June - The Odisha Society of The Americas

Transcription

UTKARSA
NEWSLETTER OF THE ODISHA SOCIETY OF THE AMERICAS
Volume 53 – June 2015
ଉତ୍କର୍ଷ, ଜୁ ନ୍ ୨୦୧୫
Contents
Page 1
ଉତ୍କର୍ଷ
UTKARSA
Newsletter of the Odisha Society of the Americas
Volume 53 – June 2015
Tapan Padhi
President
Sikhanda Satpathy
Vice President
Sabita Panigrahi
Secretary
Prashanta Ranabijuli
Treasurer
Satya Pattanaik
Editor
Soman Panigrahi
Technical Editor
“Konark”: Photo courtesy – Babru Samal
Babru Samal
Cover Photo
Contents
Page 2
ନବକଳେବର ୨୦୧୫
Contents
Page 3
CONTENTS
Editorial/Satya Pattanaik - 5
Executive Messages:
Tapan Padhi - 6
Sikhanda Satapathy - 7
Sabita Panigrahi - 8
Prashanta Ranabijuli - 11
Letters to the Editor - 12
Muse:
Sri Jagannath Philosophy/Tushar Swami - 14
Violence against Women, some
Reflections/Annapurna Devi Pandey - 17
A Missed Opportunity/Shashadhar
Mohapatra - 21
Similarities between Christianity and
Jagannath Culture/Darshan Panda - 23
Where are you?/Nrusingha Mishra - 32
Translated Poems:
Mayadhar Mansinha - 181
Women Poets of Odia Literature - 184
ପରିଚୟ/ସୁଳ ୋଚନୋ ପଟ୍ଟନୋୟକ - 33
ରତ୍ନଗିର/ି ବିଜ୍ଞୋନୀ ଦୋସ - 34
Profile:
Adopt your passion as hobby-Bhanu Pratap
Jena/Utkarsa - 36
Chapter Report:
CANOSA - 197
Global Odisha Conference-199
Blogs:
Anya’s Blogs - 39
Utkarsa Special: - 43
Translated Stories:
Fakir Mohan Senapati - 44
Gopinath Mohanty - 54
Pranabandhu Kar - 67
Rajkishore Ray - 71
Basanta Kumari Patnaik - 75
Manoj Das - 85
Adhyapak Biswaranjan - 92
Achyutanand Pati - 99
Akhil Mohan Patnaik - 104
Surendra Mohanty - 126
Santanu Acharya - 136
Jagdish Mohanty - 144
Bibhuti Patnaik – 154
Pratibha Ray - 159
Ramachandra Behera - 166
Binapani Mohanty - 175
Contents
Page 4
ସଂପୋଦକୀୟ
ପ୍ରଗତିର ଦିଗ
ଗତିଶୀଳତା ସୃଷ୍ଟିର ନିୟମ ୤ ସସଥିପାଇଁ ସମୟ ଆଗକୁ ବସେ ୤ କୟାସେଣ୍ଡରର ପୃଷ୍ଠା ଓେସେ ୤
ଜୀବର ଜନମ ସେୋପସର ଜୀବ ବଡ େୁ ଏ ୤ ମଣି ଷ ତିଆରି ସକୌଣସି ପ୍ରକାରର ବୟବସ୍ଥା ପ୍ରକୃ ତିର ସୟ ନି ୟମକୁ ବଦଳାଇ
ପାସରନା ୤ ସେଷ୍ଟା କସେବି ତାର ସୁଫଳ ମି ସଳନା ୤ ଗତିଶୀଳତା ସୃଷ୍ଟିକୁ ସୁନ୍ଦର କରି ଗସେ ୤ ପାଣି ବେି ୋେି ସେ ସବଚ୍ଛ ଜଳ
ଭରା କୁ ଳୁକୁଳୁ ଝରଣା ସୋଇଯାଏ, ନସେସେ କେକର ତାଳଦଣ୍ଡା ସକନାେ ୤ ସୟ ନି ୟମ ସଯ ସକୌଣସି ସଂସ୍ଥା ଉପସର ବି ୋଗୁ
େୁ ଏ ୤ ନୂ ତନ କମମକର୍ତ୍ମା ମାସନ ନୂ ଆ ନୂ ଆ େିନ୍ତାଧାରା ସନଇ ଆସନ୍ତି ଓ ନୂ ଆ କିଛି କରି ବାକୁ ସେଷ୍ଟା କରନ୍ତି ୤ ତାୋ ସଂସ୍ଥାକୁ
ସସତଜତା ଆସଣ, ନୂ ଆ ଦିଗ ସଦଖାଇ ଥାଏ – ପ୍ରଗତିର ଦିଗ ୤
ପ୍ରଗତି ରି ସେ ସର୍ ପରି ସଯଉଁଠି ୋତରୁ ୋତକୁ ବୟାେନ୍ ଯି ବାର ଆବଶୟକତା ରେିଛି ୤ ରି ସେ ସର୍ ସର ଜଦି ସକବଳ ଜସଣ
ସଦୌଡାଳି ସଦୌସଡ, ସତସବ ତାୋକୁ ଅସଯାଗୟ ସବାେି ସ ାଷଣା କରାଯାଏ ୤ ସସମି ତି ସଂସ୍ଥାର ପ୍ରଗତି ପାଇଁ ଦାୟି ତ୍ୱର ବୟାେନ୍
ୋତରୁ ୋତକୁ ଯି ବା ଉେିତ ୤ ନୂ ଆ ସୋକ ମାନଙ୍କୁ ସପ୍ରାତ୍ସାେି ତ କରି ବା ଆବଶୟକ ୤ ଓସା ପରି ସସବଚ୍ଛାସସବୀ ଭି ର୍ତ୍ିକ ସଂସ୍ଥାସର
ଜଦି ନୂ ଆ ସଭୟ ମାନଙ୍କୁ ସପ୍ରାତ୍ସାେିତ କରି ଉେିତ ଯାଗା ଦିଆଯାଏ ସତସବ ତାୋ ଓସା ତଥା ବୃ େତ୍ ଓଡିଆ କମୁୟନିେି ପାଇଁ
ପ୍ରଗତି ର ମାଗମ ସଖାେି ବ ୤ ଓସାର ଦିଗଗଜ, େିନ୍ତକ ତଥା ସଭୟ ମାସନ ସମାର ସୟ କଥାକୁ କିଞ୍ଚିତ୍ ବି ୋର କରି ସବ ସବାେି ଆଶା
ରଖୁଛି ୤ ଏପରି ନସେସେ ନୂ ଆ ତଥା ମୁକ୍ତ େିନ୍ତାଧାରା ରଖୁଥିବା ବୟକ୍ତି ମାସନ ଓସାରୁ ଦୂ ସରଇ ରେିସବ ଯାୋ ସମାଜ େିତକର
ନୁ ସେଁ ତଥା ଓସାର ପ୍ରଗତିର ପ୍ରତିକୂଳ ସାବୟସ୍ତ କରି ବ୤
ମୁଁ ଆଭାରୀ
ବିଗତ ଦୁ ଇବଷମ ଧରି ମସତ ଉତ୍କଷମକୁ ସମ୍ପାଦନ କରି ଥିବାର ଗୁରୁଦାୟି ତବ ସଦଇଥି ବାରୁ ମଁୁ ୨୦୧୩-୧୫ର Executive Committee
ନିକେସର ଆଭାରୀ ୤ ମଁୁ ଆଭାରୀ ଓସାର ସମସ୍ତ ସଭୟ ମାନଙ୍କ ପାଖସର ସଯଉଁ ମାସନ ଉତ୍କଷମକୁ ପେୁଛନ୍ତି ୤ ମଁୁ ଆଭାରୀ ସସଇ
େିନ୍ତକ ମାନଙ୍କ ନିକେସର ସଯ ଉତ୍କଷମ କୁ ଜନମ ସଦବାର ପ୍ରଥମ ସବପନ ସଦଖି ଥିସେ ୤ ସୟ ଏକ ଅସମାନ୍ତରାଳ ମାଧୟମ କମୁୟନିେିକୁ
ସଯାଡି ରଖି ବାକୁ ୤ ଏୋକୁ ଆଉ ଏକ ପାେୟାକୁ ଉପରକୁ ସନବାକୁ ସମାର ପରବତମୀ ସମ୍ପାଦକଙ୍କୁ ଅନୁ ସରାଧ କରି ବି ୤ ବେୁ ତ କିଛି
କରାଯାଇପାସର ଉତ୍କଷମ ମାଧୟମସର ୤ ମଁୁ ଆଭାରୀ ଉତ୍କଷମ ପାଇଁ ଭିନ୍ନ ଭି ନ୍ନ ସମୟସର ସେଖି ଥିବା ସେଖକ, େିତ୍ରକାର,
ଫସୋଗ୍ରାଫର, ସେକିନକାଲ୍ ସମ୍ପାଦକ ଓ ତମାମ୍ ବୟକ୍ତି ମାନଙ୍କ ନିକେସର ସସମାନଙ୍କର ସେସଯାଗ ନିମିର୍ତ୍ ୤
ଏଠି ସମ୍ପାଦକ ଭାବସର ଜସଣ ବୟକ୍ତି ଙ୍କର ନାମ ନବାକୁ ୋେଁୁଛି, ସଯ ସମା ସମ୍ପାଦନା ସମୟସର ସମା ସେ ସଡରୀ ରାତି ଯାଏ
ଅନିଦ୍ରା ସୋଇ remotely ସାୋଯୟ କରି ଛନ୍ତି – ଓସା ଉପସଭାପତି – ଶି ଖଣ୍ଡ ଶତପଥୀ ୤ ମଁୁ ତାଙ୍କ ନିକେସର ବିସଶଷ ଆଭାରୀ ୤
ପ୍ରଭୁ ଜଗନ୍ନାଥ ଓଡିଆ ଜାତି କୁ ସବମଦା ସୋୟକ େୁ ଅନ୍ତୁ ୤
ସତୟ ପଟ୍ଟନାୟକ
Contents
Page 5
Tapan Padhi
President, OSA
Dear Friends,
I take great pleasure in inviting you and your family and friends to attend
Global Odisha Conference at The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and OSA annual
convention in Gaylord National Resort and Convention Center, National Harbor, Maryland, USA on
July 1 through July 4 2015.
The Odisha Society of Americas (OSA) is developing a unique international platform to promote
collaboration and partnership among Odias residing in developed countries and in Odisha. The
Conference is envisioned to bring in a transformational change to the Odia diaspora. It is an
initiative to congregate successful Odias in various professional, cultural and educational field
around the world to contribute to the development of Odisha and India. This is in line with the
vision of the Government of India that each state should constitute its own global talent pool. Our
effort is geared towards accepting the challenge to globalize Odisha.
In addition to providing a platform, we are also looking forward to building this network of
immigrant Odias from all developed countries who share same challenges and social life in an
adopted country. Raising our children in a foreign land who are the second generation immigrants
with a proper inculcation of our own Odia pride and culture, has been a mammoth task for every
immigrant parents.
We are inviting several key stake holders from USA and India, and internationally acclaimed
personalities in Indian art, culture, education, business and media. Highlights of some of the
planned activities are a spectacular cultural program in the Kennedy Center, White House Briefing,
Capitol Hill luncheon, meeting with U.S. Chamber of Commerce, and business visits to national
institutes of interest.
As you are aware by now, Global Odisha Conference has six symposium tracks under leadership of
accomplished OSA members. This symposium tracks are critical to the success of this
conference. For example a track on Health is planned where professionals in health related areas
will deliberate on several focus areas of interest to global Odia diaspora and issues related to
Odisha. Health and Family Welfare Minister of Odisha Government's participation would make
deliberations effective and the successful establishment of collaborative efforts with Government
of Odisha would be possible. Please contact track chairs to better understand the goal and vision,
share your ideas, and offer in which way you would be able to participate, contribute to make this
symposia successful.
Tapan Padhi
President, OSA
Contents
Page 6
Sikhanda Satapathy
Vice President, OSA
Satya babu asked me to write about my feelings for the last issue of
Utkarsa during our tenure. My immediate reaction was that I saw the light
at the end of the tunnel. I had enjoyed my role as co-convener in the Ohio
convention. I had a defined role and mostly an advisory role for the
convention team. Then came the DC convention. I had the trepidation
right from the beginning; since we were planning for essentially two
conventions with little prior guidance, it was going to be a train wreck;
perhaps inside a dark tunnel! So when I say that I see the light at the end of the tunnel, it’s a good
sign that no such wreck has happened, at least not yet!
The Washington DC Odia community is diverse. If consists of Odias in Maryland, DC and
Virginia. Folks do meet across the state line, but once in a while for occasional parties or
function in the temple or Chapter functions. Now started the marathon cultural program practices
for the kids and adults alike. One had to drive 100s of miles over the weekend, spend countless
hours wondering why the steps taught last week are changed this week. Then came the marathon
meetings in the evening for many committees. Clarifications to make, guidance to provide, teams
to build, plans to lay out. I wouldn’t be truthful if I say that the road was a smooth pass. In a
convention of this magnitude, there is not much experience how to manage people’s expectation,
especially when the expectations are sky high! Many assumptions were made in the beginning;
many of those didn’t come through as assumptions are usually just that. As the convention came
in to sight, suddenly it dawned upon everybody that someone is shouting at them “whether you
are ready or not, here I come!” The wheels turned but didn’t fall off. Through the churning of the
sea of emotions emerged the nectar in the form of a team of volunteers with service-conviction in
mind, forgiveness at heart, vigilance in sight.
Here we are friends. When the curtain rises, the Washington DC Odias present to you the 1st
Global Odisha Conference and the 46th OSA Convention. Many people have shaped the dream,
many have burnt the mid-night oil, many have opened their heart and soul. And the purse. When
you clap for the amazing foot work in the Kennedy center, please spare a clap for my fellow
volunteers for pulling the cart over the hill; when you sing along the melodious tune in the
Potomac Auditorium, please spare a thank you note for the volunteers who spared countless
hours for you; and when you enjoy the thoughtful idea exchange in the seminars, be thoughtful
enough to pat the back of the folks with “may I help you” smile on their face.
Enjoy the ambiance, enjoy the company, and enjoy the extravaganza!
For me … I am excited to get my sleep back, my family back at the weekend, and after all, the
yard, garden and deck, all need a facelift. It’s been long two years at your service. I have learned
quite a few things about our society, I have built stronger bonds with many of you, and after all I
have become wiser.
It’s due to you all, my friends. Thank you.
Contents
Page 7
Sabita Panigrahi
Secretary, OSA
Dear Friends,
I am excited to welcome you all to the first Global Odisha Conference and
46th Annual Convention of OSA. I am also excited to congratulate all the
committees and volunteers who made these events possible and successful.
OSA is a non-profit volunteer organization established by people from
Odisha, India. Among organizations in North America of the Indian
subcontinent, OSA is one of the oldest organizations. Initially, OSA helped
connect those who had left Odisha and were living in various parts of USA and Canada. This
society brought them together and gave them a strong sense of belonging as they adjusted to a
new culture and new country. Over the years, it has helped promote Odia culture, its artists,
language and its heritage in North America. I am proud to say that in times of need, its esteemed
members have also helped people of Odisha in both the motherland and the adopted homeland
through numerous charitable activities. It has all happened due to the initiative and the selfless
work of its many volunteers. OSA has grown a lot and its roles and responsibilities have also
broadened. I am proud to be part of the vibrant OSA family and I am sure you are as well. We
OSA executives have worked together along with all chapter presidents and representatives to
keep OSA’s goals afloat and take the organization a step further.
I am pleased to inform that OSA membership has increased to over 1200 families. I am excited
to welcome new members to our OSA community. I would like to request each and every
member of OSA to spread the word and educate fellow Odias about the organization and
encourage them to become members of OSA. If every member brings even just one new
member, then our membership will be doubled. I'd like to request once again all of the OSA
parents to encourage their adult children, who are above 18 years old, to become OSA members.
OSA members always come up with creative ideas to promote Odia culture. The Regional Drama
Festival (RDF) is one of them. It was conceived by Sandip Das Verma of Washington state and
SriGopal Mohanty of Canada. The objective of the RDF is to develop a closer relationship
between communities of people from Odisha residing in North America, through a festival with a
special focus on drama. I am pleased to announce that the RDF grant has been increased from
$500 to $800. I am also excited to announce that on 6th of June two RDFs are being hosted by
Canada and New England.
As you may know, the OSA CCO (Champu, Chhanda and Odissi) competition is to promote
Odissi, Champu and Chhanda by young Odias in North America. This program has been
conceived by Mrs. Lata Misra. OSA is proud to introduce a CCO instrumental competition along
with vocal competition. This will provide our children that play instruments with a platform to
showcase their talent. Instruments such as the flute, violin, harmonium, guitar, etc. are
encouraged.
OSA has also introduced a Help Line available through the OSA website. This "help an
individual" number HAI-888-4OSA (424-888-4672) is operational and is actively monitored by
volunteers.
Contents
Page 8
The web address for OSA is http://www.odishasociety.org/. I highly recommend that you visit
the site frequently. You can find information about our activities, newsletter Utkarsha, monthly
Board of Governance (BOG) meeting minutes, yearly general body meeting minutes and much
more. You will also find various guidelines such as convention guidelines and award guidelines.
In a nutshell, you will find answers for many of your questions, as well as important information
about the organization. If you want to contact the executives or any chapter representatives you
can also find the contact information there.
The OSAnet Yahoo group is OSA’s communication medium. Prior to 2007, there was no
exclusive network for OSA members to communicate with each other. Ornet was used as a
network to communicate with the members, and OSA executives were using it to pass on
important organization related messages to the members. But it was not an OSA network. In May
2007, OSAnet was established, and at the Detroit convention a motion was passed unanimously
to use OSAnet as an official network to be used for OSA activities. As it is currently the only
communication network for the members to discuss OSA activities, I encourage all the members
to join the network to share their ideas and stay informed about OSA activities.
Currently OSA has 17 chapters. The newest chapter is Rocky Mountain which brought in more
than 25 new life members. We are in the process of forming three new chapters in Florida,
Atlanta and Seattle.
Chapter Name
Chapter Head
Email
Phone
California
Sunil Sabat
[email protected]
(510) 364-3903
Chicago
Jhara Das
[email protected]
(630) 904-6208
Grand Canyon
Chapter
Simant Misra
[email protected]
(480) 515-3841
Maryland –
Virginia
Sujata Nayak
[email protected]
(301) 528-9702
Michigan
Punyatoya Sarangi
[email protected]
(248) 991-1344
Minnesota/Northwest
Debasis Das
[email protected]
(952) 476-5850
New England
Arun Mohanty
[email protected] (617) 224-3275
New York-New
Jersey
Amar Senapati
[email protected]
(732) 649-1809
Ohio
Anil Patnaik
[email protected]
(937) 912-4363
Ozark (central)
Radhagobinda Mohanty
[email protected]
(636) 220-6588
Pacific Northwest
Priyadarsan Patra
[email protected]
(503) 617-0667
Rocky Mountain
Sadhu Behera
[email protected]
(303) 517-3297
South East
Sakti Singh
[email protected]
(919) 412-1228
Southern
Pramod Mahapatra
[email protected]
(423) 709-8301
South-West
Siddharth Behera
[email protected] (512) 537-6042
Washington, DC
Bimal Mishra
[email protected]
(301) 610-2098
Canada
Abani Pattanayak
[email protected]
(647) 406-3392
Contents
Page 9
As you may know, we conduct the monthly Board of Governance meeting among chapter
presidents and OSA executives every second Sunday of the month. We post the minutes on
OSAnet, the OSA website, as well as in Utkarsha. Please let us know if you have any questions
or concerns you want shared. We will add them to our agenda.
Again, I request each and every one of you to become actively involved in OSA activities and
help OSA grow as a community, whether it is through arts, culture, humanitarian, higher
education, Odisha community development or OSA helpline.
I take this opportunity to thank my teammates Tapan Padhi, Sikhanda Satpathy and Prashanta
Ranabijuli for their diligent support and help over the last two years. Their commitment towards
our society is commendable. I am proud of working with this extraordinary team. Meeting every
Wednesday night was not easy while they were all swamped with personal and professional
commitments. Still, they have truly inspired me to work with sincerity and dedication. I have
learnt a lot from each of them, their commitment towards the community, their flawless work,
selfless effort, calmness, honesty and talent.
I would like to congratulate the new team Sushant Satpathy, Sulochana Patnaik, Sidharth Behera,
and Saradakanta Panda for taking the responsibility of OSA.
Regards,
Sabita Panigrahi
Secretary, OSA (2013-2015)
[email protected]
Contents
Page 10
Treasurer, OSA
Dear Friends,
This is my last writing in Utkarsa as the Treasurer of OSA. As I am getting ready to relinquish
my responsibilities I feel grateful to the members for giving me the opportunity to serve the
organization and their trust in me. The last two years have been quite an experience. As an
Executive of OSA I had the privilege to understand OSA’s operation first hand. Quite often I
have seen the commitment of volunteers in fulfilling given tasks. There are many silent
volunteers who carve time out of their personal life to do something for the organization. My
respect for them and the organization has gone up several folds.
I have no financial report to present in this edition of Utkarsa. Most up-to-date financial reports
can be found in the Souvenir; for this edition there is just one update. I am happy to report that
OSA’s India bank account is now open. As a result, it will be easier for donors in India to
contribute to OSA.
Regards,
512-917-4715 (Mobile)
[email protected]
Contents
Page 11
Suchitra Das, CA
"Keeper of time, sentinel of dark,
Harbinger of spring, blossoms amuck."
As it ends in my poem Cherry Blossoms and Time , this edition of Utkarsa is like a breath of fresh air -poems, pictures, pravaas. and last but not the least, new and bold choice of professions by our younger
generation. Congratulations to them!
Thank you, Satyababu, for bringing out yet another issue with such elan.
Sabita Samal, CA
This issue is wonderful .Is there any notification mail to Oriya people in America ? I think it will be great any
publication whether it is Utkarsha or Pratishruti ,should reach to all Oriya living in America.
Sri Gopal Mohanty, Canada
In bringing the new issue of Utkarsa, Satya Pattanaik has done an excellent work, particularly giving new directions
like interviewing Sidharth Misra and Bhaivab Mohanty, young Odia talents excelling in western music and
informing about English translation of Odia books.
I may add two notes.
In 2008 Toronto OSA Convention, a few Odia youths were recognized, one of them being Sidharth Misra for his
achievements as an opera singer. Pratik Dash was also mentioned for his achievements in jazz music. See OSA
Journal pp 97-101.
In the translation categories, let me add three more:
1. fakir Mohan's " Cha Mana Atha Guntha" translated as " Six Acres and a Third" by Rabi Shankar Mishra, Satya
Prakassh Mohanty, Jatindra K. Nayak and Paul St. Pierre, University of California Press, 2005
2. Wild Peacock and other stories by Kishori Charan Das translated by Lilawati Mohapatra and Kamalakanta
Mohapatra, Grassroots 1985
3.The Journey, Stories by Kishri Charan Das translated by Phyllis Granoff, published by Uniiveersity of Michigan,
2000
Contents
Page 12
Prasanta Kumar Pattanaik, CA
Thank you for this very interesting and beautiful issue of Utkarsa. The article on English translations of Odia books
was particularly informative.
Saroj Patnaik, TX
Thanks for the sending the electronic copy. Very nice newsletter.
Gitimoy Kar, FL
Hats off to you for your selfless devotion to promote and keep Odiya literature alive overseas. Enjoyed reading
Utkarsa and ‘kudos’.
Swapnalata Mishra (Rath), MI
utkarsha basanta issue khub bhala lagila.
Apana Utkarshara kalebarare sahityara chamaka lagei dele.
Raghu Dass, TX
I have gone through some articles. The quality of Excellence is progressively going up in your editions. Or we are
getting better. Doing things better has been your hallmark past the dump. I thank you for spring cleaning the
nooks and cranny of our minds through your work. Please keep up the good work for the community. If nobody
sees through the din and bustle of materialism, He sees it to give His bounty as you have been spending a lot of
time for a great cause.
Souryaranjan Mohapatra, NH
Thank you for all your efforts ... Wonderful !!
Utkarsa Editorial appreciates your letters. Please continue to read Utkarsa and share your views to
make Utkarsa even better. - Editor
Contents
Page 13
Sri Jagannatha Philosophy
Tushar Swami
The philosophy associated with Sri
Jagannaatha is profound and sublime.
Though there are four separate idols, so
named Jagannaatha, Balabhadra,
Subhadraa, and Sudarshana, they
always are placed and worshipped
together as one entity. Here, we will
focus on the meanings behind the
names and forms of these four idols
which convey far more than what is
apparent on a casual encounter.
Meaning of Jagannaatha: The Sanskrit
definition of the word Jagannatha is ‘Jagatasya Naathah iti Jagannaathah’ which means the
Lord of the Jagat is Jagannaatha. So then, what is Jagat? ‘Jaayate gachhati iti jagat,’ i.e. that
which is born (Ja – jaayate) and then goes (Ga – gachhati) and in between stays for a while (Ta –
tisthati) is ‘Jagat.’ To expound on this simple sentence, we can say that creation and
destruction, birth and death mark the beginnings and ends of periods of change that happen
continuously over time in all things and beings in our observable world. In other words, that
which is confined by time and undergoes change is ‘Jagat.’
There are three different worlds we experience: one when we are awake, one when we are
dreaming and one when we are in deep sleep. These three worlds of our experience always
keep changing as we grow and develop. Yet, there is something that is unchanging, the
Consciousness that expresses itself in the living body. While the material body changes and dies,
this immaterial Consciousness remains unchanged and neither is born nor dies. This unchanging
Consciousness witnesses the three changing worlds experienced by the individual (jiva) and is
the master of these worlds as the Lord of the Jagat otherwise known as Jagannatha.
Meaning of Balabhadra: Bala means strength which is three-fold: atma-bala (the strength of
the self), mano-bala (the strength of the mind), and adhyatma-bala (the strength of divinity).
Bhadra means humble, gentle, polite, and free from ego or pride. It is said in the scriptures that
a weak person is not fit for the highest knowledge, the self-knowledge. Balabhadra represents a
body with the strength and qualities needed for acquiring self-knowledge. Balabhadra’s
Contents
Page 14
weapons are hala, a plough used for clearing a field to make it ready for planting, and musala, a
pestle used for clearing the inedible parts of the rice grain. In the Bhagavat Gita, the human
body has been called kshetra, a field, which must be cultivated for the highest knowledge by
removing weaknesses like kama (desire), krodha (anger), lobha (greed), moha (delusion), mada
(vanity), and matsarya (jealousy) among other things. Balabhadra, possessing his tools, thus
represents a properly cultivated body where self-knowledge can be harvested.
Meaning of Subhadraa: Su means sunder or beautiful and bhadraa is the feminine form of
bhadra with the same meaning as mentioned above. Subhadraa also means pure. The color of
Subhadraa is golden yellow representing the veiling power of maya; it also represents the
subtle body which consists of the mind-intellect. A mind-intellect purified with the righteous
action (karma) leads to righteous knowledge (jnana) and pure devotion (bhakti). With the
blessing of the beautifully pure mother Subhadraa, the integration of karma-jnana-bhakti may
occur in our mind-intellect and the veil of maya may be lifted off our perceived worlds making it
possible to realize Jagannatha, the unchanging Consciousness.
Meaning of Sudarshana: Su also means ‘really well’. Darshana means ‘seeing’ or ‘philosophy’.
People come to the temple for darshana to see the deities. But by seeing in the ordinary sense
no transformation happens in them. Just by seeing food, hunger does not go away; in fact
hunger increases. One must eat the food to get rid of hunger. Similarly, just seeing or reading a
philosophy does not remove the hunger for it; one must understand and internalize it, live it,
and be one with it to satisfy the hunger. That is seeing really well and that is Sudarshana. We
human beings have endless desires (vaasanaas). When desire for one object subsides by having
the object, another desire pops up; in fact we experience numerous desires which come and go.
This continues until the real desire to know oneself, to know one’s Consciousness, to know
Jagannath, is fulfilled and the Sudarshana state is achieved. According to the scriptures, after
attaining that blissful state, there is no more desire and one remains ever fulfilled.
Thus, Jagannatha may not be realized without His companions as He is not really separate from
them anyway. Together, the four idols represent One entity, the One who supports (does
bahana of) everything and every being is also called Mahabaahu,
The unique shapes of the deities represent the supreme reality, the Brahman, which according
to scriptures has no shape yet supports all shapes, is without hands and feet yet moves fast,
sees without eyes, hears without ears, knows everything but is unknown. The deities have some
indications of hands, eyes, and mouth yet those are unlike the familiar shapes that we know.
The absence or withdrawn state of the sensory organs indicates mastery or extreme control
over the senses, an essential discipline for realizing the Supreme.
The description of the Brahman in the Upanishads is nicely portrayed in the forms of the deities
Jagannatha, Balabhadra and Subhadraa. They are many, yet they are One. They look
unfinished, but they are complete. Their colors are very different from one another, yet they are
siblings. They represent the varied colors of all the human beings in the world, reminding us
that in spite of our differences in physical appearance, we belong to the one and same human
Contents
Page 15
family. According to another interpretation, Jagannatha’s color, black, represents inscrutability;
Balabhadra’s color, white, symbolizes enlightenment; Subhadra is yellow for goodness.
Jagannatha’s arms are extended, ready to embrace His devotees and His eyes are big, round,
and without eyelids, always open for looking after the welfare of His devotees.
Sri Jagannatha and his siblings
reside in the Big Temple by the
magnificent blue ocean in a place
known as Sri-kshetra also known as
Puri. The meaning of Sri is Lakshmi,
She who nurtures the whole world
and represents both material and
spiritual wealth. She also lives in the
same temple with Jagannatha and
is His divine consort. As we have
mentioned earlier, kshetra means
field or land. Sri-kshetra is thus the
land of mother Lakshmi. Puri
typically means ‘city,’ but in the
Bhagavat Gita, the human body
also has been called puri with nine
gates. It is an ever changing and
perishable kshetra (field) within
which the unchanging Consciousness is present but is most of the time unknown. As we said
earlier, Jagannatha represents this Consciousness or Self. So, when this Jagannatha becomes
known, this body or kshetra is transformed into Sri-kshetra because Lakshmi is always with
Jagannatha.
All of the festivities in the Sri Jagannatha temple have symbolic meanings. For example, Ratha
Yaatraa (Chariot Festival) stands for the journey of life within each human body. Whoever
realizes the Self in his body-temple becomes ever blissful and liberated from all bondage
(jivanmukta) and conducts all his activities without being bound by them. Scriptures proclaim:
‘rathe tu vamanam drushtwa punarjanma na vidyate’ which means having seen Sri Jagannatha
in the chariot, one can be free from rebirth indeed. Although Sri Jagannatha pervades the
entire universe and resides in all, He is the subtlest among the subtle and is therefore also
known as vamana (dwarf, very short) and is very difficult to behold and perceive when
surrounded by more massive bodies. Therefore, beholding vamana during the Chariot Festival is
realizing the Self within its body during the journey of life.
OM SriJagannathArpaNamastu!
OM Tat Sat OM.
Contents
Page 16
Violence against Women - Some Reflections
Dr. Annapurna Devi Pandey
Summary: Socio- cultural gender bias starting with the family, reinforced by educational institutions,
society along with a lack of support system are some of the factors contributing to violence against
women.
One often wonders why there is currently so much talk on violence against women worldwid? Does it
mean our past was less violent or the forms of violence different than the 21 st century? The famous
Harvard psychologist, Steven Pinker in his celebrated encyclopedic book, The Better Angels of Our
Nature: Why Violence Has Declined (Viking, 2011) concludes that historical sources suggest after the
major wars (World War 1 and 11), there is less conflict and violence now than in the past. As we do not
live in the past, but in the present, the kind of violence, which we see around us in the world these days,
does not make us feel confident that there is less violence now than there was in the past. If we
examine the international sphere, in our times we have seen one nation-state routinely dominating
another in the name of power - Russia appropriating Crimea, making it an integral state of its own; in
another instance, Russia bullying Ukraine; nuclear powers like the United Kingdom, France, Russia, China
and the United States endeavoring to exclude Iran for seeming to have aspirations of becoming a
nuclear power. After Pakistan priding itself as the nuclear power, these nuclear nations do not want to
see the emergence of another nuclear power in a perceived unstable nation-state or to despotic rulers
especially in the Islamic world. We observe the clash of nations who have become modern with the
nations who are trying to become modern in different parts of the world. We also have painfully
watched segments of society practicing the gender binary- men and women - often present them in
mutual antagonism. Economically the conflict between the one percent and the rest ninety nine percent
in the United States can hardly be contained. Why are we combining all these different practices of
violence together? Are they symptomatic of the primordial human condition or are there new factors,
which are accentuating the conflicts that already exist? Is violence against women independent of all of
the above? Why is there increasing violence against women? What are the possible explanations?
