STICKS AND STONES ( a traveler’s guide to the Indian vocabulary)

 

For those who cling to the old saying, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but names shall never hurt me," perhaps the other side of this nation remains a distant, uncharted land.
Here, amid the rich and varied beauty of our cultures, name-calling isn’t just petty playground banter—it is a weapon, wielded with precision to a) demand respect, b) belittle and degrade, c) mark someone’s place in the pecking order, or d) crush any hope of an equal footing, aka auqat.

Let’s start with the last one: auqat.
In Hindi, Urdu, or any regional tongue, some words defy translation — too vivid, too raw to be boxed into English.
Auqat is one such word.

You can’t paint a sunset’s blazing hues or photograph its fleeting soul; at best, you get a pale imitation. Derived from the Arabic "waqt" (time), auqat—its plural—morphs in Urdu and Hindi into something sharper: "status," "limit," "worth."

But in the streets, the homes, the power plays of everyday life, it is a verbal lash.
"Know your auqat"—a phrase spat with impunity by those who fancy themselves above, even if their pockets are empty.
It is not about wealth; it is everything about caste, class, the invisible thrones of society’s upper echelons.
Indeed, how gracious of them to remind us, lesser souls that no matter how high you climb, you will never be them.

Auqat isn’t just a word—it is a verdict, a padlock, a mirror waved in your face to gloat: "Stay where you belong, darling. The view’s better up here."

And for folks like us from the North-east? Oh, the creativity soars.

"Hey Chinki," "Eh Momo," or, brace yourself — "Gurkha", as if the pinnacle of our existence is a security guard’s uniform.
The irony of that is lost on the name callers, since the Gurkha Regiment, be it Indian or British, is legendary — valour forged in steel, bravery that would make their petty name-calling tremble. But no, to them, it is a slur, a box, a snide little "stay in your lane."

So, for the most part we do. Stay in our lane, that is. Turn a deaf ear, turn the other cheek sort of thing.
After all, sticks and stones, right?
Because if you do?
Resort to the names do hurt me? You might just end up dead.
And that my friend, is a name not worth dying for.

Onwards then.
To tomorrow.

And another verbatim that is flung at us.
Zurrat.

P.S. the brick wall? We are just (and to remind us of an old, familiar song) another brick in the wall.
Faceless.
Nameless.
Don’t need no education.
Just a whole lot of thought control.