PATNA: Indigenous languages across Bihar are far more than just a means of communication; they are vast repositories of traditional knowledge forged from centuries of close relationships between people and nature. This invaluable, yet often overlooked, wisdom for water management is now threatened by the erosion of local dialects, leaving the region’s water security more vulnerable than ever.
The North Ganga Plain is a maze of over 200 rivers and streams, and its local dialects have evolved to capture this complex landscape in vivid detail. English, for example, has only “flood” and “deluge,” while Bihar’s dialects possess a rich hierarchy of terms, including badh, boh, sah, huma, and pralay, each describing a different level of flood severity.
This nuanced vocabulary reflects a time when communities viewed floods not as disasters but as a natural part of life, replenishing soil and sustaining livelihoods.
A Cultural Shift from Deity to “Sorrow”
This deep-rooted connection began to fray under colonial rule. Rivers, once revered as mothers, were rebranded with negative connotations. The Damodar became the “sorrow of Bengal,” and the Kosi, the “sorrow of Bihar.” This shift in naming marked a profound cultural loss, leading to decades of misguided flood control efforts that have turned once-predictable rivers into volatile entities, such as the Bhutahi Balan (the ghost river).
Local speech served as a crucial tool for survival. Onomatopoeic phrases like chhap-chhap paani the sound of ankle-deep water spreading across fields would signal an early sign of a coming flood. A single word like halla (a noise without meaning) could act as a universal warning cry. These linguistic cues, combined with observations of nature like red ants carrying eggs or specific fish leaping from the water, formed a system of “citizen science” that guided farmers through the seasons.
The Stakes of Lost Words
The proverbs and sayings embedded in these languages offer a wealth of ecological knowledge. Sawan ke paani, sona ke khani (“the monsoon rain is a mine of gold”) celebrates the life-giving nature of rain for rice crops. Other sayings, like Badhi main machri ke din, kisaan ke dukh (“a boon for fish, a curse for farmers”), captured the dual nature of floods. Even the names of rivers themselves, such as the Budhi (old) Gandak and the Dhanauti (prosperity), reveal their character and cultural significance. As a local proverb beautifully states, kos kos pe badle pani, tin kos pe badle vani (“every few miles the water changes, and with it, the speech”).
The loss of these languages isn’t just a cultural tragedy; it’s an ecological one. The unique linguistic forms and concepts they hold are vital for understanding the delicate human-nature relationship in the region.
By documenting and promoting these languages, preservationists and environmentalists can collaborate to safeguard not only a rich cultural heritage but also a practical knowledge base essential for modern water management and climate resilience.