Violence against women is not a new phenomenon. As an anthropologist, I cannot find a single society
where there is no violence against women. According to an overview given by United Nations, despite
the gains women have made in education, health and even political power in the course of a generation,
violence against women and girls worldwide “persists at alarmingly high levels.” (New York Times, 9th
March 2015). The report emphasizes that it is not just in India, where women are frequently raped by
men; dowry related abuse is rampant; women especially in rural and tribal areas are openly tortured in
the name of witch-craft; urban educated middle class women ostracized by their family for making their
own choices of marriage partners; it is a worldwide phenomenon where women are subject to
humiliation, commoditization, objectification and Inferiorization.
Contents
Page 17
In this essay I will discuss the violence against women in India mainly focusing on the recent BBC
documentary, India’s daughter1. Besides arousing tremendous interest and attention in the international
media, the newspaper coverage of the documentary India’s daughter has become the current
fascination of the Indian elite abroad and at home to dissect the different opinions it has generated.
Why has the Delhi case of 2012 drawn so much public attention? Is it because it happened in the capital
of India, the second largest city in the world, which has aspiration to become a major world power?
Going through the coverage in the print media, both in India as well as abroad, I see multiple
perspectives reflected in various media. The Indian elite living abroad feels slighted that it is the BBC, a
British corporation that made the film and there must be some sinister agenda hidden in it. Is it a
reaction to the colonial rulers still lingering somewhere in our sub consciousness that when we see a
representation of our society done by “outsiders” we look for a surreptious agenda to marginalize us?
As I see it, the Delhi rape case is symptomatic of the complexities in which India finds itself today. As the
film shows both the victim’s family and the victimizers are from rural areas that have migrated to Delhi
in search of a better life. With globalization, the expansion of multinational corporations, call centers,
and the relocation of many international manufacturing industries from the West to India, resulting in
massive migration from rural to urban areas and a rapid expansion of the new fluid middle class. Over
300 million people out of 1.2 billion constitute the middle class and they are relatively young2. In this
film, we see at least two facets of middle class: one represented by the victim’s parents who moved
from the rural areas of an economically marginalized region of Uttar Pradesh to Delhi to ensure a better
future for their children. Their daughter was brilliant and they supported her to take up higher
education and follow her dream to become a medical professional. The culprits who had also moved
from rural areas to Delhi in order to pluck a better future for them represent the other facet. Without
adequate education, they were absorbed in the hustle and bustle of urban life working as private bus
drivers and conductors. The jobs available to them could not provide anything better than their
subaltern existence documented in the film. In these culprits we see a struggle for survival among those
who have left their villages, leaving their extended family (a major support), familiar surroundings and
their kin support behind without being able to but are not able to be absorbed into the city life. They are
still on the margins working in temporary often low paying jobs like makeshift drivers, petty
shopkeepers, vendors, street hawkers and such. At the same time, they can not but desire to participate
in the city’s glitter, riches, wealth, restaurants, posh cinemas, hotels, discos, clothing, cars, rich homes
ad infinitum which are beyond their reach. They are the disgruntled, unhappy embittered children of
modernity. They are displaced from their rural roots and still rootless having not made a home in the
city – leading a joyless marginal existence. They disdain the rich and successful, especially the young and
India’s Daughter, a BBC documentary film directed by Leslee Udwin is based on the 2012
gang rape and murder of a 23-year-old female medical student in Delhi.
2
As the latest study on middle class in India, observes that “service-sector led economic
1
growth, rapid expansion of urbanization and higher education — are undoubtedly
resulting in a massive expansion of the middle class, however defined”.
http://www.thehindu.com/opinion/op-ed/being-middle-class-inindia/article6673580.ece
This study was sponsored by the Lok Foundation and carried out in collaboration with the Center
for the Advanced Study of India (CASI) at the University of Pennsylvania, in conjunction with
the Carnegie Endowment of International Peace.
Contents
Page 18
lively modern women representing the freedom and assumed affluence, which these men aspire for but
cannot attain.
If we analyze the movements of these men on the fatal night, they drank some cheap liquor and went
on a pleasure-seeking ride looking for some action. The hierarchy among these men is very striking.
Between the two brothers, the older brother always dominated the younger, who was his willing
subordinate. When they encountered the victim with a male partner on a deserted road nine pm, were
they looking at her as a woman – defined in the Indian context as a daughter, sister, wife and mother?
Being a modern woman in western attire she was an antithesis of women they could identify with. In
their own words, she was a modern object clothed in Western attire, resisting their advances, verbally
abusing them and hurting their male ego. The victim did not fit into the available identifiable models for
womanhood in India. Her uniqueness to their world resulted in her dehumanization and as a result their
attempted domination.
The documentary India’s daughter should not be looked upon as a Western indictment of an India,
which cannot protect its own women despite its continuous ascent towards modernization in legally
providing freedom and equality for women. Rather it tries to provide an explanation of why such a crime
happened and why such heinous crimes are still happening, trying to make sense of changing India with
rapid expansion of urban areas. Sadly, instead of creating conditions for real freedom and equality, the
state is exercising its power to stop such representation of the degradation of our people justifying and
validating such crime by blaming the victims for their aspirations in rapidly changing India.
What needs to be done?
No doubt, Indian laws are very progressive – since rape is one of the most common crimes against
women in India, Criminal Law (Amendment) Act, 2013 seeks to provide stringent punishment to the
perpetrators of violent cases of rapes and gang rapes. However the problem I see is in the
implementation of these laws. Here the state is failing to adequately protect its women. In reality,
women are still valued as lesser beings compared to men. Despite the changes wrought by
modernization, urbanization and social development in India, ours remains a very sexist society. Women
in traditional roles like daughter, wife, sister and mother are still revered and well respected, but only as
long as they remain frozen in these roles. They become a threat the moment they express their own
individuality and assert their autonomy as guaranteed by law.
Even with stringent laws in favor of women’s equal rights, especially in relation to dowry, rape and other
terms of mistreatment, the issue is who benefits from the law and who takes advantage of the laws.
The average lower middle class woman especially in rural and tribal areas does not avail herself the law
because of institutional barriers imposed by caste, class and family. As I see it, in the Indian society there
continues to be a lag between the norms and codes promulgated by social factors such as caste, class
and family and the laws created by the state. Recent media reports such as Satyameva Jayate and other
programs are bringing this discrepancy to the limelight. To give a few examples in order to illustrate this
point, even with a court order, the local police may chose not to file a case. The local doctors may be
corrupt, negligent or too preoccupied to file a rape case or may falsify the report. In democratic society
of India, officials in every state institution such as police, doctors, lawyers and judges enact as the
upholders of moral values. In the case of the lawyers for the culprits in India’s daughter, they are
blaming the victim for her predicament. The social reality is very daunting - only extreme cases go to the
court and very few have the time, money or fortitude to fight a legal battle. As a result, there seems to
be no effective enforcement despite stringent laws against violence caused to women.
Contents
Page 19
In the last few years there has been a steady increase in dowry, sexual abuse and objectification of
women, which is easily reflected in the glaring gap in the sex ratio in India. I wonder what has gone
wrong? It is true that the women of the upper classes and lowest class remain above and beyond social
scrutiny. But gender inequality continues to be a bane to the women’s situation in India. Both in rural
and urban Odisha, where I have been doing my research for the last three decades, there are many
instances of girls and women being forced to move away from their families and they have few
alternatives for survival, often through trafficking or seeking a place in a women’s shelter. As I have
observed while working at a Women's home in Odisha, women young and old use these homes as a
respite from being abused and neglected in their families.
While legal reform is very important, poverty of mind will not improve just by passing laws unless there
is a mass sensitization in various ways at every level, from family, elementary school, to training at work,
folk art, street theater and cultural performances in rural India, to media representation. The secular
state of India is trying to regulate the behavior of its people. Unfortunately, the vision of the founders of
the modern state in India is still a dream rather than a reality. Just passing laws does not solve the
problem, the only thing it does is it creates a space for grievances to be articulated. The institutions
looked upon as the upholders of moral values and law, which are responsible for its implementation
need to be more gender sensitive, the people need to be trained in gender sensitivity and there is a
need for a change in the attitude of the people in charge of the laws.
As I see it, we need a drastic revision of our education system starting with the family. Both mothers and
fathers need to change their attitude towards the girl child and treat her equally along with her male
counterpart. We need to integrate sex education as integral to our curriculum. Also, our education must
incorporate recognition of dignity of every human being irrespective of sex, gender, class, caste and
religion. The increase in violence against women in India is a reflection on society and state in India.
Society is changing and its traditional value system is under attack. The modern egalitarian value system
acquired by western education has not been integrated or permeated into the minds of the masses.
What is most important is to promote a grass root level awareness of sensitivity towards sex, gender
and sexuality and to invest in local levels of leadership amongst women. There has to be collaboration
between the social media agencies and the local NGOs promoting self-expression, leadership and power
among girls and women. The key is skill-based education for men and women and their gainful
employment in the economic sector, both public and private and respectful etiquettes at the workplace.
Along with the laws, there has to be a concerted effort by the politicians and all the law enforcement
agencies to see whether the laws and the government schemes are implemented and enforced
effectively. Any level of corruption must be punished and used as a lesson to fight social injustice. In
India, the largest democratic country of the world, we need to make sure the civil society plays an
important role to curb injustice and promote leadership at the grass root level. Commenting on why
Hilary Clinton should be the next President of the United States, Senate Democratic leader Harry Reid
offered the great advantage of a woman president at this time in American history: "Women are much
more patient," "They can be, if they are pushed the wrong way, combative, but they are not combative.
A lot of we men are combative just by nature. "It is not just by nature, but through life experiences,
women are more geared to the issues of fairness and representation”. It is high time that we value our
women. If we do not know how to value them, we do not value our own selves.
Dr. Annapurna Devi Pandey
Anthropology, University of California, Santa Cruz
[email protected]
Contents
Page 20
A Missed Opportunity
Shashadhar Mohapatra
This story is about my father. It is a true story. It begins with him and ends with him. My father was a
simple, honest, hardworking, down-to-earth, truthful, and God-loving person. He got up early in the
morning at 4:00 am and did his usual yoga and meditation. During his young age, he took initiation from
his guru “Dayanidhi Paramhansa Dev”. He was just 14 and his older brother was 16 when their father
died at the age of 43. He had two younger sisters. His father was a zamidar. But, they had a thatched
house then and a few acres of agricultural lands. My father’s brother was a social activist, traveling
around and participating in the freedom movement. Life was difficult for my father. He and his siblings
stayed hungry at times. So, he decided to take charge. He worked day and night to grow rice and lentils
in the fields and vegetables in the backyard. There were no schools nearby like there are today. He could
not go to school but, he somehow learned to read and write. He really worked hard to feed the family.
He was always busy doing something.
When I was a child, I heard from many people that he was a God realized person. I was too young to
understand what God realization was; and even now in my 60s, I don’t fully understand it. As I grew
older, when I was in high school or college, I didn’t pay much attention to it. I felt good that at least
people were saying such good things. After all, my father was a noble man. He deserved credit. During
my adulthood, my father said something to me that had happened to be true. My mother was
instrumental in putting pressure on him to get some words out of his mouth when I was in distress. I
thought, at the time, that it happened to be true perhaps by accident.
He was always calm, cool and collected. He never complained for anything. If you fed him with 10 good
dishes or simply served rice, daal, and spinach, he would be satisfied either way. If the food was
overcooked, undercooked, or burnt, you wouldn’t hear any complaint. I never in my entire life saw him
unhappy nor with tears in his eyes. When anyone of our relatives or in the village dies, he would say
that sorrows and happiness are part of life. They come and go. Why should we be unhappy during bad
times and too happy during good times?
I remember a particular incident vividly. It was 1967, and I was in 8th grade. A few people from the
village were going to Puri to see Lord Jagannath. My youngest sister, Sarojini, heard from them and
came to the house and cried. She wanted to go with them. My mother said, “We are not going, so you
can’t go.” My father said, “We’ll go some other time.” She didn’t stop. She was crying endlessly and
nothing worked to calm her down. Finally, my father said, “You come and I will show you Lord Jagannath
here.” I asked, “How could this be?” He replied, “By Nakha Darpan.” I had never heard what that was.
He could use “Nakha” [thumb nail as a mirror] and show images of our Lords there. I got excited, too,
because it sounded like magic. He took my sister into a room where I followed. He then said that
anyone older than 12 years can’t see. Only small children like her could see, because they are innocent.
Those who are older than 12 are influenced by maya, chanda, and kapat. My father asked me to leave
the room and he closed the door. I hid outside to listen.
I heard my little sister shouting, “Yes! Here is Jagannath, here is Balabhadra, here is Subhadra, and here
is a monkey!” That monkey was Hanuman, the monkey God, according to my father. And so I missed the
Contents
Page 21
opportunity to see our Lords on his thumb nail. But, the important thing to mention here is that I hadn’t
been able to imagine the potential of this man!
Years passed by. I came to the US in the beginning of 1983 for my Ph.D. After teaching for five years in
Odisha, I came here to pursue my dream. I completed my Ph.D in the summer of 1988 and then worked
as a medical physicist at the University of Oklahoma Health Sciences Center (OUHSC). My mother
passed away in 1986 when I was in graduate school. There was nobody to take care of my father. So, we
all decided to find a wife for my younger brother. In 1989, I went alone to attend my brother’s wedding
in my village. My wife and daughter had visited in the previous year right after completion of my Ph.D.
One day in the house during a casual conversation, he insisted that we should consider for another
child. I said, Meera (my wife) is not interested. “ I am serious.”, he said. After my return to the US, I
told my wife. Our son was born on August 23, 1990. One day, while talking to my father over phone, I
said that I will send his pictures. Then, he immediately said that don’t worry ! I have already seen him.
Too soon after my brother’s wedding, I had to return back to the US. The distance from my village to the
nearest bus station at Mangalpur was 4.5 miles. There were no autos or cars available in the villages
then so my brother had to take me on his scooter. As we were walking towards the end of the village,
many kids and adults including my father and sisters were following. I was marching in the front like a
commander and they were my soldiers. I looked back; my father was behind me. For the first time in my
life I saw his pale face with tears in his eyes. It disturbed me. I was thinking to go and hug him. But, I
couldn’t. I was very shy to do it even if hugging was common in the US. Perhaps, he knew that it was
our last meeting. During my entire journey, I was debating whether I should or shouldn’t have hugged
him. Anyway, it was too late. I wish I had known his mind.
Couple of years passed by. In the summer of 1991, I suddenly got a message from my brother and sister
that my father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer and it had metastasized. In fact, that had been
his first and last trip to see a doctor. The doctor said he would not survive more than six months. OUHSC
had applied for my green card and the hospital’s lawyer advised me not to leave the country. I was
devastated. My father died at the age of 71. Now, I am older than 60. When I reflect back, I come to
the conclusion that my father was undoubtedly a God realized person. I feel terrible today that I missed
that opportunity to give him a hug. And rare tears, inherited from my father, now flow from my eyes.
2105 Hidden Valley Ln, Silver Spring, MD 20904
Contents
Page 22
Similarities between Christianity and Jagannath Culture
Darshan Panda
Christianity is one of the most popular and wide spread religions, which has attracted the attention not
only of mere believers but of scholars as well. Certain elements of Christianity have inspired
philosophical, anthropological, literary and linguistic inquiries down the ages including elaborate
comparisons with other religions. Though scholars have often compared Christianity with Hinduism,
Islam, Buddhism, Sikhism and other important religions no systematic comparison has ever been
undertaken between Christianity and the Cult of Jagannatha which is one of the most important sections
of the Hindu religion. If ever any comparison between Christianity and the Cult of Jagannatha has been
done in the past, it has not achieved its purpose. In the context that the Cult of Jagannatha has now
spread into the west through the Iskcon and people in an unprecedented manner have now been
impressed by its concept of equality, brotherhood and more importantly, by the democratic message of
the car festival and again, because such comparison between Christianity and Jagannath is sometimes
done by men in common talks, in newspapers and in stray writings, a systematic and in depth study in
comparison at least of the basic principles of both the religions will be of immense help to us. The aim of
this monograph attempts such a comparison between the basic tenants of Christianity and the Cult of
Jagannatha highlighting the points of similarities and dissimilarities and arriving at a conclusion that
there are more points of similarities between the two religions than the dissimilarities.
Comparison between Christianity and Jagannath has been previously done in the most casual
manner. William Bruton, a British traveller, came to Puri in the year 1633 and published an account of his
visit which later found a place in Haklyut's Voyages. Though Bruton's main purpose was to narrate his
experiences about a foreign land he indulges in certain value judgments while confronted with an
opportunity to compare “Jagannath" with Christianity. The description of the image of Jagannath for
example, is an evidence of his lack of proper understanding of theological basis of the iconography and
his reference to revelation of the Bible is a proof of indulgence in superficialities. Our second author is
Levi, the writer of the Aquarian Gospels. Levi brings Christ to Puri. He preached that worship does not
consist in mere noises of tongues. Certainly a comparison is done here between the Christian and Hindu
approach. The third person, who also attempted a comparison between Christianity and Jagannath, was
Sadhu Sundar Das who was a lover of Christianity." He wanted to show similarities between Christianity
and the Cult of Jagannatha which, however, was not accepted by the Christian theologians of his time.
My purpose here is to compare the basic tenants of Christianity with those of the Cult of
Jagannath avoiding superficialities and subjectivity. I will often summarize the principles of Christianity
quoting the Bible only at the necessary intervals. The three basic Jagannath texts on which I will heavily
depend are the relevant sections of the Skanda-purana, Brahmapurana and Niladrimahodaya. The main
Contents
Page 23
principles of Christianity being an oft-discussed subject will be presented for comparison in compressed
forms, considering the limited scope of this monograph. But these three Jagannath texts being less
discussed subjects in comparative studies will find full-fledged analysis.
When I begin with the hypothesis that there is much similarity between the principles of the two
religions it should not, however, be thought that I suggest influence of Christianity on the Cult of
Jagannatha, the Skanda Purana; Brahmapurana and the Niladrimahodaya, being texts of a later period
than the date of Bible. I hope that the reader should always be on guard to read the Jagannatha texts in
the strictest context of the Vedas, the Upanisads and the Gita from which such texts heavily draw its
fundamental views. Nor do I suggest the influence of Indian wisdom on Christianity. Showing influence is
simply beyond the scope of this monograph.
GOD
Christianity is a monotheistic religion. In other words, it conceives God as one, not many. The
other attributes of God as enumerated in Christianity are: He is eternal, infinite, unlimited, invisible and
self-existent. He is also the Lord of Lords 'Who only hath immortality dwelling in light'. He is also extolled
as 'the Father of all'. All these attributes of God have been also recognized in the Cult of Jagannath. The
'Purushottama Mahatmyam' portion of the Skanda purana conceives God in the similar manner. It
maintains that God is one:
advitiyajagadvasa svaprakasa namostu'te
(Sk. P. 27/18)
(I pray to you who is the self-effulgent, enveloping the universe, second to none.)
The monotheistic character of the Godhead in the Cult of Jagannatha is more pronounced in the relevant
portion of the Brahmapurana.
advaitam tvam kathal dvaitam
vaktum saknoti manavah
ekestvem hi hare vyapi
citsvabhavo niranjanah.
(BP. 49. 16)
(How can man say that you are more than One, for you are One? O Hari, You are everywhere having the
nature of cit, You are colourless. (invisible) .
That God is eternal, infinite, unlimited, the creator, shapeless, self-existent, the Father of the universe,
the Lord of lords dwelling in light can be known from the same Skandapurana which described Him in
the following manner:
Contents
Page 24
namo'stvanantaya sahasramurtaye
sahasrapadaksisiroruhahave
sahasranamne purusaya sasvate
sahasrakotiyugadharine namah
dinanathaikasaranam pita tvam jagatah prabho
pata posta tvernevsise sarvapadinivaraka
(SKP 24.20 & 23)
nisprapanca nirakara nirvikara nirasraya
sthulasuksmanumahiman sthoulyasuksmavivarjita
namo deva dhi devaye devadevays te namah
jvaladagnisvarupaya mrutyorapi mrtya ve
(SKP 24.20 & 23)
(Obeisance to the endless, to the thousand forms, the one having thousand feet. eyes and hairs ... I bow
to one having thousand names, the eternal male who lives through thousand cores of years. You are the
refuge of the poor and helpless. You are the father of the universe. 0 Lord, You are the preserver and
sustainer. You too remove all dangers. Flawless, shapeless, without hatred, self-existent, the very power
of the big and small though You are neither big no small. You are the Lord of lords, the greatest of the
lords. I bow to you. You are of the shape of burning fire. You are the Death of death.)
For Christianity God is 'over all, and through all, and in all. He is also in an immensely blessed state. In
Jagannatha texts such attributes of God are also given elaborate treatment. The Skandapurana described
him as the primeval male who enveloped the whole universe and even transcended it:
Sa bhumim sarvato vyapya
adhyati_shaddasangulam
(SK.P24.6)
(He enveloped the entire land and (even) stretched beyond by ten fingers.)
The blessed state of God is most explicitly described in -Niladrimahodaya10
parambrahma param dhama
pavitram ca paratparam
puranandamayam punyam
nirgunam saccidatmakam
(NM.6.2)
(He is) the Supreme Brahman who is in the most spiritual state, the holiest, the farthest of the far. (He is)
Contents
Page 25
full of supreme bliss, of holiness, bereft of the gunas having the attributes of truth and consciousness.)
God as King
Christianity required that man should be absolutely dependent on God. This dependence means that he
should be totally obedient to God's command. Here we notice another aspect of the Christian
consciousness. God, in Christianity, is thought of as 'Lord' of 'King'. This aspect of Christianity brings it
closer to Jagannath Cult. The idea, the God King, is nowhere more experienced in Hinduism than in the
Cult of Jagannatha. Anangabhima Dev who was the emperor of Orissa during the 12th century declared
himself as the rauta or an official working under King Jagannatha. The selection of Kapilendra Dev and
Purusottam Dev as Kings of Orissa was done according to the so-called wishes of Jagannatha. Two
important poets of Orissa namely Upendra Bhanja and Dinakrishna describe Jagannatha as
kambukatakaraja the King of the city of conch' and Samanta, 'he great Lord' respectively. The
Jagannatha temple rituals and festivals are so done as befits the taste of a medieval King. In this there is
a great deal of similarity between Christianity and Jagannatha.
Personal God
The conviction that God is personal has been permeated throughout biblical writings. In the Old
Testament God speaks in personal terms, 'I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of
Isaac, and the God of Jacob. ‘(Exod. 3 : 6). God is also addressed in personal terms, for example, ‘Hear my
cry, O God, listen to my prayer.: (Psalam: 6 : 1). The same personal character of God is emphasized by
Jesus while constantly referring to God as father. In Jagannath texts, on the other hand, a similar
personal character of God is often emphasized. The Brahmapurana addresses him in the most personal
terms:
prasida kamalakanta prasida tridasesvara
prasida kamsakesighna prasidaris tanasana
prasida krsna daityaghna prasida danujantaka
prasida mathuravase praside Jadunandana
(BP, 55.21-22)
(Be kind O husband of Laxmi) Lord of the three worlds! Be kind O killer of Kamsa and Kesi, O remover of
dangers! Be kind O Krishna, O Killer of demons, O enemy of demons. O dweller of Mathura, O offspring
of a Yadu, be kind.)
The personal character of God is also embodied in the emphasis on the fatherhood of God in both
Skanda and Brahmapurana, thus establishing a similarity between Christianity and Jagannath.
Though in the Jagannatha texts the ultimate is apprehended as personal the conviction of the Vedanta
school is no altogether left out. For the Vedanta Ultimate is nonpersonal and in this respect is different
Contents
Page 26
from Christianity. The Skandapurana speaks of Him in non personal terms:
nabhah sirasthe devesa apasthe vigraha prabho
padau ksitirmnukham bahni svasi tani simranh
manasest hyosadhinatha scaksusi te divakarah
(SKP 21.40 & 41)
(The sky is your head, O Lord of gods, water is your body. Earth is your feet, fire face and air breath. The
moon is your mind and the Sun is your eyes.)
Images
This section of monograph will discuss one of the most controversial subjects i.e., image worship. The
Jews, with whom Christianity has many things in common, are for forbidden to make images of God. The
Exodus XX forbids any attempt to represent God in material form. The Christians, therefore, avoid
making images of God, but as A.G. Widgery points out 'the use of images of Jesus, of his mother, and the
saints is common.' But in the Cult of Jagannatha image worship is the very nucleus of religious exercises.
How do the Jagannath texts justify the worship of images? First, they argue that if God is self-effulgent
and can do anything he likes he can manifest himself in any palpable form. Thus the Skandapurana
states:
pranatartivinasaya namah svatmaikabhanave
pura yat prarthitam svamin srstibharavatarane
tat kurusva jagannatha sahajanandarupabhak
tvayiprasanne kim natha durlabham mayi vidyate
(Sk.P., 27.32-33)
(I bow to One who can appear as He likes for dispelling the sorrow of his worshippers. Do as you
promised to do for lessening the burden of creation, O Lord, O Jagannath, who is capable of assuming
the form of palpable bliss. Can anything be difficult for me to get if you please?)
Secondly, as Niladrimahodaya maintains God can assume many forms in order to help mankind:
anugrahaya lokanam
nanarupadharam prabhum
(N.M, 39.5)
(I pray to the Lord who has assumed many forms to bestow His kindness on man.)
So Christianity and the Cult of Jajannatha both agree or / and disagree on the question of the necessity
of images. Their support of or opposition to such necessity of images is only a question of degrees.
Contents
Page 27
Trinity
The doctrine of God in Christianity is not only monotheistic but also Trinitarian. Though, according to
Christianity there is but one living and true God still in the unity of Godhead there are 'three persons',
the Father, the son, and the Holy Ghost. The Father is God who was revealed by Christ, the Son is the
ascription of Lordship to Christ by the Apostolic Church and the Holy Ghost is the consciousness of the
presence and power of God in the Christian experience. Though these are 'three persons' they are of
'one substance: Another school of Christianity maintains that the Trinity is 'God the Father, Miriam
(Mary), and Jesus:
The Cult of Jagannath agrees with Christianity in maintaining that three are three 'Persons' in the unity of
Godhead. But in the Cult of Jagannath these three persons are different. Jagannatha is often identified
with Brahman. The Skandapurana declares:
paraya pararupaya paramparaya te namah
aparaparabhutaya brahmarupaya te namah
(SKP,27.30)
(Obeisance to the Beyond, to the Form of the Beyond to the Supreme Beyond, to the Form of the
Beyond transcending the Beyond, to the Form of Brahman.)
Incarnation
According to the Christian theology the fellowship between man and God can be restored only through
Christ who is, therefore, regarded as the Mediator. Christ is also known as the incarnation of God whose
purpose was not only to reveal the nature of God to man but also to free man from sins and infuse the
love of God in human hearts.
In the Cult of Jagannath, on the other hand, the idea of incarnations of Vishnu is perhaps more profusely
developed. The relevant scriptures maintain that God incarnates Himself in order to restore dharma to
its rightful place and free the world from sin by destroying the evil forces. Thus in the Brahmapurana
God declares:
yada yada hi dharmasya glanirbhavati sattama
abhyutthanamadharmasya tadatmanam srjamyaham
prsvisto manusan deham sarvam prasamayamyaham
(BP. 56.35 and 38)
Contents
Page 28
(O true one, when blemishes appear in dharma and the evil gains more power then I incarnate myself by
entering the body of men and control everything.)
SIN AND EVIL
Luther defined sin as departure from God. Other schools of Christianity define it as
'Lawlessness'. But the real source of sin is the heart and the will. Sin thus proceeds from within and out
of the heart of man. Thus say Jesus; ‘I say unto you that everyone that looketh on a woman to lust after
her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.’ (Mathew. 5 : 28)
In Jagannatha texts, on the other hand, sin is sometimes defined as the effect of matter, sometimes of
Karman, yet differently, of maya or falsehood or as in Skandapurana the effect of Kall Age:
trahi mam padmapatraksa magnam visayasagare
harsasokanvito mudhah karmapasaih suyantritah
mayaya mohitastatra bhramami sucitam prabho
(BP, 49.21,23 and 26)
Sarve’nrtapradhana hi dambhika sathavrttayah
Prayasca dharmavimukha jihyopasthaparayanah
(SK P. 38.27 & 28)
(Save me, O lotus eyed One, from this sea of matter into which I have fallen. I am an ignorant fellow
affected by pleasure and pain and controlled by the net of Karma. Deceived by Maya I am wandering
about here forever, (In the Kali Age). All are dominated by falsehood and are brazen-hearted and are
cheats. They are almost averse to dharma and hypocrites.)
It will be seen that there is much similarity between the concepts of 'lawlessness' and adharma as also
between 'heart' and the act of being 'affected by pleasure and pain' or 'hypocrisy'.So there is basic
similarity between Christianity and the Cult of Jagannatha in respect of their efforts at determining the
source of sin.
Salvation
As sin is the root of man's unhappiness Christianity insists on rooting out this sin. Christianity
maintains that sin will cease to have any effect on man if he achieves the fellowship with God which
means immortality of glory and blessedness with God and a renewal of soul of man by the grace of God.
Fellowship with God can be attained through repentance and faith in God. Love of God is yet another
pre-requisite for achieving the purpose. As sin is too powerful to be overcome by man's limited energy
the mediation of Christ is absolutely necessary in this regard.
Contents
Page 29
The Cult of Jagannath also emphasizes the necessity of rooting out unhappiness. It maintains
that sin and its effect unhappiness and rebirth will automatically cease if salvation is achieved. But what
is the nature of this salvation in the Cult of Jagannatha ? It means going to the abode of vishnu :
Ksanan muktiphalam prapya
Yanti visnom subhalayam (P., 33.92)
(Immediately they get the salvation-fruit and go to the auspicious abode of visnu.)
Or, it means becoming one with Vishnu :
Te muktibhajah ravisanti visnum
mantrairyathajyam hutamadhvaragni (B.P., 49.68)
(Those salvation-fit people enter Vishnu just as butter mixes with fire when offered with the chanting of
mantra.)
So Christianity and the Cult of Jagannath miraculously meet in respect of the necessity and nature of as
well as the means for achieving salvation. One point where there is a difference between the two
religions is that there is no mediation by anybody in the Cult of Jagannath.
Love of man
Christians regard men as children of God. They, as members of one community have one
common duty-love to God and love to His creation. The latter concept includes love of neighbor.
Sympathetic service to men is regarded by Christians as one of their religious exercises. So the spirit of
brotherhood even towards other religious groups, the spirit of patience. forgiveness and desire to save
others are some of the cardinal virtues of Christianity.
The Cult of Jagannath is surprisingly full of hyperbolic praise for this love of man. Service to
others, the spirit of kindness, avoidance of green and base desires and equal behaviour towards the
friend and the foe are some of the virtues of a true Vaisnava according to Skandapurana:
upakrtikusala jagatsvajasram
parakusalani nijani manyamanah
api paraparibhavane dayardrah
sivamanasah Khalu vaisnavah prasiddhah
drsadi paradhane ca lostrakhande
paravanitasu ca kutasalmalisu
sukhiripusahajesu bandhuvargai
samamatayah khalu vaisnvah prasiddhah
Contents
Page 30
(Sk.P, 10. 111 & 112)
(Those Vaisnavas are famous in the world who are skilled to render help to others in abundance,
who consider help to others as help to their own self, who are kind in their thought towards others, and
whose thoughts are stuffed with goodness. Those Vaisnavas are famous who consider others' property
as pieces of pebble and others' wives as the salmali tree full of thrones, who consider both the friend
and foe as equal and who treat all their relatives equally)
Now I can remind the reader of the different parts of this monograph while arriving at a
conclusion. I have shown that Christianity and the Cult of Jagannath have many things in common. The
points of the disagreement between the basic principles of the two religions are not as bold and glaring
as the points of agreement. It is a significant fact of our cultural history that some sort of agreement
does exist between the basic principles of such seemingly different religions as Christianity and the Cult
of Jagannath the former growing in a different climate amidst a different people and the latter evolving
out of the most ancient of the religious thoughts which we now roughly term as Hinduism.
