problems. An outburst may occur, or the individual might resort to suicide or other acts.

People often blame the mentally disturbed person who acts violently.

The student didn’t show the subservience the teacher expected. Instead, the student said, “Get lost” to the teacher. The teacher slapped the student.

A taxi driver addressed a policeman as lowest you. The blow to the driver’s face came at lightning speed. In these cases, no one blames the person who struck, because they are deemed entitled to do so.

In reality, none of them have the right to strike. The public is unaware of this.

The wife told the husband, “Get lost.” The husband beat her. This is the same offense as when a policeman or teacher strikes.

The husband’s loss of composure is the same as the policeman’s or teacher’s. Yet, today, the public only sees the husband’s violence as an offense.

The other two acts are not seen as violence.

In the past, language codes and society granted husbands the right to strike.

Now, consider if social and familial communication were entirely in English. Individuals would transform into the personality standard defined by the Indian Constitution. That elevated standard is hard to find in those whose minds operate in Indian languages.

The person in Malayalam is not the same as the one in English. The wife, husband, teacher, student, policeman, commoner, doctor, lawyer, taxi driver, and others in Malayalam are entirely different from their counterparts in English.

There are a few more things to say about this. That can be in the next writing.

[VED]

Ordinarily, an IPS officer would not be demoted to a police constable overnight.

However, in a feudal language society, private individuals can be shifted to different levels across various platforms. In other words, a person respected as highest him on one platform may become a mere lowest you, lowest he, or lowest she on another.

This is a mesmerizing phenomenon absent in English.

When this happens, the changes in a person’s mind, body, body language, and more must be traced through complex pathways. I don’t know if anyone with such expertise exists today.

It must be clarified that this is not a mental fluctuation arising within the individual.

Rather, it is often the mental stress imposed on the individual by others—near or far—through words and word codes that causes the mental imbalance the individual exhibits.

I have occasionally observed some individuals struggling in such mental fluctuations. This is not a rare occurrence in society.

Let me add a few more points related to this.

In Joseph Heller’s 1961 novel Catch-22, a common man joins the US Army during World War II as a regular soldier but, due to a technical error in official records, is directly appointed as a Major. The novel depicts various comedic situations arising from this.

The army is an institution with a rigid hierarchical structure.


Yet, the absurdity possible in feudal languages is tenfold greater than what can be imagined in English.

To illustrate this phenomenon, let’s consider an implausible scenario.

An IPS officer is suddenly appointed as a police constable.

Unaware that this person was previously an IPS officer, he works alongside other constables. The other constables treat him with great camaraderie. However, the personality he exhibits would be extraordinarily distinctive.

He might react harshly to their friendliness under immense mental stress or behave like a fool.

Unaware of the context, the other constables might assume he has some mental deficiency. To address this perceived deficiency through training or treat this mental condition, the trainer or psychiatrist must know that this person was once an IPS officer.

Without this knowledge, attempting to correct his behavioral flaws would be like groping in the dark. Their findings and observations would be utterly foolish, yet no one would realize this.

If individuals in feudal language societies exhibit extreme violent behavior due to mental stress, the psychiatrist involved must be aware of their varied personalities.

Some individuals may possess a mental personality higher—or lower—than their life circumstances suggest.

This is a highly dangerous condition.

This is because individuals often react mentally to the words and non-verbal signals of those around them.

Those most provoked are individuals who privately possess a higher mental status than those around them.

This is because others use words and signals that degrade them. They fire verbal arrows assuming the person, mentally on the top rung of the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder, is on its lowest rung.

This becomes a massive verbal assault.

This is a physical reality unimaginable to the English.

In feudal language societies, everyone constantly strives to elevate their status by degrading others.

Even if they face no aggression, many persistently try to demean others with words. Often, this merely involves using lowest he or lowest she instead of highest him or highest her. Their minds ceaselessly search for suitable targets.

For someone with an elevated mental personality, the low-status word codes of lesser individuals inflict deep mental wounds.

Meanwhile, a person with a lower mental personality may not even perceive this as an attack, experiencing the same words as friendliness.

One point worth mentioning here relates to elephants.

In feudal language societies, there is a strong desire among many to keep elephants as slaves.

Owning an elephant is a way to garner immense social prestige. A house with an elephant is itself a grand affair. A temple with an elephant gains vast social glory.

For elephant handlers (mahouts), this also provides immense mental exhilaration. Often, mahouts are mere low-status servants of the elephant’s owner.

Being able to address and refer to such a massive creature with lowest you, lowest he, or lowest she words is a source of intense mental euphoria.

This is akin to placing an IPS officer under a police constable. Allowing a low-ranking constable to define a lofty IPS officer with lowest you, lowest he, or lowest she words instills a sense of grand superiority in the constable.

Lowest you, lowest he, and lowest she words impose immense subservience.

Around 1986 in Bangalore, I heard someone say that a ruling party leader addressed IAS and IPS officers with lowest you words. The person saw this as a display of the leader’s great ability and grandeur.

What he saw was akin to a mahout handling an elephant.

The elephant story can be told later.

The truth is that words carry immense power.

Years ago, I designed a Facebook-like social media site experimentally using Dolphin (boonex.com) software.

One requirement arose: to reverse the order of elements appearing on a page, from one-followed-by-two-and-three to the opposite.

I recall the Dolphin software was written in PHP. My expertise in software languages was very limited. I contacted the Dolphin company, and they sent a simple PHP code snippet.

They instructed me to open a specific folder containing my site’s software codes, locate a specific line in the lengthy code, and replace the word ascending with descending.

Despite not knowing PHP, I opened the specified folder and file in Adobe Dreamweaver.

I saw a very long code.

Next, I needed to find the specified line. Using the usual Ctrl+F, I located it.

There was the word ascending. I deleted it, typed descending, saved the file, and uploaded it to the server, replacing the old file.

When I opened the social media site, it was a grand success.

The direction of elements appearing one after another was reversed. What was at the bottom was now at the top. The flow of arrival and departure had flipped entirely.

The exalted was now at the bottom, and the lowly was at the top!

This example illustrates the profound power of placing seemingly trivial words in the right place in software.

The key is understanding that when an element’s components or direction of movement go awry, the cause lies in the software and the language it’s written in.

If a web page malfunctions or behaves erratically, it must be fixed through the software.

Not by giving the page an electric shock, bulldozing it, slapping its face, or hurling abuses at it.

If the software responds to abuses, the impact might temporarily enhance its performance slightly. But that’s not how things should be fixed.

Many in the medical field today are unaware of what software even is.

[VED]

Scattered thoughts continue to swirl in my mind.

One of the many things being pushed into public education today is the notion that ancient India possessed profound knowledge and wisdom.

First, it must be said that before the advent of British-India, there doesn’t seem to have been a unified Indian nation in this subcontinent.

The kingdoms mentioned in connection with the era of the Puranas are, I believe:

Kasi, Kosala, Anga, Magadha, Vajji, Malla, Chedi, Vatsa, Kuru, Panchala, Machcha, Surasena, Assaka, Avanti, Gandhara, and Kamboja.

I’m unsure if the Malayalam transliteration is accurate.

These kingdoms were likely very small. Their primary pastime seems to have been clashing with one another.

Yet, today, there exists an academic subject called the history of Puranic India, featuring numerous empires.

If England had one empire, they claim India had many. It’s like a scene from an old movie where the hero draws a knife, and the villain brandishes ten.

I don’t know if there was ever any significant connection between these kingdoms and the 29 kingdoms of Malabar.

The idea being forcefully inserted into formal education is that this subcontinent sustained magnificent scientific, mathematical, and literary knowledge across generations and centuries.

As clear evidence, they point to the grand temples, palaces, forts, and other structures erected here.

However, it’s understood that the dwellings of commoners were mere thatched huts.

No one was permitted to build huts that could rival the grandeur of those above their social status.

The craftsmanship in temples and palaces suggests that artisans in this subcontinent were more skilled than ordinary carpenters in England today.

This may well be true.

But the mental stature of England’s carpenters wouldn’t match that of the laborers who worked in South Asia. The clear reason is the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder created by South Asian languages.

Years ago, I visited Manipal and saw the construction of magnificent buildings.

The buildings were splendid. Yet, the workers were low-wage laborers, visibly diminished in personality, trapped at the bottom of the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder in the local language.

Pointing to the buildings they completed as proof of their greatness in future centuries would be sheer folly.

The writing has strayed from its intended point.

In various regions of South Asia, those at the top seem to have studied Sanskrit. They likely mastered the Vedas, Upanishads, and Puranas, displaying their profound erudition openly or subtly on various platforms.

This would have deeply impressed common people.

They’d feel these individuals possessed divine knowledge, inaccessible to others. If they also knew some superficial astrological facts, verses, or quotes, people would worship them mentally.

Yet, this knowledge couldn’t improve the daily lives of society’s people.

It seems that in ancient times, commoners’ languages contained little to no Sanskrit.

No government job in any South Asian kingdom was awarded based on a written exam.

Government authority was a hereditary right of certain families.

Then why did some study Sanskrit literature?

It’s likely that Brahmins and other social elites studied Sanskrit.

What did they gain? There was a belief that Sanskrit texts held vast knowledge.

This belief persists today.

It may be true. But their contents are revealed only in relation to discoveries in the English-speaking world.

Indian scholars now claim that Isaac Newton’s theories on gravity and his creation of calculus were referenced in ancient Sanskrit texts.

In the future, Indian school textbooks might teach that the internet, software, programming languages, computers, smartphones, and more were documented in ancient Sanskrit texts.

This isn’t impossible.

But these must first be discovered in the English-speaking world. Only then might they be found between the lines or in the grand narratives of Sanskrit texts.

This isn’t an attempt to diminish Sanskrit literature but to highlight the triviality of those claiming ownership of it.

A corrupt nation, devoid of quality, tries to appropriate the heritage of a people long gone. That’s the reality.

There’s a missing link between the Vedic-Sanskrit culture and South Asia’s diverse ethnic groups. This applies to all regions with ancient cultures.

The builders of Egypt’s pyramids aren’t related to today’s Egyptians. The Maya of ancient South America aren’t today’s inhabitants.

It’s said the Maya understood the mathematical significance of zero. This shouldn’t be written in Indian textbooks.

Indian intellectuals argue they discovered zero first.

This is mere foolishness. Even today, if someone discovers zero, the question is: what would they do with it?

About the missing link: Vedic people may have had vast technical knowledge, recorded in books, on paper, or other media.

None reached South Asians. What survived were primitive records on palm leaves by less advanced people.

The Vedic people’s technology didn’t reach South Asians. Hints may exist in palm-leaf texts. Perhaps even vast software-like codes survive.

It doesn’t seem that any of South Asia’s hundreds of ethnic groups have direct or indirect blood ties to Sanskrit literature.

In Malabar, this is likely 100% true.

Many make claims about Nalanda in ancient Bihar and Taxila in today’s Punjab, Pakistan.

It’s worth considering the absurdity of today’s commoners, barred from nearby grand buildings, claiming ownership of such institutions from thousands of years ago in northern South Asia.

These universities likely relied on numerous slave villages to sustain them.

Without them, who would cook, clean dishes, wash clothes, or serve the elite studying Sanskrit there? Many in those regions today may descend from those slaves.

It’s true that students at these universities may have written in Sanskrit, creating commentaries on the Vedas and Upanishads, orally or in writing, recorded on palm leaves.

Many were likely of high quality, earning their authors fame among elites across regions.

Some may have mastered occult practices mentioned in the Atharva Veda, tied to supernatural software.

But none of this reveals who authored the Vedic texts.

Puranic eras aren’t unique to South Asia.

During the Vedic period, ancient peoples lived in Africa, the Americas, Europe, England, and elsewhere.

If Vedic people were great, they likely had connections with other global ethnic groups.

The claim of Indians today to the Vedas and Sanskrit epics stems from Christian missionaries who enriched local languages with Sanskrit words to uplift lower communities.

I’ve discussed Malayalam. Hindi seems to have followed a similar path.

Records suggest Hindi was created in Calcutta at Fort William by the English East India Company.

John Borthwick Gilchrist (1759–1841), a Scottish surgeon, linguist, philologist, and Indologist, is associated with this. He likely worked as a doctor for the Company.

Why didn’t the English East India Company promote English from the start? Several reasons may exist.

First, teaching English to South Asia’s millions might have seemed as impossible as teaching animals human languages.

Even today, many Indians believe they can’t learn English. Governments here actively reinforce this notion.

Not all Company employees were English. Non-English employees had no special interest in promoting English, as it wasn’t their language.

(Gilchrist himself was Scottish.)

Moreover, many Christian missionaries weren’t English. Some harbored intense rivalry toward English and England.

In Malabar’s traditional language, not only Sanskrit but even Tamil words were scarce. Yet, consider how many English words are used here:

Road, Tar, Glass, Open, Door, Close, Gate, Colour, Paint, Red, Blue, Yellow, White, Shirt, Pants, Tailor, Button, Pocket, Shoes, Slippers, Shop, Supermarket, Shopping, Fishmarket, Boat, Bus, Car, and so on.

Erasing these would sever all ties with English.

Similarly, removing Sanskrit words and personal names from local languages could unravel many spiritual beliefs.

I meant to discuss something else. The writing has veered off course. I’ll steer it back in the next piece.

[VED]

I’m now moving to the point I intended to discuss in the previous writing.

It’s about the appointment of officials through a public examination conducted by a Public Service Commission.

It seems that in British-India, the Indian Civil Service examination, along with Presidency Civil Service exams in each presidency, introduced such systems not only in South Asia but also in all regions under English rule worldwide.

Subsequently, other European nations adopted similar systems.

Before delving deeper, let’s discuss another matter.

Today, when talking about Public Service Commission exams, the Chinese claim they originated this in their ancient traditions.

They say public service exams began in China from 618–907 CE, selecting individuals proficient in Chinese literature through written tests for appointment to state service roles.

It’s claimed the English copied this, implementing Public Service Commission exams in British-India.

Such claims are spreading globally today.

This is because anyone can publish anything via social media, web pages, or Wikipedia. Those with influence make their claims seem stronger.

But they aren’t necessarily true.

The claim that Indians are Aryans has become a major narrative today.

Until around 1990, Aryans were associated with Germanic peoples.

But as Indians filled IT sectors in the US and England around 1990, the claim that Indians are Aryans gained traction. Yet, most of these Indians likely have no real connection to Sanskrit or Vedic peoples.

In the future, if ants, rats, or cats begin communicating with humans, using digital devices, and writing on the internet, their discoveries, philosophies, music, and ethics might become known.

It’s worth recalling that around 2010, when smartphones hit the mass market, many Indians began engaging with the internet.

If IT skills transfer to ants, rats, or cats, they might claim their geniuses long ago discovered Isaac Newton’s findings, publishing this on the internet and Wikipedia.

Some might even claim Newton stole from them.

It’s unlikely the English copied anything from China’s government systems in the 1800s. China’s system was likely rigidly hierarchical and deeply corrupt, as I understood from reading Pearl S. Buck’s novels in my youth.

China’s awakening began when Britain handed Hong Kong back in 1997.

The writing has slightly veered off course again.

In no South Asian kingdom was government service based on exams. There was no need for it.

It’s doubtful that many kings or high-ranking officials were even literate.

In China, exams likely tested knowledge of ancient Chinese literature. One might question the utility of this for government service.

But if it instilled royal loyalty, it strengthened the king and his authority.

However, it’s unlikely such literature taught officials to treat commoners respectfully. They likely viewed upright commoners as enemies.

The English administration in British-India could have made Sanskrit epics, Kalidasa’s plays, or other literature part of Public Service Exam curricula.

The immediate issue was that 99.999% of South Asians had no knowledge of such texts.

It’s likely that, under pressure from self-proclaimed Indian cultural leaders, the English East India Company promoted Sanskrit and Arabic education, establishing schools and colleges.

Yet, students openly opposed Sanskrit education, finding its knowledge useless.

What enters the mind from reading Kalidasa’s works? Beautiful words, grand phrases, moral teachings, Puranic themes, and more may fill the mind.

But understand: these are laced with the highest-lowest word codes of local languages and Sanskrit, brimming with disdain, repulsion, and hierarchy.

There was no need to appoint officials through such exams.

For ages, designated members of elite families in each South Asian region filled government roles.

Their minds, steeped in the highest-lowest distinctions of local languages and Sanskrit, reflected this hierarchy.

Young English individuals from England, working in British-India’s administrative roles, may not have fully grasped South Asian dynamics. But they noticed a clear personality shift in South Asians who learned English, benefiting others.

Yet, among the English, debates raged about this. I’ll try to address that later.

There were discussions about what education would bring quality to British-India’s people.

Would teaching physics, chemistry, biology, or medicine change how South Asians interacted?

Was the quality among England’s commoners due to studying such subjects?

In reality, most of England’s commoners didn’t study these.

Quality comes from mastering the English language.

This isn’t about filling the mind with grand literature or poetry. Rather, when English speakers interact, feelings of repulsion or agitation vanish.

Thus, English education under British rule included novels by classic English authors like Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, Thomas Carlyle, R.L. Stevenson, and Jane Austen.

Few Indians educated today would be capable of reading these works.

Comparing these to Kalidasa’s works, the characters in English literature were England’s commoners.

The profound ordinariness of these commoners, absorbed through such works, could permeate South Asians.

In other words, without hierarchical words affecting mind, demeanor, or personality, people could converse, discuss, and solve problems.

Social interactions would occur without clamor or claims of superiority.

Yet, these English commoners performed all sorts of ordinary jobs.

It must also be acknowledged that British-India’s English education included Shakespeare’s plays, akin to Kalidasa’s works, which weren’t about England’s commoners.

I won’t delve into that now.

Young people educated in high-quality English literature, after earning BAs and MAs, took the British-India Civil Service exams.

It’s good that these BAs and MAs were in English, as they seem to lack practical or knowledge-enhancing value.

Someone with a BA in Economics from CPS took the Madras State Civil Service exam. Yet, I never heard him quote a single word from that subject in life.

But stories from the English novels he studied often surfaced in his mind.

Today, thousands earn such BAs and MAs. What practical benefit they gain is worth pondering. If studied in English, it enhances their English proficiency.

If studied in Malayalam, for many, it’s a loss of precious time. Yet, for some, these degrees pave the way to government jobs.

There are more points to discuss related to today’s writing. I’ll address them in the next piece.

[VED]

In the previous writing, I mentioned the futility of studying BA and MA in Malayalam.

For instance, Political Science teaches many Western philosophical ideas. Most of these philosophies may border on absurdity.

This is because they theorize social possibilities without considering the unique characteristics of each society’s language.

However, when studied in English, the egalitarian social nature of the English language naturally infuses these ideas with its inherent quality, without deliberate addition.

But when translated into Malayalam, these same ideas become tainted with Malayalam’s hierarchical distinctions.

In other words, while learning grand concepts of human equality and elevated individuality, students clearly recognize how words like lowest you, stature-neutral You, and highest him in Malayalam undermine these ideas. This is certain.

Students quickly realize these subjects are nearly absurd and that their only benefit is a government-recognized qualification certificate.

Not only is such education unnecessary, it should be banned.

Reserving government jobs for those with BA, MA, or similar qualifications obtained through such destructive ideas is sheer roguery.

This policy is worse than the Travancore kingdom’s practice of restricting government jobs to certain castes.

Yet, one cannot blame those who pursue these qualifications believing they involve profound study. No one shows them alternatives.

I’m unsure if a BSc qualification existed in British-India (the real India).

Nobel laureate C.V. Raman, a British-Indian citizen, likely held BA and MA degrees. One of his main subjects was physics.

Today, beyond BA and MA, there are BSc, MSc, BBA, MBA, B.Tech, M.Tech, MBBS, MS, and many other qualifications.

I have much to say about these, with reasons to be explained when writing about them.

But the point here is that many who earn these qualifications end up in government jobs unrelated to their education.

Some B.Tech or M.Tech holders may become engineers in government departments, where they should ideally use their engineering skills.

If they perform unrelated tasks, their qualifications are as futile as BA or MA degrees.

There’s another related point, but I’ll address it later.

The issue isn’t limited to this. Holders of BSc, MSc, MA, BA, B.Tech, MBA, and other qualifications aim for roles as officers, clerks, or peons in government departments or state-owned banks. Most employees in these sectors are such individuals.

Their jobs have no connection to their educational qualifications.

This nation’s people are robbed daily of a significant portion of their wealth and income to sustain a useless educational system. This is done by government employees themselves.

It’s akin to Nalanda University in ancient Bihar. That university was surrounded by slave villages to handle its students’ expenses and labor, as I understand.

A clear difference between English and Malayalam education can be noted here.

English education elevates all students to the You, He, She level from a young age.

Some later develop various professional skills. Some become government clerks, others rise to top ranks in public service or the military. Some become farmers, carpenters, vehicle technicians, computer mechanics, software developers, and more. Others join the army or police.

