Keeping the Queen’s English ticking

Christine, the Canadian plain language campaigner, said she’d read it on the web:
‘On August 24, the 309th anniversary of the founding of the Indian city of Calcutta, the city will cast aside its colonial moniker and change its name to Kolkata.’

“So if India can cast aside that colonial moniker,” she asked Chhanda, “why not the colonial moniker of Victorian English?”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Anjum quipped. “She spent her entire career teaching Victorian English.”

Chhanda resented that: “Not funny. The university decides the syllabus.”

“I guess,” Anjum said, “it’s because bloated Victorian English is the only kind Indians learnt when they began formally to learn English. The first universities in India opened doors when Queen Victoria was on the throne. Neo-literate Indians learnt to revere that windbag variant.”

“But you’re speaking of 1858 or so, aren’t you?” Christine said. “English’s changed so much in the 150 years since. Don’t Indians read contemporary English?”

“Not in Indian universities, they don’t,” Anjum quipped again.

Chhanda refused to take notice: “It’s the inertia in our universities. The syllabus committees merely renew the old order.”

“Or perhaps the syllabus committees are pressured by old-fogey teachers,” Anjum said. “They dump the same ‘notes’ on their students decade after decade. They’d be at sea if the syllabus were revised.”

“But isn’t it high time they changed their orientation?” asked Christine.

“Perhaps there’s a linguistic reason why all Asians cling to Victorian English,” said Deb. “Chinese universities keep to Victorian authors too, you know.”

“Yes, they do,” Christine agreed. “What’s the mystery?”

“I guess literary Victorian English is closer to Asian languages,” said Deb.

Christine welcomed this new strand of thought: “Really? In what way?”

Deb explained his theory: “Modern English differs from literary Victorian English most in shunning nominalization. Victorian English was replete with it. Nominalization’s inherent in all Indian languages. Perhaps that’s why Indians feel comfortable with Victorian English.”

Christine was delighted: “How interesting! How do Indian languages use nominalization?”

“How’d you define nominalization,” said Deb, “except as the tendency to use a noun instead of the verb? Now, our nouns don’t easily change into verbs the way they do in English. We tag ‘action words’ to get them to act. You derive sing as the verb from the noun song. Also, ever so often, you have the same word for the noun and the verb: lock, for instance.”

Christine was rapt. “And in Indian languages?”

Chhanda took over: “We wouldn’t modify song into a verb like sing. We’d retain it as a noun, and merely tag a ‘do’ to it. So, we’d say the equivalent of ‘song do’. In Hindi, the common ‘action words’ are karna/karo/kijiye. Every Indian language likewise has a set of do/doing words that we keep tagging on to nouns.”

“Gosh!” said Christine. “Doesn’t any noun in Indian languages change into a verb?”

“Only a few colloquial words do,” said Deb. “But if we were to take the formal written forms of those very words, they’d become inflexible nouns.”

“For instance?” asked Christine.

“Take the colloquial word for ‘food’,” Deb said. “In Hindi, that’d be khana. That yields the verbs khao/ khaiye. But if we were to use the formal Sanskrit word bhojan, or aahaar, we’d be stuck with an inflexible noun. We couldn’t modify it into bhojono/bhojoniye or into aahaariye. And then we’d have to tag on the do/doing word, and say the equivalent of ‘food do’.”

“Anjum added: “And just as we end up with inflexible Sanskrit nouns, the Victorians ended up with Latinate nouns that they used instead of verbs. Some Latinate nouns don’t yield a verb. I could change smell into a verb and say ‘Christine’s perfume smells good’. But what if I used the Latinate fragrance. I couldn’t say it fragrances good, could I?”

Christine was delighted: “Could you explain a bit more?”

“I think in your country,” Anjum said, “you’d call them ‘smothered’ verbs---like when you use inspection, instead of the verb inspect?”

“You’re right,” Christine beamed. “Our schoolteachers did call them ‘smothered’ verbs; told us to avoid them, and use active verbs instead.”

“Quite,” Deb said. “Modern English would shun a construction like ‘The auditor made an inspection of the accounts’. You’d prefer ‘The auditor inspected the accounts’. Right?”

“But of course,” Christine beamed. “Made an inspection sounds so off-putting, wouldn’t you say?”

“Off-putting to you,” Deb said. But the Victorians were quite comfortable with it. And that’s how we’d say it.”

“Think of all those ~ion nouns,” Anjum added: “The Victorians would’ve been comfortable with ‘I have an objection’ instead of ‘I object’. In courts, a lawyer still says ‘Objection, my lord’, rather than ‘I object’.”

“In our country, they’d say ‘lord’,” Christine said, “but in the USA---never.”

“Perhaps,” Deb added, “formal language tends to nominalization. Literary Victorian English became a formal affair, replete with Latinate nouns. And literary Victorian English preferred such nominalizations as ‘make a distinction’ instead of distinguish, or ‘make a recommendation’ instead of recommend, or ‘I have reservations about . . .’ instead of ‘I doubt’. But post-War English rejected formalism, and veered from nominalization.”

“You said Asians are comfortable with Victorian English,” said Christine. “For a similar reason?”

“I suppose so,” said Deb. “The verb behaves the same way in all Asian languages. That’s partly why the English Asians use sounds quaint to you.”

Christine seemed lost in thought. “Does that mean Asians’ll never give up Victorian English?”
“Not in a hurry,” said Anjum. “Queen Victoria may be dead. But with us, it’s ‘long live the old Queen’s English!”