Contents
Page 31
Where Are You?
Nrusingha Mishra
I am longing for your manifestation in utter astonishment
Where are you hidden?
I am overwhelmed with this world harsh treatment
Where are you gone?
Are you hiding behind ocean waves and distant mountain receding figures?
Although feel the warmth of the bright sun
Coolness of the moonlight lit blue sky
Pleasant whisperings of the dazzling stars
My mind keeps flying to distant horizons to capture your vision
Restlessly moving here and there
To see if you are hiding behind big city mansion
Village green fields, grazing animals, blossomed flowers of magnificent color
Various festivals, celebrations, merrymaking,
Fun activities and human created splendor
With limited mind, body and intellect trying to measure the limitless
Journey continues from flower to flower in search of nectar
Germantown, MD
Contents
Page 32
ପରି େୟ
ସୁସୋେନା ପଟ୍ଟନାୟକ
ମଁୁ ସେେି ସମାର ପରିେୟ୤ ସମାର ୋେି, େଳଣ, ଭାବ, ଭଙ୍ଗି , ସମାର ସାଙ୍ଗ ସାଥୀ, ସମାର ପୁଅ ଝିଅ, ସମାର ସବାମୀ ଓ
ପରି ବାର ସେୋ ସମାର ପରି େୟ୤ ସମାର ସମାଜ ଓ ସମାର ସଦଶ ସେୋ ସମାର ପରି େୟ୤ ଜନମ ସେୋ ପସର, ସମାର ପରି େୟ ଥି ସେ
ସମା'ର ପି ତା ମାତା- ମଁୁ ତାଙ୍କର ସନ୍ତାନ୤ ପୁଣି ସମାର ପରି େୟ ବଦଳିଗୋ - ମଁୁ କାୋର ପତ୍ନୀ, କାୋର ମା' ଏବଂ ମଁୁ କଅଣ କସର୤
ଅସନକ ପରି େୟ ଭି ତସର ରେିଥିବା "ମଁୁ" ସକସତସବସଳ ସକଉଁଠି ବିେୀନ ସୋଇଗୋ, ମଁୁ ଜାଣି ପାରି େିନି୤ ସଖାଜିକି ପାଇବାକୁ ମଧୟ ସମାର
ସମୟ ନାେଁ୤ ସମାର ବୟସ, ସମାର କମମ, ସମାର ଅଜିତ ଧନ, ସମାର ସଂପକମ ସମାର ପରି େୟ ବଦଳାଇସଦୋ୤ ପୁଣି ମଁୁ େଜିଗେି ସମାର
ନୂ ତନ ପରି େୟସର୤ ସମୟର ରଥ ୁରିବା ସଂସଗ ସଂସଗ ମଁୁ ଆସରାେଣ ବା ଅବତରଣ କରି ବାସର ୋଗି େି ଉନ୍ନତି ବା ଅବନତିର
ପାେେସର୤
ଉନ୍ନତିର ଆସରାେଣସର ମନ ଖୁସି ସେୋ, ନୂ ତନ ପରି େୟର ସବାଦ ଅନୁ ଭବ କୋ୤ ପୁଣି ଅବନତିର ଅବସରାେଣସର ଜୀବନ ପଥ
ପରି ବର୍ତ୍ମନ ସୋଇଗୋ୤ ମନ, ମନ ସୋଇ ରେିୋ ନାେଁ୤ ମନେିଏ ସଖାଜିସେୋ୤ ସୂଯ୍ର୍ୟ କିରଣସର ସଂପୂର୍ଣ୍ମ ଆସୋକିତ ପୃଥିବୀ ଧୂଆଁଳିଆ
ସୋଇଗୋ୤ ଆସୋକ ଭି ତସର ଅଂଧାରକୁ ପାଇେି ୤ ଅଂଧାରର ଅତଳତଳ ଗେବରସର ମନ କିଏ, ମଣି ଷ କିଏ, ସମାଜ କିଏ ? ନିଜକୁ ଅସନକ
ପ୍ରଶନ ପୋରି ୋପସର ଅଂଧାର େଁ ଭେ ୋସଗ୤ ଧୂଆଁର ପରଦା ଅପସରି ଗୋ ବା ନଗୋର ଫରକ୍ ପସଡନା୤ ପରି େୟ କାୋର ? ସମା'ର ତ
ଅସ୍ତିତବ ନାେଁ୤ ଜୀବନ ସଯମି ତି ଭାସି ଯାଉଛି ଏକ ଅମୁୋଁ ଖରସରାତା ନଦୀେିଏ ପରି୤ ରାସ୍ତା ପାଇସେ ସୁବିଧା ସେଜ ତାର ଗତି୤ ରାସ୍ତା ନ
ପାଇସେ ଏକ ଅମାନିଆ ମନ ପରି, କୁ ଆସଡ ଯାଉଛି କିଏ ଜାସଣ ? ଜାଣିବାର ବି ଆଗ୍ରେ ରସେନା୤ କିନ୍ତୁ ଯାୋ ୋେି ଛି, ସଯମି ତି ୋେି ଛି,
ତାକୁ ଅେକାଇବାର ଶକ୍ତି ନାେଁ୤ ପରି େୟ କଥା କିଏ ପୋସର ? ସାଂଗ, ସାଥି, ସମାଜ ଆଗସର ସମାର ପରି େୟ ପୁଣି ବଦଳି ଯାଏ, ସମାର
ଅବସ୍ଥା ଓ ଅବସ୍ଥି ତି ସନଇ୤
ନିଜସବ ପରି େୟ ନଥି ବା ଦିନ ସକସତ ଭି ନ୍ନ ଥି ୋ୤ ପ୍ରଜାପତିର ସଡଣା ସନଇ ମଁୁ ଉଡି ବୁ େୁ ଥି େି୤ ଖାଇବା, ପି ଇବା ଅବା ରେିବାର
େିନ୍ତା ନ ଥି ୋ୤ େିନ୍ତା କରୁ ଥି ୋ ଆଉ ଜସଣ୤ କାରଣ, ତୁ ସମ ତ ତୁ ମର ନୁ ସେଁ ସସସତସବସଳ ! ତୁ ସମ କାୋର ସଂପର୍ତ୍ି - କାୋର ନୟନ
ପି ତୁଳା - କାୋ ଜୀବନର ଏକ ବିଶିଷ୍ଟ ଅଂଶ - ତାୋର ପରି େୟ ବଦଳିଗୋ ତୁ ମର ଜନମପସର୤ କିଏ ସେୋ ପି ତା, କିଏ ସେୋ ମାତା, କିଏ
ସେୋ ଅଜା ଅବା ଆଈ୤
ଜୀବନର ରଥ ଏମି ତି ୁରିବୁେୁ ଥାଏ୤ ପରିବାର ସାଙ୍ଗ, ସାଥି ଓ ସମାଜ ତୁ ମକୁ ସକାସଳଇ ନିଏ - ସୃଷ୍ଟି େୁ ଏ ତୁ ମର ପରି େୟ୤
ତୁ ସମ କଣ ଓ କାୋପରି ସେବ, ତୁ ମ ଜାଣତ ବା ଅଜାଣତସର ତୁ ସମ ଗେିବାକୁ ୋଗି ବ ତୁ ମର ଜୀବନ୤ ସେଜ ସକବଳ ଭାବନା, ସେଜ
ସକବଳ େିନ୍ତା, ସେଜ ସକବଳ କେିବା୤ କରି ବା ବା କରି ସଦସଖଇବା ସମସ୍ତଙ୍କ ପାଇଁ ସେଜ ନୁ ସେଁ୤ ଭଗବାନ ସମସ୍ତଙ୍କୁ ଗେିନାୋନ୍ତି
ଏକାପରି୤ ୋେଁସେ ବି ନିଜର ଅନ୍ତମନିେିତ ଗୁଣର ପରି ପ୍ରକାଶ ସୋଇ ପାସରନା, ସକେି କରି ପାସରନା ନିଜକୁ ସୃଷ୍ଟି୤ ସୃଷ୍ଟି ତ ଜଣଙ୍କର କାମ୤
ପି ୋ ମନ ଏକ ସଫା ସି େେ ପରି୤ ଥସର ଜୀବନ ଆରଂଭ କରି େୁ ଏ, କିନ୍ତୁ ପରି େୟ ବଦଳୁ ଥାଏ ସମୟ ସେିତ୤ ମାେିରୁ ମାଠିଆ ଗେି
ସାରି ୋପସର, ମାଠିଆରୁ ମାେି ମି ସଳ ନାେଁ୤ ମାଠିଆର ରଂଗ, ରୂ ପ ବଦଳାଇ, ମାଠିଆର ପରି େୟକୁ ବଦଳାଇ େୁ ଏ, କିନ୍ତୁ ବଦସଳନା
ମାଠିଆର "ମଁୁ" ତବ୤
ପରି େୟ ଏକ ସେଜ ଶଦ୍ଦ କିନ୍ତୁ ଗଭୀର ତାର ଅଥମ୤ ମଁୁ ତଥାପି ସମା' ପରି େୟ ଗେିବା ବା ଭାଙ୍ଗି ବାର କାରଣ ସଖାଜୁ ଛି୤
Contents
Page 33
ରତ୍ନଗି ରି
ବିଜ୍ଞାନୀ ଦାସ
ରତ୍ନଗିରି ନଁା ୋ ଶୁଣିସେ ୋଗିବ ସସତକି
େୀରା, ସମାତି ଅଛି ଭରି ୤
ସବୌଦ୍ଧ ସଂସ୍କୃତିର ଐଶବଯମୟ ଭରା
ପାୋଡ, ବନାନୀ, ସସୌନ୍ଦଯମୟ ପସରା
ସସେିତ ରତ୍ନ, ଭବୟ ଇତିୋସ
ଓଡିଆ ଶି ଳ୍ପୀର ଗୁଣ ପରକାଶ
ଗଉରବ ଅଛି ପୁରି
ସସଇ ସଯ ରତ୍ନର ଗି ରି୤
ଗଁା ସମାର ପାସଶ, ଦୁ ଇ ଗଁା ପସର
ରାସ୍ତା ଅଧ ଣ୍ଟା ୋେି ୋେି ଗସେ
ନୂ ଆ ଅମଳର ଆନନ୍ଦ ମନାଇ
ଯାଉ ଆସମ ସବୁ ବଣସଭାଜି ପାଇଁ
ମୋକାସଳ ପୂଜା କରି
ଅରପି ସଖେଡି ଖି ରି
ସଛାେ ବପୁ ସି ନା ଶକତି ଅସନକ
ଧାଉଁ ଆସମ ସବୁ ନାେଁ େିନ୍ତା ଦକ
ସଡଇଁ ପଥରସର ଏପେୁ ସସପେ
ସଦଖାଉ ଗାରି ମା ମାରି ବାୋସଫାେ
ଗୁରୁଜସନ ଯାନ୍ତି ଡରି
ଅ େଣ େିନ୍ତା କରି ୤
ନଥି ୋ କୟାସମରା ନଥି ୋ ତ ଗାଡି
ମନ କୟାସମରାସର େିତ୍ରପେ ସତାଳି
ୋେୁ ୋେୁ ସଦଖୁ ପାୋଡର ସଶାଭା
ସସାରି ଷର ସେତ ବଡ ମନସୋଭା
ପ୍ରକୃ ତିର ରଙ୍ଗ ସୋରି
ସୁସଖ ମନ ଯାଏ ପୂରି୤
ଆଜି ରନିଗିରି ସୋଇଛି ପ୍ରଖୟାତ
ସାଜିଛି ଓଡିଶା ପଯମୟେନ ପୀଠ
ନିତି ସକସତ ସୋକ େଜାର େଜାର
ୋସେ ସକସତ ସକସତ ଗାଡି ଓ ମେର
ଯାଇଛି ସକସତ ବଦଳି
ସମୟର ଏ େେରୀ
ସେସେ କାେଁ ସସେି ରତ୍ନର ସମଖଳା
କାେଁ ସସେି ମୂର୍ତ୍ି କିଏ ତାକୁ ସନୋ
ସଖାସଜ ମଁୁ ସଂଗ୍ରୋଳୟ ସକାସଣସକାସଣ
ସମାର ପ୍ରିୟ ମୂର୍ତ୍ି ପାଇବା ସନ୍ଧାସନ
ନପାସର କିଛି ମଁୁ ଭାଳି
କିଏ ସନୋ ମୂର୍ତ୍ି େରି ?
ସରକାରଙ୍କର ନୂ ଆ ନୂ ଆ ନୀତି
କିଏ ବା ବୁ ଝିବ ତାଙ୍କ ରାଜନୀତି
ଏକପସେ େୁ ଏ ସୁରୋ ପ୍ରୋର
ଅନୟପସେ ୋସେ ସଯସତ ବୟଭି ୋର
ବଡବଡ େିନ୍ତା କରି
ଭେକଥା ଯାନ୍ତି ଭୁ େି ୤
ବିଶବ ଜାସଣ ଆଜି ରତ୍ନଗି ରି ନାମ
ସବୌଦ୍ଧ ସଂସ୍କୃତିର ଏ ପରମଧାମ
କିନ୍ତୁ େଜିଅଛି ସକସତ ରତ୍ନ ତାର
େଜିଛି ସ୍ମୃତିର ସନ୍ତକ ସମାେର
ମରସମ େୁ ଏ ମଁୁ ଝୁରି
କାେଁ ସମାର ରତ୍ନଗି ରି
Contents
Page 34
ଡକଟର ବିଜ୍ଞାନୀ ଦାସଙ୍କର ଠିକଣା - ଡଡଟନ୍, ଡମରୀଲାଣ୍ଡ. ଓସାକଁ ଉତ୍ସଗଗୀକୃ ତ ତାଙ୍କର କବିତା ପଁସ୍ତକ
"ସଂପକଗର ଡସତଁ ' ଓଡିଶାର ବିଦୟାପଁରୀ ପ୍ରକାଶନୀ ଦବାରା ଗତ ମାସଡର ପ୍ରକାଶିତ ଡ ାଇଛି ୤ ଗତବର୍ଗ ତାଙ୍କର
ଗଳ୍ପ ସଂକଳନ "ର ସୟ' ପ୍ରକାଶିତ ଡ ାଇଥି ଲା୤ ତାଙ୍କଁ ଡୋଗାଡୋଗ କରି ବାର ଇଡମଲ୍ ଡ ଲା –
[email protected]
Contents
Page 35
Profile
Adopt your passion as hobby –
Bhanu Pratap Jena
Professor Bhanu Pratap Jena is currently working as Director, NanoBioScience Institute, Wayne State
University in Detroit, MI.
Born in Jajpur, Odisha, India on November 1, 1955 to the most loving parents Manju Prava and Prafulla
Kumar Jena, his early childhood was spent in remote villages of Handapa, Khuntini in Odisha. His
grandfather Braja Kishore Jena, practiced medicine. His schooling from the 1st through the 7th grade was
in Dr. Antonio Da Silva High School, in Dadar, Bombay, and High School (Senior Cambridge) was at St.
John’s High School in Varanasi.
In 1979 he married Minakhi Behura, who is the best friend one could ever have, and the most loving and
affectionate mother to their son Siddhartha.
In 1982, he received Research Fellowship from Iowa State University and the University of California
Berkeley, to pursue graduate program leading to a doctorate degree with specialization in cellular and
molecular endocrinology. He attended and graduated with a Ph.D. degree from Iowa State University in
1988.
After Post Doctoral training at Yale University, in 1995 he joined Yale University School of Medicine as an
Assistant Professor, and Full Member of the Yale Cancer Center, and Member of the Bioengineering
Program. In the fall of 1996, he and his research group discovered a new cellular structure the
‘porosome’ - universal secretory portal in cells, now in medical text books. All secretory functions such as
neurotransmitter release from nerve endings, or glucose-stimulated insulin secretion from beta cells of
the endocrine pancreas, digestive enzyme release from acinar cells of the exocrine pancreas to digest
food following a meal, or the release of histamines from mast cells in response to allergens, all occur
through the porosome complex embedded in the plasma membrane of cells. In October of 2000, he
moved to Wayne State University School of Medicine as Professor and founding Director of the
NanoCellBiology Institute. Through all these years, he has been very fortunate to have the opportunity
to work with dedicated and enthusiastic students, who have and continue to make my journey through
science greatly rewarding and full of excitement.
Though he thinks his pure joy of learning how Nature works gives him more happiness than any reward,
his award list is really long. The following are some of the formal selected awards/recognitions he has
received over the years:
Contents
Page 36
1976
1978
1978
1988
1988
1992 & 1993
1995 & 1996
2002
2002
2002
2002
2002
2002
2002
2003
National Merit Scholarship Awarded by the Government of India.
Utkal University Prasant Ku. Memorial Prize for outstanding scholastic achievement
Utkal University Scholastic Merit Gold Medal
Iowa State University Humanitarian Award
Iowa State University Research Excellence Award
Twice recipient of the Swebelius Cancer Research Award
Twice recipient of the OHSE Award, Yale University
Wise & Hellen Burroughs Foundation Lecture
Doctor Honoris Causa, Vasile Goldis University, Romania
Distinguished Visiting Professor, Vasile Goldis University, Romania
Elected Foreign Member, Korean Academy of Science and Technology
Honorary Doctor of Philosophy, Pusan National University, Korea.
Distinguished Visiting Professor, Pusan National University, Korea.
Hallim Award, Korean Academy of Science and Technology, jointly with Professor Ahmed H.
Zewail (Nobel Laureate in Chemistry, 1999).
Doctor Honoris Causa, “Iuliu Hatieganu” University of Medicine & Pharmacy, Romania.
2007
2007
2009
Honorary Doctorate, 'Babes-Bolyai' University, Romania, May 26, 2003, jointly with Professors
George E. Palade (Nobel Laureate in Physiology or Medicine 1974), and Günter Blobel (Nobel
Laureate in Physiology or Medicine, 1999).
Distinguished Visiting Professor, 'Babes-Bolyai' University, Romania, May 26, 2003.
Honorary Doctorate, Institute of Physiology, Georgian Academy of Sciences, Georgia
Distinguished Professor, Wayne State University
George E. Palade University Professor, Wayne State University
Sir Aaron Klug Award
Honorary Doctorate in Medicine, ‘Carol Davila' University, Bucharest, Romania
George E. Palade Award & Medal, Wayne State University School of Medicine.
Felicitation & Award, Maharashtra Association for Cultivation of Science, Pune, India
Distinguished Visiting Professor, Agharkar Research Institute, Govt. of India, Pune, India
Elected Foreign Member National Academy of Medical Sciences, Romania
G. E. Palade Distinction Medal for excellence in medicine, ‘Carol Davila' University, Bucharest,
Romania
Elected to the Academy of Scholars, Wayne State University
American Society of Animal Science, ‘Basic Biological Science Award’
Ranbaxy Basic Research in Medical Sciences Award
2011
AAAS Fellow
2012
2014
2015
Foreign Member Georgian National Academy of Science
Honorary Professor, University of Medicine & Pharmacy of Tirgu Mures, Romania
Society for Experimental Biology and Medicine “2015 Distinguished Scientist Award”
2003
2003
2003
2004
2004
2005
2005
2005
2006
2006
2006
2006
Contents
Page 37
When he is not working, he loves to read and spend time with plants in the garden.
He helps promote research and education world-wide. He has been involved in curriculum development
from high school through college. He has developed NanoCellBiology institutes in the US, South Korea,
Republic of Georgia, and Romania. He has been trying for nearly 15 years and yet to be realized, a Nano
Medicine Institute in Odisha, focused on infectious disease and vaccine development.
At home he and his family converse only in Oriya. He says “Succeed by hard work and determination,
making your work your passion and hobby, you will be surprised, how little then it will take to bring the
Odia culture on world stage.”
On how to improve the Odia community in North America, he says “Make the society a compassionate,
supportive, and cultural society, and nothing more.”
His suggestion for the second generations who want to make their career in Academic - “Academics is a
fun profession, where you are rewarded and paid to think, and to stay a child exploring Nature with all
the excitement and curiosity. So if you are passionate about a certain field of science or the arts, adopt it
as your hobby.”
His advice to youths, “Especially to the young generation, although I feel one among them too: Focus,
determination, patience, and hard work will take you where you want to be.”
Dr. Jena can be contacted :
Bhanu P. Jena, Ph.D., D.Sc., (dr. h.c. mult.)
George E. Palade University Professor
Distinguished Professor
Dept. of Physiology, School of Medicine
Dept. of Physics & Astronomy, College of Arts & Sciences
Dept. of Chem. Eng. & Material Sciences, College of Engineering
Wayne State University
Director, NanoBioScience Institute
540 E. Canfield
5245 Gordon Scott Hall
Detroit, MI 48201-1928
Office: 313-577-1532
Fax: 313-993-4177
E-mail: [email protected]
Web: http://www.med.wayne.edu/physiology/facultyprofile/jena/index.htm
Contents
Page 38
Blogs
Anya’s Blogs
Anya Rath is a second generation Indian who was born and brought up in Michigan. She is a
graduate from Michigan State University with a bachelor of arts in journalism and a
concentration in international reporting. Rath was the managing editor of The State News,
MSU's college paper. During her time as an executive editor, the paper won the 2014 national
Best All-Around Daily Newspaper from the Society of Professional Journalists. The paper also
won the 2014 Online Pacemaker award from the Associated College Press. Rath is currently
interning at the Grand Rapids Press.
MLK has directly affected all minority groups, even decades
after his death
When I was a little girl, I wanted nothing more than to just fit in.
As one of the only Indian students in my school, which was comprised mostly of white students, I stuck
out like a sore thumb.
My brown skin and geeky glasses, which I started wearing as early as second grade, caused me to be
exceedingly self-conscious of my appearance. While the glasses were embarrassing in their own right,
my skin color was what gave me the most anxiety.
I fretted that not looking the same as my white classmates had an impact on my worth and my ability to
succeed. My crippling shyness was only reinforced by my constant insecurities. I would be afraid to talk
to new people because I was afraid of immediate judgment.
Contents
Page 39
However, as I grew older and learned to love and appreciate my culture and heritage, the color of my
skin became a factor that barely affected my confidence. Instead of being a quiet grievance, it is a solid
part of my identity.
But the thing is, my childish concerns could have been a harsh and ugly reality for me. These ideas that
we would be shocked by now were something black citizens of the U.S. had to regularly battle due to
racial segregation and discrimination.
Martin Luther King Jr. Day is one that speaks to people from all minority backgrounds because he is one
of the reasons why having basic fundamental rights and being legally treated with equality and respect
is not something that is contingent on the hue of your skin.
Martin Luther King Jr. is one of the reasons I have the luxury of not being ashamed or regretful for my
skin tone. My brown skin could have easily been the obvious difference between the type of education I
received. It could have had the potential to affect my career.
But racism is not a dead concept and we are certainly not a perfect society. I know all too well that I
could still be the subject of blatant discrimination, and the stories that are reported in the media make
that apparent. Whether we’re talking about police brutality against blacks or other minorities, or
witnessing the backlash for a Miss America with Indian heritage, these are all signs of a constant
undercurrent of racism.
As a country, we made a step in the right direction by creating legal equality. I can only hope going
forward that racism and prejudice will begin to also become a thing of the past so I can tell another shy
little brown girl that all she has to worry about is holding out for contact lenses.
Coca-Cola Super Bowl ad is not ‘Un-American’
What does it mean to be American? Does it just mean pale, white skin? The hard-clipped edges of words
in the English language? Hamburgers and french fries?
Those all are undeniable parts of the American identity. But to those who believe that’s where it ends, I
have news for you.
You’re dead wrong.
During this year’s Super Bowl, Coca-Cola released an advertisement featuring the patriotic song
“America the Beautiful.”
The song begins with familiar English words, but then smoothly transitions into translations of the song
in other languages, including Spanish, Tagalog, Mandarin, Hindi, Hebrew, Keres, Senegalese-French and
Arabic.
Unfortunately, I was working the night of the Super Bowl and didn’t see it air, so my first encounter with
the advertisement was when I saw the backlash on social media.
Within hours of the Super Bowl, there were compilations of hateful and racist comments popping up on
various social media sites. Especially on Twitter.
Contents
Page 40
One user said: “I am no longer drinking Coke because they used terrorists in their commercials.
#TeamPepsi”
Another user said: “Big mistake Coca-Cola, big mistake #speakamerican”
In fact, #SpeakAmerican began trending on Twitter.
Maybe these racists who have an issue with the idea of a diverse America would have been better off
saying #SpeakEnglish. Because as far as I am aware, American is not a defined language.
I’ve always liked the idea of America being more of a tossed salad than a melting pot. It’s not a country
where people effortlessly melt into what is considered the norm.
It’s a country that takes pride and pleasure in the components that make it different. Each lettuce,
tomato and olive helps to complete the dish.
America from the very beginning has been defined by a constant flow of people from diverse
backgrounds.
Sushi, tacos, yoga and karaoke are not ideas that magically fell out of the sky into waiting hands. They
came buried in the minds of immigrants, across oceans and borders. They came riding on the concept
that America is a country with open arms, a country willing to accept new things.
My parents immigrated to the U.S. before I was born. I was actually born in Michigan — a fact that
sometimes surprises people for some reason.
I grew up in a household that primarily spoke Oriya, an Indian dialect. I ate chicken nuggets for lunch,
but curry for dinner. I could go from praying in a Hindu temple to shopping for my prom dress.
I grew up embracing a blend of two cultures — Indian and American — and that doesn’t make me any
less American than anyone else in this country. It has made me someone who has seen both sides of the
border, cutting between the stereotypical all-American and a foreigner.
If this country is willing to accept superficial things from different cultures, it should be ready to accept
the whole culture full-heartedly. This includes customs, tradition and the language that explains the core
of its culture. The identities that shadow food and pastimes cannot and should not be forgotten.
So, yes. Speak American. Speak the languages of the many backgrounds that make up what America
truly is and embrace them.
Don’t let ignorance and fear of the unknown dictate the way you should treat people from other
backgrounds — they’re your neighbors and partners.
Miss… America?
Last night my Facebook newsfeed blew up — Miss America 2014, Nina Davuluri, was crowned as the
new face of American women. All of my social media erupted with gleeful responses to the news that
the first Indian American had been given the honor.
Contents
Page 41
I’m of Indian descent, so despite the fact I was not aware that Davuluri, previously Miss New York, was
even in the running, the news excited me. It’s pretty rare to see an Indian woman make such a splash in
the media.
However, the enthusiastic posts on my newsfeed quickly turned into fierce anger in response to
numerous tweets and posts about how Davuluri didn’t deserve to be Miss America. The reason? The
color of her skin.
Websites Buzzfeed and Jezebel compiled the most hateful tweets that surfaced last night.
“And the Arab wins Miss America. Classic,” one tweet said.
“It’s called Miss America. Get outta here New York you look like a terrorist. #bye #americanforamerica,”
another tweet blasted.
Davuluri, 24, was born and raised in the U.S., according to her Miss New York biography.
Honestly, this does nothing but break my heart. Davuluri and I share the same ethnic background and
both of us grew up in the U.S.
The fact that so many racists still are rampantly spewing their thoughts via social media makes me fear
the potential for my own future. I want my own face to be prominent in news media someday. Is the
color of my skin going to hinder my ability to become a successful journalist?
America is constantly touted to be a country that is built on a foundation of continued immigrant
success. There are many different faces, races and religions that help the country to thrive.
How can any American citizen categorize an individual as foreign solely based on their ethnic
background? None of us, aside from those of Native American descent, come from purely American
roots.
My only hope is that tolerance and acceptance spread faster than the poisonous grips of racism so
evident in the posts. Words spoken behind the veil of a computer or a smartphone do not cease to be
any less hateful than those said in person.
Davuluri’s victory delivered conflicting messages to young Indian women across the country. Her win
told them their successes within America do not have to be confined to stereotypical perceptions of
race, but in the same breath it showed a strong undercurrent of racism could stand in their way.
Contents
Page 42
Utkarsa Special
Translation is a critical area of literature. Though Odia literature is pretty rich, we are not yet
successful to make our literature visible in global literature arena. Probably that is one of the
major reason our writers Fakir Mohan Senapati, Gopinath Mohanty, Sachi Routray could not
get a Nobel prize in literature. Our education policy needs to be changed. Translation should
be encouraged. In under graduation and post graduation level, translation should be a part of
curriculum. Sahitya Academy and other Government and Private sectors should fund
translation projects regularly. Translation should be a profession. Culture department should
appoint translators and each good book should be translated within publication of one year.
Unless our literature is translated, our second generation cannot correlate with our literature
and heritage.
To encourage translation and make our second generation connected with our rich literature,
Utkarsa has made special effort to bring some of Odisha’s world class writers in this special
section. These stories represent over 100 years of Odisha’s social life, culture and heritage.
Hope, readers would appreciate this effort.
Utkarsa Editorial
Contents
Page 43
Rebati
Fakir Mohan Senapati
Translated by K K Mohapatra
Rebati! Rebi! You fire, you ashes!'
Patapur — a sleepy little village in Hariharpur subdivision in the district of Cuttack. At one end
stood Shyambandhu Mohanty's house: two rows of rooms, front and back, with an inner
courtyard centring around a well, and a shed for husking rice with a vegetable patch behind the
house and a garden in front. It was in the outer room that visitors and farmers wanting to pay
their taxes congregated and made themselves comfortable. Shyambandhu Mohanty, the
zamindar's accountant, was responsible for collecting taxes. His salary was two rupees a month,
but he could earn a little more by adjusting rent receipts and land records; all told, he made at
least four rupees. With this he could make ends meet. And not just barely; no, to tell the truth,
he was quite comfortable. His family never complained of wanting for anything. They had all
they needed: two drumstick trees in the backyard, and a patch of land always full of greens and
vegetables; two cows, which never went dry at the same time, so there was always a little curd
and milk in the pails. Mohanty's old mother made fuel cakes from cow dung and husks, so they
rarely had to buy firewood. The zamindar had given him three and a half acres of rent-free land
to cultivate, and it produced just about enough to meet their needs.
Shyambandhu was a straightforward person, and the tenants respected, even liked, him. He
went from door to door cajoling and coaxing them to pay their taxes; he never demanded a
paisa extra from anyone. On his own initiative and without their asking him to, he would slip
four-finger-wide palmleaf receipts into the underside thatch of their houses. He never let the
zamindar's muscleman cast his shadow over the village; he'd pump the fellow's palm, fondle his
chin and tuck two paise into the folds of his dhoti to buy a plug of tobacco and see him off.
In his own home, Shyambandhu had four stomachs to fill his own, his wife's, his old mother's
and his ten-year-old daughter's. The daughter's name was Rebati. In the evenings
Shyambandhu would sit on his verandah and sing Krupasindhu Badan and other prayer songs;
at times he would light an oil lamp, place it on a wooden stand and read aloud passages from
the Bhagavat. Rebati always sat next to him, listening with rapt attention; soon she had learnt a
few by heart. Her melodious voice lent the songs more appeal, and people would stop by to
listen to her. There was one hymn which gave Shyambandhu the greatest joy, and every
evening he would unfailingly ask Rebati to sing it:
Whither shall I take my prayers, Lord,
If thou turnest a blind eye?
Surely shall I be finished.
Be it salvation or damnation,
Contents
Page 44
To thee this life a dedication,
To thee, this soul laden.
Empty, empty, all the three worlds
When I am without thee.
True refreshment when I thirst
Only thy love can be.
Two years previously, in the course of his visit to the countryside, the deputy inspector of
schools had happened to spend a night at Patapur. At the request of the village elders he had
written to the inspector of schools, Orissa Division, and an upper primary school had been
established in the village. The government paid the teacher's salary of four rupees a month, to
which was added each student's contribution of an anna.
The teacher, Basudev, a young man of twenty, had attended the teachers training course at
Cuttack Normal School. Urbane and polite, he never took on superior airs. He had been
orphaned at an early age and had been brought up by his uncle. True to his name, he was a fine
human being. Charming and handsome — the indelible mark of a bottle's mouth on his
forehead applied by his mother to treat diphtheria during childhood enhanced rather than
marred his looks. He seemed to have been sculpted out of a single block.
From the time he arrived in the village, Shyambandhu had taken a fancy to him: they both
belonged to the same caste.