Yet, all remain at the You, He, She level from the start. Their personalities don’t change. No one becomes repulsive through words.

For such education in India, the highest-quality individuals must teach in English at the lowest grades, earning the highest salaries.

Now, consider Malayalam education. Generally, most teachers have limited English knowledge. Even those proficient often lower their mindset and behavior to match others.

From the lowest grades to the highest qualifications, students are kept at the lowest you, lowest he, lowest she, or informal you levels.

Some of these students join high-ranking services like IAS or IPS. Others become police constables, inspectors, or similar.

They believe they’ve leapt from lowest you, lowest he, lowest she, or informal you to highest him, stature-neutral You, highest you, or madam levels.

Meanwhile, many others remain at lowest you, lowest he, lowest she, or informal you levels, with little upward movement.

Yet, they seek slight elevation, keeping others at these low levels to raise themselves at least to elder brother, elder sister, or similar informal titles.

This creates a chaotic spectacle, fostering undercurrents of resentment and backstabbing tendencies in society.

I won’t delve into that now.

The focus is on government jobs. I’ll stick to that.

I plan to write about competitive exams for government jobs. That can be in the next writing.

[VED]

Many people compete fiercely to secure government jobs. Consequently, such jobs are often described by many as a sort of unattainable prize.

In this context, an observation is that in British-Malabar, Madras-Malabar, and even in Kerala-Malabar until around the 1980s, the general public did not hold government jobs in high esteem.

The reason was that salaries in government jobs back then were not sky-high as they are today. Moreover, government officials were commonly addressed as Ningal (stature-neutral you). Only those considered socially inferior would use Ingal (highest you - Malabari).

Government officials, in turn, addressed socially respectable members of the public as Ningal. However, officials who had grown up speaking the local dialect might address those of lower social standing as Inhi (lowest you).

This was merely a reflection of the general communication norms in the region, not an indication that government officials were socially superior.

District-level officers and others were typically fluent in English. As a result, the misbehaviour of lower-ranking officials was kept in check.

I (this writer) was in Travancore from the 1970s. However, I also had occasional experiences observing the bureaucratic culture in Malabar.

In Malabar, a rigid feudal hierarchy persisted in the spoken language. Yet, it does not seem to have significantly influenced the codes of conduct within government systems.

Lower-ranking officials, known as village officers or locally as "authorities," were observed addressing even elderly people as Inhi and referring to them in their presence as Onu (lowest he) or Olu (lowest she).

However, this was not a manner of speech sanctioned by bureaucratic codes of conduct. Rather, it was a reflection of the local culture among lower-ranking officials who had little to no exposure to the English language.

The notion of authority may have been encoded in Malabar’s language. Yet, people, especially older individuals of respectable social standing, had the confidence to address government employees as Ningal.

There is another aspect to this. People also had a tendency to refer to officials as Onu or Olu in private settings. This seemed more prevalent among the Mappila community, though I lack precise data to confirm this.

This could have been a form of subtle confrontation. Nonetheless, people generally showed a degree of humility and deference towards officials.

At the same time, the idea that officials were entitled to bribes was not widely accepted in society.

However, just as one might tip waiters in hotels, some people had the habit of giving small amounts of money to peons and clerks. Yet, the procedural systems in many offices did not allow peons and clerks significant influence over the handling of official documents.

I won’t delve into that topic now.

The ability of Malabar’s people to address officials as Ningal or Ingal likely stemmed from the culture of conduct fostered in local language schools.

Students were taught to address teachers as Mash or Ingal.

Much of what was taught in local language schools might have been irrelevant, of low quality, or even outright foolish at times.

Moreover, students were often demeaned with terms like Inhi. However, using Ningal when addressing teachers or officials was not instilled in them as an offensive word.

For this reason, it seems that teachers (Mash) were likely held in higher social esteem than government clerks. Teachers had the ability to directly address many people as Inhi, asserting control over them.

Government clerks and peons, however, had less of this privilege. Often transferred from other regions, they lacked the social connections to address people as Inhi.

This may explain why fewer people pursued government jobs. Additionally, in Malabar, as early as the 1960s, migrating to the Gulf became a life goal for many, a trend that took decades to spread to Travancore.

In Travancore, the scene was different. Securing a government job was the primary ambition for most individuals. In other professions, one was subject to being addressed as Nee (lowest you) or Avan (lowest he) by employers or customers. But by becoming a government clerk, one could swiftly rise to the status of Saar (highest you/him).

Joining the police as a peon granted not only the title of Saar but also the authority to insult, and if necessary, physically discipline people.

The language in Travancore at the time was different from Malabar’s. Today, much of Malabar’s traditional language has largely disappeared.

Malayalam had a vast repertoire of abusive words. It seems that people in Malabar back then were unaware of such profanities.

The worst insult in Malabar was probably "son of a dog" or "son of a lowlife," as I recall hearing such terms.

Living among government officials, I often observed the mindset of Travancore’s clerks and peons in private settings.

These officials were often mentally quite crude. Yet, they possessed the same knowledge and abilities as others. The difference lies in something worth pondering.

They stood behind a great wall, immune to being addressed as Ningal.

If people wanted to discuss anything with them, they had to address them as Saar, navigating a heavy and oppressive barrier.

For those of lower social standing, this did not feel uncomfortable, as they lived under such a barrier daily.

However, even among those of higher social standing, some had mastered the art of routinely performing the Saar address.

Yet, those unable to stoop to such behaviour, forced by custom to use Saar, often appeared clownish.

This clownish act was thoroughly enjoyed by government clerks and peons. Those unwilling to play the fool were made to suffer.

Related to this, I recall a story told by someone I studied with in college, who worked in a central government department where employees wore uniforms.

A businessman entered the office, showing no subservience and behaving politely.

This polite behaviour provoked the officials, like waving a red cloth in front of a bull.

The businessman needed a licence for his industry. He submitted all required documents.

Upon review, the documents were found to be perfectly in order, with no grounds for objection.

The official stood up, went to another room, and told colleagues, "We need to make this guy run around. What should we do?" They reviewed the documents. Everything required was there.

The issue was the official’s dignity. Allowing someone to walk in and obtain a licence as easily as buying tea was unacceptable. It would diminish the official’s social standing.

Then, one official mentioned the SSI Certificate. No one knew exactly what this certificate was or which department issued it. They vaguely knew it stood for Small Scale Industries Certificate.

In reality, it was a trivial certificate. I don’t know if it still exists today. Back then, obtaining it could prioritise a business for a telephone connection or grant partial sales tax exemptions.

The licence the businessman applied for had no connection to the SSI Certificate.

Yet, the official returned, sat down, and meticulously examined each document with great seriousness.

Then, as if making a grand discovery, he said, "I don’t see the SSI Certificate here!"

The businessman replied, "There’s no need for an SSI Certificate for this."

The official’s tone changed instantly.

"Whether it’s needed or not is for us to decide, not you."

He tossed the documents back at the applicant.

The official later told me directly, "We really made him run around."

Then he asked me, "What is this SSI Certificate?"

Because I addressed government clerks as Ningal, I’ve been made to run around in various ways. I always speak politely. Yet, I often use Ningal. I’ve also used Saar on occasion.

I’ve experienced officials insisting on unnecessary documents. Those experiences alone would require pages to describe.

The mindset of making people run around is deeply embedded in social interactions, from top to bottom, in the Malayalam-speaking social environment. It’s an inescapable psychological drive. No one can be personally blamed.

Many in the businessman’s circle likely rejoiced that he didn’t get the licence. That’s how Malayalam’s linguistic codes subtly operate.

In Malabar, introducing the Saar address and turning Ningal into an offensive term was achieved through a single, strategically placed word.

I plan to discuss that in the next piece.

[VED]

The intention was to write about the competitive exams for government jobs. However, the path to that writing has stretched long.

First, I’ll briefly address how, in Malabar, the word Ningal (stature-neutral you) became offensive when used with certain people.

During the English rule, it seems Malabar appeared to Travancore’s people as a vast region to expand into.

For Syrian Christians, securing government jobs required entering British-Malabar. For lower-caste Christians, Malabar seemed a desolate region for unrestricted migration. Despite gaining education and cultural refinement in Travancore, they couldn’t step out with social dignity.

For Ezhavas, Malabar was a place to shed their caste identity. Upon reaching Malabar, Ezhavas instantly became Thiyyas.

When Kerala was formed in 1956, Malabar became a region subdued by Travancore. Through the PSC, people joined government service and teaching in Malabar. Initially, it seems most Malabaris were unaware of the PSC systems centred in Trivandrum.

Thus, those from Travancore collectively spread the Saar (highest you/him) address in Malabar.

The origin of the word Saar in Travancore’s language remains a question. A reference in Native Life in Travancore suggests it may derive from the Persian word Saar, meaning leader. It seems the word sarkar (government) also stems from this.

Teachers from Travancore taught schoolchildren in Malabar to use the Saar address.

Saying, “Raman Mash, Ningal, please explain this to me,” became, “Raman Saar, Saar, please explain this to me,” in Malabar’s local language schools.

This became a distorted coding that permeated all conversations in Malabar.

Meanwhile, the Malabari language began to fade.

In the shift from “Raman Mash, Ningal” to “Raman Saar, Saar,” Ningal vanished, as the coding erased it entirely from Malabar’s language. However, Ingal (highest you - Malabari) remained non-provocative.

Another point to note: in British-Malabar, English-medium schools and colleges, affiliated with the renowned Madras University, thrived, training students in English communication systems.

Before discussing competitive exams, it’s necessary to address the social and official culture of the Travancore kingdom.

I had thought this could be condensed into a few words. But as thoughts turned to it, details flooded in like a deluge, requiring days to write.

During the English rule, Malabar’s people knew little about Travancore.

For example, to overturn the spiritual movement tied to the Muthappan worship of Marumakkathaya Thiyyas, subversive elements among the newly risen official and economic elite of Marumakkathaya Thiyyas invited Sree Narayana Guru from Travancore to Tellicherry, installing him in leadership. This likely stemmed from their ignorance.

The English rule brought tremendous growth to Tellicherry’s Thiyyas. Yet, Sree Narayana Guru was a figure who unilaterally led those living in near-slavery in Travancore. Moreover, Ezhavas, then unrelated to Marumakkathaya Thiyyas by caste, are different today.

I won’t delve into this topic, as it feels like the writing might veer off course.

Native Life in Travancore by The Rev. Samuel Mateer, F.L.S., vividly documents Travancore’s officials, police, and courts. From the 1970s to around 1983, I witnessed many things recorded in this book in Travancore.

Blaming individuals by name isn’t right. People live as if trapped in a vast vessel, adopting its common behaviours.

When the Travancore kingdom existed, Nair overlords were police peons and lords. After 1947, when the kingdom dissolved, Ezhavas and other lower castes entered elite roles, continuing the same behaviours as the old overlords.

It doesn’t seem Ezhava police peons showed leniency toward fellow Ezhavas. They carried the same attitude: “We are lords; the people are filth, donkeys.”

A conspicuous feature in Travancore’s official, police, and court systems was the absence of English officials in high positions.

Though senior officials from British-India and British-Malabar were deputed to high posts in Travancore, they couldn’t cast the shadow of their refined conduct onto lower ranks.

The primary reason was likely Travancore’s appointment system for officials, which I’ll discuss in the next piece.

All senior officials deputed from British-India could do was impose British-India’s administrative customs and rules like an outer shell. The kingdom, its officials, and police conduct operated per the malicious tones of the local feudal language.

Lower-ranking officials in Travancore received meagre salaries but seemed to have no complaints about it.

Here, it’s necessary to discuss the character of the Travancore royal family.

When Travancore’s subjects write about their royal family, they envision them as towering figures in the heavens.

Centuries-old royal authority, the kingdom, its diverse Swaroopa families and Madampis, their varied legacies, myths, heroes, receptions, elephants, ceremonial fans, subjects, slaves, boat races, wars, claims of defeating the Dutch in a small battle, tales of repelling Sultan Tipu, and more unfold like a poetic feast.

Their writings brim with golden Malayalam phrases, leaving readers thrilled and awestruck.

Yet, not only the English and British but even South Asian locals writing in English struggle to maintain this celestial aura for the royal family.

Terms like Adheham (highest he), Angunnu (exalted he), Maharaja, Maharani, Kovil Thampuran, Swaroopakkar, when written in English with their phonetic sounds, paired with He, She, They, erase the divine radiance these titles held in local feudal languages.

What remains is the royal family’s true character.

I earlier mentioned a Muhammadan landlord family in Kuttiyadi, owning over 3,000 acres. Everyone within that land was their subject. They had several Nair and other stewards.

These stewards were appointed based on their closeness to the family. Though paid a small wage, they took whatever they needed from the farmers and slaves under their oversight.

Their word was law.

Even during the English rule, it seems the English administration could only limit such authority to an extent.

Within these 3,000 acres, large families cultivated vast areas, with their own workers and overseers. They submitted to the landlord but occasionally showed minor defiance.

Moreover, the landlord family likely paid allegiance to their local royal family in earlier times. Kuttiyadi was probably under the Kurumbranad kingdom (Badagara), which had close ties with the nearby Kottayam kingdom in Tellicherry.

The Travancore royal family can be seen as a magnified version of Kuttiyadi’s landlord.

Consider the Travancore kingdom as a region owned by a vast landlord family, with numerous stewards beneath them, plus many prominent families—Swaroopa families and Madampis—who pledged allegiance but occasionally acted defiantly.

What upheld the landlord or king in high positions wasn’t an established army, police, or official system but the pyramid-like hierarchy created by the words of the local feudal language.

Addressing an overlord as Nee (lowest you) instead of Angunnu (exalted he) would shatter that hierarchy. If this spread from bottom to top, the royal family would collapse.

Even the spread of English in such a region posed problems. In the local language’s Inhi👇 (lowest you) to Ingal👆 (highest you) ladder, even the lowliest could reduce the king and royals to mere He or She, levelling them.

That wasn’t the intended topic.

The intent was to discuss Travancore’s official, police, and court systems, which, after 1947, transformed into the Travancore-Cochin State’s systems.

When British-Malabar was annexed to Travancore in 1956, the meticulously built British-Malabar systems—developed over decades under English customs—along with their refined practices and codes of conduct, eroded entirely.

Next, I plan to describe the true nature of Travancore’s official, police, and court systems in the following piece.

[VED]

When Malabar was annexed to Travancore in 1956, making fools of Malabar’s people, it seems neither ordinary individuals nor political leaders had much clarity about what was to come.

What was Malabar about to lose?

Many may have listed similarities between Malabar and Travancore.

However, no political leader seemed capable of enumerating what made Malabar distinct from Travancore.

Malabar’s greatness lay in its excellence. Yet, low standards were also prevalent in Malabar. Political leaders likely experienced only this inferiority. Most probably never noticed its finer qualities. Even if they saw them, they likely lacked the mental capacity to recognize them.

Malabar fell under Travancore’s control.

However, with the massive scam of national currency devaluation, a huge economic influx followed into Malabar and later Travancore, shifting everyone’s mental focus to explosive economic growth. Consequently, the historical existence and relevance of British-Malabar lost significance for all.

Still, in 1947 and 1956, people lived in Malabar. They interacted with officials and police. A small percentage of them had elite college education with exceptional English proficiency.

These people were gradually to merge into Travancore’s social hierarchy. No leaders in Malabar understood the characteristics of this hierarchy.

It seems that, about a hundred years earlier, three groups in Travancore were passionate about annexing Malabar to Travancore.

The first group was Travancore’s Ezhava movement.

The second was Travancore’s lower-caste Christians.

The third was Travancore’s Syrian Christians.

After 1947, the third group’s passion for Malabar may have waned.

Today, all three groups have blended into Malabar’s bloodlines.

This writing doesn’t intend to delve into these matters now.

The focus here is to compare Malabar’s official system with that of the Travancore kingdom, with a brief mention of their police systems.

In British-Malabar, the English rule had slowly built a high-quality official system rooted in English language proficiency.

Lower-ranking clerks and peons in this system likely lacked English proficiency. Thus, local language behaviours persisted at that level.

About ten percent of the lowest government offices were under the control of direct-recruit officers with English proficiency. The rest were promoted from clerks.

Above them, most officials were direct-recruit officers conducting official conversations in English, enabling swift administrative work.

Moreover, it should be assumed none of these officers were corrupt. I’ve heard that, around the late 1960s, government clerks transferred from Travancore to Malabar were stunned by this lack of bribery.

“What a ridiculous place!”

Furthermore, it seems there was a practice in Malabar’s government offices where people submitted applications directly to senior officials, who would note when to return for the processed documents.

In other words, there was no way to exploit the public, which felt like a curse to clerks from Travancore arriving in Malabar during those times.

However, as mentioned earlier, peons, clerks, and officers promoted from clerks occasionally accepted small tips.

But delaying official documents to harass individuals wasn’t practiced, as precise procedures ensured strict adherence.

Still, it cannot be forgotten that the local language was feudal. Thus, its tones likely influenced matters to some extent.

Even direct-recruit officers defined others in the local language at home or among relatives.

The region was steeped in rigid feudal attitudes.

The “big man” and “small man,” the Inhi👇 - Ingal👆 ladder, clearly existed in the region.

Relatedly, society had various harsh degradations and elevations. However, the presence of English in the official sphere likely curbed this attitude significantly.

In English-speaking settings, individuals were merely He or She.

Now, let’s look at Travancore’s situation.

When I visited Travancore in the 1970s, I noticed a significant difference in officials’ behaviour and their interactions with each other. It was there I first heard the word Saar.

This word can feel convenient in many ways. It efficiently captures the hierarchy of the local language, smoothing conversational flow.

However, it must be understood that while English threatened to erase Malabar’s local language, it was ultimately Travancore’s language that erased it.

This was Malabar’s first great disaster. Travancore’s language was no worthy substitute for English.

The traditional languages of Malabar and Travancore were distinct. That topic can’t be explored now.

Travancore’s society had multiple layers of slaves. The lowest were likely Pulayas and Parayas.

The highest among slaves were likely Ezhavas. Whether they were classified as slaves is unclear.

This isn’t about Travancore’s slavery now but its official system.

Due to the distant oversight of the English East India Company, Travancore’s official system saw gradual changes and progress.

The abolition of slavery in Travancore was likely due to the silent pressure of the English Company.

But changes in the official system had begun earlier.

It should be noted that various layers of Nairs and higher-ranking Ambalavasis were likely government clerks, peons, and police peons.

However, non-official Nairs and Ambalavasis also existed in society.

One shouldn’t assume that officials and police treated their own caste members respectfully or refrained from taking bribes from them.

Officials took bribes from everyone. Police manhandled everyone.

However, since lower castes weren’t allowed close, they were often dealt with in desolate areas or fields.

A society without such conditions was unimaginable.

Who would maintain peace without ruthless police and stern officials? Who would suppress Pulayas and Parayas? How could one sleep peacefully at home? Who would run the administrative machinery?

Now, let’s move to the precise behaviours of these officials. I plan to cover that in the next piece.

[VED]

The officialdom in the kingdom of Travancore was thoroughly steeped in corruption. The primary reason for this was the very method of appointing officials.

Those who showed great subservience to the king, the royal family, or high-ranking officials were granted official positions, often based on their family background. A personal connection, direct or indirect, with the elite was essential.

One might understand this as similar to how a landlord family in Kuttiyadi appointed overseers and other workers under their command.

These officials received a meagre monthly salary from the royal family. Yet, this paltry sum did not dampen their spirits in the least.

There is no historical record of them striking for higher wages.

The reason being, once they secured an official position, they directly targeted the common people, who were not officials. To say these officials had various taxes to extract from the ordinary folk would be an understatement.

When someone became an official, they could extract deference from ordinary individuals through their words. High-sounding words had to be offered as tributes or offerings. Failure to comply would result in these being forcibly taken, often with pain.

This may not be found in history books. However, with careful scrutiny, subtle records of such practices might be uncovered.

Consider the observation recorded by Colonel Munro:

The influence of names is considerable, and the discontinuance of the title of karigars will be attended with advantage.

When he took on the responsibility of being Travancore’s Diwan for a few years, he observed a system of officialdom riddled with corruption. However, eradicating official corruption was impossible. The reason was that those appointed as officials were loyal to the king and the royal family.

These individuals propped up and sustained the royal family. They were the pillars of the kingdom.

Punishing them would cause the royal family to collapse.

The situation in today’s India is much the same. We can revisit this later.

The following excerpts are from Native Life in Travancore:

Posts with a small salary are gladly accepted because the holders are sure of bettering themselves by bribes; how otherwise could these men live?

In Travancore, it is unclear whether it was ever recorded how ordinary people addressed or referred to officials. Yet, this would be a highly significant piece of information.

Moreover, it is equally important to know which different words officials used to address or refer to ordinary people of varying statuses. Historical accounts lacking such details are barren and offer no useful insight.

