By Sanijaijai Khyriem
When Shakespeare used this phrase in Romeo and Juliet, he was trying to convey that the name or label given to something is arbitrary and does not change its true, intrinsic nature. However, the same cannot be said in the context of the argument I wish to make through this article. I am talking, of course, about our beloved Sohra — or as someone who cannot pronounce it correctly (through no fault of their own) might call it: Cherra, Shora, or even So-raw. It all began when I started to notice that some signboards hanging along the national highway showed signs of an attempt to correct the names of places. It started with signboards along the Shillong–Guwahati road that, for a brief period, read “Barapani”, before being corrected to “Umiam.” I applaud the people who put in efforts to make that correction. Some will slander them, calling them mere “trouble-makers,” but it made me think: how many of us truly understand the relevance of names?
Names are not merely labels, they are living records of a people’s history, identity, and belonging. The name “Sohra” is not simply a word; it’s something that has been used for generations before any outsider ever set foot on this rain-drenched plateau. To allow a colonial mispronunciation to persist in perpetuity is to allow history’s wrongs to be quietly normalised. If someone were to call me a fanatic for saying this, I would gently redirect their attention to the national conversation that erupted when Calcutta was restored to Kolkata, when Bombay reclaimed its name as Mumbai, and Hey! There’s even speculation that India might formally be renamed to “Bharat”. Nobody called those advocates fanatics; they were celebrated as defenders of cultural identity. Why, then, should the people of Sohra be held to a different standard? The principle is the same. Does the size of the stage affect this perception?
Which brings me to the incident that compelled me to write this letter. Nearing the completion of the much-anticipated Shillong–Dawki road, a project heralded with great fanfare and rightfully so; a signboard appeared along the route that made my heart sink. There, in plain letters, freshly painted and officially erected, was written: “Cherrapunji.” Not Sohra. Not even a grudging acknowledgement of both names. Simply “Cherrapunji,” as though the past several decades of advocacy, of lobbying, of community effort had never happened. I sat with that feeling for a while, perplexed, then disheartened. It is worth reminding readers that the Government of Meghalaya has officially renamed Cherrapunji to Sohra, and this change is meant to reflect in all official records and communications. The Sohra Civil Sub-Division’s own government website acknowledges the place as Sohra. If such a directive exists (and it does) then one must ask: is there no mechanism within the administration to review and approve the names that go onto government-erected highway sign boards before they are installed? And if such a mechanism exists, why did it fail so visibly? If I am mistaken, and people are indeed bothered by this, then surely the very officials responsible for approving these signboards would have caught the error before the board was bolted into the ground.
What troubles me further is the silence in the digital world. Open Google Maps. Open Apple Maps. Search for Sohra. You will be directed to “Cherrapunjee.” The colonial name sits there, prominently, on platforms used by millions of travellers and navigators every single day. These are not obscure cartographic data-bases, they are the primary navigation tools of our time. And yet, despite the official renaming, despite the Khasi community’s long-standing position on this matter, no concerted effort appears to have been made to have these platforms updated.
What is particularly striking (and painful to admit) is that it is not just the administration that has been indifferent. The broader Khasi community, too, has not rallied in sufficient numbers behind their brethren from Sohra to push for this correction. And the irony is impossible to ignore: anyone who has visited Sohra in recent years will know that the locals there have gone to extraordinary lengths to erase the colonial name: signboards within the town, local businesses, community notices, all proudly bearing “Sohra.” Yet the moment a tourist opens their phone to navigate there, they are guided toward a “Cherrapunjee” that no longer officially exists. Imagine the confusion: a traveller follows their map to “Cherrapunjee,” only to arrive in a place where every board, every banner, every local voice says something else entirely. We will have created a geography of contradictions and we will have done it to ourselves, through inaction.
I close with this: a people who do not defend their language defend nothing, for language is the vessel that carries everything else: culture, memory, identity, and belonging. The Khasi language is not merely a means of communication; it is the living proof that we were here, that we named this land, that this land is ours. Every time we allow a colonial corruption to stand unchallenged on a signboard, on a map, or in an official document, we chisel away, just a little, at that proof. And one day, if we are not careful, we may wake up as foreigners in our own land, struggling to recognise the names of the very hills and rivers our grandmothers knew by heart.
Sohra is not just a name. It is a declaration. Let us treat it as one.