Occasionally, on a full moon day or a Thursday, when cakes and savouries were made at home,
Shyambandhu would call at the school: `Son, Basu, come to our place this evening; your auntie
has invited you.' A bond of affection had naturally developed between them after these visits.
Even Rebati's mother, filled with concern, would sometimes exclaim: Àh, the poor little
orphan! What does he eat, who looks after his meals?' As the visits became regular, with Basu
dropping in practically every evening, Rebati would wait at the door to announce his arrival. As
soon as she spotted him at a distance she would call out to her father, `Here comes Basubhai,
here he comes!' Then she would sit beside him and sing all the prayer songs she knew. To
Basu's ears, the songs were fresh and ever new.
One day, as they chatted about this and that, Shyambandhu learnt from Basu that there was a
school at Cuttack where girls could study and also learn crafts; instantly, the desire to give
Rebati an education welled up in his heart. When he confided this to Basu, the young teacher,
who had already begun to look upon him as a father, said: Ì was about to suggest that myself.'
Rebati listened to the conversation and rushed inside. Ì'm going to study,' she announced
excitedly to her mother and grandmother. Ì'm going to learn to read.'
Her mother smiled. `Go ahead,' she said, but her grandmother's reaction was sharp: `What
good will it do you? How does book-learning help a girl? It's enough to know how to cook, bake,
churn butter and decorate walls with rice-paste.'
Contents
Page 45
That night, when Shyambandhu sat down to dinner on a low wooden stool with Rebati beside
him, the old lady sat opposite them, restive and itching to speak her mind: `Serve him a little
more rice, daughter-in-law, give him a second helping of dal and a pinch of salt,' and so on.
Then she brought up the topic: `Shyam, is Rebi going to study? Why should she study, son?
What good is that for a girl?'
`Never mind, Ma,' said Shyambandhu. `Let her study if she wants to. Haven't you heard that
Jhankar Pattanaik's daughters can read the Bhagavat and Vaidehisa Vilas?'
Rebati was furious at her grandmother. `You silly old fool!' she snorted. Turning to her father,
she begged him, `Father, I do want to study.'
Ànd so you will,' said Shyambandhu.
The matter was left there.
The following afternoon Basu brought Rebati a copy of Sitanath Babu's First Lessons. She was so
overjoyed that she leafed through the book from cover to cover. The pictures of elephants,
houses and cows thrilled her no end. Kings could be happy to own elephants and horses, others
perhaps derived joy from riding them, but for Rebati it was enough merely to gaze at their
pictures. She could hardly wait to show them to her mother and grandmother.
The grandmother did not hide her irritation. `Take that silly thing away from me,' she shouted.
`Silly you!' the girl retorted.
The auspicious day of Sri Panchami dawned. Rebati took an early bath, put on new clothes and
flitted in and out of the house, waiting impatiently for Basu. The usual pomp associated with
this occasion for beginning learning was played down out of fear of the grandmother. Six hours
into the morning Basu arrived and taught her the alphabet: a, aa, e, ee, u, oo . . .
The lessons went on. Basu never missed a day. Over the next two years Rebati studied a great
deal. All the rhymes of Madhu Rao were on the tip of her tongue and she could reel them off
without faltering.
At dinner one night, Shyambandhu said to his mother, as if to round off a discussion they had
been having, `Well, Ma, what do you think?'
`Nothing could be better,' said the old lady. `But are you certain what his caste is?'
`That's what I was trying to find out. He may be poor but he comes from a good family. And he's
a pucca Karan to boot.'
`Good. Caste counts more than wealth. But will he agree to live with us?'
Contents
Page 46
`Why not? After all, his only relatives are his uncle and aunt. He probably won't insist on living
with them.'
What Rebati made of all this she alone knew, but a change certainly came over her. She
became noticeably coy with Basu. In the evening she would hang around the front door, as
though waiting for someone, which riled her grandmother no end, but when Basu arrived, she
would hide inside the house. It took Basu quite an effort before she would come out for her
studies. Blushing and smiling for no apparent reason, she would refuse to read her lessons
aloud and would answer him in monosyllables. As soon as the day's lesson was done she would
rush inside, struggling to muffle her giggles.
One Sri Panchami followed another, and two years passed. Providence's designs are strange
and inscrutable; no two days are alike. One fine Phalgun day, like a bolt out of the blue, a
cholera epidemic struck.
Early in the morning the news of Shyambandhu coming down with cholera spread through the
village. As always, the immediate response was to bolt the doors and windows and keep out of
the path of the demonic deity, as though the evil old hag was out with her basket and broom
sweeping up heads.
Shyambandhu's wife and mother were soon driven out of their minds by worry and anxiety.
Rebati ran in and out of the house, crying for help. When the news reached Basu, he hurried
from the school and, without fear for his own life, sat at the bedside, massaging
Shyambandhu's hands and legs and forcing drops of water between his parched lips.
Three hours passed.
Suddenly, Shyambandhu looked up at Basu and stammered: `Take care of my family, I leave
them to you . . .'
Basu could not hold back his tears.
Shyambandhu passed away that evening.
The women wailed. Rebati rolled on the floor.
How could the two grief-stricken women and the inexperienced Basu make arrangements for
cremation? Bana Sethi, the village washerman, a veteran of fifty or sixty cremations, saved the
day turning up with a towel wrapped around his waist and an axe resting on his shoulder. Bana
was rather philosophical about it: cholera or no cholera, if your time's up you've got to go,
whether today or tomorrow, but why miss out on a set of new clothes? Shyambandhu's was
the only Karan family in the village, and help was neither expected nor forthcoming; the two
women and Basudev had to carry the body to the cremation ground and perform the last rites.
Contents
Page 47
The morning star was shining in the eastern sky by the time they were done. No sooner had
they got home than Rebati's mother came down with cholera. By midday the news of her death
was all over the village.
Providence works in mysterious ways — while one man is blessed with a regal umbrella atop his
palanquin, another receives lashes on his already fettered hands. Within three months of
Shyambandhu's demise, the zamindar expropriated Shyambandhu's cows — apparently he had
not deposited the last tax collection. This was hard to believe, however. Shyambandhu had
always regarded depositing the money as sacred and would not rest in peace until every paise
of the collection was in the zamindar's treasury. The truth was that for a long time the zamindar
had had his eyes on the cows. He also took back the three and a half acres he had given
Shyambandhu. There was no work for the farm-hand, and he left on the full moon day of Dola
festival. The team of bullocks had already been sold off for seventeen and a half rupees; with
what remained of the sum after the funeral expenses, the grandmother and Rebati hung on for
a month. In the month following they had begun to pawn household items — a brass bowl one
day, a plate the next.
Basu visited them every evening and stayed with them until bedtime. He offered them money,
but they would not touch it. Once or twice he pressed some on them, but the coins lay idle on
the shelf. He had no choice but to accept the couple of paise the old woman produced every
eight or ten days to buy them provisions. The house was falling apart, the straw roof had worn
thin, but try as he might Basu couldn't get it re-thatched; the bales of hay he bought with two
rupees of his own money rotted in the backyard.
The grandmother no longer cried day and night; she now confined her wailing to the evenings.
But she put so much of herself into it that it left her slumped in a heap on the floor for the
night. Rebati, convulsing in sobs, would lie down next to her. The old woman's vision had
declined and she had a wild look about her. She no longer cried as much and took to heaping
curses and abuse on Rebati: the wretched girl was at the root of all her misery and misfortune;
her education had caused it all — first her son had died, then her daughter-in-law; the bullocks
had been sold off; the farm-hand had left; the cows had been taken back by the zamindar; and
now her eyes had gone bad. Rebati was the evil-eye, the hell-devil, the ill omen.
The moment the curses started coming thick and fast, Rebati would shrink away from her
grandmother and hide in a corner of the house or the backyard, tears streaming down her
cheeks.
The grandmother held Basu equally to blame. Were it not for his eagerness to teach the girl,
she could not possibly have gone and taught herself! But the grandmother could not take Basu
to task because she couldn't do without him. The zamindar kept seeking flimsy clarifications,
and almost every second day a messenger came asking for this account or that. Basu alone
could fish them out from the clutter of papers Shyambandhu had left behind. Yet, behind Basu's
back, the old woman sometimes gave vent to her feelings.
Contents
Page 48
Rebati presence no longer filled the house; gone were the days when she would be heard
mourning loudly. Nobody heard her voice, nobody saw her out of doors. Her large brooding
eyes, awash with silent tears, looked like blue lilies set in water. Her heart and mind broken,
day and night were alike to her. The sun brought her no light, the night no darkness; the world
was an aching void. The thoughts of her parents overwhelmed her, their faces hung before her
glazed eyes. She could not bring herself to believe that they were truly dead and gone. Hunger
no longer stirred her stomach; slumber no longer closed her eyes. She went through the
pretence of eating only out of fear of her grandmother; thin and emaciated, her skin hung loose
on her bones, and she could barely raise herself off the floor where she lay day and night. The
only time she revived a little was when Basu visited them. She would sit up and fasten her gaze
on him, lowering her eyes with a sigh when their glances met. But the next moment she'd
feverishly stare at him again. For those brief hours of the day when he was around, Basu
completely possessed her eyes, her mind and her heart.
Roughly five months had passed. On a hot Jaistha Saturday afternoon, Basu knocked on their
door. Never before had he ever called at such an unusual hour. The old woman was full of
foreboding as she opened the door.
`Grandma,' said Basu. `The deputy inspector of schools will camp at the Hariharpur police
station and be giving students an oral test. All the schools have been informed; I received the
order today. Tomorrow morning I'll have to start off and may be away for five days.'
Listening to the conversation from behind the door, Rebati felt her legs give way. She could
barely hold on to the door tightly enough to stop herself from falling.
Basu bought them enough rice, oil, salt and vegetables for five days, and bade them good bye.
`Son,' said the old woman with a sigh. `Don't walk about in the sun for long. Take care of
yourself; eat your meals on time.'
Rebati could not take her eyes off him. Before, she would look away when their eyes met, but
today she stared unblinkingly, unabashedly into his eyes. A change seemed to have come over
Basu too. For a long time he had contented himself with stolen glances, but today he did not
turn away. They stared deeply into each other's eyes.
Evening came; darkness filled the house and covered the earth. Rebati remained rooted to the
ground until her grandmother's piercing screams jolted her to her senses. Basu had left a long
time before.
Rebati counted the days.
On the sixth morning she even rushed a couple of times to the front door, a place she had
shunned since her parents' death. Six hours had passed when the schoolboys arrived back from
Contents
Page 49
Hariharpur, bringing the news of Basu's death. He had succumbed to cholera under the big
banyan tree on the outskirts of Gopalpur on his return journey. The village folks mourned; the
women and children shed copious tears. `What a handsome fellow!' said one. `So polite,' said
another. `Never hurt a fly,' remarked yet another.
The grandmother cried so much that she choked. `Poor boy!' she repeated between sobs. `You
only brought it on yourself!' The implication was that it was because of his foolishness in
wanting to teach Rebati that he had perished in his prime.
Rebati sank to the floor and lay there without a whine or a whimper.
The grandmother woke up the following morning without Rebati beside her and shouted out in
anger: `Rebati! Rebi! You fire, you ashes!' She worked herself into a froth, and the passers-by
heard these terrible words repeated all morning long.
Half-blind and angry, she groped her way through the entire house. When she finally found the
girl, a shock awaited her. Rebati, burning with fever, was unconscious. Worry and fear gnawed
at the old woman's heart. She couldn't decide what to do, who to turn to for help. Exasperated,
out of breath, and without hope, she tartly commented: `What medicine can there be for an
illness of one's own making!' Rebati had brought the fever on herself by daring to study.
One, two, three, four, five days passed. Rebati remained glued to the ground, her eyes and lips
shut. On the sixth morning she let out a whimper or two. The old woman ran her hand over the
girl's body. It was cool to the touch; perhaps the fever had left. She called out to her, and Rebati
mumbled a reply, then asked for water, stared wildly around and broke into incoherent babble.
One quick look and even a country doctor could have quoted from his text: `Thirst, fever,
delirium; of imminent collapse these are the symptoms.' But the poor grandmother was
overcome with a sense of relief. The fever had left, the girl was able to open her eyes and speak
two words to ask for water. A little gruel was all she needed to regain her strength and get back
on her feet.
`Don't get up,' the grandmother said. `Stay where you are. I'm going to cook you a bit of food.'
She left the room and rummaged in vain among the earthen pots for a handful of rice. Her head
became clouded with despair and she sat down with a sigh. If only her eyesight had been better
she would have realized that the provisions meant for five days had already lasted for ten.
But there was a flicker of hope in her yet. She picked up the only object of value left in the
house — an old brass bowl with a hole in the bottom — and set out for Hari Sa's store. The socalled store was in Hari's residence, in the middle of the village, and he kept a paltry stock of
rice, salt, cereals and oil to sell to travel-lers passing by.
Hari saw the old woman with the bowl. He understood immediately, but let her plead first. He
then took the bowl and examined it minutely, turning it from side to side. `There's no rice,' he
said, handing it back. `Who's going to give you anything for a bowl like this?' Of course he had
Contents
Page 50
both the rice and the inclination to sell it, but getting the brass bowl for a song was utmost in
his mind. The grandmother staggered at his words, as though lightning had hit her. What would
she do if she didn't get any rice, what would she cook for Rebati, how would the girl fight her
weakness? She sat there for hours, depressed and silent, still as a log, casting imploring glances
at the shopkeeper.
The day wore on. Realising she had left the sick girl alone for a long time, fear stirred her old
heart. `Time I got back home,' she mumbled to herself, picking up the bowl. `God knows how
that girl of mine is doing.'
`Never mind,' said Hari grudgingly. `Give me the bowl. Let's see if I can scrape up a little
something for you.' He gave her four measures of rice, half a measure of cereals and a handful
of salt. The old woman hobbled back home, resting every four steps or so to catch her breath.
She hadn't even washed her face since morning, and her mind was in a whirl.
She reached home hoping that Rebati was better. She thought she'd ask the girl to draw water
from the well. The rice wouldn't take long to cook. She called out to Rebati once, twice, three
times, but got no response. Then she yelled at the top of her voice: `Rebati! Rebi! You fire, you
ashes!'
By now Rebati was sinking fast. Her body, already feeble from spasms of excruciating pain, had
turned ice-cold. Her thirst was so terrible that she felt as if her tongue was being sucked back
into her throat. She found the room unbearably hot and crawled out to the inner courtyard.
Even that brought no relief. She rolled out to the verandah at the back and propped herself up
against the wall.
Dusk had fallen and a gentle breeze was blowing. A bunch of bananas hung from the plant
which her father had planted before his death. The guava her mother had planted two years
ago had grown to a goodly height and was covered with blossoms. Rebati remembered how she
had drawn water from the well in a small jug and tended the sapling. It brought back a rush of
memories of her mother. Her head was in a whirl, her thoughts jumbled, but the image of her
mother clung to her.
Night slowly descended. Darkness stole out from the boughs of the trees and shrouded the
garden. Rebati tilted her head back and watched the sky. The lone evening star was gleaming
brightly. She could not take her eyes off it; and it grew and grew and grew, bigger and brighter;
it invaded the whole sky, and behold! Her loving mother sat in the heart of it, her face glowing
with love and kindness, her arms extended towards Rebati in invitation. Rebati was
overwhelmed. Two shafts of light pierced her eyes and moved down to her heart. Her
breathing, heavy and laboured, rose and fell, breaking the stillness of the night. She wheezed,
choked and cried out to her mother twice. Then there was silence.
The grandmother crawled around the house, going from the living room to the courtyard to the
rice-husking shed, but Rebati was nowhere to be found. Then it occurred to the old woman that
Contents
Page 51
with the fever abating the girl might be taking a stroll in the garden at the back. `Rebati!' she
screamed. `Rebi! You fire, you ashes!'
She crawled out to the narrow verandah, which was only one hand wide and two high, and
bumped into the girl. `Death to you!' she cried. `Sitting here, are you?' She wanted to shake her
up, but she could sense something was amiss.
She ran her hand over the length of the girl's body and then held a finger close to her nostrils.
The night's silence was rent by her eerie wail. Two bodies fell from the verandah and thudded
to the ground.
That was the end of Shyambandhu Mohanty's family.
The last words which had emanated from his house were: `Rebati! Rebi! You fire, you ashes!'
Contents
Page 52
An analysis of ‘Rebati’ by Brundaban Panigrahy, IA
Fakir Mohan Senapati (1843-1918) wrote the short story,” Rebati” in 1898. It is regarded as the first
modern Odia short story. The story depicts true village life in costal Odisha of the time. Rebati, her
father, Shyamabandhu, her mother and grandmother lived in a four-room house. Basudev (Basu), a
compassionate young teacher became a family friend. Rebati, a 10-year-old girl, with a yearning for
education, is the main character in the story. Shyamabandhu, an honest and kind person, worked for the
landlord and had a modest income. The landlord had provided him with enough land, cows and a farmhand. He and Basu were very supportive of Rebati’s education. However, the conservative and
superstitious grandmother was unsympathetic for girls’ education. She was convinced that Rebati’s
education would bring bad luck to the family. Shyamabandhu did not share his mother’s sentiments.
Basu’s visits to Shyamabandu’s family became frequent.He was treated like a son. Beginning with
alphabets and recital of poems, Rebati took many lessons from Basu. Rebati would eagerly wait for him
at the door and was overjoyed at his coming.
There was a conversation in the family about Rebati’s marriage with Basu. Rebati overheard; she only
knew what was going on in her mind. She would eagerly wait for Basu at the door every evening and
once he arrived, she would shy away and hide from him. She would blush and smile and answer him in
monosyllabic expressions. Time passed.
Tragedy struck the family, one after another. Shyamabandhu came down with cholera and died. The
family was devastated. Soon after his cremation rites were performed, Rebati’s mother got sick with
cholera and died. The landlord soon took away the land and the cows. The farm-hand left as there was
no work. The grandmother and Rebati managed household expenses with whatever little they had. Basu
was with the family all along helping them cope with the tragic circumstances.
Basu had to leave the village for five days on school duty. He brought enough daily essentials for the
family. At the parting, Rebati and Basu looked into each other’s eyes so deeply that only they could
understand.
Five days passed. Rebati was restless. On the sixth day, news came that Basu had succumbed to cholera
on way to the village. Rebati became progressively weak. The grandmother was very unkind to her and
attributed the tragic events to her desire to have an education. Rebati became feeble, developed high
fever, delirium and breathed her last. The grandmother groped in dark only to find Rebati’s lifeless cold
body on a narrow verandah. Then there was a fall carrying both bodies to the ground.
Contents
Page 53
Ants
Gopinath Mohanty
Translated by Paul St-Pierre, Leelawati Mohapatra & K K Mohapatra
Keep going, Ramesh exhorted himself, clenching his teeth. Never mind how slowly, but for heaven's
sake don't stop. One step at a time; then a second, and then another — the summit isn't far away. His
leg muscles, tied in knots, seemed ready to give out; his heart thumped heavily; beads of sweat hung
from the brim of his straw hat like raindrops; his short pants and short-sleeved shirt were soaking wet;
and yet his body propelled itself upwards as if pushed from behind by the wind.
The forest of tall trees, long left behind in the lower reaches, formed a canopy when seen from above
and the footpath resembled a mysterious staircase descending into the womb of the earth. The
summit was smooth, bald, with a fringe of green grass. The deep blue sky hung low over it.
Climbing, Ramesh admitted to himself, was no joke. As tough a business as any. But it would have
shamed him to openly acknowledge as much; after all, he was the youngest of them all — the others
were middle-aged, some quite old — and besides, he was in charge; it was for him to set an example,
even if it meant putting up with pain that threatened to overwhelm him.
`Why,' he grunted to his peon, biting his lips, `you seem to tire so easily!' To emphasize how effortless
the climb was, he skipped over the narrow ledges.
Hissing like an old steam engine, Binu inched his way up. A squat, dark man in a cotton suit, a gold ring
in his nose, a rifle and a flask slung from his shoulders, he looked strange, if not outlandish. As he
climbed, his turban bobbed up and down. A big brown mushroom. He stopped in front of Ramesh,
breathing through his mouth. Then he turned around and hollered to the porters, `Hurry up, you lazy
bums!' He took his position behind his boss, stiff as a board.
Baile . . . baile . . . came the answering refrain of a chorus at a distance. Then the bodies heaved into
sight, one after another, all eight of them, out of the tall elephant grass. Bare-bodied Kondh porters,
clad only in loincloths.
`Miserable lazy bums!' Binu swore. `Forever falling behind. Slowpokes! No amount of scolding does any
good.'
`We're old and decrepit, sir!' said a porter, and they all started laughing. They sat down at a
respectable distance and lighted their cigars.
Binu uncorked the flask and poured a cup of tea for Ramesh, who was resting in the shade of an amla
tree.
`When were you up here last, Binu?' Ramesh asked, taking a sip.
Contents
Page 54
Àbout two years ago, sir. But before that, fairly regularly.'
`Did any of the other officers climb the hills?'
`Yes sir, quite a few. After all, this is the only route to the market.'
Ramesh suddenly felt deflated. Others had beaten him to it. From childhood he had taken pride in
being the first, in being ahead of others; that was the key to his success. Born into a dirt poor family in
a nondescript village in north Balasore, he had seen many of his village friends fall by the wayside early
in life. Some dropped out of school, others out of college; he alone went on to finish his studies, thanks
to a string of scholarships along the way. What a long procession of prizes and medals. Victories and
trophies along the winding road of life. Thrilling memories. Then came the job, and congratulations
pouring in; friends, acquaintances, even perfect strangers, queuing up to pay respect; peons and
minions rushing to salaam; insurance agents by the dozen with invitations for tea; a barrage of
marriage proposals. (One college friend, Umesh, had been brazen enough to say to him, `Brother, just
tell me who I should talk to about your marriage.') People looking up to him, people toadying up to
him. The just fruits of hard-earned success. He had arrived. He had become somebody. Unlike any of
those he had left behind, all of whom had amounted to nothing.
But sometimes, as now, his ego was pricked when he realized that he wasn't really big enough, that
there were many who had climbed the hills and were way ahead of him, that compared to them he
was completely insignificant. That morning when he had started out, he had had the heady feeling that
perhaps he was the first big shot — maybe the first person from civilization — to make the climb. Now
he had been told that there had been many officers before him.
Ì remember once when one big boss was up here,' continued Binu. `He camped for five full days. It
looked as if a new town had sprung up. Hunting and merrymaking went on and on without
interruption.'
Ramesh sighed softly. So many men had been up here. And left, too. Only the woods remained the
same as ever — dense, deep, dark.
Èven the hills are no longer the same, sir. The forests have become thin and ragged, decimated by the
Kondhs. Once upon a time the whole place was dotted with Kondh villages, but as the woods thinned,
tigers went on the prowl and killed enough people to force the others to move out.'
`The woods seem dense enough to me.'
Ìt's not the same as before, sir. These trees have grown from the trunks of those that were cut down.'
That's the way life goes, Ramesh mused. Men came, penetrated into the forests, retreated, came back
again; man's sorrows and joys were not altogether obliterated in the hills; they were simply
camouflaged, like a small brook trickling beneath the stones.
Ramesh's feeling of pride surfaced again and burgeoned into a vast sense of satisfaction: life went on
wherever there were people.
Contents
Page 55
Meanwhile a ragged line of ants had emerged from somewhere and were carrying away biscuit
crumbs. He watched them with a half-smile. So not only human beings had reached these heights, but
ants too. What were the ants looking for at this altitude, nearly four thousand feet above sea level?
They reminded him of the purpose of his visit, and he sprang up with a suddenness that startled his
peon and the porters.
`Binu,' he inquired. Àre you sure we'll be able to catch the smugglers red-handed?'
`Yes sir. No matter what tricks they use to smuggle out rice, the entire hoard will first surface in
Kaspawalsa market. It's only ten o' clock, there's enough time to swoop down on them. We should be
there by two in the afternoon. We'll catch them all, sir, every one of them. There's no way they can
escape.'
`Fine. Let's get a move on.'
The rest was too short, but what choice did Binu have. As he rose to his reluctant feet, he took it out
on the porters. `Hey there,' he screamed. `Make haste, you lazy louts, will you?'
The Kondhs grumbled: No rest, only run, run. They bared their teeth like monkeys and cursed the peon
and his ancestors to perdition, secure in the knowledge that the man could understand nothing of their
language. Both the peon and his boss seemed possessed by demons. Who else would be mad enough
to run through dense forests and up steep hills just because some poor devils wanted to carry a bit of
rice from one place to another! Wasn't it like trying to catch mice? Didn't they know that hunger was
universal, that it hit people equally everywhere, that it knew no barriers, no boundaries? Why didn't
they understand that whoever wanted to buy rice must be in utter need of it? And what did it matter
to the hungry where the rice came from — whether this state or that? They were all part of the same
country, after all. And who produced the rice — these fools from the plains, these fools who had fancy
notions about themselves? They'd find fault with you for everything, for brewing liquor to felling trees
to buying rice to sitting down for a smoke and a rest after you'd carried a heavy load a long, long
distance. They'd find fault with you for every damn thing, for being around, for being what you are!
That thin stick of a peon, how he barked, and that boss of his, how he ran down the hill!
The Kondhs rose to their feet and, stringing all their complaints against the unfair, unjust ways into an
impromptu rhyme, they lifted their voices.
All Ramesh could make out was the refrain: Baile . . . baile . . . It had a sweet ring to it. But what did the
words mean? Something about their tribal pride?
`Binu,' Ramesh commanded.
Wobbling precariously on the rocks, and silently heaping curses on Ramesh, the peon darted towards
him. Fifty-five, if a day, with a smooth bald crown and six precious teeth missing, he obviously did not
relish climbing hills. His body ached for a rest, longed to take small, slow steps. But the young and
energetic boss was a damn sight too spirited, he didn't let you catch your breath, he made you seek
out untrodden paths. Not only was the boss unhinged, he seemed set to drive everyone else raving
mad. Binu sighed. His job was getting tougher by the day. He persisted not so much for the money as
for the power; he knew it would vanish the moment his job was gone, and without power he'd be
Contents
Page 56
reduced to his tribal self again. He'd be forced to return to those he had once preyed on like a jackal
after a tiger has finished with its kill. How he'd hate to become a nonentity again! It was this impulse of
fear which in the end drove him to scale hills and thread his way through forests.
Ì say, Binu,' said Ramesh, `these people sing very well!'
`Very well indeed, sir.'
`What do the words mean?'
Ìt's a festival song, sir.' The peon nodded his turbaned head.
`But what does the song say?'
`The same old thing, sir — boy and girl stuff!' Binu gave a croak of a laugh. `Like how a boy goes on: hey
girl, my little mustard flower, I love you! Hey jasmine blossom, when will you come to my place,
sweetheart?'
`Do they sing the same song all the time?'
`Yes sir. The same song all the time.'
`What does baile mean — mustard flower?'
`You've got it, sir. At this rate you'll be a master of the Kondh language in no time.'
Èven the old fellows are fond of these love songs?'
`No one grows old in this land, sir.'
Baile meant mustard flower — Ramesh tried to commit it to memory — and the Kondhs, young or old,
sang only love songs.
Binu felt better. He had made a fool of his boss.
After the songs in which they roundly cursed the peon and his boss, the porters made up songs out of
their misfortunes. Occasionally they ran into people from their tribe on their way to the market; when
those people heard the songs they laughed and added couplets of their own. Sometimes the porters
fell silent because they were tired of singing, but Binu screamed at them: `Hey lazybones, go on. Don't
stop singing.'
What, one never grew old in this land? Binu fell to thinking about his own lot. His third wife was a
pretty young thing. Although his first and second wives were still around, he'd married the third barely
a year ago, practically snatching her from the hands of a hopeful suitor by offering her father a fatter
brideprice. In the jungle country your prowess was the yardstick of your success; and in this game men
beat the beasts hollow. Behind all his success — orchards, land, houses, cattle — lurked one lasting
regret, however: no children. As he grew older, it hurt all the more. He badly wanted a son. Would his
Contents
Page 57
third wife be able to give him one? What might she be doing now, at this moment? Were the other
wives being kind to her? Was she happy? Because if she wasn't she would run away; such things
happened often enough. And that young peon, that rascal Bishi, who by some convoluted social
relationship claimed to be the third wife's grandson — might he be dropping in as often to flirt with his
pretty little grandmother? Who knew what mischief that good-for-nothing might be up to!
`Binu!'
`Sir!'
`Why can't we catch the rice smugglers before they reach the market? They must be hoarding their
stock somewhere before carting it off to Madras. Market or no market the merchants could always
reach them there, couldn't they? We've already been walking for four days from Koraput, visited so
many places, been to so many faraway villages, but how come we haven't seen a single hoarder?'
`How can they openly transport such large quantities of rice, sir?' Binu regretted it immediately. He
himself had sent out nearly one hundred maunds of rice at an exorbitant rate. He sincerely believed
that in a society where one had to struggle hard, to dig the earth with one's own horns as it were,
pushing an elbow here, pulling at a leg there, hitching a piggyback ride on some poor devil's back,
cheating or smuggling rice was simply being smarter than the others and something normal. Either that
or you stayed dirt poor all your life. It was every dog for himself. So putting one's own interest ahead of
the common good was the natural thing to do. Binu was only scared of getting caught someday.
`Sir, actually no one hoards rice in large quantities.' He wanted to play it down. Òtherwise it'd have
come to our notice. Once you reach the market you'll see for yourself that people buy and sell only in
small quantities, five or ten sers at the most. The Madras border is only four miles away, and the big
merchants assemble on the other side with bullock carts, gunny sacks and money-bags. Small
quantities make large quantities; they're quickly poured into sacks and the sacks sewn up and loaded
onto the carts, which then trundle along to places like Bishakhapatna, Parbatipur, Bobili and Makua.
The merchants have their ways of operating, sir.'
`Which means that before the small sellers deliver the rice to the merchants we should pounce on
them and confiscate their stock.' His eyes shone with the instinctive brilliance of a seasoned hunter.
There was only one thought that nagged at him: why should Orissa rice be allowed to be smuggled out
at all? It was like a personal affront.
Just what did he mean by Orissa rice? Which Orissa? The Orissa of the past, of history, with its glorious
conquests of lands beyond the Godavari? From the debris of illustrious history his mind turned to the
lack-lustre present-day land of Orissa. The only way to lessen the sense of anguish over the present
fate of the state was to pour scorn on the neighbouring states.
`They've eaten away at the whole country,' he muttered under his breath.
The dark green forests rekindled the hunter in him. The rice smugglers had to be tracked down. Ìf only
I can catch them —' He gritted his teeth. What exactly would he do if he did catch them? He didn't
know himself.
Contents
Page 58
Race down the hill, he exhorted himself. Quickly, swiftly. Down. Further down. The chill of Magh and
the exertions of the journey produced the pleasant sensations of a Spring day. Wherever he looked he
could see the fullness of beautiful trees. A village at the foot of the hill took his breath away. Mango
groves, paddy fields, the smooth harvesting floor, rows of huts. A small child, taking fright at the sight
of strangers, burst into tears and scampered away, yelling for his mother. The cattle tethered at their
pegs by the roadside lowed and strained at their ropes. From behind the doors the women watched
them warily. But one after another the men came out to meet them.
Ramesh found it such a familiar sight. Stopping under the thick shade of a leafy tree, he looked around.
The hill in the background seemed to crouch over the village like a monster. Old Binu was panting, the
porters were catching up.
`Can we get clean drinking water here, Binu?'
Òf course, sir.' Binu opened his bag, took out a bowl and a tumbler and went into the village. The
porters lowered their loads to the ground and rested, wiping off their sweat. Ramesh waited.
In no time a string cot materialised. Someone brought a bowl of warm milk, another a bunch of ripe
bananas.
Six or seven peasants — Telugu, Oriya, all tribals — begged him: `Sir, it's too hot already. If you don't
take a break and eat and rest here, the villagers will mind.'
Rest? Ramesh smiled. All along the way he had received similar invitations. Even in the back of beyond,
sealed off by forests and hills, human beings still sought out human beings: stranger, stop here for the
night; sir, stay awhile in our village.
Ramesh sighed. The shadows of trees, wisps of smoke curling up from thatched roofs, men and women
going about their chores. Only he, Ramesh, was a stranger to this world. He was not part of the woods
and the hills, either, although surrounded by them on all sides.
He had no time to tarry here, he had to press on. The affection lavished by the village would have to be
left behind; maybe its fragrance would follow him for some distance until the breeze chased it away.
Binu returned with water.