Comparing Travancore’s system with British-Malabar without these details yields foolish conclusions.

For instance, comparing India and England—what would people in the coming centuries understand?

England has a monarchy. India is a democratic republic.

England has aristocratic lineages. In India, these have largely crumbled.

England has no land reform laws. India has them.

England has various social titles. In India, the constitution prohibits words indicating social titles.

Many such differences can be identified.

The impression might be that India is a paradise on Earth, while England is not.

However, this is not how history or society should be understood.

In England, social titles like You, He, She, They, or We do not cause upheaval. This is a crucial fact to grasp.

In South Asian languages, every minor social or occupational status, or lack thereof, resonates in hundreds of words.

Samuel Mateer offers a foolish suggestion:

Next to the general corruption of morals in a heathen land, these public servants of the subordinate grades are driven to such misconduct by the miserable pay which they receive. They are notoriously ill-paid, and common justice to them, as well as to those who are at their mercy, demands a great and speedy reform in the scale of salaries. Until they are fairly paid it is impossible to expect fair service of them; though, of course, proper pay will not of itself make men honest or attentive.

Yet, note the idea in his final sentence:

Adequate pay alone will not make men honest or attentive.

Courtesy to the poor is almost unknown among the lower officials. In nothing will they oblige, except duly paid for it. The Cutcherries cannot yet be freely approached.

It must be understood that in British-Malabar, people no longer had to bow to government peons or clerks.

Here, “Sudras” refers to Nairs:

The Sudras in these parts, being connected with the police clerks, can get anything they like done against these poor people, who are easily cheated and oppressed.

One witness says, ‘I deposed none of those things—what further they might have written at the Police Cutcherry I am not able to say, since my statement was not read over to me. I simply affix my mark in the paper presented to me, as I was desired to do.’

There are many more peculiarities of Travancore’s officialdom and police system yet to be documented.

Readers must note that many such practices still persist in Travancore’s official and police systems today. These are not newly emerged behaviours.

However, in Malabar, such unchecked official and police conduct likely began emerging in the late 1980s.

[VED]

Some fools or disruptive elements in British-Malabar may have attempted to link Malabar with Travancore, spreading Travancore’s language and culture to Malabar.

They likely pointed to linguistic similarities and shared Hindu traditions to justify this connection.

Moreover, the word “Kerala” was often used by migrants from Travancore. However, using this term to historically unite Malabar and Travancore presents several issues.

Firstly, Malabar was referred to as “Malayalanad” in ancient times. Meanwhile, Travancore was a Tamil region in the past.

Some Travancore kings granted agreements to Jews and Syrian Christians on copper plates, written in Tamil. Though some Malayalam words appear in these writings, they likely reflect Malabar’s linguistic influence.

Another issue with the word “Kerala” concerns its origin and scope.

It is claimed that “Kerala” derives from “Chera,” the name of the Chera kings’ dynasty.

Malayali Brahmins reportedly used “nalikeram” or “narikelam” for coconut, and “Kerala” may have come from this word.

Travancore, a Tamil region, was not a Malayali Brahmin stronghold. Here, “Malayalam” refers to Malabar’s regional language, not today’s Malayalam.

It’s also said that “keram” means coconut. However, no spoken language uses “keram” to refer to coconuts.

Would anyone say, “I’m climbing a keram”?

Other issues tied to “Kerala” exist:

It is noteworthy that in the Keralolpatti or origin of Keralam, the pseudohistory of Malabar current among natives, the Brahmans are said to have displaced the Nagas or snakes.

How this was done is not recorded.

It sets forth that the first Brahmans who arrived from various places did not remain in Keralam owing to their dread of the myriads of serpents infesting the country.

“Chera” may have given rise to “kera.” “Chera” refers to the Chera kings. In Canara, “kera” reportedly means coconut.

One overlooked fact is that “chera” also refers to a rat snake, abundant in ancient Malabar.

This fact has an important bearing on the question as to when the Brahmans really did settle in Malabar, for Kerala is now by scholars recognised to be a dialectic (Canarese) form of the ancient name of the whole country, viz., Chera or Cheram or Keram, a name which probably still survives in Cheranad, the western portion of the Ernad taluk.

“Chera,” “cheram,” or “keram” reportedly means coconut in Canara.

No source suggests “chera” or “kera” derives from snakes. Instead, it’s linked to the heroic Chera kings.

Historians prefer connecting Cheranad in South Malabar to this royal legacy.

And possibly also in Cheruman (plural—Cherumakkal), the agrestic slave caste.

Thus, “chera” becomes “kera” in Canara, meaning coconut there.

I casually checked the Kannada meaning of “kera.”

Google Translate seems to cleverly obscure this.

The Kannada word “ಕೇರೆ” (pronounced “kēre”) means rat snake.

This word was used to portray Malabar as part of Travancore.

In Malabari, “chera” means rat snake, not coconut. It’s claimed to derive from Kannada’s “kera” (coconut).

Yet, nobody admits that Kannada’s “kēre” means rat snake.



“ನಾರಿಕೇಳ” (narikela) means coconut. It’s more convenient to say “chera” comes from “narikela” than to admit “chera” means snake, which would muddle things.

Kerala’s emblem features two elephants guarding the conch of Padmanabhaswamy Temple.

Malabar has no relevance in this symbol.

Elephants lack real protection in Kerala.

They’re tranquillised, driven out, chained in temple grounds, or enslaved as kumki elephants in the hills.

Will elephants need to be removed from Kerala’s emblem?

Turning British-Malabaris into Keralites feels like a step too far.

I’ve veered off track. The point was to discuss the flaws in merging Malabar with Travancore. I’ll address that in the next piece.

Note: All quotes are from Malabar Manual.

[VED]

When Travancore came into close contact with neighbouring British-India, it gradually adopted the administrative systems being established there.

In essence, Travancore copied these systems.

The Imperial Gazetteer of India Vol. XXIV describes Travancore’s administration thus:

For general administrative purposes the State is divided into 31 taluks, grouped into four divisions or districts. For purposes of revenue collection, the taluks are further subdivided into smaller areas called provertis, each under a paid officer styled the provertikaran. Each division is presided over by a Diwan Peshkar and District Magistrate, equivalent to the Collector-Magistrate of a British District. A tahsildar, who is usually a second-class magistrate, is in charge of each taluk. The Peshkars form a superintending and checking agency, and are responsible for the proper and regular administration of the taluks comprising their charge. In addition to the four Peshkar magistrates, there are two other District Magistrates, one being the Commercial Agent at Alleppey and the other the Superintendent of the Cardamom Hills.

Looking only at the administrative structure, one might struggle to see how it differs from British-India’s system. It may even resemble England’s administration.

However, the key difference lies in the linguistic terms that connect officials to people of varying statuses.

This is either unknown to historians or deliberately ignored by them.

From Native Life in Travancore:

An ill-disposed Provertikaran is the very personification of oppression, injustice, bribery, and illegality; and no official in the ranks of the public service combines in a single person so many evils as are daily found in the doings of such a man.

Some Tahsildars we have known abuse all of the poorer classes who apply to them, and keep them at a distance. These men hate to see a decent dress on any man of humble origin, or the chest covered with a cloth; and such are openly reviled, their letters declined on various pretexts, and their business left undone.

They terrify ignorant complainants by a loud and threatening manner, catching at every verbal error, and threatening them with punishment as false witnesses. Witnesses are forced to sign whatever has been written by the clerks, notwithstanding protests against its accuracy, or ignorance of what has been written, on threats of worse punishment if they do not consent.

And the time of the people is wasted in attending day after day at the Cutcherries.

Insatiable greed and extraordinary cunning are displayed in the taking of bribes by the underlings; and indeed there have been times when it was said that there was scarcely an official of any grade free from this vice. Bribes are even extorted by threats of implicating the parties in charges of murder and other serious crimes, if not paid. To allow a criminal complaint to be withdrawn, cloths and money are presented to the official. In criminal cases the police naick, similarly influenced, reports the charge a factitious one. An official invites people to a feast and some domestic ceremony, and gets large presents of money, ornaments, &c.

Sometimes a judicial servant quietly takes bribes from both sides, but honestly returns that which he received from the losing party!

The village guards extort money and property on the slightest pretexts. Their demand for cloths, money and other goods have sometimes differed but little from highway robbery. In collecting provisions for travellers and officers on circuit, they often robbed the people of fowls, sheep, eggs, fruit, &c., or gave the merest nominal payment for the provisions. Bribes are taken in the evening to the house of the tax assessor, begging him kindly to charge only what is right and fair and really due to the Government. The Pilleymar (writers and clerks) thus reap a harvest of bribes. Some gumasthas and others regularly earn three or four times their fixed pay. To complain of all this unfairness, bribery, and corruption, only exposes poor and illiterate men to the getting up of false charges of the most serious character.

There’s more to write. I’ll address it in the next piece.

[VED]

Many intellectuals in Kerala today, and those believed to have shaped social consciousness since 1947, claim knowledge of struggles against English rule, the activities of communist movements in Kerala, and more.

Through media and textbooks, trivial and isolated incidents have been exaggerated, filling many with hollow mental constructs.

Much could be said on this, but first, let’s continue the story.

I am writing about the affairs of Travancore.

Some learned historians may claim that certain practices existed in England too. However, finding similarities through mere words is meaningless.

India has domestic workers. England has domestic help, servants, housemaids, and governesses.

India has teachers and students. England does too.

India has officials. England does too.

Evaluating history and society this way yields no insight. Indian languages are feudal. England’s language is English.

Assessments ignoring this difference are empty.

What provoked this discussion was reflecting on the press-gang system that routinely operated in Travancore.

Some may eagerly point out that this existed in England too.

During wars with European powers, people were forcibly conscripted into the military on certain streets. Such isolated incidents cannot define England.

During World War II, ordinary English citizens voluntarily participated in defence and military efforts.

The subordinate officials take advantage of any exigencies to enlist forced labour for State purposes, with an indifference to the hardships they entail on the poor, approaching to utter recklessness.

This refers to conscripting poor people for forced labour, managed by lower officials—comparable to today’s government peons or police constables, often Nairs.

It’s easy to view their cruel behaviour as Nair wickedness.

But the reality is different. It’s merely the discourteous conduct of lower officials toward ordinary people, shaped by the regional language, Malayalam, not caste.

The quote above notes that conscripted poor people endured severe suffering.

These government peons showed no compassion or humanity, using words like “nee” and “eda” to suppress the conscripted.

Yet, both the conscripted and their captors shared the same language and mental cruelty.

The phenomenon of the poor “respecting” their oppressors remains incomprehensible to English people.

Even today, when people complain about abusive police, they use terms like “adheham” or “saar,” not daring to say “avan” or “ayaal” hit me.

This is the serpentine charm of Malayalam!

In 2004, this was discussed on an English online forum. Their language lacked the capacity to grasp my explanation.

English officials in British-Malabar tried to curb Travancore’s oppressive practices in administrative settings.

But a lone English district collector had limits. The administration was run by locals, and erasing their linguistic malice was difficult.

The administration being in English was merely a superficial difference.

In Travancore, officials often travelled by boats.

The press-gang system is employed by the Granary Superintendent of Valiatory and the Nemum Police, to secure boats, and men to man them whenever required for Sirkar purposes. Every boat and every man in this parish is seized, and black mail levied from such as wish to escape this oppression.

It not unfrequently happens that the boatmen decamp; and the head villager buys off the myrmidons of the press-gang by a bribe assessed on the whole village, to escape the grudge that would otherwise inevitably follow in the shape of fines and imprisonments.

The rowers often complain of suffering from impressment for travellers, the Beach Superintendent, one of their own class appointed by the Sirkar, taking bribes from those who are better off and strong in body, and often seizing the poor, the aged, or boys, beating those who attempt to flee to avoid the inconvenience.

The Beach Superintendent, like a prison “mestiri” in Indian jails, was a boatman appointed by the government. Like a mestiri, who is a prisoner showing subservience to jail staff while controlling others, the Beach Superintendent extorted bribes from boatmen, conscripting those who didn’t pay and beating those who fled.

Reading this, a Malayalam speaker instinctively grasps the weapon-like use of words like “nee,” “eda,” or bare names.

But for an English reader, it’s like watching a dance without knowing the story.

Gratuitous service is demanded of work people and bandymen; if refused, charges are got up against them; or they are over punished on some real charge.

More could be written, but I doubt it would stir readers much.

Imagine a domestic worker complaining today:

The homeowner addresses me as “nee” or “edi.” Sometimes, they twist my ear. I’m made to sit and sleep on the floor. I’m given cheap plates and low-quality food, while the family eats well. I can’t enter through the front door, only the kitchen door. I get a meagre wage. I wear their old clothes. They use a Western toilet; I use a dirty Indian one.

An average Indian homeowner might ask, “What’s the issue?” This is India’s social order and normal behaviour.

Moreover, the worker is a local, speaking the same language. Giving them higher status or comforts might make them rebellious.

But an English person would see substance in this complaint, though they might not fully understand it.

I’m not saying they’d act against it, but such a social condition is the opposite of English society. People here are entirely different from English individuals.

The English Company’s abolition of slavery in South Asia likely disrupted locals’ comfortable lives. This must be clearly understood too.

[VED]

Continuing with Travancore, I cite observations from Rev. Samuel Mateer’s Native Life in Travancore:

The heads of the respective castes also paid an annual sum for their dignity.

This means caste leaders, who kept their own people suppressed, supported the elite by paying an annual sum. Failure to pay meant losing the position to another, who would then use words like “nee,” “eda,” or “edi” to keep others in check.

Such phenomena don’t exist in English.

Bribes and pecuniary gratifications were everywhere expected, and nowhere forbidden.

The ruling power and subordinate officials were ever ready to snatch from the people as much as possible. When a cruel ruler was on the throne, the country suffered much; when a benevolent one, it gained little.

Sir Madava Row, Travancore’s Diwan from 1857 to 1872, wrote:

These demands were of the most uncertain character, involved a good deal of oppression and vexation, and interfered with the freedom which industry of all kinds is entitled to.

The small nominal sums that were in some cases allowed for work did not reach the labourer’s hands, the underlings keeping what they could for themselves, or to bribe their superiors to continue them in employment, while the people dared not complain, lest countercharges be brought against the complainant, and himself condemned as a malefactor, imprisoned, or perhaps, tortured to death.

But the public benefit is the farthest thing from the thoughts of the peons, gumasthas, and other assistants, and even some of the Tahsildars. General corruption, incapacity, and dense ignorance of their duty, cruelty and bribery, as far as they dare to indulge in these, still prevail. Only personal interests and private profit are considered by many.

Unconscionable delays occur in attending to business, so that suitors are tired out and it becomes not worth their while to continue. One great resort of some officials is to leave letters unanswered, so that people get tired out on smaller matters. In attendance on the public offices and courts, witnesses have been compelled frequently to trudge over roads and kept waiting for days, sometimes hungry, faint and sick, while their private affairs go to ruin.

Tax receipts are written in a most indefinite manner, without specifying the particular property for which the tax is paid: the people believe this is done to keep the payer in the power of the Sirkar clerks.

Common sense would surely require some definition, name, or number of the particular property referred to in such receipts.

Receipts are also given to persons who cannot read, for sums less than those actually paid.

But the Provertikaran, tax collector, and clerks ask four or six times the proper rate, or profess to measure the land, and say it is much greater in extent than it really is. The Pillai will say, ‘Give me a rupee, and I will make the tax light for you.’

The village Provertikaran and others come and take nearly all the produce, and thus dishearten these poor people from rice cultivation. They say they would give a tenth or two tenths willingly; but at present they cannot tell what the rules are, or how to calculate the government dues, and whether what they pay goes to the government or to the servants. ‘The Government,’ said an official who understands the matter, ‘do not get an eighth of what is collected by the tax-gatherers for Malavaram.’

Readers must understand that officials are “saar,” while common people are “nee.” While enjoying this linguistic beauty, remember you can’t question officials. Doing so is sheer defiance. That’s the mesmerising charm of Malayalam!

[VED]

While discussing Travancore, the social conditions there likely mirrored those in most South Asian kingdoms.

Rev. Samuel Mateer, commenting on the architectural marvels English officials admired in British-India and nearby kingdoms, writes:

When looking with admiration at the noble examples of Indian architecture and engineering — temples, forts, public buildings — the first thought that sometimes occurs to us is of the vast amount of misery and expenditure of human life imposed on the multitudes, as in Egypt, who did the unskilled labour.

Two points about Travancore come to mind.

First, its enslaved communities.

Second, its police system.

The plural “communities” indicates that slavery wasn’t limited to one group, nor was it always about enslaving random commoners—though that may have happened occasionally.

Travancore’s enslaved groups seem to have been Pariahs and Pulayas, with others like Kuravan, Ulladan, Pullan, and Vedan also at the lowest rung.

However, Pariahs and Pulayas appear to have endured the most brutal, animal-like slavery. I’m not certain of this.

In the 1880s, Travancore reportedly had 63,688 Pariahs and 188,916 Pulayas. In Malabar, some may have been called Cherumar, though this isn’t certain.

With British-Malabar’s abolition of slavery, English rule introduced schemes to uplift Cherumar socially. I won’t delve into those now.

In South Malabar, the most significant change for Cherumar was their conversion to Islam, sparking social unrest in two taluks from the 1830s, as previously discussed.

The English East India Company barred Christian missionary activity in British-India, so Malabar’s enslaved didn’t convert to Christianity.

I can’t recall if I’ve written about Travancore’s slavery earlier, but I likely have.

The elite viewed these people like filthy livestock.

Seeing, looking at, or being in their gaze was deeply unsettling for the elite.

Yet, if Travancore had raised an army from these people, it could have easily conquered nearby kingdoms.

When Hyder Ali unleashed his attack on Malabar, its enslaved communities ran rampant, storming Nair and upper-caste homes.

Fearing this, upper castes fled. Their Nair guards refused to confront these lower individuals, fleeing too.

Clashing with them would taint one’s words and imagination, dissolving their identity.

But in Travancore, such an army would have driven others away. Imagine an army of scavengers descending.

Consider the issue.

In England and other English countries, cleaning toilets or handling nightsoil has long existed, but it doesn’t taint a person, their identity, or their family in word codes.

In South Asia’s feudal languages, however, work affects “You,” “He,” “She,” and countless related words.

This is why public toilets in Indian-dominated areas of the US likely stink now. I won’t pursue that topic.

YouTube videos today discuss overcoming hardships, misfortune, or adversity.

In England, individuals may face setbacks—financial ruin or loss—but these don’t permanently trap them or their families in degradation.

They can overcome adversity and regain happiness.

Such vicissitudes don’t socially shackle a person or their family.

In South Asia, it’s different. If you’re tainted by word codes, it’s a serious problem.

In Kerala today, this is less of an issue. A stint in the Gulf often brings wealth, whitewashing one’s identity.

In Travancore, social oppression was permanent. No mental fortitude could liberate you, even over centuries.

The local language dictates subservience to those above and suppression of those below. Those at the bottom of the “inhi👇-ingal👆” ladder can only grovel upward.

They have no one below to suppress.

Thus, the elite realise those at the bottom are the most dangerous.

The oppressed, crushed below, harbour a latent desire to climb and pull down those above.

This ambition must never be given a chance. Relentless enforcement of the impossibility of liberation from slavery ensures the elite’s peace.

The elite’s cruel mindset hides behind smiling words and displays of affection.

A similar venom exists in the oppressed. They know their word codes can wield the venom of a fierce cobra.

No touch is needed—just calling an elite by a bare name cuts like a sickle.

The elite deny them access to higher things. So, given a chance, the oppressed touch what’s elite.

If they unleash negativity, positive value embeds in their identity’s software, a tangible sensation.

In feudal languages, interactions between the highest and lowest are always laced with two opposing forms of cruelty.

Having said this, I’ll detail the torments Travancore’s lower communities faced from officials in the next piece.

[VED]

In the 1880s, Travancore had roughly 24 lakh people.

Of these, Brahmins and self-claimed Kshatriyas totaled 39,887 (Brahmins: 38,434; Kshatriyas: 2,453).

Ambalavasis and others numbered a few tens of thousands.

Malayali Shudras, or Nairs, were 4,40,932.

Below them were lower castes, around 19 lakh people, making up 79% of the population.

Among them, Ezhavas were 3,83,017.

At the bottom were Pariahs (63,688) and Pulayas (1,88,916), roughly 23% of the population.

Lower officials and police peons were likely few in number.

Travancore’s rigid hierarchy was sustained by its feudal language. These officials controlled everyone through intimidation, extracting various revenues.

No royal decree or law deemed such conduct wrong, as I understand.

If someone complained against an official, it was seen as an attack on all officials. They’d collectively crush the complainant.

