I’ve always believed that the real story of India doesn’t announce itself loudly. It hides in railway platforms, street names, food habits—and sometimes, in the last three letters of a city’s name.
On long train journeys, as station boards flash past—Kanpur, Jaipur, Udaipur… Ahmedabad, Hyderabad—a quiet pattern begins to emerge. These cities sound related, as if they belong to extended families scattered across the subcontinent. Once you notice it, you can’t unsee it. And once you start asking why, India slowly opens up another layer of itself.
The answers lie in two deceptively simple suffixes: ‘pur’ and ‘abad’.
Walking into a ‘Pur’
When I first walked through Jaipur’s old city, its pink walls glowing softly in the afternoon light, I felt it instantly—the sense of enclosure, of intention. This wasn’t a city that grew accidentally. It was designed, protected, planned. That’s when the word ‘pur’ makes sense.
‘Pur’ comes from ancient Sanskrit and originally meant a fortress or walled settlement. In early India, power needed walls. Safety needed stone. A king’s authority needed a physical centre from which it could radiate. A pur was not just a place to live—it was a statement.
This word is so old it appears in the Rigveda, long before maps were drawn the way we know them. As kingdoms rose and fell, rulers stamped their identity onto new cities by attaching their names to this powerful suffix.
- Jaipur, founded by Maharaja Jai Singh II
- Udaipur, built by Maharana Udai Singh
- Jodhpur, established by Rao Jodha
Each ‘pur’ carries a king’s ambition, a strategic eye, and a defensive mindset. Even today, these cities retain a certain gravity—palaces at the centre, old walls tracing forgotten boundaries, streets that curve inward like they’re still guarding something.
When you stand in a ‘pur’, you’re standing inside a memory of sovereignty.
Entering an ‘Abad’
Then there are cities that feel different the moment you arrive. Hyderabad, for instance, doesn’t feel enclosed—it feels expansive. Alive. Flowing. There’s water somewhere, even if you don’t see it immediately.
That’s because ‘abad’ comes from Persian, and its root word ‘aab’ means water. In a land shaped by monsoons and droughts, water meant survival. An abad was a place that could sustain life—a settled, flourishing habitation.
When Persian culture and later the Mughals shaped India’s urban landscape, cities were no longer just fortresses. They were meant to thrive—to trade, to host poets and craftsmen, to grow gardens and markets.
- Ahmedabad, founded by Sultan Ahmed Shah
- Hyderabad, named after Sultan Hyder
- Firozabad, established by Firoz Shah
An ‘abad’ wasn’t about walls—it was about continuity. These cities were built near rivers, lakes, and irrigation systems. They promised prosperity, not just protection.
Travel through an ‘abad’ and you feel movement—languages mixing, bazaars spilling onto streets, food cultures layered over centuries. These are cities meant to be lived in, not just ruled.
A Detour Through ‘Ganj’
And then, almost inevitably, you stumble into a ‘ganj’.
Every city has one. You hear it before you see it—the honking, bargaining, clatter of shutters. ‘Ganj’ originally meant a storehouse or treasury, but over time it became synonymous with markets and commerce.
- Daryaganj in Delhi, once a riverside trading hub
- Hazratganj in Lucknow, still pulsing as the city’s heart
A ‘ganj’ tells you where people came together—not for power or permanence, but for exchange.
Reading India, One Ending at a Time
The next time you glance at a map or book a ticket, pause at the name. Ask what kind of city it wanted to be when it was born—a fortress, a home, or a marketplace.
In India, even syllables travel through time. And if you listen closely, cities still tell you who founded them, what they valued, and how they imagined the future—long before you arrived with your suitcase.