Ramesh found it refreshing. `Let's get going,' he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
An old woman came up and, spreading her arms wide, barred his path. `Leave without a morsel of food
at this hour, son?' She had a wonderful warm smile. `That's not possible. Would you have done this to
your own mother? Don't you have a mother or a sister in this village?'
The crowd tittered.
The old woman, a merry mixture of Kondh, Telugu and Kondadora blood, repeated her question: `Tell
me, son, don't you have a mother or a sister in this village?'
Contents
Page 59
Ramesh could feel shadows swirling beyond the vision of his brooding eyes. `No, no,' he said loudly,
but more to himself than to anyone else. `Can't waste time here. A lot of work to be done.'
The maternal face of the old tribal woman would remain etched in his mind. Only a mother had such a
gentle voice, such loving concern, her eyes able to look right into her son's stomach. No matter the
language, the caste, mothers are the same everywhere.
For quite some time he had forgotten all about rice smuggling, but just then he saw some men carrying
loads of rice on their heads.
`How far is the market from here, Binu?'
`Not very far, sir. We're almost there.'
`Be careful, then. Don't make any noise.'
`Right, sir.' Binu turned to the porters. `Hey, stop singing, and don't make the slightest noise. Tread as
softly as you can.' The peon smiled as if he was a hunter going deep into the forest for big game — all
quiet on the outside, very tense within.
Ramesh made a quick review of his plan of action. He couldn't end the smuggling in one fell swoop;
he'd have to think up some permanent measures. He'd prepare a comprehensive report, which would
earn him high praise. Praise all the way; a quick climb up the ladder; the sweet smell of success. Why
else should one trudge through these inaccessible forests and hills at the height of summer and the
depths of winter? He felt like Livingstone out in the Congo, but while the white man had set out to
discover the source of a river, he, Ramesh, hoped to stem the tide of rice smuggling. A feeling of wellbeing surged through him; a sense of self-importance thrilled him.
A little way ahead he noticed a family gathered under a tree; they had just finished cooking and had sat
down to eat. A small baby lying on the ground began to bawl, flailing his feeble hands and legs about,
and his young mother, pathetically thin, her hair unkempt, got up in the middle of her meal, brushed
her ragged sari off her breast and began to suckle the baby. Her withered breasts hung down like halfwet clothes. Cradling her baby, she looked at the approaching party. She seemed to have no body, only
an unruly crop of dry, stringy hair and two large eyes without a flicker of curiosity. Although her eyes
were open to the outside world, her gaze seemed to be riveted somewhere within, perhaps on the
very source of the life-force, where hunger and thirst no longer mattered but from where a
tremendous love for her child flowed. The three others — an old couple and a young man — continued
eating. They were all skin and bones. Thick thatches of dry, matted hair and eyes as shiny as the white
grains of rice on their large round siali leaves. They were gulping down their food, like dogs. A few
dented and chipped aluminum bowls and pots lay scattered around the makeshift oven under the tree.
Ramesh found the scene suffocating.
`Who are these people, Binu?' he asked.
`Telugus from down south, sir,' Binu explained. `Hunger has driven them up into the forests. You'll find
groups of such people around everywhere.'
Contents
Page 60
Ramesh was speechless.
Binu turned to the strangers. `Hey, where're you from?'
After he had repeated the question three times, the old man replied irritably, without taking his eyes
off his food, `Simhachalam.'
`That's some sixty miles away, sir,' Binu explained.
Simhachalam? Hadn't it once been part of Orissa? Of course. A long, long time ago, though. The past
loomed up like a huge hill, then shrank to a tiny speck and finally sank into the ground, leaving a deep
depression. Like the sunken eyes of the hungry young mother, oblivious to everything as she continued
to suckle her child, running her fingers fondly through his unruly mop of hair. Simhachalam was no
longer a part of Orissa, but so what? Wasn't it still a part of the good old planet earth? Didn't it have its
share of hungry people?
`They've taken to roaming the forests in large numbers, sir,' Binu added. `No longer afraid of tigers or
bears. It's their stomachs they're more afraid of. Hunger is the fiercest of beasts.'
`True,' the porters chimed in a chorus, catching up. Ìn hunger, as in sorrow, everyone's the same. Look
at us. We're so hungry. When will you give us some food, peon sahib?'
Ramesh strode on in silence, his thoughts in a tangle. He wanted to mete out justice but had already
forgotten the meaning of it. As an officer, he had always chosen the straight and narrow path of right
and wrong, bowing to the rule book, sticking to the hard and fast line of the law; for him looking
beyond the law was taboo, an act of blasphemy. Sometimes he found the law diametrically opposed to
natural justice, but he had assuaged his conscience by reminding himself that he was a creature of the
rules, a small cog in a remorseless wheel. One time he had had to try somebody who, driven by
hunger, had stolen something. His young wife, a baby at her breast, had turned up in his court. She had
rolled on the floor, begging him to let her husband off. She had no other breadwinner and if her
husband went to jail she and the baby would starve to death. But the law said the man should be sent
to jail, and that was where Ramesh had sent him. Another time a petty thief with one previous
conviction came up for trial. He had been caught lifting a pumpkin from someone's vegetable patch.
Ramesh had handed him a prison sentence of a year because that's what the law provided for secondtime offenders. The law was the law, duty was duty. The smuggling of rice had to be stamped out in
the same spirit — and a permanent end put to it.
He could hear the din of the market at a distance. The stink of raw, untreated hides wafted up and hit
his nostrils. Men and women seemed to emerge from the crannies and crevices of the hill, carrying
loads on their heads, shoulders, hips — rice bags, children, chickens strung together by their legs. On
the winding forest path they appeared one moment and disappeared the next, only to reappear soon
after. Ramesh's heart skipped a beat: the quarry was close at hand.
`Binu!' he hissed and ran down, jumping nimbly from rock to rock.
The market. What a sight! A swirling, eddying throng of busy ants. A riot of colours, smells and noises.
A heap of cattle skins lay in a pile, releasing stinking clouds into the air; a school of dried-fish sellers
Contents
Page 61
with their smelly merchandise; men and women, as thick as flies, hovering above them; the sharp,
penetrating odour of illicit liquor.
He saw a cluster of lepers. He saw several people suffering from yaws, raw red sores on their graniteblack backs. He saw a gaggle of clacking black ducks. Men and women jostled, chatted, laughed, moved
on.
His eyes fell on a young woman, a robust handsome Kondh beauty, with a complexion that would
easily put a golden champak flower to shame, but one cheek ravaged by yaws. The other cheek, too,
was beginning to turn pink — a matter of months before it, too, went. But she was bursting with life:
wild flowers in her hair and dressed in her finery. She wove her way through the crowd, nibbling on a
corncob, sending ripples of excitement all around. Her sidelong glances were brazenly inviting.
He leaned against a tree in the middle of the market, his eyes shut. The din was earsplitting. Images
crowded his mind: the Kondh beauty, smiles narrowing her eyes and crinkling her one unaffected
cheek; a group of merry urchins dancing atop a tired old hill; men in a forest clearing, tending
clandestine fires and brewing liquor. His mind began to wander. Weren't people quite like the paddy
plants in the rains — growing taller and raising their heads above the water just when it threatened to
overwhelm them? And that incomparable Kondh beauty — cheeks surrendered to yaws, but lips
dedicated to sweet smiles. A rose blooming in bleak soil. The petals already darkening at the edges, but
what does that matter? The merry laughter and seductive smiles more than make up for everything.
`Sir!'
Ramesh opened his eyes.
Binu handed him a cup of tea.
Ramesh looked around. The crowd was even thicker than before.
`Sir,' Binu whispered. `There's plenty of rice being traded. We'll catch the smugglers, but not here. The
exit at the end of the market is narrow, in a gorge, and there's a mud hut overlooking it.' He couldn't
help a chuckle. Ìt'll be just like waiting for game on a raised platform.'
He steered Ramesh there and produced a chair for him. `Now I'll go and put the final touches on the
arrangements, sir.'
Ramesh looked around. The steep slope of the hill was dotted with isolated huts, and high up there
was a village, perhaps a Kondh settlement. String cots in front of open doorways. Idle dogs. A bunch of
unruly urchins beating a huge drum. One malarial old man on his doorstep retching onto the ground.
An old woman — his wife? — gently thumping him on the back. A goat on top of a mud heap,
unmistakably a homestead not long ago, munching green leaves and twigs.
As he watched it all, Ramesh slowly lost track of time. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, blew into
it to clear his nostrils of the dust and smell of the market place. The late winter sun was already
dipping; the shadows had begun to lengthen. Up above, the little Kondh village with its stark outlines
seemed like a painting against the backdrop of an immense void.
Contents
Page 62
There was a sudden burst of wailing, and the villagers shot out of their huts and shanties. The urchins
stopped beating the drum. A crowd collected in front of a hut and started a mourning chant, beating
their breasts, pulling at their hair and clawing at their cheeks. Àlas, alas! It got him! He's gone!'
Binu came back. `Have seen to the arrangements, sir. The sepoys will merely have to herd them all
down here.'
`Why are they wailing, Binu, those people over there?'
`Somebody must have died, sir. Must be a malaria victim; it's a big killer around here.'
The wailing got to Ramesh. The wheel, he mused, the eternal wheel. Rolling remorselessly on. Death.
Birth. Procreation. New. Old. New. Only a change of scene, but the same play. Before his blurred vision
rose pictures of Kantipur, his village. He saw his home, his parents, the neighbours, the familiar faces of
old men, young men and young girls, the temple in the middle of the village and the cremation ground
at the edge. Subject to the same cycle of birth and death. They were the same as the people here: they
did nobody any harm, didn't spoil for a fight, suffered untold miseries through no fault of their own.
A renewed wave of lamentations.
How many people have died already? Just how many? In the darkest night of the year their
descendants still light a torch and call out to them: Àncestors, come visit us, we've lit the torch to
chase away the darkness and light your path!' Death was the ultimate leveller; it treated all alike.
Languages, countries, boundaries made no difference. In death, finally, everyone was equal.
Standing behind him, Binu, too, was lost in his own thoughts. What was he thinking about — his home,
his youngest wife, Bishi the unwelcome visitor? He slapped himself on the cheek with a sudden
violence.
Ramesh came out of his reverie.
`Big mosquitoes around here, sir.' Binu rubbed his cheek. `They sting like the devil.'
A shudder shot through Ramesh. His vision blurred again. More pictures: He was in bed with a fever,
shaking violently, his eyes red like a kumbhatua bird's . . . He slowly turned black as a bear, as his
temperature shot up past a hundred and three . . . He had a terrible wish to hit out, to bite and scratch
and maul everyone in sight, to lash out, to throw up . . . What next? Raging fever, racing pulse. What
next? Death? Then birth again? Life. Death. The eternal cycle. All man-made laws and rules and
statutes gone, swept away. Only an unbroken cycle of birth and death, death and birth.
He looked down the hill. The sight was unlike anything he had ever seen. Men and women hurrying
away. Hundreds of them. All walking away, into the gathering twilight. An endless line of people.
Market-day had ended and people were going home. Didn't he know each one of them? Didn't they all
have as much misery awaiting them at home as they'd had to put up with outside? Yet they were on
their feet, walking along. With the same inarticulate words on their lips: we're all the same, we all
belong to the same species, there's no difference between us. Their faces so familiar, so like the faces
of the people of Kantipur. Like ants, they stopped now and then and looked at each other, exchanging
Contents
Page 63
a word here, a smile there, perhaps telling one another that they were all alike, all using their legs to
walk, hands to carry, eyes to see, that the earth under the sky was the same everywhere, that their
only enemies were those who stole the food out of their mouths or crushed them under their heels or
poured blazing embers onto their heads.
An endless line of hurrying, scurrying ants.
In the depths of his heart Ramesh felt a spark come to life — a flame aglow with smiles.
There was a sudden commotion. The sepoys came into sight prodding and pushing a gaggle of men and
women burdened with bags and baskets. In the next moment Ramesh was transformed back into the
stern government officer that he was. He stood rigidly as the sepoys saluted him.
`The sepoys will herd them here in groups, sir,' Binu said.
Ramesh remained silent.
`Sir,' a sepoy said. `These people are very cunning. They were trying to smuggle rice. Just look into their
bags and baskets, sir. Below a thin layer of chilies, or turmeric, or tobacco leaves, they're full of rice.
They buy rice up here in the hills for a song and sell it down in the plains at a hefty profit. Bloodsuckers,
sir.'
Ramesh stared at them, at the bloodsuckers. Living skeletons, every one of them. Their bones jutted
out like sticks, their wrinkled skin hung down like flapping bats, their shrunken bellies stuck to their
backs. Shocks of unkempt hair and burning holes for eyes. Were they human at all? Ghosts more likely.
And in the inchoate language of phantoms they were crying out to him, begging him, flailing their long,
stick-like arms, beating their shrivelled stomachs, making mysterious gestures.
A fresh outburst of lamentations. Much closer this time. Perhaps the body had been taken out of the
hut. Ramesh looked up. A bunch of men and women were walking ahead of the corpse, throwing their
heads back and forth, wailing in a chorus: `Dead. Gone. Dead. Gone.'
He looked down. At the mouth of the narrow exit
there stood a bunch of living ghosts. All of them lifting their voices in hoarse whispers: `Leave us, sir.
Lord and master . . .' What language was it — Telugu?
`Silence!' Binu and the sepoys commanded them. `Now open up your bags, sacks and baskets. Come
on, hurry up . . .'
Ramesh felt dizzy. An enormous fatigue had stolen over him. His eyes closed, and the visions appeared:
a writhing grey mass of men and women, a luscious cheek lost to yaws, smiles, the flapping of wrinkled
skin, feverish eyes burrowing into their sockets, funeral lamentations, cries of hunger and poverty, the
fire and the fury raging in the recesses of sunken souls.
`Sir! Lord and master!' The whispers rose to a crescendo.
What did they want? For him to take a good look at them, at their condition?
Contents
Page 64
A tall, stick-thin old man, black as charcoal, elbowed his way to the front and began to shake like a
palm tree in high wind. His reed-like hands shot above his head and he bent over double as if broken in
half. `Lord and master!' His empty voice broke into a long litany which
Ramesh couldn't follow. What was the grotesque old man trying to say? But then, was language
needed to understand his piteous cries? The fellow hit his head on a stone, rolled his eyes to the
heavens, flailed his hands and legs.
Hadn't Ramesh seen this familiar apparition before, this image of a starving wretch? Weren't all these
people familiar? Weren't they from his own home, his own village, these creatures of suffering and
deprivation? That bent-back man over there — didn't he look like Uncle Sapani? The same shock of
matted hair, the same stubble of unkempt beard, the same jutting bones. Only this one looked a shade
more defeated, perhaps a bit hungrier, and certainly more terrified at the spectre of death. And that
one there with a curling moustache — didn't he look like the old blacksmith from Kantipur?
Only the other day all these bags of bones had been sturdy young fellows, stealing into groves and
gobbling up unripe guavas, and these women, who looked like overturned canoes, had been in full
bloom, competing with one another to be the first to go out and collect dry twigs and wood in the
forest.
`Go away,' Ramesh began to scream, his eyes shut, hanging his head. `Go away, all of you.'
Binu winced. What had come over the boss? Asking the smugglers to go away? `Sir!' he cried. `Sir!'
`Leave them alone. Let them go home. It's getting dark.'
The peon's lips curled in derision. This boss man was no good. Too young, too soft, his moustache
tender. A boss must be like a tiger. But this one? Hah! Binu had taken his measure.
Ramesh stood staring ahead. The history of Orissa had evaporated. There was no past — no
Kapilendradev, no Purushottamadev, no Konark, no land, no country, no language, nothing. Only ants.
Ants, ants and more ants. Ants everywhere. Hungry ants, hurrying, scurrying, carting away tiny morsels
of food. An endless line of ants, crawling away, coming together, dispersing, gathering again, in an
unceasing expedition — all they wanted was to survive.
Ramesh gave a start, a chill ran through his body. The sun had gone down, the day was done. A film of
fog was falling over the hills. Another cold night was coming on.
Contents
Page 65
An analysis of ‘Ants’ by Tanmay Panda and Sunanda Mishra Panda
One of the greatest novelists of Odia Literature, Gopinath Mohanty, in fact started his writing from
Short stories. His short stories have the same narrative style as evident in his novels. The three
creative canvas on which his unique writing brushes the colors – the society of people in the woods (far
from the madding crowd); episodes of the corrupt, selfish and exploitative urban society and the
usurping of the subconscious – each one of them is visibly portrayed in this simple but powerful story.
Those who have read Gopinath Mohanty earlier, if start reading this short story, it will not take much
time for them to sense that this is Gopinath’s creation.
The story revolves round the urban protagonist, who is driven by the modern society’s dreams,
aspirations, and interpretations of life. In contrast he is set up in a back drop where he is with the
people in the woods. The second main character is a person from the woods set up with the urban
society. The story is a journey of these two persons along with few porters from the woods, through
the forests and the habitats of the people of woods to catch the people who are trying to smuggle rice
from Odisha to the neighboring provinces.
Throughout the story Gopinath has maintained his penchant for depicting the life of the woods in
details. He has also brought in the modern society’s understanding in finding a meaning to life. The
subconscious every time is giving a message to the protagonists regarding what is right or
wrong. Interestingly the message of the subconscious is not same for both the protagonists.
The ending reflects the usurping of the subconscious over conscious where the protagonist is setting
free to all the people from woods people who were smuggling rice. Symbolically, all people are viewed
as ants by the protagonist who are constantly busy finding out food for themselves and trying to
protect them so that they are not crushed and they survive.
Contents
Page 66
Rani
Prof. Pranabandhu Kar
Translated by Dr. Gitimoy Kar, Dr. Kumarendra Mallick
The night has advanced. It is bone-chilling cold. The city streets are desolate but for a few folks
on their way home from a late show or a night out. Some men, dressed comfortably in warm
clothes and boots, create a rhythmic sound to break the stillness of the night. Engrossed in their
own thoughts, they walk by, oblivious to their surroundings. Among them are two aimless and
miserable souls – a man and a woman. Hand on the woman’s shoulder, the man, blind perhaps,
is walking slowly. Dressed in rags, teeth chattering, the couple bears the image of penury. The
woman barely manages to cover her youthful bounty in an old and tattered saree – her
lusterless youth spills out through the torn rag. It appears as though the goddess of beauty had
once poured her entire treasure on this destitute but cruel fate has snatched all that she had.
She, too, had once dreamt to weave a nest of happiness with her man. But destiny had other
designs – an attack of small pox robbed her man of his eyesight and shattered their dream. They
are homeless beggars today.
Besides the sound of their occasional plea “Babu…help the blind”, the street lights were the
only reminders of their existence that night – that they are also part of this world. Once they
walked past the lighted zones, darkness engulfed them again. The couple was exhausted from
day long wandering. “Padi” asked the man, “Look for a place to rest…I am beat.”
Padi looked around and spotted a two-storey building across the street. One of the rooms
upstairs was brightly lit and through the partially open window she could notice the happy faces
of a man and woman. Padi looked away from them, guided her husband to the verandah of the
building. The city was by then quiet. Padi and her man retired for the night and snuggled into a
corner. Sleep was hard to come by in the shivering cold. But sleep, the last resort for the poor to
overcome their sorrow, came at last.
*
*
*
“Padi…”
“Umm…”
“Are you up? Very cold, isn’t it?”
A deep sigh came from the core of Padi’s body and melted into the morning.
Contents
Page 67
“Get up, let’s go, it’s already morning”
Padi opened her eyes and then shut them pulling her husband close to her and murmured “It’s
not yet dawn, wait for a little longer”. Both felt the warm breath on each other’s cheeks. A rare
bliss – one of the few pleasurable moments in their otherwise wasted youth.
*
*
*
Up on the second floor, the first ray of sun entered the young couple’s room through a narrow
opening in the window. On a mahogany bed with white mattress, covered under a thick and soft
blanket, the young and handsome couple, faces gleaming with youthful vigor, were lying in deep
embrace. The cold breeze had no right to enter their world!
Removing the full weight of her body from the man’s broad chest, the young woman whispered
in an anxious tone, “Let me get up, it’s getting late”. Pulling her back in a quick reflex, the young
man with closed eyes pleaded, “ No. Not so soon. I will be cold”.
“Cold or something else?” she responded with a mischievous smile. “In spite of this thick
blanket….”
“Don’t go. You know I can’t sleep after you…” the man pleaded once more with his head resting
on the woman’s bosom.
“Leave me, you naughty …, see, it is already late. What would your mother think?”
“She will understand. Just a little while longer…” Their lips met in a passionate embrace.
We see one ‘Rani’ under the open sky of a bone-chilling morning, and we see another ‘Rani’ in
warm and cozy comforts of her bed room – two extremes yet two equal rivals in the world of
love.
[The late Professor Pranabandhu Kar carved a niche for himself in Odiya literature through his rich contributions
in the forms short stories, one-act-plays, and dramas. Beginning in 1934, he wrote for over six decades and
received many awards for his creativity, including those from Central and State Sahitya Academies.]
Contents
Page 68
An analysis of ‘Rani’ by Anadi Naik, MD
One can safely assume that Baisnaba Pani was the father of the Odia drama. In his jatra party, men
used to dress up like women. The Jatra used to run all night. Pani’s characters were kings and queens,
the members of the royal family or the royal court. In those days, before Independence, Odisha had
many princely states and Pani was influenced by his surroundings.
After Independence, Kalicharan Pattanayak aka”Kali babu” steered the Odia drama in a different
direction. He portrayed the conflicts between land owners and share croppers; between landlords and
peasants; between the upper caste and the lower caste. The country was marching on a new path and
Kalibabu gave the marchers a voice and a description.
Dr. Pranabandhu Kar like his contemporary play writes Gopal Chhotrai or Kamala Lochan Mohanty
was the product of a time that valued “Socialistic pattern of Society”. Their heroes and villains came
from among the common folks. In “Rani” Pranabandhu babu has shown the contrast between two
different sets of life: one is rich, the other is poor. In his own subtle way, he has raised the
consciousness of his readers to realize this unfortunate contrast. I am glad that one of his short stories
has been translated into English by Dr. Gitimoy Kar and Dr. Kumarendra Mallick.
Contents
Page 69
Bouli
Raj Kishore Ray
Translated by Ashok Kumar Mohapatra
It was twilight—time for the herd to return.
The duffadar babu crossed over the village path hedged with screw pines and stepped into Bhajani
Pradhan’s veranda. He was returning from the police station. Having carried on his shoulders the burden
of dozens of litigations and their momentous decisions all these years, this man had acquired an odd
stooping posture. The brass buttons on his uniform shone bright being scrubbed with ashes. In his hand
was a thick bunch of papers. The cardboard cover on the papers was smudgy and black by fingerprint
ink. A string, for no reason, was dangling on the papers.
Sarasi, Bhajani’s wife, was mopping the mud platform about the tulasi with a rag when the duffadar
babu arrived. Pulling softly the veil over her head, she spread a reed mat for him on the veranda. He
would most invariably drop in at her house on his way back from the police station, for she was his
goddaughter. He would ask her this and that about her welfare. Behind this, however, was his selfinterest. Through the conversation he would find out about the aubergines she grew in the kitchen
garden, Ujala’s milk and PAtani’s butter. Duffadar babu was greedy for all these things.
Bhajani grew crops and raised the cattle, and Sarasi worshipped Goddess Lakshmi every Thursday,
drawing with powdered rice dainty patterns of Her symbolic footprints in the eastern corner of the
house. Though poor, her heart was thrilled with everything she had—a loving husband, on the one hand,
to whom she was devoted, and the apples of her eyes on the other: Ujala, Patani and Manguli, all cows,
as also Jagannath and Balabhadra, the gentle bullocks, rightly named after the deities.
At daybreak when the sky overflowed with sunshine, Sarasi’s milkpan, tucked between her thighs, filled
to the brim when she milked Ujala. Even as life seemed replete with such fulfilling chores, Sarasi felt
deep within her heart an emptiness, peculiarly feminine, which neither her workaholic husband nor the
animals ever understood. The milk flowed into the pan in copious jets. White, thick and frothy milk.
Bouli, the calf of Ujala, would snuggle up to Sarasi, and its muzzle would caress her all over the arms and
the back. The wet touch was so tender and thrilling! But it made Sarasi feel the emptiness all the more
intensely.
She had heard the lore of Jasoda and Banamali sung in the village community hall. She had seen Jasoda’s
love for Balagopal, and her heart-rending wail when she did not find Krishna following the herd with his
jaunty gait, all enacted in the village theatre. The scenes of Krishna’s raiding the pots of milk and cream
and the fear on his face as He stood glued to the wall when the mother had got to know about His
peccadillo, stuck in her mind. She longed for having a child as naughty and playful as Krishna. How much
she wanted a little one to toddle about her with an impish smile on his lips, and fall upon the milk-pan
filled with Ujala’s milk. The pan never looked full to Sarasi although milk had touched the brim and about
to spill over.
Contents
Page 70
‘Has Bhajani been to the fields?’ The duffadar babu began his conversation with a sly smile.
‘Yes’, answered Sarasi, half-ridden behind the door. Must be on his way back home,’ she added. By then
she had already served him rice-flakes, cottage-cheese and fresh jaggery. Having had his fill of the
delicious repast the old man begun, ‘Listen, Sara, there will be a livestock fair in Cuttack. Why don’t you
ask Bhajani to take Ujala and Patani there? I am sure they will steal the show. You both have kept them
so well-groomed and polished that flies would slip off their skin. Bhajani ought to take them there. There
is a cash prize for the owner of the winning cow.’
‘How mush is that?’ Sarasi asked.
‘Two scores and ten,’ answered the duffadar babu.
‘So much!’
‘Yes, indeed. The boss at the police station has asked me to spread the word among the village folks. All
arrangements have been made for the food and shelter of the people and animals attending the fair.
Maybe I will myself persuade Bhajani to go there if I happen to meet him on the way.’
‘It’s all very well, sir. But he has to take a couple of days off his work in order to go there. The prizemoney is only a distant prospect. What he need right away is the money for the trip. Doesn’t he?’
While the conversation was going on between the duffadar babu and Sarasi. Panchua had stopped there
with Kalia, his dog. He heard what the duffadar babu said. Kalia was pretty smart for a country dog,
although having no pedigree to boast of. He would seize a bull or a cow at the bidding of his master. The
love between the dog and the master was the talk of the village. It seemed as if the reputation of the
dog had rubbed off on the master.
‘Why, it is Panchu! Why don’t you take Kalia to Cuttack? For all you know this rascal may win a prize,’ the
duffadar babu pointed a finger to Kalia as he spoke to Panchu.
‘Can this dog of ordinary breed really make it?’
Panchu asked disbelievingly, running his hand over Kalia’s head. Kalia thumped the ground with his tail
and scrateched it to assure the master that he was game for the event.
Kantha the priest had also arrived there. He was a man of many parts, both pious and profane. He had
toned up his physique at a gym at Puri in his younger days. Later he took to priesthood as a profession at
a Shiva temple. Side by side he learnt and mastered the skill of slaughtering animals for meat. Most of
his patrons were school and college kids, from whom he charged a fee of two rupees for his services. The
savage business of the day being over, he would return to the pieties of evening services he offered to
lord Shiva in the temple. The vermillion mark stretching from his forehead to the tip of the nose was a
livid testimony to his strenuous vocations. The towel hung around his brawny shoulders rose and fell
rhythimically as he walked with his heavy steps. It also responded to the pitch and rhythm of his speech.
Kantha stood behind Panchu. He too was eager to know what the duffadar babu was talking about. The
latter now turned to him and addressed him facetiously, ‘Won’t your ewe dance, my lord?’
‘That’s no big deal, Your Highness. Please be seated, and you shall have the show at once, Kantha
Contents
Page 71
swanked and summoned his pet to the duffadar’s presence with an air of aplomb. To most people this
scene gave an odd sense of déjà vu. Neverthless its theatricality had some freshness about it, owing
primarily to the piquant flavour that Kantha’s Puri lingo and accent had.
Kantha’s ewe was enormous in size, with lush, glossy hair about its neck like the mane of a lion. Her
massive horns coiled around the head like the side—whiskers of a sardarji and made it look belligerent.
Kantha had spent a fortune to raise it, and had refused to sell it to a butcher even for forty rupees.
Two days after, at the crack of dawn, the villagers saw Kantha stridning along the embankment of the
river with the ewe trotting by his side. Behind him walked Panchu tugging at the strap around Kalia’s
neck. Last in this curious procession was Bhajani, with Ujala and Bouli following him at an even pace.
The livestock and agricultural exhibition was held on a large ground in Cuttack. The cattle, farm-products,
the shabby peasants and the other country hicks looked out of place in the genteel, urban surroundings
of Cuttack. Nonetheless it was a big event.
Lost in a sea of people, Panchu, Kantha and Bhajani were at their wit’s end. The animals were hungry
and a bundle of nerves. The sound of motor horn had startled the ewe, and twice it snapped the rope
and ran off in panic. The long, tiresome journey took its toll on Ujala’s energy. She could barely stand on
her feet, and her eyes filled with tears. Bhajani had carried Bouli for a long stretch of the journey, but he
had to put it down. The rest of the journey proved too much for the four month old calf. It lay tired and
still on the fair-ground. It had grown up on a diet of powdered green gram, but to its misfortune, nothing
was available at the fair except hay, which it could not eat. Bhajani told one of the organisers about the
calf’s plight. The man in question asked him to approach someone else, who in turn sent him to yet
another man. Bhajani had no patience and energy to follow this rigmarole up to its end.
Suddenly shouts went up: ‘The minister’s car!’ Voices rose all around: The sahib’s car. Clear out, make
way.’ This, hullabaloo got on Kalia’s nerves. He had been quietly eyeing the fleshy chickens in the coops
until then. Now that this peace of mind was broken, he burst into angry barks.
The meeting began. Panchu, Kantha and Bhajani stood huddled in the crowd expectantly while their
stomachs rumbled in hunger. They wanted to see what ‘the minister’ looked like. But all they could see
were the sweaty human bodies and faces jostling against one another and raising a cloud of dust. They
heard of a lot of things, though. The public address system blared: ‘You ought to learn things from
Holland and Denmark, and look after the cattle just as they do in Denmark. Feed them well and improve
their hygiene for your own profit. You would do well reading the treatises already available on the
subject of dairy-farming. We have with us a Denmark-trained expert, who will enlighten you on how to
build ideal cow-shed. We have also in our midst another expert on poutry-farming, who will…’ The
minister thus held forth, and so did the dairy and poultry experts when their turns came. Strangesounding words fell thick and fast on the crowd like hail-stones. Panchu, Kantha and Bhajani merely
looked on, dumbfounded.
‘An important announcement,’ boomed the loudspeaker. ‘The Hon’ble minister congratulates the
department of agriculture for making this fair a grand success. As a token of his appreciation, the
minister sahib will present cash award of one hundred rupees to the officials of the department.
The meeting was over. Panchu, Kantha and Bhajani looked at one another’s face. Another
announcement followed: ‘Here are the names of the animals awarded a cash prize of fifty rupees each.
Paata, the cow of Mahant Maharaj of Cuttack, has been adjudged the best cow. The prize for the best
Contents
Page 72
dog goes to Lily, the bitch of the deputy magistrate Mr. Bhattacharya. The Darling Ewe of Abu Hassan,
the prominent businessman of the town, bags the prize of the best ewe. As for the best goat, the prize
goes to…
Speechless, Panchu and Bhajani exchanged glances, while Kantha gawked at Sharif Mia, the meat king of
Cuttack, who was scouting around the fairground for the stuff he could have at an easy bargain.
The three hopefuls had ran out of their money. It now seemed pretty scary having to trudge a distance of
thirty-six miles back to the village with out a paisa in hand. Bhajani had spent the twelve annas given to
him by Sarasi on fodder and flattened rice. Whatever little money Kantha had, he had spent on opium
dope, without which he could not do.
The country dog Kalia was not a saleable commodity. Panchu felt safe on that account. Ujala and Bouli,
the mother and daughter, were inseparable fromm Bhajani’s life. So sellingn them off was simply out of
question. That left the ewe and it had caught Sharif Mian’s attention. Kantha sold him his splendid
possession for only five rupees. He had to, for the fire of hunger raging within had to be somehow put
out.