Col. Munro reported this to the Madras English administration on March 7, 1818:

No description can produce an adequate impression of the tyranny, corruption and abuses of the system, full of activity and energy in everything mischievous, oppressive and infamous, but slow and dilatory to effect any purpose of humanity, mercy and justice. This body of public officers, united with each other on fixed principles of combination and mutual support, resented a complaint against one of their number, as an attack upon the whole.

Officials extorted and intimidated everyone, especially farmers, though I won’t elaborate here.

When Travancore came under the English East India Company’s protection, the royal family began enforcing laws with lofty values.

These laws reveal official conduct.

Yet, Col. Munro’s words show they neither restrained nor improved it.

The district officials shall not apply fetters, chains, and manacles to those ryots who are found entangled in any criminal charge.

This implies police routinely chained detainees, but the English Company couldn’t grasp how words like “nee,” “eda,” “avan,” “aval,” “enthada,” or “enthadi” degraded them.

When petitioners appear before the district cutcherry, with their complaints, their cases shall be decided reasonably so as to be concurred in by public opinion but no petitioner shall be detained to his inconvenience and put to expense for feeding himself, pending the settlement of his case; that such cases as could be decided soon shall be settled then and there, and the parties dismissed. But such cases as would require time to settle shall be decided within eight days, and if any petitioner is detained before the district cutcherry beyond eight days, he shall be fed at the expense of the district officer.

These laws reflect attempts to civilize a populace, but they failed.

It’s like passing a law requiring bus passengers to queue, enforced by police. Without oversight, people revert to pushing.

This mental competition is rooted in feudal language.

To eliminate such behaviour, feudal languages must be erased from minds and replaced with English.

Another Travancore law:

When a female petitioner comes before the district cutcherry, her complaint shall be heard and settled at once and on no account shall a female be detained for a night.

This suggests women were detained overnight, addressed as “nee,” “edi,” or “enthadi,” a nuance lost on the English.

These women likely weren’t Pariah or Pulaya but Nair or slightly lower castes.

That not one of the subjects (ryots) should be oppressed, by placing him in restraint, without allowing him even to attend the calls of nature, or making him stand within a given line in a stooping posture, putting a stone on his back or keeping him in water or under the burning sun or confining him under starvation, neither shall he be subjected to any sort of disgrace.

In English, these laws seem noble.

If feudal language speakers flooded England and such laws emerged decades later, they’d be hailed as progress.

But the reality is different. When laws must regulate society, it signals the land and its communication system are rotting.

India’s Constitution is similar.

Look at what doesn’t happen in India—those ideals are in the Constitution.

Travancore’s lower officials couldn’t intimidate big landlords tied to the royalty with their own manpower and arms.

The Rajah, therefore, imposed no restraint on their rapacity.

This social atmosphere is slowly growing in India today, though wealthier Keralites may not feel it.

Pariahs and Pulayas, 23% of Travancore’s population, could have seized the kingdom if organized.

Other lower castes existed too. Their common flaw is their language, coded to degrade individuals with “You,” “He,” “She,” and hundreds of related words, while exalting oppressors similarly.

The oppressed seek to crush those below them.

Now, let’s examine how Travancore’s officials treated lower castes.

That this brutality went unnoticed by others in Travancore may seem surprising.

Yet, this mirrors ordinary Indians today, who tolerate no other commoner, demanding police “saars” or official “madams” crush “avan” or “aval.”

[VED]

The 1880s portrayal of Travancore’s official and police systems in Native Life in Travancore mirrors Kerala’s systems today, though it specifically describes Travancore.

A key point: Travancore was not part of British-India but a kingdom under its protection. Complex details on this will follow later.

Travancore’s official excesses were criticized in British-India and England’s newspapers, likely informed by missionaries in the region. However, many in England didn’t understand what “India” or “British-India” meant, possibly assuming Travancore was part of it. For England’s left-leaning thinkers, Travancore’s official misconduct offered ammunition to criticize British-India.

From Native Life in Travancore:

The jealous eye with which any attempt to raise the slaves would be viewed by the officials.

Officials scrutinized efforts to uplift slaves with hostility.

There was sufficient in the affair to excite the strong caste prejudice of the scribe who took down the evidence; and the opportunity for spicing it with extravagant statements, in order, perhaps, to supply at least some grounds that might seem prima facie to justify the prisoner’s commitment, was not to be lost when impunity was secure and they could be subjected to imprisonment pending their trial and acquittal if not found guilty.

The scribe recording evidence was swayed by caste prejudice, embellishing statements to justify imprisonment, ensuring detainees faced jail until trial or acquittal.

An August 1858 circular from Travancore’s administration:

The Tahsildars also shall give the matter special attention; and for the future, inquiries shall be made without unnecessary delay into the truth of charges brought against the low-castes, such as Pulayans, Pariahs, and Coravans, &c.; inquiries shall also be made to ascertain in whose employ they are; and should it be found that the charge is true and should be accepted, or on the other hand that it is false, they shall file, investigate, and decide according to law and in obedience to this Circular Order.

Tahsildars were to promptly investigate charges against lower castes like Pulayas, Pariahs, and Kuravans, verify their employment, accept true charges, or file and investigate false ones per the law and circular.

Peons receive petitions or papers from Pulayars with unconcealed abhorrence, ordering them to lay them on the ground.

Peons accepted Pulaya petitions with open disgust, demanding they be placed on the ground.

One kindly official whom I saw there took great credit to himself for having ventured to propose that witnesses or suitors of low caste should be allowed to come up quite close to the window on the outside, and that a verandah should even be erected for their protection from sun and rain.

A compassionate official prided himself on suggesting lower-caste witnesses or suitors be allowed near the window and a verandah built for their protection.

An utter want of humanity in the treatment of low-caste prisoners is not uncommon amongst the peons and local officers, embezzling the allowance for the prisoners’ food, by which some have been actually starved to death.

Peons and local officers showed no humanity to lower-caste prisoners, embezzling their food allowances, causing some to starve to death.

Various other evils prevailed, in the use of long and heavy iron fetters and chains, wooden stocks and instruments of torture, the confinement of debtors and other defaulters or persons on trial, along with convicted criminals, and of men with women, and the detention of accused persons in other than the legal and suitable places of confinement.

Evils included heavy chains, wooden stocks, torture instruments, confining debtors and accused with criminals, men with women, and detaining people in illegal places.

While public attention was thus directed to Travancore and the abuses in its administration by Newspaper articles, the London Missionaries in the State joined together and presented in July 1855 several memorials to the Madras Government on behalf of the Native Christian converts who, they said, had of late suffered heavily having entirely failed to get any redress to their grievances.

They also set forth in bold terms that corruption, oppression and extortion were openly practised by the Government officials with the connivance of the Resident General Cullen, and that inefficiency and maladministration were the order of the day. The police were said to be a tremendous engine for iniquity and oppression. Prisoners were confined for indefinite terms without investigation, and regulations were systematically set aside.

The most barbarous treatment in prison prevailed; torture was practised and robbery was rampant. The character of high officials was disgraceful. Convicted criminals and notoriously incompetent men were appointed to high offices.

London Missionaries, in July 1855, submitted memorials to the Madras Government, highlighting the suffering of Christian converts with no redress. They boldly stated that officials openly practiced corruption, oppression, and extortion with Resident General Cullen’s connivance. Inefficiency and maladministration were rampant, police were a tool of iniquity, prisoners were held indefinitely without investigation, regulations ignored, torture common, and high offices filled with criminals and incompetents.

From Travancore State Manual:

Matters could not be presented in a worse light, and the Madras Government immediately called upon General Cullen to fully investigate and report on the various allegations set forth in the memorials.

He thereupon submitted an elaborate report disproving all of them and supporting the Dewan and his administration.

The Madras Government, alarmed, ordered General Cullen to investigate. He submitted a detailed report denying all allegations, supporting the Dewan.

The Government of Madras were not satisfied, and on the Missionaries again pressing their case upon them desired further explanations from the Resident.

While matters stood thus, the Madras Government received numerous petitions from the native inhabitants also, corroborating the grave charges already brought against the administration.

They therefore wished to investigate the charges by means of a Commission and accordingly wrote to the Government of India recommending the same.

Unsatisfied, Madras sought further explanations from Cullen as missionaries pressed their case. Native petitions corroborated the allegations, prompting Madras to recommend a national commission to the Government of India.

But the Governor-General Lord Dalhousie disapproved of the proposal for an enquiry as being opposed to the tenor of the Treaty of 1805 and instructed the Government of Madras under the ninth article of the Treaty to give to the Rajah “a formal and forcible expression of the sentiments of the British Government on the abuses which appeared to prevail with suitable advice and warning”.

Governor-General Lord Dalhousie rejected the commission, citing the 1805 Treaty, but instructed Madras to formally convey British concerns, advice, and warnings to the Rajah under the treaty’s ninth article.

Travancore wasn’t part of British-India but a protected kingdom. Indian Civil Service officers from England or Britain often didn’t grasp this. While Travancore might comply with India’s requests, their legal right was questionable.

In 1855, South Malabar’s lower castes surged into Islam, leveraging British-India’s legal and police systems to curb local elite power.

In Travancore, this didn’t happen, but London Missionary Society missionaries fought tirelessly for the enslaved’s lives and dignity.

Recall when a London Missionary Society deputation visited Travancore, witnessing lower castes joyfully dancing in Quilon, Trevandrum, Pareychaley, Neyoor, and Nagercoil to welcome them.

These visitors could return to England, but unleashing the lower castes would disrupt Travancore’s other communities. The region’s insecurity wasn’t erased by dismantling caste barriers. As explained earlier, it created a confrontation between lower and upper groups in language codes.

This same dynamic unfolded in South Malabar.

[VED]

The Mal Arayans lived in Travancore’s hilly regions, possibly migrants from elsewhere. Their sacred space was the Sabarimala temple atop the hills, with Ayyappan as their divine figure, believed to be as powerful as or equal to Hindu deities.

Mal Arayans rarely engaged in manual labor or similar work, residing in the hills of Idukki, Pathanamthitta, and Thiruvalla, often establishing high-quality villages.

They are as fair as the high-caste Hindus, the women frequently beautiful.

Sudras do not deem themselves polluted by contact with these respectable and independent people, while they keep Chogans at a distance for fear of defilement.

Nairs didn’t consider Mal Arayans untouchable, but Mal Arayans viewed Chovvans (Ezhavas) as such, avoiding contact.

The services required furnished occasion for continual annoyance and exactions, men being seized by the officials to carry cardamoms from the hills to the boats without pay; and if they hid themselves, as was natural, the women were caught, beaten, locked up, kept exposed to the sun and the pouring rain, and all sorts of indignities were inflicted.

Lower officials raided Mal Arayan villages, forcibly conscripting men to carry cardamom to riverboats without pay. If men hid, officials seized women, beat them, tied them up in rain or sun, and inflicted “all sorts of indignities.”

While Samuel Mateer doesn’t explicitly state sexual abuse, “indignities” likely implies it. This is a significant record: in Travancore, socially vulnerable women faced sexual exploitation by officials and police. More details later.

This history is striking because, around 1982 or 1983, multiple police trucks raided Thankamani in Idukki, a then-isolated area under Kattappana Rural SP’s jurisdiction. Men fled into the forest, and police allegedly assaulted women, as reported in newspapers the next day. More on this later.

Blaming police is futile; such acts were customary in Travancore’s official and police conduct, unchecked by British-India’s regulations.

They also had to complain of some of their cows being killed, others stolen by the tax gatherers, so far from the central authority; and worse than all, some had been beaten and expelled from lands which their forefathers’ sweat had bedewed for years untold.

Mal Arayans reported tax collectors killing or stealing their cows and beating and expelling them from ancestral lands. Why cows were killed is unclear—possibly for beef, though not certain.

This reflects the growing official, police, and military systems in modern Travancore, Malabar, and India, resembling Travancore’s historical systems. People can’t resist collectively due to their language’s divisive coding.

Recall, 79% of Travancore’s population were lower castes, with 23% being Pulayas and Pariahs. United, they could overthrow officials, police, and the royal family. But their language, urging subservience to those above and suppression of those below, prevents this.

For example, Mal Arayans distanced Chovvans, yet:

The Chogans, however, consider themselves superior to the Arayans.

Even within this narrow ethnic hierarchy, conflict persists—not due to caste or ethnicity but language-coded barriers, disgust, and alienation.

The English East India Company issued warnings to Travancore’s royals but couldn’t enforce change. Curbing official excesses risked destabilizing the royal family.

In 1855, per India’s orders, the Madras Government issued stern warnings:

A letter of warning was accordingly issued by Lord Harris on the 21st November 1855, calling the serious attention of His Highness to the manifold abuses then prevalent in Travancore and advising him to avert the impending calamity by an enlightened policy and timely and judicious reforms.

Most British-protected kingdoms likely faced similar issues. Without Christian missionaries, slaves in those regions lived like animals, possibly without complaint, bonded to their oppressors.

Controlling official excesses was challenging for the Indian Government, while cruelty persisted among people.

In words like “nee,” “eda,” “edi,” “avan,” and “aval,” the elite saw the lowest as animal-like.

Cases are known in which slaves have been blinded by lime cast into their eyes. The teeth of one were extracted by his master as a punishment for eating his sugar cane.

Slaves were blinded with lime or had teeth pulled for minor acts like eating sugarcane.

[VED]

The English East India Company officials failed to truly understand South Asia’s people. They saw all human-like figures as humans, living across a spectrum of civilization and primitiveness. In South Asia, however, the prevailing belief was that those at the social bottom weren’t fully human, while the elite were imbued with a kind of divinity.

Uplifting Travancore’s lower castes likely instilled deep insecurity among other groups. Elevating the oppressed disrupted the social order, as those once deferential in words and body language began using disrespectful terms, speaking boldly, and displaying offensive gestures.

The London Missionary Society’s missionaries unleashed these lower castes in Travancore, likely sparking fear among other communities. The missionaries, insulated by language and skin color, couldn’t grasp the depth of this unrest and weren’t personally affected. However, if these lower castes had migrated en masse to England and integrated, ordinary English citizens would have fled—an outcome unthinkable to missionaries then, as it seemed impossible.

Today, England faces this issue—not specifically from “lower castes” but from South Asians settling in groups, prompting “white flight” as locals leave. The social mechanism behind this remains poorly understood.

Not all of Travancore’s elite were cruel; many saw slavery and caste as societal diseases but had no idea how to bring the lower castes to equality without chaos. Granting them unchecked freedom led to verbal overreach, threatening to dismantle social boundaries—a concept English minds couldn’t fully grasp.

The missionaries’ efforts to protect lower castes were hindered by General Cullen, the British Resident, who fiercely opposed missionary work and Christianity, aligning closely with Travancore’s royals and elite.

Revd. Abbs wrote:

We soon discovered that the agent of our Christian land, although a Scotchman attached as he said to the Church of England and her services, was much opposed to missionary effort, and more fearful than were the Brahmins respecting the effects of evangelical religion...

Yet, V. Nagam Aiya in the Travancore State Manual praises Cullen:

General Cullen had completely identified himself with the interests of the people and the State.

This mirrors modern India, where a foreigner aligning with the top 10% is lauded as loving the nation, ignoring the 90% at the bottom.

In Travancore:

But cases of complaint rarely succeeded in those days, as the subordinate magistracy were so deeply prejudiced and naturally partial to their own intimates and caste connections.

Complaints rarely succeeded due to biased lower courts favoring their own kin and caste.

Even the Syrian Christians were sometimes most cruel in their treatment of their slaves.

Syrian Christians, barred from official roles except briefly under Col. Munro, were socially unrestricted, owning land and slaves. Their ascent to high posts under Munro caused temple-related issues, as they couldn’t enter temples, a key state function.

Syrian Christians likely opposed the missionaries’ efforts, viewing the upliftment of their slaves as akin to turning servants into masters.

Among lower-caste Christians, diverse groups like Pulayas, Pariahs, and higher-ranking Ezhavas created tensions. Ezhava Christians sometimes barred Pulaya and Pariah Christians from their churches. Nair, Ambalavasi, and Brahmin women, constrained by social restrictions, joined Christianity, but some upper-caste converts clung to their caste superiority.

Travancore’s upper castes included varying social strata, some impoverished. Their traditional kudumi hairstyle caused issues among lower-caste Christians, clashing with efforts to establish equality through words like “nee,” “avan,” or “aval.”

Missionaries likely saw all these groups as equal humans, but the lower castes didn’t share this view. It took decades for them to erase internal caste distinctions and ensure others did too.

Today, this lower-caste Christian history is nearly erased. Many claim to be Syrian Christians, tied to St. Thomas’s 2,000-year-old Malabar church, avoiding mention of pre-British slavery.

“Slavery? What slavery? That was in the US and Europe, wasn’t it?”

Admitting historical realities risks tainting their identity in language codes. In contrast, African Americans openly claim descent from enslaved people without shame, a stark contrast when viewed through a Malayalam lens.

[VED]

Before diving into Travancore’s police system, a key point: many believe India’s current bureaucratic practices, conduct, and hierarchies stem from pre-1947 British-India. This is inaccurate. I’ll explore this deeper later.

About 20 years ago, a sales tax officer claimed their department’s exploitative practices were created by British rule. In reality, British-India had no sales tax system. It was introduced around 1935 by the Congress government in Madras Presidency, not the British.

Similarly, a police inspector once blamed British police manuals for police brutality. This is nonsense. British-India’s laws were highly humane, emphasizing human rights. However, they were based on an English concept of “human,” rooted in English language and behavior.

In today’s India, people operate with feudal language mindsets, not English ones. The demeanor of ordinary citizens and police differs sharply from the English. Thus, officials rarely follow legal restraints.

Even if they disregard these, individuals can’t assert their dignity to correct official misconduct. People are conditioned to address officials as “sir” while accepting “nee,” “eda,” or “edi” in return, reflecting a submissive mindset shaped by feudal language education. Creating dignified individuals is challenging, as this education erases the personality envisioned by British rule.

If a citizen confronts a shouting police officer, saying, “You can’t yell. This isn’t your home but a government office where you’re just a salaried employee,” it requires immense authority and personality—rarely found. People admire those who show verbal subservience and view assertive ones with competitive hostility, celebrating when officials “crush” them.

Conversely, feudal languages restrict officials’ ability to treat citizens respectfully. Offering a seat to a visitor risks triggering excessive familiarity, as local education doesn’t teach navigating such dynamics. It trains people to react—shout, question aggressively, or chant slogans—not to engage calmly as British systems envisioned.

In schools and colleges, teachers use “nee,” “eda,” “edi,” “avan,” or “aval” to define and discipline students, offering no training in equal dialogue. Equality in local languages exists in three tiers: “nee-nee” (basic, unattainable between teacher-student), “ningal-ningal” (impossible), and “sir-sir” (absurd). Equal dignity is unachievable.

This flawed education shapes both police and citizens. Officers know to intimidate, while citizens learn to cower, mumbling “sir” in a submissive, clownish manner. Asserting dignity, like a student challenging a teacher, disrupts the officer’s composure, often leading to violence—akin to a teacher slapping a student.

In Indian police stations, asserting dignity is seen as a mental disorder. Rather than electroshock therapy, a hard slap is deemed sufficient, and cheaper.

Giving a citizen a seat in a police station may make them feel overly empowered, leading to confrontational behavior misread as aggression. Officers lack training to handle this, as local education emphasizes reaction, not resolution.

Indian police call their questioning “custodial interrogation,” implying something severe—isolating, beating, and verbally abusing suspects with “nee,” “eda,” or profanities. Human rights activists struggle to propose alternatives, as English human rights concepts apply only to those thinking and speaking in English. Feudal South Asian languages impose linguistic limits on human rights.

English human rights cannot define or analyze feudal language contexts—they are distinct worlds and personalities.

Below are two video links (unwatched by me): one on custodial interrogation in England, the other in the USA.

Travancore’s police system will be covered in the next section.

[VED]

British-India was a nation that evolved gradually, formed by numerous small kingdoms united through various treaties. Each had its own social order enforcement systems, typically aligned with caste-based hierarchies.

The English East India Company meticulously crafted governance systems, as they relied on local individuals imbued with deep-seated social prejudices, aversions, loyalties, desires, and delusions—none conducive to egalitarian principles.

The 1861 Indian Councils Act mandated a professional police system in British-India, governed by legal codes. Contrary to myth, the Imperial Police (later Indian Police) wasn’t created to suppress freedom movements, which are later fabrications. Earlier, Henry Sleeman had already established a force to dismantle the “thuggee” highway robbers in northern India. More on this later.

In Travancore, Marthanda Varma, backed by the English East India Company’s moral support, annexed neighboring kingdoms to form Travancore. Though it existed earlier, its size fluctuated. Travancore, originally Venad, was distinct from British-India, a critical point to understand.

British-India’s police operated under written legal codes, with only senior positions held by English or British officers. From 1920, locals could join as Imperial Police Officers, possibly reducing efficiency slightly. Still, British-India’s police were likely far superior to Travancore’s, striving to operate with an English mindset.

In 1811, Col. Munro, serving briefly as Travancore’s Diwan, laid the foundation for its police system. Travancore mimicked British-India’s courts and legal codes, establishing courts staffed by local Nair law enforcers, who doubled as semi-military personnel. These, alongside courts and revenue officials, colluded to manage affairs.

To curb this collusion, Munro created a separate police system, independent of courts and revenue departments, directly under the Diwan’s control—a seemingly autonomous entity.

Notably, England’s professional police force emerged only in 1829, suggesting Travancore’s police predated those in British-India and England, though this needs verification.

Travancore’s police system merely integrated select Nair elites into a new structure. In contrast, British-India’s police were appointed via public exams, adhering to strict legal codes. Lower ranks, like sepoys, lacked significant investigative powers, likely due to limited English proficiency. Their public interactions mirrored modern India’s police—often brutal.

However, British-India’s senior officers, fluent in English, operated with a strong sense of responsibility. Without independent police unions, they exerted significant control over subordinates, not compelled to mimic their behavior or see merit in doing so.

While Travancore copied British-India’s governance, it was a hollow mimicry. Its legal codes appeared comparable, but, like modern India’s Constitution, they were largely unenforced. India’s Constitution champions human rights and bans social hierarchies, yet fails to eliminate titles like “sir” or “madam.”

British-India was different, though it had landlords and elite families, as did England. Yet, in both, many ordinary people were treated as subhuman in language codes, competing viciously among themselves—a dynamic persisting in modern India.

The next section will explore specific characteristics of Travancore’s police system.

[VED]

In pre-modern South Asia, the concept of “human” as understood today didn’t exist in social consciousness, perspectives, or communication. In Travancore, “people” likely referred only to upper castes.

For Namboodiris, many under their sway weren’t fully human. Over centuries, some Ambalavasi and Nair families may have slightly moderated this view. These families amassed wealth, land, and slaves, with language codes dehumanizing those beneath them. The lowest castes, enslaved, were defined not just as “avan” or “aval” but as “athu” or “ithu” (it). This persists today, with some, including Malayalam schoolteachers, referring to lower-caste children as “athu” or “ithu.”

Now, let’s examine Travancore’s police practices through historical records. First, blaming individuals is futile. People operate within the narrow confines of their organization’s and society’s rules and customs. No one deviates to disrupt established norms. In a group where all beat others, one doesn’t abstain to be virtuous; in a thieving system, no one refrains from stealing.

This applies to modern India’s government service, arguably more criminal than joining Dawood Ibrahim’s Bombay syndicate. India’s bureaucracy is a predatory machine, much like Dawood’s network with its various departments. More on that another time.

While British-India carefully built robust public institutions, Travancore’s systems, including its police, were crude imitations. Travancore’s police operated with the populace’s rough demeanor and violent tendencies, merely citing legal codes for show.

The royal family desired to curb social disorder, appointing senior local officials from British-India’s administration to high posts in Travancore on deputation. However, Tellicherry Thiyyas, prominent in British-Malabar’s bureaucracy, couldn’t be appointed, as Travancore’s Ezhavas claimed them as caste kin. Ezhavas in Travancore were relegated to menial tasks like cleaning government buildings, so a Thiyya official would face social ostracism.

An anecdote (possibly apocryphal) recalls Choorayi Kanaran, a Malabar Deputy Collector, being treated as low-caste by Travancore officials in Madras.

Christian missionaries repeatedly complained to the Madras Government about Travancore’s corrupt police and courts, forcing the British Resident to pressure the royal family. This led to multiple directives, warnings, and advice to officials.

By far the most important and fertile reform recently effected is the withdrawal from the Magistracy and Revenue Officials of their police functions, and the organization of a regular Police force after the British Indian Pattern, and in accordance with more enlightened and modern views of political economy than had previously prevailed.

The most significant reform was stripping police powers from magistrates and revenue officials, creating a police force modeled on British-India’s, supposedly aligned with modern governance principles. This was likely wishful thinking. Laws, uniforms, or training alone couldn’t elevate social standards.

The Police force lately organized are as yet quite new to their duties, and can scarcely be expected to work satisfactorily till better trained and brought under thorough discipline. Indeed, it will require a firm hand, strict supervision, careful inquiry into complaints, and complete and equitable representation in the force of all classes of the population to see that they do not establish a system of general vexation and oppression, and become a terror to the poor people in out of-the-way places. The power of the Indian police has too often been used to gratify petty spite, and for motives of revenge and cupidity.

The newly formed police were untrained and undisciplined, requiring strict oversight, complaint investigations, and diverse representation to avoid becoming oppressive. Indian police often abused power for personal vendettas or greed—a point about British-India, not Travancore, though Samuel Mateer’s suggestions show naivety.

Travancore’s police were worse, riddled with corruption, caste biases, and rivalries. Including Ezhavas or other lower castes wouldn’t improve quality; it would likely worsen public suffering.

An oppressive police, which has hitherto been the rule in Travancore, is a thousand times more baneful than an inefficient one; and the new body will be tempted to incessant interference with the liberty of the subject through ignorance of the public rights, and to display their diligence and authority.

An oppressive police, Travancore’s norm, was far worse than an inefficient one. Ignorant of public rights, the new force would meddle in personal freedoms to flaunt authority.

Dacoits and marauders of the worst stamp scoured the country by hundreds; but these were less feared by the people than the so-called Police. In short, Travancore was the veriest den of misrule, lawlessness, and callous tyranny of the worst description.

Hundreds of bandits roamed, yet people feared the police more. Travancore was a hub of misrule, lawlessness, and heartless tyranny.

Some seriously doubt whether any recent ‘reforms’ have as yet touched the seat of the disease, the magistracy and revenue officials being, with certain praiseworthy exceptions, incapable, uneducated, and lazy; the police untrained; the subordinate judicial officers conducting business loosely and negligently, and requiring incessant supervision and frequent warning from the Sadr Court, as seen by their “Select Decisions and Reports”; and the Bar still to a great extent incompetent and promotive of unnecessary or unjust litigation.

Many doubted reforms addressed systemic flaws. Magistrates and revenue officials were largely incompetent, uneducated, and lazy; police untrained; lower courts negligent, needing constant oversight; and lawyers mostly inept, fostering frivolous lawsuits.

Don’t misread this as suggesting modern Indian education produces better police. Mateer’s envisioned education was unrelated to India’s current system.

Notably, Malabar’s meticulously crafted British administration was subsumed into Travancore’s chaotic system in 1956, obliterating its efficiency and traditions when Kerala was formed. Local politicians, ignorant of Malabar’s administrative brilliance, fueled by hollow equality slogans, facilitated this through emotionally charged rhetoric. Ordinary Malabaris were unaware of the consequences.

Two major Travancore social movements relentlessly worked to subsume Malabar, a topic for later.

Next, I plan to briefly discuss British-India’s police system.

[VED]

Let’s briefly discuss the police systems in Kerala and modern India.

While many evils can be attributed to the police, the core issue lies in feudal local languages. Eliminating these flawed languages could resolve many of India’s systemic problems.

Even English-speaking nations aren’t free of issues today, flooded with non-English speakers whose linguistic flaws now taint these societies. Few recognize how language can corrupt a nation or society, and those who do often conceal this truth.

Regarding Malabar’s police system, my remarks are speculative, not backed by extensive historical records. Before British rule, Nair elites enforced order over lower castes in Malabar’s kingdoms, likely without a formal police force. They disciplined lower castes, but how disputes among them were resolved is unclear to me.

These enforcers, under kings and landlords, likely performed minor military, escort, and guard duties. For lower castes, crimes by superiors weren’t considered crimes—a problem lingering in modern India.

When the English East India Company established Malabar District, they had “kolkars,” possibly informal or formal enforcers, also called sepoys or peons. These were likely Nairs, wielding authority akin to today’s police constables. The Malabar Manual notes such a kolkar group captured Pazhassi Raja.

In 1858, Britain took control from the Company, and by 1861, steps began to establish a formal police system in British-India. The Company may have planned this, but lost power before implementation.

The Police Act of 1861, or Police Manual, created a professional force led by English or British senior officers—a monumental event in the subcontinent, though its significance may have been underappreciated then. It subjected everyone, including British officials and their families, to a codified legal system, with no one above or beyond it.

The Indian Penal Code likely originated from this framework. While the Company enforced various laws, many lacked clear, robust written codes.

Pazhassi Raja killed several Mappilas without cause, provoked by their disobedience and lack of subservience—behaviors English officials struggled to view as serious crimes. Today, such defiance remains a grave offense in local languages.

The Supreme Government directed that the Raja should be put upon his trial for murder, but it was not easy to bring this about, for the Raja was well guarded by five hundred well armed Nayars from Wynad.

Pazhassi Raja claimed killing was his family’s traditional right. Per customary laws, crimes included killing a Brahmin, Brahmins drinking alcohol, stealing (even a fruit by a slave), disobeying a guru, or killing a cow. Killing or torturing lower castes wasn’t a crime.

The Company didn’t rigorously pursue Pazhassi Raja’s punishment, likely issuing a warning. However, when another landlord beheaded a tribal leader, they sought to apprehend and punish him. No uniform legal system existed in Malabar under Company rule.

The Police Act of 1861 marked the subcontinent’s first formal police system, with enforceable, challengeable rules. Senior officers were appointed by the Indian Government, lower ranks by provincial governments. Each rank’s duties were clearly documented, and social issues were defined with precision, often with local officials’ input, as British officers lacked contextual insight.

Only top positions were held by British or English officers; others, from mid to lower ranks, were locals. Some local police likely conducted court proceedings tied to their authority.

The Act clarified police powers, crucial in a region where the powerful treat the powerless as “avan” or “aval,” flaunting authority unchecked. To curb misuse, the Code of Criminal Procedure was enacted, including:

Person arrested not to be detained more than twenty-four hours: No police officer shall detain in custody a person arrested without warrant for a longer period than under all the circumstances of the case is reasonable, and such period shall not, in the absence of a special order...

This and other restrictions were imposed on police, as, despite being in British-India, officers often behaved like Travancore’s Nair overlords. Travancore had no such controls, but in British-India, senior officers didn’t tolerate subordinates’ excesses.

British-India aimed to foster social peace and rule of law through cultural and mental growth, unlike Travancore, where police suppressed people to enforce primitive traditions via fear, even nailing suspects to trees. In local languages, fear ensures obedience—without a teacher’s stick, children won’t line up for a bus.

In English, people queue not from fear but because it’s the easiest, most convenient method. Mutual compromise in English feels rewarding, unlike in feudal languages.

[VED]

The irregularity in continuing this series stems from time constraints, causing a disruption in its flow. Additionally, the ongoing turmoil in Palestine often diverts my attention.

The Palestine issue has lingered in my mind since the 1970s. Back then, our household subscribed to The Hindu, an English newspaper with remarkable intellectual depth, covering Palestine, Kashmir, Northeast independence struggles, and Naxalbari movements with a distinct perspective. Malayalam newspapers, however, were parochial, rarely mentioning such issues. Yet, educated Malayalis, fluent only in Malayalam, dismissed English papers as “bourgeois,” oblivious to their content.

Here, I aim to explore how language codes may influence Palestine’s independence struggle, connecting it to South Asian contexts.

When British-Malabar and southern Indian regions were handed to Nehru’s officials to form a Hindi-dominated nation, few foresaw the consequences. I won’t delve into those details now. In Valluvanad and Eranad, lower-caste Mappilas resisted, attempting to establish a “Mappilastan” to prevent their land from falling to Hindi rulers. They likely didn’t fully grasp their actions’ scope, but their resistance against Malabar’s annexation stands out.

In Travancore, Hyderabad, Mysore, Punjab, Kashmir, Nagaland, and Mizoram, ceding regional identities to Hindi dominance without consent sparked significant independence struggles. The Hindi regime efficiently suppressed these, often stoking communal and caste hatred.

However, no major independence movement in India sustained itself. Most lacked deep loyalty to their region or the Hindi nation. For the discerning, escaping to an English-speaking nation was the goal. Others sought personal advancement in status or wealth, with little lasting national or regional pride.

Punjab’s independence movement persisted until 1982, but the Hindi regime crushed it with cunning. Kashmir’s struggle quickly turned communal, and I’ll skip its handling for now.

The Islamic independence movement, particularly in Palestine, remains robust. A key factor is the social equality instilled in Muslim women, fostering organized resilience. However, feudal language codes, emphasizing hierarchy (e.g., “adheham,” “saab” for the wealthy, versus “avan,” “aval,” or “athu” for the poor), undermine this, keeping even Muslims informally disorganized.

Palestinian experiences and responses can’t be directly applied to South Asia. Social status—tied to wealth, homes, or attire—is critical in feudal languages. In contrast, languages free of such hierarchical codes, like Palestinian Arabic, enable informal organization and resilience under hardship. I can’t confirm if this applies to all Arabic speakers.

Israel’s 70-year military conduct in Palestine mirrors practices in parts of India, yet media rarely dare mention this. The Armed Forces (Jammu and Kashmir) Special Powers Act, 1990 grants army officers legal immunity, barring prosecution or judicial review for their actions in “disturbed” areas.

Army officers have legal immunity for their actions. There can be no prosecution, suit or any other legal proceeding against anyone acting under that law. Nor is the government's judgment on why an area is found to be disturbed subject to judicial review.

Much could be said here, but I’ll hold off. The Hindi regime’s erasure of British rule was significant, but ousting it today wouldn’t restore English governance—a worrying prospect.

English-speaking nations may find Arabic culture among the most compatible. However, speaking Arabic while retaining a feudal mindset, like Malayalam’s, creates a facade of civility masking rigidity.

Post-World War II, English nations preferred aligning with feudal-language nation leaders for several reasons: many English citizens lack linguistic chauvinism; feudal leaders exude charismatic authority; and they offer unmatched hospitality. For instance, post-WWII Japan feared American troops would exploit elite women, a misconception rooted in Japan’s own military policy of using captured women, embraced by Japanese society. English-speaking troops, however, faced punishment for such acts, as ordinary citizens address officers as “you,” enabling fearless questioning.

Japan’s Recreation and Amusement Association recruited ordinary women to serve American troops, sparing elite women, framed as patriotic duty. Thousands joined enthusiastically, an experience unimaginable in English or likely Arabic nations.

Whether Hebrew is feudal is unclear, but for Hebrews and Arabs to coexist, their language codes need careful examination. Each language assigns unique statuses to individuals, relationships, and behaviors. Translating a person’s status across languages can shift their position dramatically—elevating, diminishing, or skewing it.

Without understanding this, nation-building risks plunging societies into prolonged suffering.

[VED]

The English East India Company initially established three distinct Presidency regions in South Asia. Early on, administrative confusion and conflicts between British laws and local customary practices were common.

For instance, the execution of an official named Nand Kumar sparked legal disputes, implicating Bengal Governor Warren Hastings and Calcutta’s first Chief Justice, Sir Elijah Impey, in controversies back in England. England struggled to understand South Asia—a challenge that persists today.

Returning to the main thread, the police system in British-India wasn’t created to counter a fabricated “independence movement.” British-India, a nation formed in this subcontinent, housed millions with minimal social cohesion, a reality true for smaller regions then and now.

The Police Act explicitly barred police from punishing individuals, a rule codified in law. In Travancore, while police powers were nominally restricted, these limits often remained mere paper warnings.

With the establishment of the Supreme Court and the Police Act, British-India began to emerge as a legally distinct entity from Britain. Under the East India Company, India wasn’t part of Britain but was governed by a board of directors in London—wealthy merchants and devout Christians. Their profits and loans were invested in shaping India into an exemplary nation, a concept modern Indians struggle to grasp due to differing notions of “merchant” in English versus local languages.

To illustrate governance creation, consider Badagara (Kurumbranad Taluk) in Malabar:

Taluk Office, Police Station, District Munsif’s Court, middle school, travelers’ bungalow.

District Munsif’s Courts in Nadapuram and Koyilandy.

Deputy Tahsildar’s Office in Koyilandy.

Sub-Registrar Offices in Nadapuram, Payyoli, Koyilandy, Naduvannur, and Kuttiyadi.

Post and Telegraph Offices and Sea Customs Offices in Badagara and Koyilandy.

Police Stations in Chombala, Nadapuram, Badagara, Payyoli, Koyilandy, Thiruvallur, Kuttiyadi, Perambra, Naduvannur, and Ilyad.

These were entirely British creations. The Sub-Registrar Office, formalizing property rights documentation, was likely first tested in North Malabar.

Local individuals staffed these offices, with only District Collectors and select senior judicial roles held by British or English officials. Local officials fell into two categories: those with limited English proficiency, shaped by feudal language mindsets, and those fluent in English, exhibiting a more egalitarian outlook. The latter, less prone to bribery, corruption, or nepotism, typically rose to higher posts. In English interactions, accepting bribes would brand one a thief, fostering accountability.

By around 1900, entry to senior British-India government roles required passing Public Service Commission exams. The Indian Civil Service (ICS) exam, initially open only to British citizens, was accessible to Indian (British-Indian) citizens by roughly 1915.

This brings us to a key point: the purpose of public exams. In Travancore, appointments favored elites’ preferences, a cost-effective but flawed method prioritizing status and linguistic dominance over merit. British-India demanded mental elevation for senior roles, distinct from the grandeur local languages confer.

British-India’s English education aimed to instill an English mindset in locals, surpassing even England’s educational standards, where such cultivation wasn’t needed due to inherent cultural traits.

The next section will explore Public Service Examinations, including IAS and IPS, delving into deeper insights. Whether this succeeds will be clear only after writing.

That’s for the next piece.

[VED]

Before continuing, let’s address a couple of points missed in the flow of this series.

First, the character of police constables. In Travancore, police authority likely rested with Nairs. Though the lowest-ranking officers, they lived far above the common people’s status. Despite modest official salaries, they amassed wealth through money, goods, or other means extracted from the public. These constables likely possessed imposing physical presence and clear superiority over the masses, with notable height and charisma.

In contrast, in British-Malabar, police and military personnel probably reflected the ordinary people’s physical traits, and government service didn’t offer high salaries. Here, “ordinary people” excludes those dependent on Malabar’s landlords.

Modern Indian nationalists often claim British-India paid local officials meager wages while lavishing British officers with high salaries. In reality, even the substantial salaries paid to British officers in India were modest by British standards. Yet, British rule maintained a largely corruption-free administration.

In 1956, British-Malabar’s modest officials were merged with Travancore’s grandiose, high-earning counterparts. Anecdotal evidence suggests Malabar’s senior local officials refrained from bribery or nepotism. Take Mrs. CPS, for instance, who reportedly never accepted bribes. This wasn’t due to exceptional virtue but a lack of the mindset or capacity to collude with subordinates or manipulate the public. This trait was common among Malabar’s directly recruited, English-speaking officers, who communicated in English and handled matters with precision.

This wasn’t personal talent but a natural outcome of thinking and operating in English, where distinctions like “adheham” (respected person) or “avan” (lesser person) don’t exist. Mrs. CPS, a Registration Department DIG in Trivandrum, lived in a large but modest thatched house in a low-lying area, with a low salary. Even as an IG, she resided in humble accommodations, though provided an official phone and car.

Remarkably, her modest salary and living conditions didn’t foster any sense of inferiority. This may stem from interacting with a small group of Malabar’s English-speaking, directly recruited officers. In Trivandrum, such officers were a novel experience for both the public and other officials. Some speculated Mrs. CPS was Anglo-Indian or a Thiyya from Tellicherry, considered an elite caste there, though many in Travancore were unfamiliar with Thiyyas.

These Malabar officers, transferred to Travancore, astonished locals by swiftly processing public petitions. Unlike Travancore’s norm—where clerks or peons stamped and delivered signed documents—these officers personally signed, stamped, and handed over papers, a practice unheard of in Travancore’s offices.

I heard a related anecdote: in another state, someone overheard a shopkeeper and another person marveling at Mrs. CPS’s refusal to take bribes, a concept baffling to them. This was in Alleppey, when I was in fifth grade. In a society where officials extorting was cultural, merging Malabar with Travancore in 1956 was a clash of ethos. For Malabar’s senior officials, rejecting bribes was standard.

A Varyar acquaintance shared another story. His relative, a clerk in the Registration Department, applied for a transfer. The senior officer, also a Varyar and a Malabar-born, English-speaking direct recruit, held the authority. When my acquaintance asked another clerk if leveraging caste or family ties could help, the response was striking: if the transfer was justified by norms, it would be granted, but invoking ties would ensure rejection. Presenting a fair case without personal appeals might succeed. This shocked my acquaintance.