They set out homewards. Silent all the way. Bouli’s condition had turned from bad to worse. Its belly had
distended and the poor thing groaned and belched forth blood. Bhajani’s shoulders had gone raw from
carrying the sick calf all the distance from the fairground. Juana trailed behind, completely worn down
from the hunger and long journey. The tears which had been flowing from her eyes ever since she left
the village had not dried even for a while. Kalia scampered wearily, and at times he drew closer to Ujala
to sniff at her near the ear, making a gesture of sympathy. After walking a little further Bhajani brought
Bouli off his shoulders, and tearfully said, ‘It’s all over with Bouli, Panchu.’ Kantha and Panchu bent over
the calf, as it lay dead on the road. The last trickle of blood from its mouth had drained away it life.
Dusk had fallen. The stars in the sky glittered silently. Bhajani looked up at the sky and said to Kantha
piteously. ‘Tell me priest, how will I face Sara?’ She will be absolutely crestfallen to hear about Bouli’s
death. God never filled her womb; she had only Bouli as her daughter.
‘Bhajani, my brother, roll Bouli down the road and forget about her,’ Kantha said wiping the vermillion
mark off his forehead for the last time—and in fact he never wore it again. He added after a moment’s
pause, ‘It is our destiny. After all we are poor.’
All began to move except Kalia. He chose to stay back with the carcass for a while, and sniffed it.
Contents
Page 73
An analysis of ‘Bouli’ by Sangeeta and Bidyut Mohanty, SC
Raj Kishore Ray’s Bouli is a short story on simple and poor Odia villagers’ plight in life. The owners of a
cow and a calf, a ewe (goat), and a dog are told by the village police officer (duffadar) about a
competition of animals held in Odisha’s main city Cuttack. The poor villagers had raised their animals
with care and love. The duffadar praised their beautiful animals predicting that the animals would win
prizes in the competition. Without realizing the distance from their village to Cuttack and its possible
toll on the animals the three simple-minded villagers, along with the village priest, set forth on their
feet to Cuttack. By the time they reached the competition site the animals as well as their owners
were extremely hungry and tired. Although the villagers were told by the duffadar that there would
be proper arrangements at the competition site to take care of them and their animals no such
arrangement was there. The same happens even today to poor and country people. To their biggest
surprise they found that all the prizes went to the animals belonging to the rich, powerful, or
politically connected people.
The story was written by Raju Ray decades back. But it reminds us that nepotism and corruption,
which is rampant now was already there. Bouli, the calf, could not even walk back to the village; it
died on the way back home. The mother cow, who had the fear of being sold in Cuttack was perhaps
happy that the master did not sell her, but it had to return to the village without its calf. The priest,
who was the source of inspiration and faith lost faith in the system and God to corruption and
nepotism; and of course the simple-minded villagers went through the same. The story keeps
repeating itself after decades. Raju Raytaught Odia language in college. He has written this powerful
story detailing the simple life in Odisha villages aoft the time in a very reader-friendly manner.
Contents
Page 74
The Untrodden Path
Basanta Kumari Pattnaik
Translated by Supriya Prasanta
It was one of the countless buildings in Cuttack— a two-storied house. It looked very old indeed.
Pitambar babu lay stretched on an oil-stained armchair, puffing out of his mouth a cloud of smoke, lost
in thought. His pet dog lay at his feet, its eyes fixed on a half-emptied teacup placed on an arm of the
chair. Pitambar babu was musing over his family… It seemed like yesterday his eldest son, Mohan was
born. Now he is a doctor. Whenever he thought of him, a great sense of relief came over him. And
Maya—His only daughter. He himself did not know how often her endearing words had carried him
away. She would sit for the matriculation examination this year. In three, four years, she would, in a
way, be on her own. She is followed by his three younger sons— Pratap, Ranjan, Pahali. It would be a
fairly long time before they would grow up. The youngest, Pahali would be six in a few months. By the
time these three children were grown up, he might have bid farewell to this world.
Sometimes he felt cast down for the three younger children— he could not do much for them. But
before the clouds of melancholy could gather, his beloved daughter, Maya’s words, like a gust of fresh
air, would scatter them away. He had slogged all his life, earned a lot of money, but he had never felt so
content as he now felt in his old age in the midst of his children.
The children looked upon Mohan as their guardian. Everyone placed their demands, sorted out their
squabbles before him, as he never lost his temper. But Mohan knew that it was Maya who enjoyed real
power over the children. In fact, she was the commander-in-chief of these three little soldiers.
The children never lost sight of this fact: they would never ask Mohan for anything when he made ready
to leave for his workplace in the morning. At this time, Mohan looked very serious— as though he was
deep in thought. If someone said something, he would wave him away making a gesture by his hand to
leave him alone. And, if one still did not budge, all he would say was, ‘Wait till I come back from office.’
Children would withdraw after this.
The children also noticed that if they placed their demands before Mohan immediately after he came
home from office, half the demands would be summarily dismissed. They would restrain themselves
with much difficulty and keep quiet till Mohan finished eating. But it seemed as though they were
dragged in spite of themselves towards the dining room as Mohan sat down to take his food, their
mouths agape. Sometimes a word or two would escape their lips, but they would hold themselves back,
and, wait for Mohan outside his room. Occasionally, one of them would go to see if Mohan had finished
eating. Mohan’s face, flat like dried rice flakes when he came home from office, would look full and
rounded like roasted grains of rice after he had his fill. He would enter his room singing Sankaracharya’s
Mohamudgara. To the children it was the best time to present their demands before him. Everyone
understood this seeing Mohan’s calm face.
Contents
Page 75
That day the moment he entered his room after taking his food, in came Maya and stood beside him.
Behind her stood Pratap, Ranjan, and Pahali.
‘Brother, teachers told me at school— “Your father is a rich man; your brother is a doctor. You have to
contribute five rupees on the occasion of lord Ganesh festival.”’ said Maya.
‘Really? I’m sure, you must have appeared more than willing to offer this amount.’
‘Brother, I swear in the name of Learning, they did ask me to.’
‘Then do one thing. You give one rupee and tell them that elders at home felt that no pupil should be
asked to contribute five rupees.’ So saying, Mohan looked at Maya.
‘Ah! But why should I say such a thing? I’m in the senior most class in our school. Some pupils— they
are the daughters of kings— are offering as much as ten rupees.’
‘So?’
‘Give me five rupees.’
Pratap emerged out from behind Maya. ‘Brother, I want two rupees.’
‘What? Two rupees? What class are you in?’
‘Class seven,’ said Pratap proudly. Ranjan stood at his side.
Maya was about to leave the room with the money, but turned back, ‘Brother, why should he take two
rupees? He is, after all, in a junior class? When I was in the seventh class, I had contributed one rupee
only.’
Pratap shot back, annoyed, ‘What do you mean by ‘junior class’? We’re in the senior-most class in our
school. Other students are contributing even more. I want only two rupees.’
‘Oh! Two rupees for a student in a second-rate school! Brother, I tell you, if you give him two rupees, I’ll
take another rupee from you.’
‘Ah! Second-rate school! Don’t say that. A ramshackle shed, that’s your school.’
Mohan took the money out of his wallet and gave it to Pratap and Ranjan.
‘Give me another rupee.’ Maya demanded.
‘No!’ There was a trace of stiffness in Mohan’s voice.
‘Then take your money back… I don’t want it.’ Maya threw the money and went away in a huff.
Pahali picked up the money from the floor excitedly, saying, ‘This is mine, this is mine.’
Contents
Page 76
‘No, it’s your sister’s. Don’t take it. Well, Pahali, you don’t go to school. Where will you celebrate the
festival of lord Ganesh?’ Mohan asked looking at Pahali.
‘At home.’
‘How much do you want?’
Pahali looked at Patu-bhai, who raised one finger from behind Mohan.
‘Give me one rupee.’ said Pahali.
Mohan extended a one rupee note to Pahali, and said firmly, ‘Now, go away, all of you. I’m getting late.’
Everyone left except Pahali.
‘Yes, you? Why are you still you?’
‘I’ll not take this note. Give me a coin.’
‘Ah!’
Pahali wailed, his mouth wide open.
‘All right, all right, I’ll give you…Wait…I don’t have a one-rupee coin. I can give you two fifty-paisa coins
instead, will that do?’
‘Yes.’
Mohan gave two fifty-paisa coins in exchange of the one-rupee note and said, ‘Now, go away, otherwise
I’ll get angry’, and went out hurriedly.
Patients were already waiting for him in the drawing room by the time Mohan came home after his
evening stroll. Mohan searched for something on the table, in his hand bag, and then he went inside
and, standing in the courtyard, he called at the top of his voice, ‘Patu!’
‘Y-e-s?’ He answered from the first-floor balcony.
‘Where is my stethoscope?’
Pratap gawked at Ranjan and, after a moment’s pause, mumbled, ‘We don’t know.’
Mohan was incensed. ‘Who had come to this room?’
‘We hadn’t.’
‘Maya!’ shouted Mohan.
‘Maya, Can’t you hear me?’ He said in exasperation as he did not get any reply from her.
Contents
Page 77
‘Why do you call me?’ She retorted.
‘Where’s my stetho?’
‘How do I know? I never touch your things.’
‘Oh, these people won’t let me live in peace in this house.’
Mohan intuitively knew that Maya had hidden it somewhere, but his anger would only make things
worse. He calmed himself down and said, ‘Then come here and help me find it.’
Like monkey soldiers raiding Lanka, Patu, Ranju and Pahali bounded into Mohan’s room spiritedly. Maya
remained seated, her head slightly tilted. From time to time, she threw side glances in the direction of
the drawing room, and muttered between her teeth, ‘Marvellous. Splendid. How funny!’
The children got an opportunity to enter Mohan’s room. The moment they found themselves inside the
room, their eyes fell on the letters piled on the table. Instead of looking for the stetho, they pretended
to tidy up the table while actually looking for postage stamps glued on the envelopes.
‘Why, could the stetho slip, by any chance, into these envelopes?’
Startled, the two older ones said, ‘No, we thought it might be lying buried under the stack of papers.’
‘It’s not on the table. Search elsewhere.’
They rummaged around the room and, after quite a while, the stetho was discovered in a corner behind
the closet. Maya boiled with rage when she saw Mohan proceeding to examine his patients, stetho in
hand.
Such incidents, it was found, occurred quite frequently— Mohan would find his books scattered all over
and often his closet lay open and things inside it were in a mess.
Maya grew angrier as the day of Lord Ganesh festival drew nearer. The situation became so difficult
that, one evening, on his way back home from his daily round, Mohan brought with him a packet of
chocolates and toffees. He laid it on Maya’s table and asked her, ‘Won’t you contribute anything to Lord
Ganesh festival at your school?’
Maya pretended as though she had not noticed the packet of chocolates, and without taking her eyes
off the book said, ‘No.’
‘Please, Maya. Don’t be so cross.’
Saying this, Mohan took the money out of his purse and put it on the table. ‘Five rupees.’
‘I tell you, I won’t take this.’
‘All right, I give you another rupee as a penalty.’
Maya still did not budge. The moment Mohan left the room she sprang like a monkey and looked
around to see if Mohan had gone out of sight. When she was sure of this she counted out the money,
Contents
Page 78
kept it inside a book and picked a chocolate out of the packet. She put it into her mouth, and closed her
eyes to savour it, and told herself— ‘Awful, awful.’ She brought the packet closer with great detachment
and peered into it. She tried another chocolate, sucked its juice once, chewed it, full of irritation, and
said to herself loudly, ‘Only sugar… Ah! Am I a kid! I’m being cheated!’
Pratap, Ranjan and Pahali watched this from a distance. If they ventured to come near her, Maya would
beat them all. She had been in a foul temper since that day, when they had an argument over the
contribution to the Ganesh festival. But Mohan had whispered to them, ‘I’ve given chocolates to Maya.
She’ll herself give some to you. Don’t press her to give you any.’ The children felt at a loss. What would
they do? If they went to Maya and pestered her, she would get even angrier and refuse to give them a
single chocolate. And if they didn’t approach her, she might eat all the chocolates herself? What was she
tasting so much? The children grew anxious.
As Maya tasted more chocolates, the displeasure on her face grew even more visible. At last, she put
another one into her mouth, and was about to push the packet away, when, suddenly, the expression
on her face changed. Now Maya stretched herself on the chair, the chocolate inside her mouth. She
sucked its juice and, one after another, the rigid lines on her face faded. Her eyes remained wide open,
but she didn’t see anything. She let the flavour of the chocolate spread through her mouth, it seemed
as though it etched lines of impressions on her mind and Maya busied herself reading those lines
rapturously. She took another chocolate of this kind and threw a glance at the children.
‘Well, gentlemen, why are you staring at me like demons?’
‘Tasty?’ Pratap asked.
‘Well, you all come here.’ Before Maya had finished saying this, they all came and lined up before her.
She emptied the packet of chocolates on the table, and arranged them according to their flavour, and
divided them into four parts. She wrote down on three pieces of paper the names of the three children
and rolled them filling them with chocolates. She kept them separately on the table and said to the
children, ‘I’ll give you chocolates. But you will have to do something for me?’
‘Yes,’ they answered in a dry voice.
Maya patted their back and said, ‘Wonderful, Very good! This is what all good boys do. Always obey
your elders…Well, Patu, go to the kitchen, there the cook is making banana cutlets. You ask for two
cutlets saying you want them for yourself. Bring them on a plate, and yes, don’t forget to bring a fork.
Listen Ranju, go to the store room and bring a fistful of tamarind pickle that mother has prepared in the
noon. If someone finds you out, don’t say that I told you to do this. Take the blame on yourself,
understand? Say that you wanted to eat the pickle. Say that you wanted to eat… you wanted to
eat…Remember?’
Then she gave Pahali a pitiful look one usually reserves for an invalid, and said, ‘What can you do for
me? Well, go and fetch me a glass of water. But mind you! Don’t try to show off while bringing it up and
spill water all over the staircase. If you do, you will get to know who I am. Go.’
The army of soldiers marched off — only the commander sat at the table looking at a book. The pre-test
examination was to be held fifteen days later. A minute seemed as long as an age to her— she listened
carefully for sounds of footsteps on the staircase. At last, she said in disgust, ‘No, it would be dawn
before these boys came back.’ She pushed the book away impatiently. But how could she sit idle? The
Contents
Page 79
examination was fast approaching. She had not yet gone through the geography lessons. She drew the
geography book towards her and opened it in the middle, but she pushed it away after reading eight or
ten lines. Such a rotten book! Still no one appeared. What would she do? It was an utter waste of time,
waiting for the boys. She picked up the English book. Five minutes later, it suffered the same fate as the
book on geography. The commander wondered if all the soldiers had been killed or taken prisoners on
the field. She grew tense and munched the chocolate nervously.
After a while, Ranjan came in, carrying the pickles. The commander felt a little relieved. Life flowed back
to her limbs. But she should not express her anxiety. She straightened herself on the chair, and asked
gravely, ‘Why are you so late? Did mother see you?’
‘Before she came, I hid it inside my pocket.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘They’re coming.’
Maya tasted a little pickle and then extended a packet of chocolate to Ranjan—‘Take this.’
Pratap came in, a plate in hand.
‘Why did you take so long? Did you plant a banana tree and wait till it bore fruit? Lazy!’
‘I could bring the cutlets only when the cook gave them to me! He kept saying it’s finished, it’s finished
and took ages.’
‘Did anyone ask you anything?’
‘No.’
‘All right, go.’ She handed a packet to Pratap.
Now she felt at peace with herself and thought— Only Pahali is left. It did not matter now if he came or
not. And if he would be caught nothing would happen for I had merely asked him to fetch me a glass of
water. Would anyone hang me for this?
Maya laid out the chocolates, the cutlets, and the pickles in a line on the table. She raised her head, and
tried to decide what she would read. She gave one look at the chocolates, cutlets and the pickle and
another at the books— geometry, geography and English— lying open on the table. She could not bring
herself to go through any of these. She stood up and took the book, Pretapurire Goinda (The Detective
in the Kingdom of Ghosts) gingerly out of the bookshelf, and settled back into her chair. The table
calendar reminded her time and again that the examination was only fifteen days away. She turned the
calendar towards the wall in disgust. But what of that? Even the back of the calendar seemed to
threaten her, ‘Work at your studies, only fifteen days left before your examination…’
‘So what? I would have dozed off by now. Now, I would read the story book instead of falling asleep.
I’ve borrowed this book from the library; I cannot return it without having read it!’ Maya reasoned with
herself.
Contents
Page 80
Maya sliced a cutlet with the fork, and took a bite as she opened the book. A quarrel now broke out
between her eyes and her palate. When she tried to concentrate on the book, the movement inside her
mouth slowed. When she munched the cutlet, her reading speed slowed; in this manner, her eyes and
her mouth kept each other busy. At this time, Maya’s father entered the room looking for his wife.
Maya read on, relishing the tamarind pickle— she did not know when her father had come and stood
behind her.
Pitambar babu was about to say something, but when his eyes fell on the table, he held back. He now
stood before Maya and asked, ‘Can you ever memorize anything if you read like this?’
At this point, the detective had reached a place where shots were being fired incessantly and a stream
of blood was flowing— ‘Help, help,’ the sky echoed with the cries. This far cry was beating at Maya’s
ears like drums. When exciting events like these were unfolding, could anyone take one’s eyes off the
pages? Pitambar babu’s question hit Maya’s ears but only the sound, not its meaning, reached her.
However, she did sense that someone was telling her something. Who could it be? It must be the
servant, none else; every night he came and called her for dinner. Maya kept her eyes focused on her
book and waved him away, saying, ‘Go, I have lessons to complete. I shan’t eat now—go.’
‘What are you reading so avidly? Let me have a look.’
Maya started when she heard her father’s voice and was at a loss where to hide the book and began
shouting in confusion— ‘Everybody will have food, I’ll do the dishes!’
She hid the book in a rack, where Pitambar babu would never find it. She stood between him and the
rack, holding a plate in one hand and the pickles in the other.
‘What book were you reading?’
‘Literature.’ replied Maya promptly.
Pitambar babu examined the table and said, ‘All kinds of books lie open here on the table, why did you
keep it there? Bring it over, let me take a look.’
Maya said, sounding cross, ‘I won’t talk to you at all. You had promised to gift me a wrist watch. Don’t
blame me if I fail in the examination. How would I answer all questions on time if I don’t have a wrist
watch? There is only one wall clock in the school.’
‘Why are you so worried about the watch? You can wear mine.’
‘Papa, what a wise man you are! You make me laugh. You are so fat! Just imagine, will your watch fit my
wrist?’ Maya rolled laughing heartily.
‘But all you need is to know the time.’
‘Eh, I shall never put that odd watch on my wrist. I may not sit for the examination, and Papa,
remember; the dial of my watch should not be bigger than the size of a tamarind seed. Otherwise, you
will bring a big-dialled watch and say, ‘My little mother, I have grown old. I forgot what you had asked
for.’
Contents
Page 81
‘How many days are left before your examination?’
‘How does that matter? You must buy me a watch.’
‘Will you pass the examination?’
‘I shall, for sure, if I get a watch.’ Maya knew pretty well that she would never get a watch in fifteen
days, so she would not hold herself responsible if she failed.
Just at this time, a glass full of water in hand, Pahali walked into the room with careful steps. He had
spilled water all over the veranda.
He was breathing heavily as he had climbed up the steps. One of his cheeks was smeared with pickles
and oil stains were visible round his lips. His breath smelled of cutlets. Pahali laid the glass of water on
Maya’s table with great care when she screamed, clenching her teeth, ‘You helped yourself to pickles
and cutlet while on the ground floor, and now you come to my room to have a drink of water. Didn’t the
water go down your throat there that you brought it over here? Go away, take that glass.’
Pahali looked at Maya in surprise.
‘Will you leave or face my wrath.’
‘My chocolates…’ muttered Pahali and extended his hand towards his packet.
‘Your chocolates? Brother had brought these for me, now this fellow calls them, my chocolates…!’ Like
an eagle snatching its prey, Maya picked up the packet from the table.
Pahali could control himself no more. He sat down there and howled, ‘Mother, listen to me, sister is not
giving me my share of chocolates.’
Pitambar babu, who was observing all this silently, now said, ‘So this is how you are preparing for your
exams. I’m sure, you won’t get through this time.’
‘Oh, yes, that you can be sure of!’
‘You know, I’m your father?’
‘Everybody in our school knows that you are my father. And don’t I know this, being your daughter?’
Maya tried to make light of the situation.
‘Stop this nonsense.’
‘I knew making fun of something was nonsense, but I didn’t know that speaking the truth was
nonsense,’ said Maya, assuming an air of injured innocence.
‘Maya! You’ve got completely spoilt.’ said Pitambar babu severely.
Contents
Page 82
‘Yes, go on… why did you stop? As though you have employed ten people to pamper me… go on, go on…
here I ask for food and no one offers a little food to me… remaining on an empty stomach has brought
on an attack of acidity— I would not be able to eat when the cook serves food—all of it would be given
to the cows in the end…So when I feel hungry, I gulp something down and, at once, the stirring inside
my stomach subsides… And, again, do I get it easily? I’ve to put off my studies and hang around the
kitchen for hours on end; only then do I get something to eat. But, during the time of examination, can I
spare so much time? I don’t care if I fall ill. Everyone would ask the cook on my behalf and eat to their
heart’s content and when asked, the cook would say—‘Sister had had food.’ Oh, in this house I’m not
looked upon as a human being— I’m treated like a goat, a dog. I would yell and my voice would grow
hoarse and crack; no one would bother to answer me.’
Maya looked into Pitambar babu’s eyes—there was no trace of sympathy in them—instead there was
firmness. Now Maya had no option but to cry. But she could not shed even a drop of tear. What would
she do? She felt terribly vexed with herself—at such a moment of crisis if a few drops of tear would not
rise to these eyes, it would be better if this pair of eyes went blind.
Maya blubbered, ‘Why didn’t mother throttle me in the lying-in room?’ She pretended to wipe her tears
with her sari end, and, as she did it, she rubbed her eyes with her pickle-smeared hand. ‘But, why should
she… if in this way, the servants in the house, everyone does not kill me a little every day— how would
she feel happy? How I wish I had been born into another family; at least, I would have enjoyed some
kind of freedom— what do I get here?’ Maya removed the sari end covering her eyes to look up at
Pitambar babu. She could not see properly—her eyes smarted and closed in spite of herself. What
would she do—she covered her eyes with her palms and the tears now rolled freely down her cheeks.
***
Contents
Page 83
An analysis of ‘Amadabata’ by Prajesh Nandini Dash and Prabir Dash, TN
This story is a perfect example of how literature reflects social norms and issues pertinent to the exact
time of the era. The writer discernably portrays all characters, except Maya, with typical family values
which were appropriately expected and observed by most families for generations. “This is what all
good boys do- Always obey your elders,” (pg. 11) Maya said to her brothers when she wanted them to
go even with her mischievous plan. However, Maya herself symbolizes the beginning of the women’s
demand for sovereignty which she mandates in a micro level from a family of masculine characters,
but in a macro level from the society as a whole.
The beginning of the story describes Pitambar Babu musing over his life with tremendous satisfaction.
His professional achievements, which rewarded him with lots of money, and his personal life with his
eldest son, a doctor, ready to take over the family responsibilities, were the points of contentment.
However, his only daughter Maya was a different story. Instead of a sweet obedient girl to be given
away in a marriage one day, “she should be on her own,” (pg. 1) Maya is defiant, bossy, and most of
all daring, which surpasses a mere, young woman’s teenage rebellion. Pitamber Babu’s thoughts
about Maya reflects the writer’s own conflicting emotions about the women’s rights of that time
period.
It was confusing to guess what the writer was portraying when she wrote about Pitamber Babu’s
thinking. “But before clouds of melancholy could gather, his beloved daughter, Maya’s words, like a
gush of fresh air, would shatter them away,” (pg. 2) This line, which relates to something refreshing,
somehow insists on the fact that he was not really troubled with Maya’s defiance. In actuality, Maya’s
arguments with her father, which comes at the end of the story, may not be that childish after all.
At least to this critic, Maya’s boisterousness crosses a thin barrier of feminism.
The writer, may have an inner feeling where she is looking for a way to show a contrast of a young
woman caught between two worlds; the present, where independence is frowned upon, and the
future, which represents today’s society. Nearly after more than half a century of this story’s
publication, one can see the subtle challenge of this writer, who could faintly envision the future of
women. The writer may have only seen the untrodden path in front of her, but today, many 21st
century women have journeyed across that road to find ample success.
Contents
Page 84
The Man Who Yearned To See A
Camel
Manoj Das
Translated by Biswajit Khandai
Some eighty years ago, Shivakumar had learned in a primary school textbook that the camel is called
“the ship of the desert”. The text had an illustration of the camel too. Shivakumar was quite charmed by
it. Only, he was unsure whether to have pity or fear for that intriguing hump on the camel’s back.
An intense desire to see the camel had been aroused in Shivakumar. Soon, an opportunity appeared
too. A reputed sadhu came to camp at a fairground a few miles away. With the sadhu were over a
hundred disciples, capable of singing devotional songs non-stop, and a dozen generously yielding milch
cows. But above all, for some unknown reason, the sadhu also had a hale and hearty camel !
Unfortunately, having spent much of the Sunday swimming and diving in the muddy river water,
Shivakumar suddenly took ill. When the rest of the boys of the village donned their formal clothes and
set out to view the camel, he had to stay back, only to shed tears in loneliness.
Back from the fairground, having their prestige enhanced by the first-hand viewing of the camel, the
boys just could not stop boasting their newfound knowledge. “The camel can change its colours like a
chameleon,” said one. Another said, “The camel’s hump contains amazing substances that fill the
neighborhood with fragrance!”
It took Shivakumar a whole year to realize that these were blatant fabrications.
Soon after Shivakumar came to the town for higher studies, he was thrilled to find a second opportunity
to see the camel. A touring circus was visiting the town. A colorful advertisement was previewing
something like a tango between a minimally-clad young lady and a sophisticated camel !
Just as the sun was setting down, Shivakumar was getting ready to go to the circus.
All of a sudden a stranger ran into the house, like a wild animal fleeing from a hunter’s trap. He settled
down onto the cot, and started wiping his profusely sweating forehead - using Shivakumar’s towel.
New to the town, Shivakumar was watching the intruder with disbelief, convincing himself that he
needed to get used to these special etiquettes of the town.
“If they ask you, you must tell them you didn’t see any stranger. If they come in to the house and spot
me, tell them I am your uncle from the village, and an asthma patient. I am here for treatment,” the
stranger offered this bit of forceful advice.
Contents
Page 85
“Uncle ? Asthma patient ?” asked an incredulous Shivakumar.
“Is that shocking ? Can’t uncle have asthma ?” counter-questioned the stranger, now stretching out
comfortably on the bed.
Barely three minutes would have gone by, when two sweat-drenched policemen stormed into the
house, demanding to know if anyone was being sheltered there.
“Yes,” said Shivakumar. Till that moment, he had believed it would only be proper to get the stranger
apprehended. But to his utter amazement, he heard his own voice, “My uncle. A patient of asthma.”
As soon as the policemen left, the stranger leaped out of the bed, standing up straight. His face was
glowing with the joy of having made a major discovery.
“You are quite clever ! If you had answered ‘No, none’, they would have certainly got suspicious seeing
me. Bravo ! You deserve a reward ! Let’s go.” the stranger patted Shivakumar’s back and offered this
unwanted compliment.
“I have no interest in a reward, sir. I am getting ready to go, watch a circus,” said Shivakumar, hurrying
up.
The stranger burst into a loud laugh.
Until then, Shivakumar had never known a laugh could be so powerful and moving. At first, he felt
ashamed. Quickly, the shame gave way to a realization that in British-occupied India, a young man had
much more meaningful things to do than watching a circus.
Shivakumar had very narrowly missed the second opportunity to see the camel. But he had found a
purpose.
Soon, the small rented house was converted into a clandestine operations center for the revolutionary
freedom fighters.
In due course, police raided the house, and arrested him. But the revolutionaries had been clever to
cover their tracks well. The charges could not be proved due to lack of evidence.
Acquitted, Shivakumar started working with doubled up zeal. He went on a spree of setting up
revolutionary centers across the region, disguised as wrestling and recreation clubs. His message was,
“Only a countrywide armed rebellion can earn us freedom from the British rule.”
Horrified by the activities of their son, his parents promptly put him through the nuptials. But the
marriage and even the birth of a son did not deter Shivakumar from his chosen path.
Eventually he was apprehended again, in the middle of the night – this time with some important
documents. A liaison between his organization and a small division of the army was exposed with
evidence. He was exiled to the Andamans.
Contents
Page 86
It was during the torture and hopelessness of the exile that the thought of “the camel” came back to
haunt him. One day, when a co-prisoner told him how the camel is often subjected to unbearable loads
on its back, but never protests by any means other than sighs and tears, Shivakumar had his own eyes
well up.
After many long years, Shivakumar was released from the Andamans. At the time, he looked like a ghost
of his former self. Malnutrition, unsanitary conditions, and the harsh labor in the prison had left him
nearly disabled. He had little hope for the future of the armed revolution. His parents, and his wife –
whom he had only barely got to know – had all passed away by then.
A novel breed of freedom fighters had sprung up in the country, and taken a firm grip over the freedom
struggle. Shivakumar could not understand them at all.
The only thing that gave him a shred of satisfaction was the fact that his son had also joined the freedom
struggle. However, that satisfaction could not grow very deep, because he could never accept the point
of view of his son towards the struggle.
“We shall confront the enemy with non-violence and love,” said the son with a smile.
The son’s effortless eloquence and white attire pleased him, but the substance of his argument did not
impress Shivakumar at all.
“Look, young man. I am afraid such a doctrine will only suit people who are not prepared to face might
with might.
Hordes of cowards will get a chance to masquerade as patriots. That would be the misfortune of the
country. The glory and honour that should be the due of the true heroes would be misappropriated by
these opportunists. Right now Mother India needs true sacrifice from the worthiest of her children. Not
this fake offering.” Shivakumar had said.
But times were changing rapidly. Shivakumar did not find many people around who would understand
his sentiment, much less accept it.
Again and again, he made plans to undertake a travel across the country. His goal was to pass time, as
also to find and meet any revolutionary patriots like him who might still survive here and there. Another
desire, lurking in his subconscious, was to visit Rajasthan and view live camels to his heart’s content.
But his poor health never allowed him to act on his plan.
At the same time, his son was rising to fame very rapidly. Notable people used to remark to Shivakumar
how he must be very proud of his son. As a duty-bound father, he did make an effort to feel such pride.
But at a massive public rally organized shortly before independence, he could not contain his emotions
anymore.
Contents
Page 87
He said, “The partition of India and the communal bloodshed that followed were only the natural
consequences of promoting the cowardly and the deceitful people all over the country in the name of
non-violence.
You kept beating the drum of non-violence, without an iota of the spiritual discipline needed to actually
practise it. All along, the devil of violence within you was laughing away at your self-betrayal and
charade. But you could not hear his laughter amid your own drumbeats. When his time came, the same
devil reduced you to nothing but a laughing stock of history.”
The would-be ministers seated on the stage - among them Shivakumar’s son - felt very uneasy.
Shivakumar was not invited to any public forums thereafter.
After independence, the son became a deputy minister and in due course, rose to become a minister.
Inside the ministerial bungalow, Shivakumar was provided a room equipped with rubber-foam mattress,
a radio, and an attached bathroom with running hot water. In the outside world, he was quickly
forgotten. Every now and then, he would get the vision of still being jailed in the solitary cell of the
Andamans. However, he quickly realized that it was just an illusion.
Suddenly one day, he was remembered with much pomp and fuss. They took him to a public ceremony.
On a well-decorated stage, he was decked with heavy garlands made of flower and aromatic camphor
balls. Amid loud applause, they presented him a copper plaque.
On this joyous occasion, a sad reality also manifested itself – that Shivakumar was starting to lose his
sanity. While accepting the plaque, the old man mumbled, “What good is this plaque ? I had thought
they would show me a camel !” This bit was picked up by the shrewd and sleek secretary of
Shivakumar’s son, who was standing behind the old man to assist him.
When the minister heard about this, he sighed, “Indeed, I haven’t had enough opportunity to look after
father, just as father didn’t have enough time to look after me.”
“Sir, devoting his life to the country is at the root of all this.” remarked the secretary.
Shivakumar was promptly forgotten again. He started passing most of his time just dozing off, or
listening to fairytales narrated by his grandson. He also got to see a lot of monochrome and coloured
pictures of camels, courtesy his grandson.