He also mentioned another Malabar relative, a retired tahsildar, who never took bribes. For such officers, the concept of bribery only became apparent after integration with Travancore’s system. When this tahsildar retired, British-India had vanished, replaced by a “duplicate” India where old principles and official ethics held no value. He struggled to secure a job for his son, resorting to pleading, with only a meager pension and no savings. British rule, it seemed, had abandoned its honest officers.

A similar story came from a young man in Trichur 30 years ago. His father, a retired tahsildar, took no bribes, earning his son’s resentment. Yet, when the son started a business and faced sales tax officials, he was harassed by bribe-demanding officers. I’ve had similar experiences with sales tax.

British rule had tamed such predatory officials, but in “duplicate” India, they resurged, resembling the thuggee highway robbers of old, sustained to support a small cadre of officials.

[VED]

At this juncture, as my writing has reached this point, I think it fitting to mention a few additional matters pertinent to this context before proceeding further. The reason being, it seems unlikely that a more suitable occasion to address these will present itself later.

First, I must speak of the government salaries of that era. It appears that in the kingdom of Travancore, the royal family did not provide substantial remuneration to government officials. The situation there might have been akin to that of the landlord in Kuttiyadi, as previously mentioned.

People would eagerly vie for government positions despite the meagre monthly income. Once appointed, they would see to their own financial betterment. In return, they would offer great loyalty and devotion to the royal family.

By the time an individual retired from service, he would have amassed considerable wealth. I am uncertain whether a pension scheme was in place for all government employees there.

Such was the custom of that land.

In British-India, too, government salaries were likely modest. Upon retirement, a small sum would be granted as a pension.

If a serving official were to die unexpectedly, one of his children would immediately be appointed to a post such as peon or clerk. The technical term for this practice is “Dying in harness.”

This provision was made to prevent the family of a government servant from facing sudden financial hardship. In feudal linguistic regions, such an abrupt economic setback was akin to a boulder crashing upon one’s body—a profoundly distressing social experience.

As government employment in Britain paid less than private-sector jobs, no such provision existed there, as far as I understand. I lack precise details on this matter.

In India (British-India), the practice of granting a government job to one of the deceased’s children occurred immediately after the individual’s death. It was not a means for someone to acquire advanced educational qualifications years later to secure a high-ranking government post.

When I was in Alleppey from 1970–73, a judge passed away, and his daughter was appointed to a gazetted rank position. Until then, the custom had been that if the deceased’s son or daughter possessed the requisite educational qualifications, they could join as a clerk; otherwise, they could serve as a peon.

The appointment of the judge’s daughter to a high-ranking post, in violation of this established practice, was a topic of discussion in my household.

However, it seems the erudite local journalists lacked the basic acumen to grasp the gravity of such a breach of custom. Their lofty enlightenment was better suited to petty political gossip, as I understand it.

With the introduction of this new, aggressive precedent, many individuals eligible for government jobs under the “Dying in harness” scheme leveraged it to secure high-ranking positions.

In the Registration Department, an Inspector General (IG) died while in service. His son, at the age of about 21, fresh from completing his degree, was appointed as a Sub-Registrar in the same department. Years later, this individual retired as an IG or Deputy IG, I believe.

Another incident related to this comes to mind. Around 1985, when I was in Bangalore, a Deputy Superintendent of Police (DySP) passed away.

This individual, I believe, was originally from Travancore. His family had long since relocated to Mysore, where he joined the police and rose through the ranks to become a DySP. He died while in service, and the matter of his son receiving a government job came up for discussion.

The son had not yet completed his degree at the time. The family stated that he should first finish his studies, after which he could join the police as a Sub-Inspector.

There was no mechanism in India (British-India) to perpetuate government employment within families.

Government officials, one by one, eroded established customs and introduced new ones to suit their convenience.

Now, let me address another matter.

In India (British-India), I understand there were three distinct tiers of government service. I cannot definitively state there were no additional tiers, but I will speak of the three I know.

The highest was the Indian Civil Service (ICS).

The second tier comprised mid-level officer positions, such as Sub-Registrar or Sub-Inspector, from which one could gradually ascend to higher ranks.

Proficiency in the English language was mandatory for both the first and second tiers.

The third tier was the clerk position in government offices. Knowledge of the local language sufficed for this, I believe. These individuals could, over time, rise through promotions to ranks like Sub-Registrar.

In India (British-India), minor corruption among government officials likely existed at this local-language tier, or so it seems.

Below this was another government position: the peon. Typically, peons did not advance to clerk positions, as I understand it.

It is here that one notices a distinction between peons in the police and military and those in other government roles.

Some peons in the police and military could, through promotions, reach positions equivalent to Sub-Inspector, I believe. In the military, I am unaware of how high peons could rise in rank then or now.

Today, in departments like State Excise and Central Excise, peons are promoted to lower-tier officer positions such as Preventive Officer or Inspector, as I understand it, though I lack precise knowledge.

It seems the initial job title for these individuals might be “Guard” or something similar.

All government department peons share certain common responsibilities, I understand: cleaning the office and its premises, performing guard duties, and fetching tea for the office.

However, in local feudal linguistic contexts, individuals who secure government jobs are not permitted by cultural codes to perform such tasks.

This is because the linguistic codes elevate a person with a government job to the status of a “lord.” His wife becomes a “lady.” The sight of a lord and lady fetching tea is a deeply distasteful social spectacle.

I vaguely recall an incident at the Registration IG’s office where a peon refused to fetch tea.

This led to the creation of another position, the “Sweeper,” for tasks like cleaning. However, I have heard of instances where even sweepers, upon securing government employment, became “Sweeper Saars” and were unable to perform such tasks.

In departments like the military and police, peons are also responsible for washing and ironing clothes, polishing shoes, and cleaning toilets for senior officers, as I understand it. In the military, this likely remains unchanged.

In the police, however, with peons recently redesignated as “officers,” it seems a new police position has been created specifically for such tasks.

There are multiple grades among peons, I understand. In the police, this is currently the case. The highest among them is the Head Constable, and above that is the Assistant Sub-Inspector, I believe, though I lack precise details.

Other government departments may also have peons of varying ranks. I have encountered peons with the title “Daffadar.” These individuals wear a large, crown-like cap and a white uniform.

In the British-Indian military, the Daffadar rank was equivalent to Havildar, itself a peon rank, I believe.

Lastly, I wish to mention the amalgamation of British-Indian government titles with those of Travancore.

That, I think, can be addressed in the next piece of writing.

[VED]

With the capital of the newly formed state, created by merging Malabar with Travancore, established far south in Trivandrum, it seemed that Malabar had largely become subservient to Travancore.

I understand that for the economically advanced individuals and officials of Travancore, a vast northern region opened up for them to dominate.

There was even a saying, heard in Trivandrum and Quilon, that officials were transferred to Kasargod as a form of punishment.

When Malabar, carrying its British-Malabar official traditions, was merged with Travancore, an unexpected issue arose concerning the prestige of Travancore officials.

It seems there was no cadre of direct-recruit officers in Travancore.

I came across a statement to this effect on an online platform:

During 1935–36, the Dewan appointed a new Public Service Commissioner for the first time in Travancore for recruitment into the civil services of the state, without caste and religious prejudices.

I have no information on the nature of the Public Service Exam established in Travancore in 1936.

However, it appears that appointments to high-ranking and clerk positions were made based on the preferences of the elite.

Clerks, through promotions, likely joined positions such as Sub-Registrar or District Registrar in the usual course.

It seems that, for a considerable time, the Inspector General of Registration was directly appointed by the Travancore king.

Similarly, police peons might have been promoted to Sub-Inspector or higher ranks. Nevertheless, the elite likely appointed individuals directly to such positions as well.

It appears that the Public Service Commission (PSC) began functioning in Travancore from 1936.

However, when CPS was appointed as a Sub-Registrar in Travancore in 1970, it was evident that there was no provision for direct recruitment to the Sub-Registrar post.

Consequently, the higher echelons of the Registration Department were dominated by relatively young, direct-recruit, English-speaking officers from Malabar.

At that time, the Registration Department hierarchy consisted of Sub-Registrars, District Registrars above them, and a single Inspector General of Registration at the top.

Since there was no sales tax department—a form of extortion—in India (British-India), the Registration Department held significant importance. Registration fees and stamp paper values generated substantial revenue for the Indian government and presidency governments. The department operated with few officials and modest salaries.

When CPS joined as a Sub-Registrar in 1953, the registration fee was one per cent, and stamp paper was eight per cent. Today, the registration fee is two per cent.

The influx of young, English-speaking officers from Malabar, who secured all the high-ranking positions, must have felt like a blow to the clerks of Travancore.

It seems there were foolish remarks in Travancore about how things were done in Malabar (British-Malabar), claiming that its people were fools, mostly uneducated, and barely proficient in Malayalam.

However, no loose talk in Travancore could have anticipated the arrival of a formidable cadre of English-speaking officers from Malabar, who would infiltrate the region.

In Travancore, it seems the dream of promotion for clerks in many government departments was extinguished.

Related discussions likely occurred daily. This came to my attention in Quilon, when CPS was a District Registrar. I believe I overheard clerks conversing at home.

There was no possibility of promotion. Various strategies were being considered.

Above the District Registrar was the Inspector General (IG), a post awarded to one of the District Registrars. Upon his retirement, another District Registrar would take it. Most District Registrars were Malabar officials.

This offered no benefit to clerks, as all posts in the IG’s office were already filled.

If a new post were created, along with additional related positions, it could bring light to the lives of some clerks.

Over the years, it seems the District Registrar post was split into two: District Registrar (General) and District Registrar (Chitties). Each had distinct roles, with Senior Superintendents, Junior Superintendents, Head Clerks, Upper Division Clerks, Lower Division Clerks, and peons.

I lack precise details on this.

However, I can share a clearer incident.

The District Registrar reports to the IG. Creating a post between these two could bring fulfilment to many.

I omitted earlier that, in such covert deliberations, when officials made decisions, government employee unions would meet the minister to finalise matters.

For the minister, the approach was, “What do you want? Just do it.”

It seems the ministers of this pseudo-India lacked the seriousness of British-India’s administration.

Public leaders should strive to protect the public’s interests.

However, the leaders of the new state seemed only interested in pleasing the union leaders of government employees standing by them.

Thus, three Zonal Inspector posts were created under the Inspector General: one in Calicut, one in Cochin, and one in Trivandrum.

Each post came with a dedicated office, a Tempo Trax vehicle, a phone, a Senior Superintendent, a Junior Superintendent, a Head Clerk, Upper Division Clerk, Lower Division Clerk, driver, and peon.

What was their work?

It seems only officials immersed in busy roles feel loyalty to their salaries. Hence, new, non-existent tasks were likely invented.

Until then, District Registrars conducted inspections at Sub-Registrar offices, with occasional visits by the Inspector General.

Now, Sub-Registrars would also face inspections by Zonal Inspectors.

There is much more to say on this, but I am trying to avoid digressing.

The Zonal Inspectors’ offices likely issued various directives and demanded reports, ensuring everyone felt a sense of accomplishment.

There was a perception that the Zonal Inspector title lacked respect in public and government forums.

One day, I overheard officials discussing this.

One said, “The term Zonal Inspector sounds like the old ‘Toilet Inspector.’ The name needs to change.”

In India (British-India), the English administration placed great emphasis on maintaining cleanliness and hygiene in public and private spaces.

Sanitary Inspectors were appointed to check the cleanliness of toilets in public places, homes, and other inhabited areas.

Though their work was serious, in local languages, their role was mockingly called “Toilet Inspector,” tarnishing its reputation.

Even today, this role exists, but its name has changed from Sanitary Inspector.

The discussion I overheard bore fruit within months. The Zonal Inspector title was replaced with Deputy Inspector General of Registration.

Meanwhile, it seems another official post was created, though I cannot recall precisely.

An Assistant Inspector General of Registration was established directly under the Inspector General.

This new post was given to a District Registrar. It was not a promotion but merely a new title at the same level.

I heard this greatly benefited some individuals who joined as clerks and were nearing retirement as District Registrars.

They could never have reached the Inspector General post. However, with this, many retired as Assistant Inspector Generals. This post likely saw intense competition.

Some retirees claimed in public and private forums that they retired as Inspector General or just below it.

Parallel to these events, in other government departments, many who joined as clerks became Deputy Directors or Assistant Directors, serving the state with satisfaction.

Taluk-level officials transformed into Assistant Directors. The Taluk Officer post became Assistant Director.

District-level posts became Deputy Director.

In departments like State Excise, titles like Deputy Commissioner and Assistant Commissioner exist, though I am unaware of their original names.

Most government departments have high-ranking IAS and IPS posts like Director, Commissioner, and Joint Commissioner.

However, much lower-ranking officials hold titles like Deputy Commissioner or Deputy Director, which seems to mislead the public.

The craving for grandiose titles stems from feudal languages. In English, there is no need for such fearsome-sounding official titles.

[VED]

When I asked CPS, upon her retirement as Inspector General of Registration in 1982, about her basic monthly salary, she replied that she could not recall.

I mentioned, based on my faint recollection, that the basic pay for an IG of Registration was 1300 rupees. She responded that it was unlikely to be so low.

However, considering that the highest-paid IAS officer, the Cabinet Secretary, earned around 4000 rupees monthly at the time, 1300 rupees seems plausible.

In addition to basic pay, there was a Dearness Allowance, or scarcity allowance.

There are a few points to discuss regarding government salaries, but I cannot delve into them now.

A salary of 1300 rupees in the early 1980s would have been sufficient for a respectable life in Malabar. In Travancore, however, things were different. The tradition there was that the salary amount mattered little.

The primary concern for society was whether substantial bribes could be earned.

Living in Trivandrum on a 1300-rupee monthly salary was possible only with significant limitations. For most officials, bribes were a highly respectable source of income.

An official receiving large bribes was regarded as a highly esteemed figure in society.

In Trivandrum, house rents and other expenses depended on this form of income for government officials.

It was understood that employees in Sub-Registrar offices within the Registration Department earned substantial sums.

In Trivandrum’s Chala area, the Sub-Registrar office reportedly collected, in just four or five days, bribes exceeding the IG of Registration’s monthly salary. No one seemed to view such bribery as wrong.

This highlights a key difference between the fading British-Indian government systems and the emerging pseudo-Indian administrative systems.

Travancore’s administration lacked any English-language familiarity. The mindset of keeping the common Malayalam speaker subservient was treated as a hereditary right among officials.

The local custom prohibited addressing officials as “you” (ningal), fostering a tendency among officials to view common people as fools.

I have personally heard government clerks say that the public are mere donkeys. No one, especially the common person, seemed to object or resent this.

Police officers spoke to common people with great disrespect, using abusive language without restraint.

The Malayalam language fostered both subservience to such official behaviour and mutual disdain, envy, and resentment among people.

During my college years, I observed students’ eagerness to secure government jobs. Many were well-informed about departments offering the highest bribes.

Some positions, like Sub-Inspector, had direct recruitment.

I have heard, and believe to be true, the following:

For PSC exams for jobs like Sub-Inspector, far more candidates were passed in the written test than required.

This was followed by interviews conducted by PSC Board members, who were representatives of the ruling party. Seats were allocated among members based on the total number to be filled.

A few candidates were selected based solely on interview performance.

Political party agents approached many who passed the written exam, negotiating large sums. Those who successfully paid secured victory in the interview.

Such practices were common knowledge in Trivandrum society, yet no one seemed to have the time or interest to complain, as this was the norm. No one had time for futile pursuits.

Moreover, the practical wisdom was to appease wealthy individuals to ensure personal success.

The common person was insignificant, unaware of alternative, valuable perspectives due to limited exposure. Yet, they carried themselves as highly enlightened without any lack of confidence.

In 1982 or thereabouts, when I mentioned such practices in Travancore’s Sub-Inspector appointments to an informed person in Malabar, he dismissed my claims as exaggeration and lies.

His reasoning was that if such things occurred, local Malayalam newspapers would report them.

When I spoke to CPS about the office environment, she shared some insights:

In Malabar, non-labourer commoners entering offices addressed officials as “you” (ningal).

Labourers and socially disadvantaged individuals used “Ingal” (highest you).

This is a local language issue, not a fault of the English administrative tradition.

In Malabar, document writers were not allowed inside Sub-Registrar offices. They sat outside, entering only when called to hand documents or petitions to the Sub-Registrar.

Document writers had no access to the record room, where records were meticulously maintained.

In Kuttiyadi, it seems, CPS noticed that when drafting property transfer deeds involving a higher-caste and lower-caste individual, document writers addressed the higher-caste person as “you” (ningal) and the lower-caste person as “nee” (lowest you).

She once instructed a document writer to address both parties as “you” (ningal) in the deed, as she recalled.

Such matters should not involve excessive social reform zeal.

In English systems, officials likely addressed older clerks with “Mr.” before their names. I have witnessed this myself.

However, I am unaware of how Sub-Registrars, promoted through local language systems, addressed older clerks.

In the police, I have heard that young Sub-Inspectors addressed older peons by codes like PC48 or PC116. I lack further details on this.

In Malabar, while commoners could address Sub-Registrars as “you” (ningal), the Sub-Registrar’s chair and desk were placed on an elevated wooden platform.

This may have been an English administrative measure to curb the local language’s tendency toward derogatory speech.

The English administration built its official cadre without caste considerations, appointing young, English-proficient individuals to officer roles.

In the pre-English local social tradition, only those with family prestige held high administrative posts. They used harsh word codes to demean and suppress commoners.

The tendency to degrade lower-caste or non-prestigious individuals with terms like “Inhi,” “Onu,” or “Olu” was deeply entrenched in the local language.

The local language even encouraged demeaning polite and non-offensive individuals.

In Malayalam, “Avar” refers to high-ranking women. In Tamil, it seems to refer to high-ranking men.

In Malabari, “Oru” denotes high-ranking individuals. It is a powerful term, not typically used for those lacking such authority in Malabar.

Instead, terms like “Ayaal,” “Mooppar,” or “Moopathi” are used to temper superiority.

In such a social environment, if young, English-speaking officers without the “Saar” title sat behind a simple desk, even their subordinates might not respect them.

To address this, the head of the office was likely placed on a platform.

Blaming individuals is pointless, as they merely act within the confines of their language.

Next, I plan to write about government office behaviours in Travancore. That can be in the next piece.

[VED]

The image above is of the first page of the Indian Registration Act of 1871 and the related Registration Manual.

This Act is one of the many written legal frameworks that the English administration meticulously established in a subcontinent previously devoid of such systems.

Travancore’s kingdom replicated these to create its own government institutions. However, while India (British-India) developed relatively corruption-free systems, Travancore’s were steeped in corruption.

After 1956, English-speaking officers from Malabar, arriving to work in Travancore, observed this stark contrast. Yet, many of them revered the English administration as a divine entity, serving it with fervent devotion. It seems few realised this divine figure had committed suicide and faded away, failing to spark enlightenment in them.

The corruption-free conduct and efficient office operations displayed by Malabar officers likely raised doubts among Travancore officials: whom were these officers trying to impress with such extreme self-sacrifice?

The reality is that those educated in Malabar’s old English schools and colleges possessed qualities absent in those shaped by Travancore’s educational systems.

Travancore’s learned elite may not even have been aware such qualities existed.

When CPS began working in Travancore, she transformed into Sarojini Saar. At that time, the term “Maadam” was not used after names.

In British-Malabar, using “Maadam” in this way was unthinkable in earlier times. English-educated Malabaris likely knew that attaching “Maadam” to a woman’s name in English implied insult, as it was a derogatory term in British-India.

The fact that a term considered derogatory in British-India evolved into a respectful one for women in Travancore is evidence of how far Travancore’s educated elite were removed from English traditions.

As Sarojini Saar, CPS likely adopted the arrogance typical of Travancore officials, for that was a different world.

A retired Sub-Registrar once told me that clients were unaware Sarojini Saar did not accept bribes. Document writers collected the Sub-Registrar’s share from clients and handed it to the Registrar’s office, where others divided it. That was the norm.

Refusing this money brought no benefit to clients.

I heard that a clerk, a subordinate of CPS in Alleppey or Quilon, who had worked in Malabar’s Sub-Registrar offices, once said:

When I worked in Saar’s homeland, I thoroughly taught everyone in the office Travancore’s customs.

This implies that Travancore’s “Saar” address and the officials’ entitlement to bribes were successfully propagated in some Malabar offices.

The “Saar” address was believed to remove communication barriers in Malabari, which may be true.

However, English speakers did not experience such barriers.

In Travancore, officials typically referred to common people using “avan” (lowest he) or “aval” (lowest she), occasionally using “ayaal” (middle-level he/she).

Senior officials were addressed as “Saar,” “adheham” (highest he), or “avaru” (highest he/she). Suggesting that a commoner be addressed as “adheham” or “avaru” would be seen by both officials and the public as a sign of mental illness.

In Malabar, when speaking Malabari, similar issues may have existed. In English, however, no such problem arose.

In the previous piece, I mentioned how a clerk promoted to Sub-Registrar addressed older clerks.

Relatedly, by the time a clerk becomes a Sub-Registrar, they are likely 45 or 50 years old. Other office staff would typically be younger.

In Trivandrum, I clearly observed the incompetence, lack of personality, and ignorance of ministers and MLAs.

In terms of physical presence and charisma, politicians had ten times the personality of an average official.

In British-India, politicians were highly proficient in English. Post-1947 Kerala politicians, however, often lacked such proficiency, and even those who had it seemed reluctant to use it.

It seems there was a rule that when MLAs or public leaders visited an office, senior officials had to offer seating and show due respect in conversation.

Yet, I understood that public leaders lacked personality and confidence before officials.

Officials believed they were the government and that other leaders could betray a public leader. Ministers seen today might not be seen tomorrow, but officials endured for years.

Many public leaders lacked the courage to address officials as “ningal” (you). This may not apply to revolutionary party members, who had disciplined cadres.

The Registration IG often had discussions at the minister’s office. The Taxes Minister then, a short man who later became Chief Minister and has since passed away, addressed the Registration IG not as “ningal” but as “IG” in places where “you” was appropriate.

This suggests most ministers lacked the courage to address IAS or IPS officers as “ningal.” Conversations proceeded as “Chief Secretary, do this” or “DGP, do that.”

Politicians with strong political footing may not have been hindered by this mental limitation.

The Registration IG addressed the minister as “Minister,” saying things like, “If that is Minister’s opinion, we can do it.”

This seems to have been how high-level discussions occurred then. Revolutionary party members, with their strong footing, likely addressed officials as “ningal” and might even use abusive language if needed.

In Malayalam, “ningal” is a word many hesitate to use, as evident in numerous YouTube discussion videos.

In Malabari, however, “ningal” was a significant word, preferred by many for address.

When individuals from different institutions discuss serious matters in Malayalam, this issue often becomes a major obstacle and difficulty.

At subtle points in the discussion’s path, blunders pile up like a heap.

[VED]

When Mrs. CPS first took charge of a Sub-Registrar office in Travancore, it was in Alleppey. From my conversations with CPS, I understood that it was in Alleppey that she realised government systems in Travancore were entirely different and utterly contrary to those in Malabar.

The Sub-Registrar did not sit on an elevated platform. However, all officials stood on the pedestal of the word “Saar.” All officials colluded to ensure the public addressed them as “Saar.”

It was great amusement when a Malabari entered the office. They were unaware of the issue and were made to look like fools.

Moreover, office operations were in disarray. Document writers freely entered and exited the office and record room.

Document writers dealt with clerks. In Travancore, directly approaching the office head was considered an act of defiance.

Document writing in Malabar also followed a practice of needlessly verbose drafting. In Travancore, however, this was an exaggerated art form, repeating the same points multiple times in various ways.

A common person reading such a deed might not quickly grasp its contents. However, those accustomed to such writing could understand it readily.

The Inspector General (IG) of Registration theoretically held immense authority. Thus, senior officials from Malabar should have been able to curb corruption in the Registration Department.

In reality, this was merely a theoretical possibility. These officials did not accept bribes themselves but could only turn a blind eye to the extortion occurring in all Sub-Registrar offices.

I recall an incident. When CPS went for an inspection in Sasthamkotta, a clerk there behaved with great subservience, drawing attention.

One day, a formal directive came to the Registration IG from Vigilance Director Jayarampadikkal, IPS. A relative of Padikkal, an officer in another government department, had applied for a property-related document at the Sasthamkotta Sub-Registrar office.

The aforementioned clerk had thoroughly harassed this person, refusing to provide the document and making them run around repeatedly.

The directive was to investigate the matter and take strict action against the clerk.

The person in question was adept at winning over superiors with extreme subservience.

An inquiry confirmed the issue. Deciding the appropriate action became a problem. A reply was sent to the Vigilance Director stating that disciplinary action was being considered.

But what punishment could be imposed? At most, a minor fine. What else could be done?

The Vigilance Director followed up, asking what punishment was given.

The reply was: He has been let off with a severe warning.

I once discussed with CPS the ideal punishment a senior official is obliged to impose.

The only significant action would be dismissal from service. However, if dismissed, the individual could file a court case. The government would be represented by a government lawyer.

Collusion might occur between the lawyer and the dismissed employee.

Years later, the court might order reinstatement, compensation for lost wages, and damages for other losses.

In some cases, disciplinary action or compensation might even be imposed on the official who ordered the dismissal.

The key takeaway is that punishment alone brings no social reform.

Expelling corrupt languages and promoting high-quality English would naturally resolve most social issues.

Instead, blending local languages with English only fosters confusion and resentment among people.

Around 1970, I believe, government employees, led by the NGO Union, began a strike demanding a salary increase.

At the time, CPS was a Sub-Registrar in Alleppey. She was known to have left-leaning sympathies, so striking clerks visited her home to discuss the strike.

C. Achutha Menon was the Chief Minister then, a right-wing Communist with, I believe, a good command of English and hailing from Malabar.

It seems he held government employees in contempt.

Conversely, left-wing Communist leaders likely had limited English proficiency, viewing government officials as significant figures.

Achutha Menon declared that government employees were not workers but mere petty bourgeois, refusing to grant even a single paisa in salary increase.

Moreover, he introduced a new rule called dies-non.

Under this, employees absent during the strike would not be paid for those days and could face dismissal.

The strikers found this amusing. One told CPS, “If my nose falls off from sneezing, so be it!”

The revolutionary Chief Minister and left-wing strikers clashed for two months. The government stood firm, and talks of job losses began.

Clerks individually approached CPS, saying they could no longer sustain the strike due to panic at home.

One by one, strikers returned to work, followed by groups of clerks. The strike collapsed.

[VED]

When discussing the reasons behind the collapse of the strike, a couple of points need to be addressed.

Firstly, for many government officials, the bigger issue than not receiving their salary was likely the loss of income known by the euphemism "kimbalam" (bribes). Those who relied on this income typically lived in rented homes and enjoyed upscale amenities aligned with it. The sudden halt of this income must have caused significant problems.

Secondly, there is the value attached to words. Losing a job meant that a person perched on the pedestal of “Saar” would fall to the ground, mingling with ordinary people. This was unbearable for any Indian. Moreover, the family members of such individuals, who basked in social prominence through these titles, would also face painful consequences.

Both of these issues are absent in an English social system.

In the early 1970s, while CPS was working as a Sub-Registrar in Alleppey, an elderly retired Tahsildar visited the office one day. When this person approached, CPS instructed a peon to offer him a chair. After he sat, CPS conversed with him briefly.

The official conduct of English-speaking individuals from Malabar, who entered high-ranking government positions in Travancore as a novel phenomenon, caused numerous disruptions and violations of established customs in government office procedures, as I understand it.

Government officials often tolerated these disruptions when a few self-styled individuals upended long-standing office traditions.

The expectation was that senior officials should remain aloof, keep the public at a distance, and maintain an image of being formidable and authoritative, a notion constantly reinforced by the Malayalam language.

However, lower-ranking employees gained social value in this system.

After the retired Tahsildar left, one or two clerks approached CPS. One of them said, “Saar, if Saar does Saar’s job, that’s enough. We’ll handle talking to people.”

The key point here is that the clerks spoke firmly, adhering to Travancore’s official conduct norms. Even in this confrontational exchange, they addressed the Sub-Registrar as “Saar.”

Another point to note is that those who spoke aggressively were not necessarily malicious or ill-mannered. They were merely expressing their eagerness to preserve long-standing customs, anxious to prevent them from crumbling to dust.

In connection with this, I recall an incident from around 1998 in Malabar. I had to frequently visit a government office where officials wore khaki uniforms.

There was a door leading to the Inspector’s room at the office entrance, so I would enter through it to meet the Inspector directly. One day, as I attempted to do so, a subordinate official stopped me, saying, “This door is only for the Inspector. You must enter through the main hall where the subordinates sit to meet the Inspector.”

This detour required obtaining approval from several subordinates to proceed. This custom, I believe, spread from Travancore to Malabar around the 1980s, though I lack precise details.

The Inspector at the time was an elderly person from Travancore, while the subordinates were from Malabar.

Blaming individuals here is pointless. They were merely upholding existing customs by creating such barriers, a reflection of the fences erected by the Malayalam language.

Another incident comes to mind, this one at the Registration IG’s office in Trivandrum.

An ordinary person who spoke English reasonably well visited the office. In Travancore’s government office systems, this wasn’t typically a crisis, as high-ranking officials of the traditional middle tier often had limited English proficiency.

Even if proficient, these officials were reluctant to speak English with commoners, preventing English-speaking individuals from gaining an advantage.

However, the presence of English-speaking, middle-tier senior officials from Malabar posed a problem. These officials would converse in English with English-speaking commoners.

This issue existed at the Registration IG’s office, where the IG and one or two positions just below were held by English-speaking officials from Malabar.

The English-speaking commoner spoke in English with senior officials, and their matters progressed quickly without getting bogged down at lower levels.

This created a significant social issue, tarnishing the morale of subordinate officials. Moreover, it caused great distress among other commoners, who, despite being well-meaning, were entangled in the obstacles created by Malayalam-speaking subordinates’ arguments.

The English-speaking commoner entered the Registration IG’s room, sat down, and explained their issues. CPS instructed the peon to have one clerk write something on a document and another handle a related task.

As a result, the individual received a significant license certificate within a matter of days.

CPS’s handling of the matter was not driven by personal kindness but by adherence to the old British-Malabar government systems, where official procedures were conducted this way. That’s all.

The peon left with the instructions. Shortly after, a clerk stormed in, visibly angry.

“Saar, this person is getting this certificate to evade taxes. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

Hearing this, the person who applied for the certificate said to CPS, “What nonsense is he saying?”

The situation escalated. The clerk, lacking proficiency in English, raised a commotion, complaining, “He called me nonsense.”

At the time, many in Travancore believed “nonsense” meant something like “idiot” or worse.

I, too, faced a major uproar in another state related to the word “nonsense.”

[VED]

It seems that CPS gained a new understanding of Travancore’s government procedures while in Alleppey.

She arranged for cleaning the office premises and overgrown compound, as well as constructing some facilities in the client area. In Travancore, such actions genuinely required prior special permission.

In Malabar, it seems English-speaking senior officials did not have a mindset of seeking extensive permissions for trivial matters. This is a trait of the English language, where simply informing superiors sufficed.

In Malayalam, however, this involves navigating a complex process of seeking and granting permission through hierarchical “Saar-nee” or “Saar-ningal” interpersonal communication codes, progressing step-by-step.

In Malayalam, such dynamics sustain relationships of obedience and command authority.

Like passing the baton in a relay race, the influence of authority and command flows from the top to the lower ranks.

Permissions obtained from above become a powerful tool, allowing each subordinate to shine in their own sphere.

The upper echelons remain an unattainable realm for the common person.

Since CPS operated within English systems and had English-speaking officials in higher positions, taking such actions without prior permission and claiming the expenses from the government likely appeared to many as a challenge to local government procedures.

In Malabar’s government systems of that time, it seems officials did not seek extensive permissions for minor matters.

Imagine a system where every bus passenger must submit a written declaration not to pickpocket, which is then reviewed before granting permission to board.

If many passengers are pickpockets, such a procedure might seem slightly necessary. Yet, pickpockets will still pickpocket.

In Travancore, procedures assumed officials would misuse authority in every way possible. This mindset may not have existed in Malabar then, as alleging that senior officials in British-Malabar misused authority would be as absurd as claiming most bus passengers today are pickpockets.

It seems CPS was able to explain her actions to senior officials in English.

That was when I first heard the term “yellow journalism.” I was in class 5, 6, or 7 then.

A headline in a small local Alleppey newspaper read, “Registrar Mother Bottles Up the Government.” Similar reports appeared in other minor papers.

CPS kept a collection of these reports, reading them to visitors at home.

One thing that faintly registered in my mind then was people’s fascination with publicity, and CPS was no exception.

It’s worth noting that not all small newspapers were entirely “yellow.” Respectable small publications likely existed in both Travancore and Malabar.

By the time CPS became IG of Registration, it was the final era of English-speaking officials from Malabar. Many retired as DIGs.

It seems two of these officials were slightly degraded by Travancore’s subordinates. Both had a weakness for alcohol and participated in drinking sessions with subordinates. One served as IG, the other as DIG.

The absence of similarly English-speaking officials may have affected the efficiency of these last Malabar officials.

In Malayalam, official efficiency isn’t the same as in English. Rather, it involves disrupting efficiency.

Malayalam efficiency lies in successfully expressing hierarchical interpersonal dynamics toward peers and the public at every procedural step.

Finding simple solutions to issues without causing trouble earns no value in Malayalam.

In English, words don’t circle around seeking an abstract “value.”

Among Malabar’s English-speaking officials, there was one exception who didn’t fit this mold, likely from Cochin’s kingdom. This person didn’t speak English, so English conversations ceased in their presence.

I heard this individual had no qualms about accepting bribes, though I have no details. During the Emergency, they faced compulsory retirement due to a corruption allegation.

I spoke to this person directly. As an individual, they were very courteous. It seems their children had already migrated to America by then, though I can’t say for sure.

While corruption was a common custom in Travancore’s government, some officials were compelled to operate without bribes or corruption.

For example, clerks in departments like Library, Health Service, Industries, and KSRTC had limited opportunities to extort money from the public. Some openly lamented this misfortune.

I can’t recall whether it was in Alleppey or Quilon, but during a KSRTC employees’ strike, a KSRTC bus conductor or driver visited our home to discuss the strike. He clearly told CPS why their salaries should be raised:

“You get bribes. We don’t. Therefore, our salaries must be increased.”

In other words, bribes were a government employee’s birthright and human right.

Another thought that comes to mind is the barriers to promotions in departments like Health Service.

There’s a perception that top positions in the Health Service are reserved for those with the “Doctor” title.

Thus, while clerks in other departments could rise to district heads or Assistant Directors, individuals in such departments face a ceiling, blocked by an insurmountable barrier.

Malayalam and its education system cannot foster the idea that government employment is merely about working in a government office.

[VED]

In the early 1990s, while I was studying for my Pre-degree, I witnessed something worth mentioning. Back then, securing admission to MBBS or Engineering right after Pre-degree was considered the pinnacle of success, widely acknowledged by all.

Students in Pre-degree’s 1st Group aimed for Engineering, while those in the 2nd Group targeted MBBS. Rankings for these higher studies were based on Pre-degree exam marks.

In the late 1970s, an allegation gained traction in Travancore: only the parents of students aspiring for Engineering or MBBS showed keen interest in such matters.

The allegation was as follows:

Teachers evaluated Pre-degree answer sheets at home. Interested parents would obtain the addresses of these teachers from university clerks or other officials, enlist someone capable of speaking authoritatively to the teacher, and, through their mediation, offer substantial sums as a reward. In return, the teacher would award high marks to their child’s answer sheet.

Though I have no personal experience with this, given Travancore’s social culture at the time, it seems plausible.

Consequently, by the late 1970s, the evaluation of Pre-degree 1st and 2nd Group answer sheets shifted to a Centralised Valuation system. I’m unsure if 3rd and 4th Group answer sheets followed suit, as there was likely no need.

In the Centralised Valuation system, teachers evaluate answer sheets in a designated hall, where sheets are distributed one by one. The belief was that no one could predict which teacher would get which student’s sheet.

The flaw in this system lies in the personal relationships and hierarchies of subservience/dominance among teachers.

In English, individuals typically stand free of such entanglements. In feudal languages, however, a person’s identity is measured by the number and quality of interpersonal connections running through them.

I was coincidentally at a college lecturer’s home when the phone rang. The lecturer answered with a “Hello.” The caller was a senior college professor, and it was clear they shared a “nee-Saar” dynamic. The professor said:

“My son didn’t write well in the [subject] exam, he just told me. I’ll give you his exam number. If his sheet goes to a familiar teacher, ask them to pay attention.”

The lecturer, sitting before me, responded with great subservience and anxiety about how to assist, saying:

“Saar, you should’ve told me a few days earlier. Valuation started some time ago. Still, give me the number. I’ll pass it to other teachers as best I can.”

The lecturer was elated, seeing this unexpected chance to do a favor for a respected figure as a divine opportunity.

This incident, which I witnessed in Travancore, may or may not have occurred in Malabar then.

In Trivandrum, I observed who truly controlled government systems.

For some time, the IG of Registration office had been planning to open new Sub-Registrar offices, but progress stalled due to conflicting interests among political factions over their locations.

When CPS was Registration IG, Governor’s Rule was imposed briefly. During this short period, 30 buildings were rented across the state to start Sub-Registrar offices, with inauguration dates fixed.

This was a cause for celebration among officials. Thirty clerks would become Sub-Registrars, and many others would receive various promotions.

Before the inauguration, Governor’s Rule ended. A day after the inauguration, a new ministry took office.

Two days before the inauguration, an MLA from a minor party in the incoming ruling coalition called CPS, politely suggesting:

“Postpone the opening of the new Registration offices. We can hold the inauguration after the new ministry takes office.”

It seems CPS didn’t give a clear response to this suggestion.

The next day, she sent telegrams to all designated Sub-Registrars: Open new Sub-Registrar office exactly on [date] at [time] a.m.

On the scheduled day, all 30 new Sub-Registrar offices opened and began functioning.

The following day, the new ministry assumed power, with the MLA who had called CPS becoming the Taxes Minister.

The minister summoned the Registration IG. Though he didn’t lash out, he expressed his resentment clearly.

A few weeks later, due to infighting within his party, the minister lost his position.

The English administration introduced democracy in India, expecting elected leaders to deliver beneficial governance. However, India isn’t a unified populace but a mix of diverse, conflicting interest groups trapped in one region.

Moreover, these groups harbor mutual resentment and competitive instincts. India’s creation itself was an accidental outcome of the English East India Company’s arrival and rule.

In reality, the bureaucracy governs this country, standing like an impregnable fortress. Politicians, during their brief tenures, are made to perform a clown’s dance by the bureaucracy, while the public applauds.

Political leaders exist to take responsibility for bureaucratic excesses. They serve as a shield for officials, who find it amusing to watch politicians exhaust themselves in conflicts.

For example, consider the recent police custody death in Tanur. In many Malayalam media forums, local political leaders clashed over the issue.

Yet, it’s clearly senior police officials—DySP, SP, DIG, IG, DGP—who should face scrutiny for such killings. No media dares confront them.

If they did, these officials wouldn’t appear in media forums. Facing “Shriman” or “Shrimati” addressals from minor media workers would make them recoil.

If they endured it once, “Shriman” and “Shrimati” might give way to “mone” or “mole” addressals, spreading rapidly.

Young media workers fearlessly address senior political leaders with “Shriman” or “Shrimati.”

This issue merits further explanation, but I won’t delve deeper now.

[VED]

During Mrs. CPS’s tenure as Registration IG in Travancore, I have several observations worth noting.

I never met the person next in seniority to Mrs. CPS, but based on hearsay, I understood they had fallen from the English pedestal into the Malayalam abyss, suffering mental wounds. This phenomenon is common among those whose minds are rooted in English but live in a world dominated by Malayalam or other feudal languages, resulting in a split personality. It’s most evident in those who submit to feudal languages without resistance.

In my childhood and youth, I too struggled mentally with this to some extent. The schools and colleges I attended were flooded with Malayalam. However, my life has taken me through complex paths, a truth I won’t delve into now.

The person slated to succeed Mrs. CPS as IG would get only two months in the role after her retirement—a peculiar predicament. The IG of Registration position, overseeing Sub-Registrar offices from Balaramapuram in Trivandrum to Manjeshwaram in Kasaragod, carries immense prestige. Missing it is like losing a lottery’s first prize by one digit, a lifelong sorrow.

Six months before Mrs. CPS’s retirement, this person visited our home. I wasn’t there, so I learned of it later when Mrs. CPS recounted it with her usual verbosity to another person. The individual politely asked Mrs. CPS to retire four months early to extend their tenure. The conversation was in Malayalam, steeped in its dreariness, which seemed to taint their demeanor. Their words implied, “Saar, I’ll pay anything. I just want to sit in that chair before I die.”

In English, this conversation might have retained dignity. In Malayalam, it likely sounded like begging.

This person belonged to a religious community with widespread influence and leadership in Kerala. A leader or priest from this group reportedly promised to secure the IG post for six months by pressuring the minister. But would the formidable Mrs. CPS relent? It seems the visitor was nearly in tears.

I can’t blame or demean them. The Malayalam world functions this way. Titles are reflected in words, as is their absence. Words don’t proclaim someone noble or wicked—they secure or topple pedestals.

Yet, this person didn’t give up. They served as IG for those two months, leveraging their influence.

The next IG was English-speaking, addressing Mrs. CPS by her first name, and she reciprocated. However, the more senior person, rooted in Malayalam, called her “Saar.” I don’t know their entry path into government service—Malabar, Cochin, or Travancore?