A picketing was going on in front of the minister’s bungalow. The picketers were split into several
groups, each group doing a hunger strike for half a day, taking turns. They passed the long hours by
mostly playing cards and chewing paan. Intermittently, they would get into a bout of sloganeering,
glorifying their trade union, and heaping scorn upon the government authorities.
In the afternoon, Shivakumar had stepped out onto the balcony. Noticing the demonstrators, he asked
his son, “What do these people want ?”
“Higher salary.” said the son.
Contents
Page 88
“Why don’t you pay them ?” asked Shivakumar.
“Father, all of them are paid quite nicely.”
“Then, why are they complaining ?”
The minister only coughed in reply.
“Alright, let me go, find out, and persuade them.” Shivakumar said, gripping his walking stick hard, and
looking for the way downstairs.
“Father, listen to me. You don’t need to get involved in this. Please leave this to us !”
“Leave this to ‘you’ ?” roared Shivakumar. “ You ?” His anger suddenly took over, and cut his voice off.
He reached the staircase. A servant was rushing to assist him, but the minister signaled him to keep off.
It took Shivakumar almost five minutes to get downstairs. All of a sudden, his grandson came running,
and grabbed his hand.
“Grandpa, would you like to see camels ? A lot of them have gathered in the field across the river. Can
we go ?”
“Camels ? A lot of them ? Of course we will go, but…”
“We better hurry, grandpa, or else the camels will disperse !” the grandson tugged at the old man’s
hand.
The duo exited through the rear door. The chauffeur was already waiting with the car. It took them half
an hour to reach the river bank. During this time, Shivakumar had been frequently exclaiming “Aah ”.
He habitually made this brief expression whenever he anticipated the fulfillment of a long-held desire.
A cool sunset was descending on the mountain range in the distance.
“There, the camels !” said the grandson, alighting from the car near the bridge, and pointing his finger at
the horizon.
“Where ? Where ?” Shivakumar asked, eagerly glancing in all directions.
“Right there, they are going away ! Your eyesight being as poor as it is, you could not possibly expect to
see them any better than that.” explained the grandson.
“Alright, alright, I do see, but ..” Shivakumar was gazing hard into the smoky horizon.
“I guess that is enough for this time. Let’s go now. Can we go somewhere else ? How about the park ?”,
suggested the grandson.
Contents
Page 89
“Somewhere else ? Why ? How could I possibly leave without seeing the camels properly ? They are so
magnificent !”
“No, grandpa, let’s go from here,” the grandson started insisting.
But Shivakumar would not budge. The grandson kept tugging at his hand, his walking stick, and his shirt.
In spite of this, he kept desperately gazing hard into the distance, wiping his glasses again and again.
Quickly, his childlike eagerness morphed into a certain steeliness. He fixed his gaze on his grandson.
“Where are the camels ?” demanded Shivakumar.
Before the grandson could say anything, he thundered, “Answer me, you liar !”
The grandson had never heard such a tone of voice of his grandfather. He looked miserable.
“Father asked me to lead you out of home, on the pretext of showing you camels. He rewarded me with
this in return,” the grandson pulled out a chocolate bar from his pocket and displayed.
Shivakumar slumped down and screamed louder, “So what if they cheated me with a copper plaque ? I
was already the past. But you are future ! How could you sell yourself for a bar of chocolate?”
The grandson started weeping.
Shivakumar hugged the boy and sat him down on his lap. “Weep. You must weep it out,” he said with a
calm resolve. They stayed seated there quietly for a long time, oblivious of the darkness that kept
growing around them.
Contents
Page 90
An analysis of the story by Biswajit Khandai
I had read Shri Manoj Das’ Odia short story ‘oTa’ almost 35 years ago, as part of a short-story
collection. Each and every short story of Manoj Das is a gem, but this story left such an impact on me
that I still remember some sentences from the story verbatim, in Odia.
Here is my personal view of the non-violent struggle : Non-violence may be a worthwhile practice at a
personal level, but as a mass movement against a tyrannical enemy who felt no remorse of the
Jalianwala Bagh massacre, non-violence was not the right tool. Many of Gandhi’s followers were mere
opportunists who jumped on the bandwagon.
In the story, Shivakumar castigates the public for attempting to practice the lofty art of non-violence,
“You kept beating the drum of non-violence, without an iota of the spiritual discipline needed to
actually practise it. All along, the devil of violence within you was laughing away at your self-betrayal
and charade. But you could not hear his laughter amid your own drumbeats. When his time came, the
same devil reduced you to nothing but a laughing stock of history.”
The story is all about powerful metaphors and representations. The camel itself is a metaphor for the
militant freedom fighters. The camel goes through all the hardship to make life easy for the humans,
but it is neither revered like a cow, nor romanticized like a lion. The militant freedom fighters, who
made the ultimate sacrifice for the country, were left totally unsung in history.
The minister is a representation of the first-generation of post-independence politicians – often wily
and power-hungry, they did everything in their power to ensure that the armed fighters never got
their due place and honour in history.
The grandson is a representation of the subsequent generations of politicians as well as common
citizens, who would sell their souls easily for favors. The lament of Shivakumar to his grandson at the
end of the story captures the precipitous rise of corruption in the society, “So what if they cheated me
with a copper plaque ? I was already the past. But you are future ! How could you sell yourself for a
bar of chocolate?”
Contents
Page 91
The Letter from a School Girl and
Chocolate
Adhyapak Biswaranjan
Translated by Gopa Nayak
“After being rejected by girls from the college I fell in love with a girl from a school.”
This was a line from one of the stories written by Priya Ranjan during his college days. The title of the
story was - ‘The girl from a school’. In the early seventies when his first collection of stories was
published he had included this story. Did he ever imagine that after almost twenty to twenty two years a
school girl would read the story and would indeed fall in love with him and write a letter to him?
However, sometimes these kinds of things happen. Things which are beyond the imagination of anyone
and yet they come back to reality in flesh and blood. These things help to establish a relationship with
life.
Today such as an incident which is beyond imagination has taken place in Priya Ranjan’s life. He has a
letter in a closed envelope in his fist. His name along with his address has been written in beautiful
round letters in pink sketch pen on a deep yellow coloured envelope. After a long time he discovered the
letter in the lifeless wooden letter box placed in front of the gate to his house. Most of the days, the box
remains empty.
However, every day he opens it and closes it. He never gets any letter bearing any clue of life or
excitement inside the box. Almost all of his letters come to his college address. And most of the letters
are request letters either for a personal favour or from journals and periodicals to send his writing. Who
has time to write a letter purely out of friendship? Sometimes, of course, there are some courtesy letters
from readers. He did not have face to face interaction with such readers. Only the letters either applaud
or criticise his writing. Priyaranjan even fails to write two lines in reply to these letters. Letters come only
if you send letters. Then again when letters come, you have to write letters. However, for Priyaranjan
writing letters and receiving letters had become a thing of the past—a story with pleasant memories.
Are those memories coming back to reality again after so many years? The letter written in pink ink in
beautiful handwriting in a closed envelope sent to his address was a pleasant surprise to Priyaranjan. As
soon as he held the letter in his hand he felt the shiver running through his heart like that of a young
lover. He could not open the letter immediately. Who knows what mystery would be there inside the
letter. In reality as soon as he opened the letter he realised the uniqueness of the letter. Before finishing
the letter his eyes went towards the end of the letter. Instead of the regular ending there was ‘yours
affectionately the girl from a school’.
Who was this school girl? How did she know Priyaranjan? Hope she was not Nisha from his college days,
the girl who would keep on waiting for him after coming from school. When Priyaranjan was in the third
year of his college Nisha was a student from the eighth grade. That was a long time back. The school girl
of the past now must be waiting at her doorstep not for Priyaranjan but for her beloved husband and her
daughter to come back from school. Priya had kept track of her and knew that she was staying with her
Contents
Page 92
husband and her three daughters far away from Odisha in Durgapur.
The letter was local. It was posted from Baripada. Priyaranjan had come to this town almost a year back.
It was a transfer by choice. After living in Bhubaneswar for a long time he wanted a change. He was
becoming restless in the light and colour of the capital city. And when he thought about transfer
Baripada came to his mind. He remembered the great literary figures and academicians like Mahapatra
Nilamani Sahoo, Chandrashekhar Rath and Hrudananda Ray. They had told him many times – ’Dear
academician, do go to Baripada once in your life time. During your working life you must have stayed in
different places. However, you will find that the experience of living in Baripada is unique, especially for a
poet and writer like you.’ He had come to Baripada to pursue that dream of uniqueness. He wondered
around in the library and in the nooks and corners of the small town. He wrote if he wanted to or just
whiled away his time not write anything. Time passed easily. He was free from the chains of his family for
a long time.
Amidst that freedom the letter from the unknown school girl came with signs of chains. Priyaranjan was
reading. The girl had addressed him as ‘sir’. She had started the letter abruptly without following any
protocol of letter writing. She had written- Do you remember, Sir, you had come to our school last month
as the chief guest of our Annual Function? No I am mistaken. You came as the chief speaker. Some
minister was the chief guest. In the name of giving speech the minister spoke some nonsense in a loud
voice. We were very irritated. It was so hot that we were sweating. What could we do? We just sat like
obedient girls. No one was interested in listening to your speech. Then it was your turn. The senior
teacher in our school had put you in a pedestal. It seemed you were a good writer, good academician
and things of that sort. During that introduction our senior teacher told us she was your student when
she was in college. After listening to her praises for you my friends sitting next to me said that- ‘our
senior teacher must have been in love with this sir’.
Anyway it was finally your chance to speak. It was as if someone fanned my body full of sweat. Really,
even after you finished your speech I felt as if you had something else to speak. I was looking at your
face with rapt attention. Unlike the Minister, you did not talk for a long time neither you gave any advice.
At the end of your speech you said, ‘Learn to love. Learn to smile. Learn to live with a smile.’
After I listened to you I wanted to ask you a question. However, we did not have any classes with you.
Whatever I could not ask there I am asking you now. Tell me, Sir, can anyone learn to love? You are a
senior teacher in a college. You are well educated. You have written so many books. You are teaching
grownup students. I am a girl who has not even matriculated from school. I could not understand how
one would learn to love. After listening to you I did not have to learn anything from anyone on how to
love. I fell in love with you that very moment. I felt nice just looking at you. I felt like- you should be
talking and I would be listening. The meeting would never end.
You must be aware, Sir – That day in our school function I was supposed to get two prizes. The first prize
on needlework and the other one was second prize on singing. The prizes were being distributed by the
minister. However, I kept on thinking- How I wish I had received the prizes from you! The Almighty
heeded to my words. The minister had some important engagements so he just distributed a few prizes
and left. After that the responsibility of distributing the prizes was yours. When my name was called my
heart started beating rapidly. I felt excited but I was shy as well. Anyway after receiving the prizes from
you I extended my hand for a handshake rather than folding my hands for a namaskar as was the
practice followed by others. My hands met yours. The feelings of that moment were difficult to explain. I
wished I could stand there with my hand on yours.
Contents
Page 93
After returning home I asked my elder sister about you. She told me that you teach very well. I asked her
to get some of your books if they would be available in her college library. She looked at my face. She
said, “This year you have to sit for your matriculation examination. As it is you hardly sit down to study
and on top of it you want to read story books?” I kept quiet. However, I knew until I read your book I
could not concentrate on my studies.
It was quite late in the night. My elder sister had gone to sleep. I had been writing to you all nonsense
under the pretext of attending to my studies. I wonder what you must be thinking. Now that’s enough if
my sister gets up and notices that I am writing a letter to you instead of studying then everything will be
wrong. I could not trust her even though she was my sister. Had she ever shared her love story and
letters with me or will she ever do that? Now I will put the letter in my chest and sleep. I can’t get any
sleep. The school function, your speech- everything is coming to me....... Goodbye. I will write another
day.
Today I am very happy. I have your story book in my hand. My elder sister indeed got your book from her
college library after that initial request. This is your first book. It was published twenty two years back.
The cover of the book is loose. Whoever had read the book earlier had underlined some lines in the
book with red pen. Almost all the stories in the book had the same theme. I liked the story ‘school girl’
the most. Did you really fall in love with a girl from a school? And had the school girl really left you? Is it
really true or have you just framed the story out of imagination? Why do you defame girls for no rhyme
or reason? Irrespective of whether they are from schools or colleges, girls love their teachers but they
don’t want to marry them – this is what you have said. Why do you blame everyone when one or two
may have done that? Just see, I have not had much interaction with you. I don’t know you. I have fallen
in love with you for real just by listening about you. I have forgotten all about my studies and
examination and I am just reading your books. I am writing a letter to you. If I ask you to marry me, will
you agree........?
That’s it, The letter had ended with a big surprise question. Not only had the letter ended but the girl’s
thoughts and letters had come to an end. That was an incredible experience. The girl had asked him a
question but she had not waited for an answer. There was no name or address to get the answer.
Priyaranjan kept the letter in its place and went and stood in front of the mirror. How old is he now? The
hair on his head had been receding from the front and had gathered at the end. Whatever was left of the
hair had lost their natural colour. However, this letter from the school girl had as if come with the
promise to return him his lost glory.
Yet again promises, yet again waiting. Again anxiety and excitement in a stagnant life. As if there is no
end to the anxiety. No end to waiting. Priyaranjan thought to himself- his life had been an endless
waiting. The hope of getting something; the happiness from the hope and aspirations are always more
than the sorrow of loss. The present keeps wavering between the unreal existence of the past and the
future. Almost in a similar fashion, Priyaranjan had started swinging between hope and anxiety.
Who is this school girl? Does she really love him? Then why did she keep her identity secret? What does
she really want from her? When will another letter come from her? When? The excitement that had
waned started to rise again.
Priyaranjan had started reading poems from his collection of manuscripts. He had even finished writing
Contents
Page 94
two poems.
After a few days Priya received his much awaited letter again – the letter from the school girl. The letters
begin suddenly without any introduction and in a similar fashion end without any conclusion. This is
letter number three. The letter had only the number and date written on the top.
The letter runs like –
Today brother Ashok (Ashok Bhai) had come. He is remotely connected to me as a brother. However,
actually my elder sister is in love with him. He is studying in Vani Vihar. He is in his final year pursuing a
Master’s degree in Arts. He is a good student. He writes both poems and stories well. His writings have
been published in different magazines and journals. He writes regularly to my sister from Vani Vihar. I
have secretly read those letters of my sister many times. As soon as I saw him I asked him about you. It
seems he was also your student in B.J.B College. I was delighted to know that he has a good relation with
you. He told me that a new book of yours has been published recently. I have told him to get me the
book. He has agreed to it. However, my sister started showing off her elderliness. She said, ‘She is now
addicted to story books. Let the exams finish.’ I did not say anything. Ashok Bhai took me into confidence
and asked me - ‘Have you fallen in love with our favourite teacher?’ I smiled and said, ‘Is he only your
favourite teacher? Ashok Bhai said – ‘Yes after you leave school and go to college he will also become
your teacher.’ How can he know that you have become close to me even if I have not yet gone to
college? Can you even fathom my thoughts? I have been thinking how I will cross this obstruction of
matriculation examination, reach the college building and listen to your speeches. I don’t feel like
studying.
Oh God! I had forgotten what I wanted to write. Look Sir, I hope you don’t mind. I am just asking what I
heard. Ashok Bhai was saying that your wife had left you. She is now living with a friend of yours. Is it
really true? I am yet to believe this. However Ashok Bhai knows you well enough. You are his favourite
teacher. Why would he lie about you? I feel like taking your address from him and meeting you. Just
writing letters to you does not make me happy. I remember a line from Ashok Bhai’s letter that he had
written to my elder sister and I had read it secretly – ‘Can the heart reconcile only to letters in the
absence of sight?’ I have got your address from him. I will come over on Sunday. Make sure you are at
home. ‘’School girl’’.
Priyaranjan was stunned. Really the school girl had been able to collect a whole bunch of facts about
him. The third letter reached him bearing the nightmares of the past, the dreams of future, some facts,
and some imagination. Who knows this letter from the school girl would not be the last letter from her?
She had written that she was not contented only by writing letters without getting to see him. However,
after meeting Priyaranjan she may lose her interest either to see him or even to write letters to him. All
her interest in him may abruptly stop. These kinds of incidents had occurred once or twice in
Priyaranjan’s life. In the beginning of his academic career when he was writing a lot of poems a girl from
Vani Vihar was regularly writing to him after reading his poems. She used to send her poems for him to
look into and correct so that she could publish them in some magazines. However, one fine day when
Priyaranjan went to Vani Vihar with all the excitement to meet her she did come out of her hostel as
soon as she got the message of his arrival but after that she stopped writing to him and sending her
poems to him.
In Priyaranjan’s life there had many such stories which had ended in the middle. They had never
progressed to their possible endings neither in love nor in marriage. After marrying Arunima he had
thought that the despair from absence of the bond of love had finally come to an end. The new story of
Contents
Page 95
fulfilment had started. He thought, love may not lead to marriage but there would be no obstruction in
marriage naturally leading to the development of love. He had believed that there is a deep relationship
between love and the age old ritual of marriage. However, he did not know that marriage seldom gives
rise to love. Love is natural and spontaneous – a gift of nature. Marriage is a social institution –the
bonding developed through individual effort. A system thrust on the society and based on the laws, the
morals, the rules and regulations of society. Marriage does not have the music of freedom found in love.
There is no excitement or involvement of the heart. The love here arises from the attraction of living
together. There is no certainty that when two bodies come together behind closed doors the hearts will
also beat together. On the other hand, when hearts beat together the bodies naturally unite.
Arunima and Priyaranjan came together as a result of their marriage. After a year a daughter came into
their life. This new guest brought happiness to their life for two years. After that started a clash of
thoughts. The crack in the hearts that had never united came out in the open. Arunima wanted a house,
not a rented house, her own house. However, Priyaranjan did not want to get connected to sand, lime,
bricks or mortar. He did not want to put an end to his life by constructing a house when he had just
stepped into the world of relationships. Only foolish people build houses; the smart ones live inside the
houses. Arunima did not have the capability to understand this strange philosophical view of Priyaranjan.
In her view a person who cannot make a house for his own living is very inefficient. She had formed such
an opinion and never minced words to repeat it over and over again. She considered that the pursuits of
drawing and poetry writing which was Priyaranjan’s preoccupation were mere waste of time and energy.
Similarly, Priyaranjan did not approve of many of her things such as – the obstinacy in sending their three
year old daughter from the beautiful world of games and merriment to the prison of school.
Nonetheless, priyaranjan knew that marriage is an understanding. The world is a compromise at every
moment and on everything. However, sometimes with the arrival and conspiracy of a third party the
temporary compromises and tryst for peace break down. Everything becomes topsy turvy.
One fine day Priyaranjan’s childhood friend Arindam came in his life. Arindam had a house which was
beautiful to look at and to show off, something that Priyaranjan did not have. It could not be termed as a
house. It was a king’s palace in the heart of the capital. Arindam had all the sumptuousness of life
acquired through inheritance of a successful business and Priyaranjan did not have them. He was almost
stagnant in the salary and life of an academician. However, Arindam was always active, excited and
restless.
The restlessness had attracted Arunima. Arindam did not have a wife. Within a year of his marriage he
had lost his wife in a car accident. He had perhaps not thought about remarrying. But the lure of her
own house rather palace was too attractive to Arunima. Suddenly one day early in the morning
Priyaranjan realised that his small home and world had lost its existence inside the beautiful palace of his
childhood friend Arindam. They had even taken away ‘Astha’ his only worldly treasure into their palace.
No, he did not bring any complaint against his friend. He did not want to take the course of law and in
public slur and offend himself, his friend and his wife. Whatever had to happen had happened. He
accepted everything quietly. Only he felt sad for Astha. After all she was only three years old. What does
she know anyway? He had kept her name Astha after much contemplation. After being tired of the
rejections from many girls Priyaranjan he had finally pinned all his hope on his fatherhood. However, in
the end he lost that hope also because of his wife. Astha had turned eighteen and got the right to vote.
She was studying in Delhi and staying in a hostel but the identity of fatherhood had been lost from his
life forever.
Contents
Page 96
After all the years Priyarajan suddenly remembered everything. The ‘letter from the school girl’ had
wiped off the dust of time from the old wound. Everything was crystal clear. However, the pain of the
wound was not there anymore. The blood that had drained that had once been filled up. He had once
again started loving life like before. He had accepted life as it had come to him whenever, wherever and
in whatever shape and colour it appeared.
Like the letter from the school girl........was not any less amazing for him; real although unbelievable. The
letter was left on one corner of the table almost separated from everything. That day was the occasion
for the writer of the letter to appear in person. The occasion, the hour and the day had been conveyed
to him through the letter. Sunday afternoon. Perhaps she would be getting ready to come. She would
come after a little while.
The girl was coming. She put her hand on the calling bell at the door very confidently. Her soft touch
filled the whole house as if with the wonderful music of a beautiful song. Piyaranjan came and
welcomed the new guest to his house. The girl from the school was walking into the house holding a
huge stack of books and notebooks reaching up to her chest as if she had come to take lessons at her
teacher’s residence or to study at her friend’s house. As soon as she reached inside the room she kept
the books and asked for some water. Perhaps she was feeling very thirsty because she had walked under
the scorching sun. After drinking the water she sat quietly for some time. Priyaranjan started the
conversation. Then she told her name and address. She talked about her school – the annual day in the
school, the boy who lives in her street and everyday followed her to school and back. How he walked
silently and returned silently. He never uttered a word nor did he comment on anything. He had never
made any ugly remark or written any letter to her and many other stories. It had almost become evening
while she was engaged in conversation. Then the girl got up and said, “Sir I am leaving.”
Priyaranjan handed her a box of chocolate. He had bought it earlier only for her. The girl said, “No, I
don’t take chocolates. Haven’t you read in the newspapers that three school girls have fallen sick after
taking chocolates?”
Priyaranjan said, “No, this is not any cheap chocolate. This is Cadbury, from the famous company. I have
bought it from a big shop. It’s not the fake one.”
“Don’t you know Sir, these days there are fake things in big stores. If you truly want to give, then give me
the real chocolate” the girl said with dancing glances.
Priyaranjan said – “This is real”
“No the real one is ...............”
The girl stopped in the middle of her sentence and put her face down.
Priyaranjan kept on looking at the face of the girl with a bit of understanding and a bit of confusion.
The girl’s lips were only quivering from the smile and the coyness.
The story revolving around everything romantic – love, chocolate and school girl – makes it look like an
ideal read for a lazy Sunday afternoon. How his wife left him for his rich friend and how he had almost
lost hope of falling in love when a young school girl finds him admirable. The story is attention grabbing
Contents
Page 97
not only for the description of the romance between the narrator and the school girl but for the plot
around the narrator’s wife leaving him for his friend who has a bigger house and is more affluent than
he. Although the reason behind a woman leaving someone for money seems rational. But there are few
real life examples of Indian women leaving the sacred institution of matrimony for money. On the other
hand, there are ample examples of single women falling for older married men. On the whole, all the
conflicting and contradictory emotional undercurrents are what make the story unique and perhaps
thereby hold the charm of the reader.
Originally written in Odia by Biswaranjan and has been translated into English by Dr Gopa Nayak. Dr
Gopa Nayak writes in English and Odia. She has a DPhil from the University of Oxford, and is currently
teaching English in Bhubaneswar.
Contents
Page 98
Tale of the Ominous Son
Achyutananda Pati
Translated by Ramanendra Mohapatra
On that day, for the first time the owl fledgling opened his eyes. In the deep hollow of the tee trunk, he
opened his eyes to the darkness, everywhere there was thick darkness. His mother sat covering him with
her wings. Placing his soft limbs on the bristly bed of sticks and straw, he was dreaming of many things.
There was some cawing noise on the upper branches of the tree. For some reason, the wings of his
mother fluttered. She puffed up her feathers for a while and then cuddled him close to her body. He felt
a bit cosy. Then he smiled in his bird like chirpiness. His mother rubbed her beak with his little beak and
advised him in whispers to keep quiet and be still. He wondered why his mother spoke us. The creases
and folds of his skin gradually unfurled in the soft feathery warmth of his mother’s tenderness. He felt
tight. He wanted to stand up. He stretched his limbs for a while in that bristly bed of sticks and straw. His
mother too moved a little away from above him. She pecked at his tiny limbs and straightened them. The
fledgling looked up for a while. Darkness was perhaps thinning out. He closed his eyes. For a moment he
looked at his mother and then again looked up. Mother understood his mind. Placing her stub nose on
his, she said, ‘My little darling! How soon have you become so wise? O.K., wait for some more time; let
feathers appear on your wings. I’ll teach you to fly. I’ll teach you all the tricks of flapping your wings. You
will travel across heaven and see new things for yourself. Here you lie in darkness, but when you go out
into the open it will no more be dark. There, white light will be oozing out of the round moon. Little stars
will be lovingly winking at you. I’ll introduce you to new things of heaven when I take you out on a round.
Grow up soon. Become strong soon.’
His mother shoved a bit of a guava into his tiny beak, bringing it from the corner of the hollow. He
swallowed it slowly moving his beak. Ah! How sweet! He thought of enjoying everything nice ands sweet
of the world. Indeed the world was very sweet.
From underneath the tree passed a train of vulpine creatures making the familiar Huke-ho noise. The
fledgling had fallen asleep under the warm feathers of his mother. He was dreaming of many things. His
dreams related to the undiscovered world. All around there were sweet guavas spread on the ground.
The round moon was descending down the heaven. There was no sign of darkness. His beak opened up
with an unwitting smile. The noise from down below woke him up. There was pitch darkness all around.
The fledgling’s feelings went sour. It was a moment before he awoke that he was experiencing sweet
dreams. His mother was ruffling her feathers sitting on the edge of the hollow. He cried out.’
‘Maa, I will visit the World today. I’ll leave this place to play with the moon.’
His mother came in and cuddled him close to her body.
He slipped out of his mother’s feathers. He did not like darkness at all. His mother said fondly.
Contents
Page 99
You have come to this World. Who prevents you from going round the World? You must go out into the
world as a grown up and a strong one, else there is always the possibility of being cheated. Have little
patience. It is a matter of a few more days only. I will take you out on my own. Sleep there for a while I
am leaving and will come back soon with new things for you. Keep sleeping. You must be hungry. I will
come back soon. Don’t make any noise.
His mother left him only after giving him a fond peck on the beak. The fledgling closed his eyes. With
eyes closed he dreamt of light spread out everywhere. The world of brightness and radiance tempted
him with a guava. His eyes were becoming heavy with sleep. He found that his wings had now developed
a thicker outgrowth of feathers than his mother. He was flying happily with his wings rubbing with the
moon. His legs have now become stronger than before. He was able to stand up. Feathers have heavily
cropped up on his wings. He went crazy thinking of the bright World. As he imagined the fancies of the
World, his mind was becoming jammed with moonlight and guava. He was becoming enormously
restless. He was pestering his mother quite often that he is a grown up now and it is time for him to go
out into the open World for a stroll.
That day, the mother-owl brought her son to the edge of the hollow for the first time, after being
pestered with for too long. She showed the moon to him pointing with her beak. His eyes were dazzled.
Ah! What a beauty! How dark it was where he was laying. The Fledgling, then spread open his wings and
tried to hop and fly, keeping pace with his mother. He hopped from one branch to the other. His wings
ached. He flew up on to the top branch at one go. He sat up there looking at the moon. The aches
gradually vanished from his wings. He was getting drenched with the showers of light coming from the
moon. He even thought of opening his beak and taking in a few draughts of moonlight. His mother
arrived at that moment. She took him back into the hollow after a lot of persuasion.
It was noon. Mother-owl was on a short nap. He came out slowly crossing the precinct of the hollow.
‘Oh! What an abundance of bright light!’
He exclaimed, ‘Today’s moon is larger than that of the other day, and it is flaming bright.’ He looked at it.
His eyes felt a burning sensation.
‘Oh my God! What a blazing light!’
Two myna-fledglings were hoping from branch to branch. They were singing with their mother in unison.
The fledgling felt sad at the thought that his mother was perhaps not as good as the mother of the
Mynas; for she had never taught him to sin; basking under the radiance of the bigger moon. He went
near the Mynas, trying to sing like them. The Mynas were frightened. They yelled aloud. Their mother
came running and started pecking at him. A crow came cawing aloud. The sleep of the mother-owl got a
jolt. She came rushing and snatched her child away into the hollow. The fledgling was angry with his
mother. She had spoilt everything. In a fir of anger, the fledgling started pecking violently at his mother.
He tried to go out once again. He rudely complained why his mother had not shown him the bigger
moon, earlier. His mother in a consoling tone and with deep anguish said, ‘Be quiet, my son. Close your
mouth. That is not the moon my son. That is the sun. In our world there is no place for the sun. We are
denizens of darkness. You even cannot see the moon every night. We have darkness as our share. We
have to live with it. Otherwise, there is sure death for us, my son.
The fledgling was annoyed at his mother’s words. Why couldn’t he go into the world of the sun? Why
Contents
Page 100
does not he stroll in the Kingdom of light? Who has made such laws to trouble them? He was moving
forward angrily. His mother dragged him into her fold. He uprooted a few feathers from his mother’s
plume, in utter annoyance. His mother wept piteously. He returned, seeing his mother weep. The crows
were making a hell of noise from the other side of their nest. His mother cursed herself for having spoilt
her son’s mind with all those rubbish tales about the sun.
We are the denizens of darkness. We belong to the clan of the ominous. We are the curse of the World.
If we set out to seek light we shall die. In the realm of light, the sons of brightness are waiting to hunt.
The mother-owl wept incessantly, as he spoke of their misery. Consoling his mother, the fledgling said,
‘Be patient my mother. Let me grow up. I will definitely take you to the kingdom of light. I will kill and
destroy all those enemies.’
On that day, both the owl-mother and her son were perched on a mango branch. There was no moon in
the sky. The fledgling felt listless. All of a sudden some light appeared through a crack of the
neighbouring house. The owl fledgling became jubilant. He opened his beak and started singing a son.
Some one reprimanded from within, with harsh words:
Fly off, you brazen faced wretch! Or else, I will parch your back with a frying pan; then perhaps you will
understand what I say. Get lost, let the wretched diarrhoea take you!
The mother-owl kissed her son as she advised him to speak nothing. The fledgling was annoyed. What
justice, they will use light as if it is their sole property and we will be scolded if we rejoice seeing light.
No, that cannot happen. He wanted to get through the window and snatch away light from them. His
mother wept bitterly and thus prevented him from doing so. After sunset, the fledgling tested the
strength of his wings, before setting out of his home. He found to his satisfaction that all the feathers
had grown on both his wings. He stretched his legs as he went dancing around for a while. He was strong
enough. He struck his beak on the tree trunk. His beak was quite strong and hard now. He flew off. In the
dark of the night he sat in the hollow of a tree. He had decided not to return home. He will roam freely
in the kingdom of the sun. He will conquer light. He will confront his enemies face to face.
Night thinned out gradually. From the bottom of the horizon, there emerged a fountain of red light. The
owl-fledgling never had such a visual experience of light’s first entry into the kingdom of the sun. He saw
with eyes wide open, this spectacle of the bright inverted pitcher emerging out, in total oblivion of his
own self. Hundreds of birds flew past hi, flapping their wings and singing varied melodies. Hundreds of
his brothers will roam around freely in brightness, enjoying the spice of life, and he would die rotting in
the dark, in utter fear and despondency? No, that won’t be allowed to happen. He was mentally strong
now. The sun was slowly climbing up in the sky. Day light was getting intense. In such a wide and
beautiful world of light, won’t there be any place for him? No, he will enjoy to his heart’s content. He will
let the world know, that he too is the son of light. He too has a rightful claim to belong to this kingdom.
The fledgling started moving about as he wished. He inspected every detail of things of the world with
open eyes. He was suddenly attacked from behind. He turned. His mother had identified this stranger as
an enemy, before. These are the people who have snatched away light from them. He attacked the crow
with his beak. Defending itself, the crow cawed loudly for help. Flights of crows came rushing making a
great hue and cry. The owl-fledgling could understand that he was too weak to defend himself against
such a large and strong force of the adversary. He rushed towards the tall building flapping his wings in
haste. He sneaked into the house through a small passage on the wall. He had entered the inner
precincts of the house. Outside was the noisy flight of crows hovering around. He sat resting for a while,
quietly. Let the opportunity come. Let them disperse, he would take his revenge on that crow, he
Contents
Page 101
thought. He will retrieve his rightful share from the kingdom of light. He is not a curse of darkness. He is
the scion of light. He will enjoy light to his heart’s content today.