When Mrs. CPS was IG, I sometimes joined her on official long-distance trips, allowed as the son of a female officer. I loved travel, but more than that, it let me observe official proceedings firsthand.

The first observation was the efficiency of India’s bureaucracy. When Sub-Registrar offices received word from the Trivandrum IG office of her visit, staff would prepare with remarkable efficiency, arranging welcomes and facilities. This sense of duty could inspire great respect for India’s bureaucracy—high ratings for efficiency, punctuality, and service-mindedness.

I even felt deference extended to me at times, but as a degree student, I lacked the capacity to respond appropriately. The true face of India’s bureaucracy emerges when encountering these officials as an ordinary citizen, revealing their real demeanor.

An incident comes to mind.

During my Pre-degree days in Quilon, higher education wasn’t yet a mass-produced ticket. Colleges offered little beyond rote learning, with few facilities for sports or activities for ordinary students. I could elaborate, but not now.

There was no quality library, only a shoddy “vayanashala” in Malayalam. I won’t delve into that now.

Some evenings, I’d sit in a small forested area by a lake near Asramam Maidan in Quilon, often with a friend. I smoked then, watching smoke dissolve in the breeze while trading absurd banter.

Shopkeepers typically addressed us as “ningal,” assuming college graduates would soon land government jobs and become “Saar.” That was Travancore’s mindset—college students were seen as destined for greatness by non-academics.

A government Rest House/Guest House stood near this forested spot by Asramam Maidan, with no significant connection to our hangout, just proximity. The area had large trees and dry leaves on the ground.

One day, a man with an unpleasant expression approached and tried to drive us away in a condescending tone. From his words, I gathered he was a peon or caretaker at the Rest House/Guest House, using “nee” unabashedly to address us.

Many have experienced lower-ranking government workers using “nee” freely. Before sharing more, a related point:

After Pre-degree, I moved to Trivandrum. During an inspection tour with Mrs. CPS, we stayed at that same Asramam Rest House/Guest House. I realized then that a vast network of government facilities for officials and their associates exists unnoticed. I received minor VIP treatment there.

Languages like Malayalam place ordinary people and those with government connections at 180° opposite poles in their addressals.

After Mrs. CPS retired in 1982 and moved to Deverkovil, I stayed in Trivandrum. One evening, after 5 p.m., I visited the IG office for a document related to Mrs. CPS. The Superintendent was waiting. As I discussed the matter, he stepped inside briefly. A peon passed by and started talking: “What’s your name? What do you do?”—using “nee” in an unexpected tone.

The returning Superintendent noticed, called the peon aside, and sternly said, “You can’t call the IG’s son ‘nee.’”

This can be viewed from two angles. The peon could retort, “Does the IG’s son have horns? I address many ordinary people as ‘nee.’” This could be seen as revolutionary, portraying the peon as a champion of equality.

Another incident: In Ernakulam, a young female IPS officer entered a police station in civilian clothes. The peon, not recognizing her, likely used “nee” freely. Despite believing in social equality, the officer didn’t take kindly to it. After identifying herself, she assigned the peon a day of street duty.

A prominent lawyer highlighted this on YouTube, noting the officer wasn’t in uniform, arguing police can demean anyone entering a station without one. Oh, lawyer!

When Mrs. CPS joined as DIG in Cochin, she entered the DIG office for the first time. A middle-aged peon on the veranda, seeing a woman, likely didn’t register her gentle introduction as the new Central Zone DIG. He barked, “Huh? What do you want?”

The IPS officer issued a punishment, but Mrs. CPS’s fierce demeanor surfaced.

I’ll share a related incident involving a foreign woman in Wynad/Cannanore in the next piece.

These incidents highlight the hypocritical mindset in local language words. The language must be banished. Blaming individuals is futile.

[VED]

The previous piece focused on Travancore, it seems. Things weren’t much different in Malabar. There, too, the hierarchical tone of Malabari language words sharply distinguished those with power from ordinary people.

The only difference in Malabar might have been among senior officials proficient in English, where such linguistic divides were less pronounced.

In the 1960s, economically disadvantaged people visiting Mrs. CPS at home wouldn’t sit on chairs but on the floor. They came to understand property-related documents, displaying intense subservience rooted in the local language.

During British rule, such socially marginalized individuals were depicted bowing before English officials. Leftists in England used these images to propagate the notion that British rule enslaved India.

Regarding female police officers, there’s much to say.

First, an incident from 1982, when Mrs. CPS retired. At Calicut’s new private bus stand, around 6 p.m., Mrs. CPS was waiting for a bus. Nearby, a young woman stood in distress, anxiously awaiting someone who didn’t show. Local youths and older men circled her. Clearly a rural girl, she was demeaned in the local language as “pennu” (girl).

Mrs. CPS called over passing policemen, asking them to inquire about the girl’s issue and assist. Her status as a senior official afforded her this leverage. The policemen questioned the girl, increasing her distress. They told Mrs. CPS it was a matter for female police and had sent a wireless message for them.

Soon, two female constables in khaki saris arrived. They approached the girl and, in a shocking tone, demanded, “Edi, what are you doing here?”

While female police presence has softened the male-dominated atmosphere in stations, some now seem poised to verbally lash out, ready to settle scores.

Feudal languages like Malayalam don’t foster respectful communication.

Years ago, a leftist protest against the IMF, I believe, took place in Wynad. A procession moved through the streets. A young European woman, there for a PhD study on Wynad’s social environment, was present. Protesters surrounded her, chanting slogans. The frenzy of catching a “foreign agent” looting India swept the crowd. They forced her to join the march.

No one physically harmed her. She might have found it exhilarating.

But an Indian woman, her companion, was with her—likely fluent in English, addressing the European by her first name. Her only “flaw” was knowing Malayalam by birth.

Police rescued both and took them to the station. The foreign woman, ignorant of Malayalam, was spared the degrading words of low-ranking police constables. Those fluent in Indian languages, however, are fated to endure such verbal assaults.

Female police constables didn’t spare the Malayalam-speaking companion. They likely addressed her as “inji” (you, derogatory) and referred to her as “aval” or “ol” (she, derogatory), never “avar” or “or” (respectful pronouns).

When this incident appeared in newspapers, the horror of language struck me.

English-speaking women of high caliber may seem trivial in Malayalam’s lens, lacking familiarity with addressing others as “nee,” “avan,” “aval,” “inji,” “on,” or “ol.” This “deficiency” shows in their demeanor.

I wondered what happened to the companion at the police station. Most constables lack English proficiency, resembling domestic workers given police authority. They likely saw her as the foreign woman’s servant. Without titles like doctor, lecturer, government employee, landowner, activist, politician, “Saar,” “Madam,” “Mash,” or “Teacher,” falling into constables’ hands spells trouble.

In English, such linguistic crutches aren’t needed.

The next day’s newspaper answered my question. The companion suffered a seizure at the station. It might be explained as a pre-existing condition triggered by fear. But this overlooks the terror inflicted by language.

Imagine female constables affectionately addressing a young IPS officer as “nee” or “inji,” referring to her as “aval” or “ol.” Wouldn’t it cause mental and physical collapse? Her bones would tremble.

This is too horrific to even test experimentally. Yet, this demonic language inflicts such horrors daily on people and among them.

What medical inquiry followed the young woman’s seizure? Did it record which Malayalam words—“nee,” “ningal,” or “madam”—were used by the constables and the companion? Did it note who was called “aval” versus “avar” when referring to the constable and the companion?

The constable is the lowest-ranking police employee, while the companion was likely a high-caliber individual, perhaps from a private company. Without documenting this, any psychological treatment is mere folly.

I hope the expert committee recommending Malayalam as the language of education and administration addressed such issues in its report.

Another problem exists. Therapists treating mental distress caused by the brutal words of a beastly language often use those same words. A psychiatrist once told me this directly.

There’s much to write about mental illness, treatment, and psychology.

[VED]

I first want to discuss how individuals react to words.

In Trivandrum, I heard that Mukkuva women were highly reactive back then. At fish markets and elsewhere, they’d respond to men in the same tone, even using abusive language without hesitation. I don’t know if this is true.

Today, many who’ve undergone formal education seem to have gained similar responsiveness. Some view this as significant mental progress and personality growth.

However, this has little connection to the unadulterated personality growth fostered by English. English communication is distinctly smoother and gentler, with different speech patterns and word usage.

In a government office, an employee’s tone in English differs markedly from feudal languages, where conversations carry either confrontation or subservience. An insignificant person is addressed demeaningly, while a prominent one is spoken to with care.

No amount of soft skills training can change this. The only recourse is instilling subservience in employees through stern warnings and reprimands. An official with authority won’t yield in feudal languages, and training effects are short-lived.

The reason? The visitor is also a feudal language speaker. If the official lowers their guard, they fear the visitor will dominate.

Another matter:

After Mrs. CPS retired, I had to visit the AG’s Office to sort pension-related documents. One incident stands out.

A file needed repeated corrections by a clerk. Despite this, it wasn’t moving from her desk to the senior officer’s, just 15 feet away in the next room. After a couple of days, I asked why. The clerk said the Class 4 employee was on leave, and only he could move the file.

The Class 4 employee is a peon, also called a Class 4 officer, a non-gazetted officer. All government employees are “officers.” A Class 3 clerk wouldn’t do a Class 4 peon’s job.

This reflects Travancore’s social structure: above ordinary people, seen as donkeys, and lower-caste “slaves,” stand Nair officials with police powers, and above them, higher-ranking officers in tiers.

Another observation:

In Trivandrum, when officials from different government departments had to interact, determining who was the “big Saar” versus the “small Saar” was a major issue. This problem is ancient in this subcontinent and other feudal language spaces. In small kingdoms, the hierarchy of powerful individuals was clearly known, with everyone aware of who was “ingal” (superior) and who was “inji” (inferior) in every interaction.

Individuals were compared, labeled as “on” (he, derogatory) or “or” (he, respectful), with caste and intra-caste status dictating verbal treatment.

When Travancore adopted British-Indian systems, numerous departments and officials emerged. Jobs were assigned based on caste-grade, making it clear who was “Saar,” “ningal,” or “nee.”

But when the pseudo-Indian state subsumed Travancore, caste-based hierarchies in bureaucracy faded. This likely sparked disputes among officials across departments over who was the “bigger Saar.”

Among IAS and IPS officers, this issue was less prevalent, as they likely had English proficiency then. These senior officials discussed and decided matters, with subordinates executing their orders.

When inter-departmental issues clashed, officials struggled to resolve them directly due to this linguistic hierarchy. Even trivial matters required escalation for decisions, a fascinating dynamic that proclaimed the royalty of senior officials.

During Mughal rule in Delhi, emperors adopted a system called mansabdari to address similar conflicts among officials with varying responsibilities. Each official was assigned a numerical rank—50,000, 45,000, 42,000, etc.

When officials interacted, they declared their mansabdari rank upfront. A 50,000-rank official was “aap” to a 42,000-rank official, who was “tu” in return.

Initially, this system worked efficiently. But in the Mughal empire’s later years, officials competed for higher ranks with large sums and favors, turning mansabdari into a farce.

This was incomprehensible to the English language.

[VED]

During an inspection tour to Palghat, Mrs. CPS took me along in the car. We stayed at the home of a woman who had retired as a Sub-Registrar, someone Mrs. CPS knew from her own days as a Sub-Registrar in a nearby office. This woman was much older than Mrs. CPS.

That evening, a relative of our host took us to see some areas in Palghat, including a newly built palatial house owned by a Menon individual. I learned he worked as a clerk in the accounts section of a UN office in the US, though locally he was known as an “accountant.” Handling billion-dollar contract bills for UN-funded global projects like roads, bridges, and dams, he reportedly received substantial perks. His children studied in the US, with no financial constraints. The house resembled a palace from Arabian Nights, complete with pull-out refrigerated drink compartments in every bedroom.

This was in the early 1980s, when many in Malabar lived in modest thatched huts. I don’t know who this “magician” or his children in the US “paradise” were, but this memory surfaced while writing today.

Now, let’s shift to a few distinct topics:

Entrance exams for government jobs.

Higher education leading to these and other high-level jobs.

Salaries and benefits for government employees.

Writing often pulls the mind in multiple directions, as various thoughts emerge. These paths aren’t useless, but without a clear destination, it’s hard to proceed. I’ll start with the third topic.

When Mrs. CPS retired as IG of Registration in 1982, her monthly salary was likely between ₹1,300 and ₹1,700—a significant sum then. Her eldest daughter was studying engineering, two sons were in degree programs, and her second daughter was educated by her father in Calicut. Mrs. CPS managed higher education costs, rent, and household expenses from her salary alone. Owning a house in Trivandrum would have left a decent surplus; otherwise, government-provided officer’s quarters sufficed. However, this salary wouldn’t cover education in the UK or US.

Her children attended government colleges, healthcare was covered by government hospitals, and travel relied on KSRTC buses. Centuries later, historians might note Trivandrum’s facilities rivaled modern England’s. HG Wells, in his naive brilliance, described Ashoka’s reign similarly, claiming the state provided everything citizens needed, calling him “Ashoka the Great.” What else to call such English folly?

I had a bicycle then, a respectable mode of transport. When it was stolen, it was a major issue, as it was my means to fetch household goods. This mentally distressed Mrs. CPS. It was a Sunday, and by night, she was physically exhausted, admitted to the casualty ward of the nearby district government hospital with no serious ailment. I mention this to highlight that even an IG sought treatment at a government hospital. Some junior officials visited and chatted briefly.

No one at home had serious health issues. We consulted private doctors once or twice, but I had to visit a government hospital myself then. On Sundays, I swam at Trivandrum’s swimming pool. One day, the water was black—polluted after KSRTC boat driver candidates swam there for a recruitment test. The next day, some water was replaced and chlorinated, but after swimming, I had severe ear pain.

The following day, I went to the government hospital, visiting doctors over three days. That’s when India’s social hierarchies became starkly clear. Most people—traveling by bus or car, staying in hotels, wearing good clothes, eating well, or studying in mediocre schools and colleges—remain oblivious to India’s social highs and lows. In reality, India has multiple layers of social degradation and elevation, a topic I won’t delve into now.

I arrived before 8 a.m., as the doctor was expected then, but a queue had already formed. Those in line, crushed by poverty and language hierarchies, suffered from ear, throat, or nose issues. Waiting grew tiresome. To those in the queue, the doctor was a divine figure atop Malayalam’s linguistic hierarchy. No one expressed anger at the doctor’s delay, as they awaited a glimpse of this “divinity.”

Around 10 a.m., the doctor arrived, opened the door, and began public examinations. Patients sat on a chair by the open door, baring mouths, tongues, ears, and eyes as the doctor tugged eyelids, peered into ears, and elicited symptoms—all private medical checks conducted openly without hesitation. Those crushed by language lacked the luxury to consider privacy.

An MD student often accompanied the doctor, treating certain patients like rare gems. The doctor would demonstrate symptoms to the student, who poked, prodded, tugged ears, extended tongues, and widened eyes to validate their learning. Afterward, the doctor told the nurse to hurry patients along, citing another commitment, leading to rushed, lightning-fast checks.

I observed that those in line stood on the lowest rungs of Malayalam’s “Saar-nee” hierarchy, while the doctor occupied its highest steps. The doctor, a compassionate figure who studied rigorously to alleviate human suffering, was divine. The patients, enduring various pains, saw the doctor as their god.

I seemed to be the only one there who sensed the doctor’s disdain and disgust for these “wretched” patients. If a few like me were present, we might have grabbed the doctor and forced an apology. But no such people were there. My mind, shaped by English, raced like a wild horse breaking free, it seemed.

Blaming the doctor is foolish, though. Malayalam itself dehumanizes people, not the doctor. Beating the doctor wouldn’t spark social reform. Most government officials share this disdain for the public, rooted in the local language.

Banish the devil’s language and foster an English atmosphere, and doctors and ordinary people would interact at a higher level with warm, cordial words. No one would demean or elevate another, nor feel compelled to dominate.

[VED]

Let’s address the foolish delusion from the previous piece about beating a doctor to spark social reform.

In the 1990s, an incident in Calicut Medical College saw a doctor paraded through the streets with a garland of slippers in the name of social progress. It gained massive media attention. Doctors, unprepared for such an attack on their social fortress, hadn’t yet organized legal defenses, it seems. The person leading this act likely faced police brutality, ruining their life.

The real culprit isn’t the doctor but the feudal language system—a demon encompassing both doctor and commoner. Beating a doctor won’t leave them defenseless; they’ll retaliate or counterattack. If multiple people attack, the doctor may falter and fall. But such events are rare in feudal language systems.

In Travancore, if lower-caste individuals defied Nair overlords or ignored their warnings, other lower-caste people found it intolerable. They know social peace in feudal languages comes from submitting to superiors. The most unbearable for them are peers who act out of place.

Another point: a government hospital queue isn’t for the son of a senior official. It’s for those conditioned by language to see the doctor as divine. Nor is it for those fluent in high-quality English.

I’ve experienced this elsewhere. If I, amidst a crowd revering a “Saar,” address them as “ningal” (you, neutral), it sparks outrage, not a revival of old England.

Social revolution requires expelling the demonic feudal language with its hypnotic allure, unleashing English like a torrent to envision a past England. Mere charlatans, lacking resolve or linguistic skill, resort to bombs, guns, explosives, street speeches, and rallies to enforce social justice and equality. If their followers don’t show subservience, these “scholars” explode mentally.

Can such people establish social equality? It won’t happen through feudal languages or their speakers.

In feudal languages, each person holds a relative social position of elevation or degradation, encoded in the intangible software of these systems. Speaking English briefly doesn’t erase this positioning. It feels like the person has stepped out of their natural place, creating unease in others. This positioning is a tangible reality, detectable and evaluated by minds shaped by these languages.

If isolated individuals defy this positioning in behavior or speech, no reform occurs—only resentment, distress, hostility, and a thirst for reaction in others. A “small” person acting or becoming “great” breeds contempt in feudal languages.

Feudal languages categorize things as auspicious or inauspicious signs. Edgar Thurston’s Omens and Superstitions of Southern India notes one such belief: “A fair-skinned Paraiyan, or a dark-skinned Brahman, should not be seen first thing in the morning!”—deemed inauspicious.

A “great” person maintaining their demeanor, attire, and presence brings mental ease to others. If they adopt a “small” person’s position, it causes distress—an inauspicious sign. A deformed lower-caste person brings mental comfort. A maid sitting on the floor in the kitchen is “good”; sitting on a chair in the veranda feels like defilement.

“Small” people must stay with their kind, displaying their lowliness to bring mental ease to all. A “great” person—charming, beautiful, with lofty personality—evokes peace. Feudal languages silently enforce such warnings.

English is entirely different, but I won’t delve into that now, as it would lead to another lengthy discussion.

Let’s move to government salaries, starting with a brief anecdote to frame it.

When Mrs. CPS settled in Deverkovil in 1982, people generally referred to her publicly as “or” (respectful pronoun in Malabari). Rarely, some Mappila individuals used “ol” (derogatory), likely those with lower-class Mappila heritage. A few elite Mappilas used “aa aal” (that person), sparingly. This reflects the competitive ethos feudal languages perpetuate, with constant verbal battles to control others’ status.

Back then, Mappilas spoke with slight unrestraint, a complex topic I won’t explore now. The Malabari “or” differs sharply from Malayalam’s “avar” (respectful pronoun), though “avar” can carry “or”’s sense for women in Malayalam. Let’s skip that too.

No one would ask what lies in words like “ol” or “or,” as “ol” connects to a degrading web of words, unlike “or.” Words shape and control a person’s social personality, freedoms, and rights—another topic I’ll avoid.

Mrs. CPS’s official status elevated her to “or” in Malabari, “avar” in Malayalam, and “Madam” in modern Malayalam.

About twenty years ago, a petty worker of Mrs. CPS went to a shop to buy something for her, unexpectedly needing a pricier item. He told the shopkeeper (not Mappila) it was for Mrs. CPS, promising to settle the balance later. He recounted this to me, saying the shopkeeper remarked: “Will ol have even two rupees? I’ll give you the item on credit if inji guarantees payment.”

The shopkeeper’s words, laced with competitive intent, aimed to assert social dominance, possibly reflecting a collective judgment that Mrs. CPS lacked wealth. Feudal languages fuel this constant social sizing-up—gauging land, coconut trees, Gulf income, or rent to determine addressal.

I’ve experienced this too. Strangers, miles away, confidently assessed my income. How they gauged Mrs. CPS, I don’t know. If through me, her “wayward” son, it’s inaccurate—her three other children claim high social and financial status.

The worker shared the shopkeeper’s words with enthusiasm, likely savoring a sense of social elevation through the tale.

The next piece will focus on government salaries.

[VED]

👉

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