In that building, on thick cushions, lay the wealthy merchant Dhirumal. He was having fever with
repeated convulsions. Dhirumal was restless. He was groaning in pain and aches, caused by high fever.
See that the mustard oil has an adulteration of eighty percent Agara. Remember to file the filth suit
against Madana Barik. That rascal’s sister claims to be a vestal virgin. The moment I placed my hands
fondly over her, that bitch of a woman raised her hand to strike me. Can you hear me! Send around
twenty goons and harvest the standing crop from Priya Mishra’s land. Money won’t be a problem. He
doesn’t care to offer me a Namaskar even, for he thinks he is too much of an educated man! Come here,
and listen to me carefully; that Calcuttan Bengali has promised to provide me with hundred tolas of
opium. Keep an eye on him.
These are the so called elite of the Kingdom of light. It is for them that the sun gives day light everyday.
The fledgling saw everything with eyes wide open. All of a sudden, some one sitting very near Dhirumal’s
bed, someone who was a sincere and true servant of the kingdom f light, saw this owl-fledgling.
Ominous! Inauspicious! Sign of dark death! An owl has entered the room. Master is ill.
The servants made a noisy commotion. Someone got hold of a long bamboo stick and drove away the
fledgling, pricking and poking at him. Both his wings were injured. He managed to fly up to the top of the
building and sat there, languishing in pain. Some crows from the near by tree came attacking him again.
Annoyed with these noisy crows, a servant boy came up to the top of the building and struck a hard blow
on the owl-fledgling; the cause of the trouble. The fledgling tumbled down. They burnt some straw and
then extinguished the flames with turmeric water. Any way, the evil omen won’t have any effect now.
The hoards of crows pounced on the weak and injured fledging. A lot of blood streamed down his wings
in heavy spurts. He looked skyward. High up in the sky was the sun, still pouring a lot of light. In the great
pain he stood up and turned homewards. He fell down at the bottom of the tree that was his home. He
could not fly up to his hollow, his home. His mother was waiting anxiously for the return of her son.
What could she do? How will her son take refuse in this broad daylight? The mother’s heart was
fidgeting with all sorts of apprehensions. Hearing her son’s call, she rushed to the bottom of the tree.
She went speechless at the sight of the blood soaked body of her son. The fledgling looked up for a
while. The Mynas were singing boisterously, up in the branches.
The sun was sliding down sheets of light from the sky on to the earth. The owl-fledgling spoke keeping
his head on his mother’s lap.
Don’t weep my mother. Tell my brothers, if there be any, that their elder brother has become a martyr,
having fought valiantly to win the kingdom of light.
The owl-fledgling closed his eyes forever. The sun was still pouring an abundance of light on his earth.
Contents
Page 102
An analysis of ‘Tale of the Ominous Son’ by Samrat Mohanty, Denver, CO
Why did the chicken cross the road? The same reason the juvenile owl left its nest in his quest of light, says
eminent writer, social commentator and Sarala awardee Achyutananda Pati, in the story ‘Asubha Putra ra
Kahani’ or ‘Tale of the Ominous Son’; the reason being ignorance of the social, economic and cultural norms at
best or in their defiance, at worst. Mr. Pati uses the tragic consequences of failed ambitions of a young owl as a
metaphor to shine light on the systemic inequities of his day; which, unfortunately, continue to the present day.
In the story, the light that the young owl seeks in his flights idealism may be construed as the hopes of an
untouchable child, who may have arrested Mr. Pati’s creative gaze, to progress beyond the proverbial back
bench in the classroom. The story may be interpreted as the writer’s lament about the prevalent disparities
around him and the subjugation of a
whole class of people.
The story begins with an owl fledgling using his nascent senses to explore the order of the world and is quickly
perplexed that his kind are eternally damned to dwell in the darkness of night. Even with his emerging intellect,
the owl sees injustice as the mynas sing and dance in the daylight. In his promethean search for light, he is
attacked by a bunch of crows for breaching his diurnal barrier, which he flees to land inside the house of the
local merchant and the local arbiter of resources. The owl’s presence coincides with the ailment that the lord of
the house is afflicted with and the house servants promptly snuff out the light of the owl’s life, as the
manifestation of an owl is deemed portentous of death itself.
Symbolically, the stratification of classes in the human world is mirrored by their analogs in the animal kingdom
in the story. Thus, the status of the bottom rung of feathered creatures that includes the protagonist owl and his
mother is reflected by Madana Barik and his sister, who are exploited by the immoral merchant Dhirumal. As the
young owl is literally denied his place under the sun, which is sternly explained by her mother in ‘If we set out to
seek light we shall die’, Madana’s sister has to struggle for fundamental human dignity. Trepidation of owls
across human cultures has stemmed from their seemingly abnormal form and otherworldly calls after nightfall.
The sinisterness that is attached to owls is meant to be illustrative of the societal attitude towards the outcasts,
any contact with whom is generally frowned upon not only on sacred occasions but also in the mundane. Their
form and function, in charge of cleansing the civilization, foments its repulsion towards them. At the same time,
the mynas of the story parallel the corrupt elites of world such as Dhirumal.
The mynas hog the daylight and keep on singing with sadistic pleasure even at the misfortune of their less
privileged fellow beings, just as Dhirumal plans on an opium-laced revelry around the same time his devious
schemes on lesser mortals are in motion. The crop of crows that attack the young owl for transgressing class
boundaries are meant to imitate the servants of Dhirumal, who didn’t conceive the unsymmetric laws of the
land, but have been cynically manipulated and indoctrinated to preserve the interests of elites; the singing
mynas and Dhirumal of the story. That brings us to the final contemplation, where Mr. Pati adroitly guises his
ideals of equality and justice through Priya Mishra, a potential adversary to the wealth and corrosive influence
of dishonest Dhirumal, because of his education and enlightened state.
A perfunctory glance at the events of the story may indicate the use of tragedy as a literary device. Despite the
acute unevenness of the translated version of the story, Mr. Pati appears to have skillfully placed a sharp social
satire at its core for the discerned reader. However, emblematic of his time, he has attempted to evade criticism
from his own peers, many of whom may have been complicit in erecting artificial hurdles and exploitative
structures against the social pariahs. The story might have been conceived at specific place and time in Odisha,
but its astute relevance is universally timeless and appeals to the virtuous elements in all of us to be empathetic
to the marginalized in all forms.
Contents
Page 103
The Blind Alley
Akhil Mohan Patnaik
Translated by Bibhuti Mishra
It was the dusk of the winter’s day. Kshitish got down at the Quilon Railway station. This small station,
but for the lone ticket-collector and a couple of porters, was virtually desolate. There were few outgoing
and incoming passenger. The hours of Kshitish was one and half mile farther from the Railway station;
but Kshitish, after dismounting, began pacing the platform up and down irresolutely.
The streamed out of the platform and whatever noise was there muzzled away into complete silence.
The ticket collector, from his appointed place, dragged his weary feet into the room and the porters
sitting on a wooden box lids bids to ease off the fatigue.
Kshitish was well-acquainted with the section from a long time. When living his village, his parents and
many people from the village had come here to bid his goodbye. As the train, gathering speed, had
moved off, his eyes moving over the face of others fell on and finally rested on his mother’s face. A drop
of tear just below her eyelid was glistening like a bright pearl-bead in the rays of morning sun. Slowly all
faded away. As the trees and the soil beneath wheezed past, he felt a great emptiness about him. He was
beast with helplessness, but in the next moment his face had tout ended with dutifulness, and selfconfidence. He was eldest child of lower middle-class family and the future of the family solely
depended on his perseverance and sincerity. Kshitish had been Calcutta only in the map. In that Calcutta
the great city-he would have to struggle it out for long six years!
The lamps in the platform were giving of a wan light the porters, to stay off the imminent cold of the
winter night, were sitting all hunched up, and warped in clothes. How long would he hang about
uncertainly? Notwithstanding his extreme reluctance he would have to go to his village and give an
explanation for his sudden arrival. Leaving the platform Kshitish set off down the footpath leading to the
village.
Indeed! How much he enjoyed walking in the soft soil of his village with slow and measured steps! In his
mind’s eye he could see his father sitting on a charpoy in the veranda of his house, staring into the void.
No, by no means could he face his parents! He would have to give some explanation or other. For a
moment Kshitish stood stock-still in the middle of the road. Where could he go back? He might seek
hide-outs somewhere else, but then he would have to lie to his parents for an indefinite period. No
rather all their hopes should be shattered by this first shock.
Kshitish walked on.
He was moving on through the chilly darkness. Lo! He was nearing that palm tree. He had spent many
afternoon of his childhood measuring the shadow of this tree by foot and every time it had measure
thirty-one paces. So he wondered –Are! How could the palm tree become higher by one pace within a
day! No, the measure was wrong. Once again began the Measurement. That Measure gradually became
Contents
Page 104
an eternal yard-stick of his study, his filial devotion and his hopes and aspirations. That measurement
must never be wrong; as if a slight error in it meant a great fall in his character.
If only there had been a palm tree in the campus of the Calcutta University, perhaps he would have
escaped such a disaster. Now, if there would have been the shadow of the palm tree Kshitish would have
measured it with slow steps as before; but he knew that it would not be thirty-one paces. In the main
time his big toe had grown bigger and his sole had become longer; so his step had gained in size.
Therefore the thirty-one paces of the yester years might be twenty four day. Oh! Fall of seven paces!
Leaning against the palm tree Kshitish was rumination over his childhood for a long time. The night had
deepened. His village was quite at hand. Shrouded in fog it would assume an ashen visage it is all for the
better; the village people would not recognize him in the darkness, otherwise they would have flocked to
his house.
Kshitish paused a while on the periphery of the village and then gathering up his spirit he entered in to
it. Tall and lanky Kshitish was walking in the dark village road like a ghost. The indistinct forms of a couple
of bullock carts were the only things visible. The sombre silence was disturbed by the snuffling of the
bullocks. As soon as he set foot on the threshold of the house, his father asked, ‘Who is it?’ His heart
skipped a beat, ‘It is me-Kshitish,’ he replied timidly. His father called out again, ‘Who is it?’ ‘As though he
could not believe his ears. But this without answering Kshitish drew near to his father and touched his
feet. In a moment his father had clasped his arms. Kshitish could feel his father’s hands dithering, out of
an unknown excitement. His father gave out a vague call and then his mother brother and his sisters
came out of the house. Their eyes were big with surprise. The eldest son of a lower middle class family
could not afford the luxury of returning home from far off Calcutta without any reason. So there should
be some emergent cause to account for the travelling expenses.
Kshitish was standing amidst his kinsfolk like an offender. After sometime to make everything appear
normal he addressed them, ‘Arre, why do you stand there gazing into my face? Let’s go into the house.
Nothing is wrong with me. I am all right. Let’s go in. I shall explain everything.’ Sputtering it out in one
breath Kshitish entered into the house and others followed him slowly. Nobody said anything. But the
nameless apprehension of his mother in the shape of the pearl bead below her eyelid could not escape
his keen eyes.
Neither that night nor in the following days could he give any satisfactory explanation to his family for his
sudden appearance. He had only told them that since the students had gone on strike, instead of idling
away time and spending money there, it was better to study here in solitude. But everyone in the family
could feel that Kshitish was not speaking the truth. Nevertheless to satisfy the curiosity of the villagers
they had accepted this apparent truth as the truth. For the villagers this was the only explanation for the
sudden return of Kshitish.
Though Kshitish brought a few books in a valise, everyone could understand that those were not
sufficient for a post graduate student. But none could muster up courage to ask him the truth. His
mother had, once or twice, broached the subject; but Kshitish instantly lapsed into inattentiveness and
in order to avoid the topic went out of the under one pretext or other. So no one had brought in that
subject lest it would hurt his feelings. Nonetheless to Kshitish it was evident that since the day of his
arrival the whole family had been shrouded in a pall of doubts and anxieties. What could he do? He had
no other alternative!
Contents
Page 105
At first Kshitish remained inattentive and apathetic, but after some days this solitary life seemed
unbearable. There were very few educated people in the village and so any intellectual intercourse was
unlikely. At midday after having lunch Kshitish used to set off towards the Railway Station. There, daily
newspapers were made available to him regularly; but it took hardly one hour to thumb through a
couple of newspapers. The rest of the time he passed wandering about in the platform and returned
home before evening. All around him was the chilly darkness other village and inside his mind was piled
up memories of the past the evening seemed quit boring and unendurable. Inside the house his mother,
brother and sisters went about with lanterns in hand and the quivering shadows of emaciated bodies
falling over one another appeared to Kshitish like the dance of the Hell!
The other day on his way to the station Kshitish came upon that palm tree. The long shadow was cast on
the surface and he could not restrain his childlike curiosity to measure it. He began measuring it with his
steps— one … two … three… eighteen… nineteen... twenty seven... twenty nine ... thirty one. Amazing!
Impossible! Once again he went it thirty one paces. But Kshitish was oblivious of a simple geographical
fact. In his childhood he carried on his measurement at 11 A.M. and today it was only 8 A.M. May be it
was a conscious mistake through which he was trying to uphold the symbol of his old values.
Another day in the afternoon Kshitish had gone to the station as usual and there it was transpired to him
that the down train would not be coming, as on the way it had met with an accident. Momentously the
pitiable sight of the innocent, helpless passengers flashed before his eyes. The carriages would have
telescoped into one another and the dead bodies would be lying on the stones by the rail side. They
were dead and gone; but these writing in excruciating pain, having lost a hand or a leg, must be heartily
welcoming the immediate death.
Lounging back on an easy chair in the Station, Kshitish grew a bit sentimental at such thoughts. But he
must not be sentimental! For days together by regular training he had been immunized from it. His small
brain had been washed clean many times, so that sympathy, forgives, sentimentality could not take root
there. Therefore his compassion for those unknown people, crippled in the accident, came as a surprise
to Kshitish. It seemed to him as though a thin blade of verdant grass sprouting in the remote corner of a
desert was making faces at that vast tract of wasteland in defiant mockery.
Kshitish grew reminiscent only three years back one day he was sleeping in his mess situated at the end
of the Hajra Park lane. When his sleep was broken, he saw a middle ages gentleman sitting quietly
before him. Later, of course the gentleman introduced himself, but the information was not sufficient for
the recognition of a person. Kshitish was required to be present at a particular place that evening. Under
the veneer of a request it was a patent command. Kshitish had also gone to the appointed place. The
memory of the subsequent events made his hair stand on end.
In a small room upstairs sat five young of his age and before them was sitting a gentleman of middle-age.
Kshitish did not known his name even now, but all address him as ‘Lama’ later he came to know that it
was his alias or a code name. No one spoke. After a while a young woman appeared with the tray
bearing six cups of tea and sitting it out before them she flitted away noiselessly. Then Lama began his
voice was very clear with a touch of aristocracy, ‘I know you from long ago. Your name is Kshitish and you
are a brilliant student. Before coming to the present mess you were putting up at the ‘Pathaara’ mess at
Mailili…etc…etc. Kshitish only listened to him. Enchanted. It was obvious to him that ‘Lame’ knew
everything about his life at Calcutta in the last couple of years.
After giving a self-completive proem for five minutes Lama said, ‘We badly need your help. So there was
Contents
Page 106
no other choice than to ask you to come here to be talked to.’
There was no fan in the room. Sweat was gathering on his face. Taking out the handkerchief Kshitish
mopped his face and anxiously awaited that enigmatic ‘request’ or behest.
The atmosphere inside the room was not very hygienic. Hanging from a couple of wires was a sooty
electric bulb of forty watt, which dimly lighted the room with a pale gleam. The gaps between the beams
and rafters overhead were swarmed with cob-webs which evidently had not been cleaned since a long
time. Lama’s fare was not distinctly visible. Within half an hour of the arrival of Kshitish the youth sitting
there had not opened their lips. Obviously their salience was result of strict discipline rather than of
indifference or in attention. Lama began, ‘They all are like you –students of different collage but they
have sacrificed their lives on the altar of the country.’
Look-that is our country, the great noble India. ‘Kshitish! Have you ever tried to see the visage of the
country?’ Lama smiled self-indulgently. ‘You think you have seen it, ‘But you are wrong. You have seen
the map her face –her soul …’ Lama’s voice was low but distinct. Similarly his laugh was resonant but
restrained.
Kshitish was unaware of the passage of time.
Lama spoke again, ‘To carry on our operation your mess room is quite large and convenient too, because
…or …because, ‘Lama broke off for a moment and then pondering over something began again, ‘Let me
tell it now. Someday or other I would have to tell you. In your room the window facing south is fitted
with wooden railing, which can be removed quite easily and … do you know whose house is that?’
Like an oppressed animal Kshitish only shook his head in reply.
Lama was about to say something, but a lead explosion in the adjoining room left the woods unuttered
on his lips. Kshitish had never before heard such a deafening sound so near. It seemed as if the old
dilapidated house would crumble down.
The young friends of Kshitish, as if electrified ran into that room. After the echo of the sound died down,
a groan was audible for the other room. After sometime they came out carrying a man whose face
presented a revolting sight? The whole skin from the left eye to the lip had been flayed down on the
shoulder. The young woman was standing with her face covered by her hands; but Lama sat there
unconcerned. After throwing a glance at the man he said, ‘There is nothing to be trouble about. The
police will arrive here within five minutes. As well here to decamp. We need not worry for ‘Duma’ the
police will convey him to the hospital by ambulance. Unless he is cured first how can he be taken to the
bourgeoisie court with derbies!’ All were struck dumb. Kshitish had started quaking out of panic and
excitement. For a moment Lama touched his shoulder and said, ‘Do not be annoyed. In the bid to see
the figure of the country may have to be disfigured.’
Then within the batting of an eyelid Kshitish and others had vanished into the darkness.
Returning to the mess Kshitish lay on the bed for a long time wrapped up in his own thoughts. By the
time sleep over-came him he was full of self-reproach for not having seen the visages of the country. But
he woke to the new morning with a solemn oath to see it.
From that day his life took a new mode.
Contents
Page 107
Leading the strike in the collage was his maiden campaign. There was a readymade reason for the
stricken. It sparked off as a protest against the increase in the tram fare. This additional monetary short
of tyranny. The student could not keep aloof from politics. He was also a citizen. The student went on
strike and police arrested Kshitish among others. In the police station Kshitish and his friends had been
kicked with boots and he had come back swearing to take vengeance upon the police.
Strike…strike …and the vitiating atmosphere of sticks had paralysed life in Calcutta. For one year no
examination could be held in any collage.
In each stick Kshitish had frontal encounters with the police. At times he had won and at times, he had
lost. Handwritten and lithographed leaflets and pamphlets had come to his hand on a temporary basis
and he had read them assiduously. Kshitish, for the first time, had also learnt to draw picture- a
particular picture, the picture, the picture of his leader. Accordingly suitable training had been imparted
to him. There was not much to sketch: only two or three feature–a round face in which there would be
two small eyes and hair plastered back. Two or four lines denoting the wisps of hair. Kshitish was himself
surprised at his turning in to skilled cartoonist within such a short period.
This was an account of Kshitish in the two years he spent at Calcutta.
But notwithstanding all this the life in city went on unhindered as isal. A sudden explosion somewhere or
a street fight between the people and the police had become a part of the daily routine yet, the prices of
different commodities had shown no downward trend, the police station had not been wiped out, the
government had not been invalidated.
It was a beautiful morning of October and Kshitish had gone to college. Just below the collage building
there was a congregation of students. In order to find out what had happened, Kshitish had to squeeze
his way through the crowd to the front, but what six he saw there was incredible. A man was lying in
pool of blood obviously he was dead because his skull had been dashed to pieces and the innards had
come out. All standing there were dumb-founded. A group of students were saying that perhaps in an
unguarded moment the boy had fallen down from the third story, but the other contradicted them by
saying that this report was deliberately spared by the agents of the murderers and in actuality the boy
had been pushed down from the balcony. But who that unfortunate boy? It was impossible to identify
him.
The police had come and the boy was shifted to the autopsy table. Gradually, by mutual discussions
among the students, the identity of the boy had been established. It was also given out that during the
last strike the boy had opposed it and him appeared at the examination in defiance. It was also said that
he was a spy of the police.
Kshitish has returned to the mess from collage.
In his room those friends of his age were holding a meeting. Their fourth campaign was a success. But
Kshitish was left to wonder about the nature of that success.
The other day another commanded was awaiting Kshitish and his friends. They would have to proceed to
a village area on the edge of Calcutta. Without any delay they set off on foot.
Contents
Page 108
Lying on the easy chair in the Railway Station of his village, Kshitish was lost in his own reverie. It seemed
as though the film of his last two years stay at Calcutta was being project on the screen before him.
Kshitish could not recall the name of that village. But this much he remembered that the village, like his
own small one, was rural, simple, and pure. Nourished by the fertile lands of the Ganges.
Valley the village life was slow and serene. When Kshitish and his friends arrived there the gold rays of
the western sun playing upon the sands of the village road pressed a grand sight of ineffable beauty.
But when they left the village it was quite late in the night and in the rick yards, the fierily tongues of the
all- devouring flame was dancing upon the sheaf-stacks with self- gratification. Completely dazed Kshitish
was looking with expressionless eyes like an inexperienced wild animal caught in the flood light of the
hunter.
But for the first time Kshitish had raised a question. That was his only and the greatest crime. It was
categorically explained to him that –To ask many question was a children habit. Grown people never
indulged in it. The letter had work out the scheme. To examine it, taking pains, meant counterrevolution. Many things are to be accepted, for instance— a science student today is not required to sit
under the apple-tree like Newton. He accepts the law of gravity.
His zeal was damped to a great extent, but the frequentation of those friends to his room had not
subsided. Kshitish could not help wondering—‘How is it that they have so much money at their disposal?
From where do they acquire these arms and ammunitions?’ But he was forbidden to ask question!
One day all of a sudden Samir entered into his room. With him was a boy of nine or ten years of age.
The boy was very comely but there was comely but there was a ‘stricken look in his eyes apprehending
some unknown danger. Samir bade him sit on the cot.
The boy obliged like a machine and asked timorously, “why did you bring me her? When shall I return
home? Samir only sniggered in reply. He was busy writing a letter. Then he handed over the letter to
Kshitish and said, ‘Read it. Everything will be clear to you.’
Kshitish read on:
Sir,
Do not be distressed about your son. He is safe with us. Many parents have not yet got back their
missing son. But you have got enough money and so tomorrow in the evening if you deposit fifty
thousand rupees at the appointed place, you would get back your son, safe and sound. Remember, the
money should be genuine, because we know that you deal in spurious money. In a way this transaction
comes to you as a favour, because through it you have found a way to dispose of the black-money that
you have hoarded up, doing the income-tax people.
The appointed place is…etc. etc.
At the end of the letter a red square impression had been given by a rubber stamp.
But what had Kshitish got to do with it? After he went through the letter Samir took it from his hand and
said, ‘I am going. I leave this boy in your custody. Of course, if his father disgorges the money quickly, he
would go soon: it is a different thing if he tends to delay or tries to report to the police.’
Then bending close to the cars of Kshitish Samir whispered, ‘Listen, you have never before handled such
Contents
Page 109
a case. Be watchful sometime they act very innocent but at the slightest opportunity they flee. So you
have to be very cautious and remember if he sereams gag him with a lungi or any piece of cloth and tie
him down to this charpoy. Well, I am leaving. I hope I would return soon.’
Samir shot out of the room. After his departure there were only left Kshitish and that boy in the room. It
was going to be seven in the evening but the clamour of the traffic in Hajra Park had not yet died away.
Kshitish had started feeling very uneasy though he did not express it. He had never, in the least,
imagined that at last he would have to face such a situation. Then suddenly he was reminded of the
night meal, not for him but for the boy. We knew when he had last had his meal? But how could Kshitish
go out? There was no one else who could be asked to go and fetch some food.
After a long time Kshitish asked the boy, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘O yes! Very.’ Responded the boy rising up the head from his fetal posture.
Then while going out with the lock in his hand Kshitish said a bit authoritatively, ‘I would come back
within two minutes, but you would be locked in from outside. Look, if you shout, the situation will be
dreadful being careful!’
Then looking the door from outside him went to a nearby hotel from where bringing some pancakes and
potato curry in a cup of leaves he put them before the boy and said, ‘Here, eat it.
Nothing else was available nearby.’
The boy looked up at him and asked, ‘Won’t you eat?’
‘No, you take it. I would have my meal outside.’
‘But, how would you go out leaving me along!’
Really! Kshitish had forgotten this.
‘What is your name?’ enquired Kshitish
‘My name? My name is Ramaballav. Bhoka is my nickname and my uncle calls me…’ ‘What does he call
you?’ asked Kshitish. ‘He calls me Sakha Mruga chuckled Khoka Sakha Murga? What does it mean?’
‘You do not know what it means! It means monkey or ape so called because it jumps from tree to tree.’
‘Oh! Ha … Ha …ha’, unconsciously Kshitish had burst into a guffaw.
‘Well, Khoka now you start eating.’
‘No.’
‘But you told me that you are hungry.’
‘Oh, yes. I am hungry but unless you eat how can I? Daddy says that it is improper to have one’s meal
Contents
Page 110
alone. I would eat if only you eat.’
Without any further argument Kshitish took a pancake with some curry to his mouth. Then Khoka fell
upon the food as though he had not had any meal for days together.
It was about 10 P.M. Kshitish was feeling very tried. He would be relived after this fateful night had
passed. There was only one charpoy in the room. As Kshitish was hesitating over how to lay the bed
Khoka said, ‘I can sleep on the floor laying any sheet. Very often when our house is crowded with guests
we lay our bed on the floor. You sleep on the cat.’
‘No Khoka. You are younger. So you should sleep on the cot; or else you may catch cold. I can sleep on
the floor.’ Answered Kshitish.
Khoka looked at Kshitish and asked in surprise. ‘How can children sleep on cot when elders are around?’
‘Well, let us both sleep on the floor. Then there would be nothing to argue about.’ Kshitish said with a
touch of finality.
Khoka still looked at him with surprises. ‘Both of us would sleep on the floor leaving the charpoy empty?
But why? Oh! I understand. You are keeping a watch over me and that is why you want me to sleep
beside you.’
Kshitish did not answer.
After lying the bed on the floor both of them slept nestling close to each other.
‘How shall I address you?’
‘Unhun … You can call me Kshitish.’
‘Is it proper to call elders by their name?’
‘Then you may call me ‘Dada’.
‘Well, Dada. Shall I ask you something?’
‘Yes, ask.’
‘Perhaps my daddy has asked you to keep me here. Is it the hostel? Whenever I become naughty daddy
threatens to have me sent to the hostel.’
Kshitish felt as if something was shocked in the hollow of his throat. ‘Khoka, go to sleep’, he whispered in
a voice choked with emotion.
‘I am not feeling sleepy.’
‘Why’ what are you thinking about?’
Contents
Page 111
‘No, nothing. Uncle lulls me to sleep by telling me stories. Do you know stories?’
‘No’
‘But all grown up people know stories. How is it that you do not know any? Had you no uncle?’
‘Khoka, go to sleep.’
‘Dad, you are telling a lie. Please tell me story.’
‘No, I do not know any. Really I don’t know. You have heard so many stories. Why don’t you tell me one?’
‘You will listen to stories! Ha …ha … do grown up people listen to stories?’
‘Yes. Why not? I would listen to your story.’
‘At home when I began any story Daddy and Mummy tells me Khoka do not prattle. Go to sleep but I will
tell you if you will hear me.’
‘Yes. Tell me.’
Khoka suddenly sat up on the bed and from the beginning set a condition that Kshitish should not go to
sleep before the story ended. Kshitish agree to this.
Then Khoka began his tale.
Long ago there was one Khoka like me. He had a girl friend.
‘Why a girl friend? What was wrong with a boy friend?’ Kshitish asked jestingly.
Khoka was a little vexed, ‘Oh! You please listen to the story. It is in the theme. Can I change it even if I
want! Well, he had a girl friend. They were madly in love with each other. One day the boy asked the girl
to marry him.’
‘What is a marriage?’ asked Kshitish.
Khoka explained, ‘Marriage means … er ... for example my father and mother are married; but you
please listen to the story.’
‘Well go on.’
‘But the girl did not agree to the proposal. She said, I would live like a queen after the marriage but your
mother is a shrew. I shall not marry you as long as she is alive.’ The boy was varying hurt and wept
bitterly. Then the girl comforted him and brought him flowers. At last it was decided that they would
marry after his mother’s death, but she did not die er long. So the girl’s parents fixed up her marriage
somewhere else.’
‘Dada, are you listening or have you gone to sleep?’
Contents
Page 112
‘I am listening, continue.’
‘Then one night the boy stabbed his mother; but in order to make the girl believe that he had killed her,
he cut off the heart of his mother and ran to the girl with it. On the way the girl’s home there was large
dense forest. Inside it was pitchy darkness. Hardly anything was discernible. There were also many trees
in the forest. The boy running breathlessly.’
‘Why is he running?’ intercepted Kshitish.
‘Arre! Perhaps you had dozed off. The girl’s marriage is already arranged. So the boy is running last it
would be too late.’
‘He would marry again.’ Teased Kshitish.
‘I cannot answer that; my father and uncle have all married only once.’
‘Well, tell me what happened then.’
‘Then? Then the boy while running with the heart of his mother, clasped in both the hands, stumbled
over the root of a banyan tree and fell down. The heart also slopped from his hand. Well, dada does the
heart have life?’
‘Yes sometimes it has.’
‘Well, that heart was alive. At once it asked, ‘Khoka’ have you wounded your leg?’
Kshitish was silent.
‘Dada, have you does off?’
‘No, no, I am listening. The heart said ‘Khoka, have you wounded your leg?’ His voice was choked.
‘Well. Then the boy wept bitterly hugging his mother’s heart. Uncle says that returned to his mother
with the heart. But by then she was dead.’
Kshitish did not reply.
After yawning a couple of times Khoka went to sleep huddled up inside the blanket.
The night had deepened. The bell at the police station tolled twine, but Kshitish was still awake.
Abandoning the bed Kshitish began to pace athwart in the room uneasily. Samir had not yet returned. He
had gone saying that he would return with the money. He badly needed money. Kshitish did not know
when he fell s sleep that night. When he woke up broad beams of sunrays had darted into the room and
Khoka was intently gazing at a picture hanging on the wall.
Kshitish looked at Khoka for some time with heavy eyes. It seemed as if he was looking at a beautiful
doll, which could also talk. But Khoka’s face was a bit reddish.
‘Khoka, how are you?’ enquired Kshitish.
Contents
Page 113
‘Fine, I like this picture very much.’
Kshitish glanced at the picture. A China dragon had clutched a rabbit whose innocent eyes out of intense
pain, had bulged out.
Kshitish inadvertently touched the forehead of Khoka and was startled to find that he was running high
temperature. For a moment Kshitish was nonplussed. He was alone and the child was ill. He would have
to nurse him. It was essential for Samir that the child should remain alive. Kshitish made him lie on the
bed and pulled a blanket over him.
It was not possible to take Khoka to a doctor. So Kshitish started the primary treatment that was known
to him. Then he thought barley tin and lighting the stove began to prepare barley water according to the
direction given on the tin. After the preparation was half way Khoka suddenly asked,” Are you unwell?
Why are you cooking barley?”
‘No, no I am not sick. You are running a mild temperature.’
‘Unhun … I don’t take barley,’ declared Khoka.
‘Bread?’
‘No.’
‘Orange?’
‘No.’
‘Khoka! But everybody takes barley. You will some round soon,’ coaxed Kshitish.
Khoka smiled and said, ‘You are only to keep guard on me. What have you got to do with my illness?’
‘Khoka, please have the barley,’ urged Kshitish.
‘Did not I tell you that I don’t take barley? Well. I shall take it when I feel hungry.’
Kshitish was agitated. He could not decide as to what he would do in such a situations. He began to utter
imprecations upon the stupid Samirin his hand mind.
Khoka gazed at the joints and rafters overhead for a while and then closing his eyes, he passed into
slumber again. Afterwards Kshitish went it the nearby hotel and bringing a of cupful tea again returned
to khoka. Hither-to he had somebody to be talked to but after Khoka befell asleep, all on sudden Kshitish
felt lonesome.
It struck twelve in the noon. Samir had not returned yet. Kshitish was turning the pages of a gold
magazine. Suddenly he heard khoka babbling incoherently in sleep. Going near him he touched his
forehead oh! His body was burning with heat. What would be the temperature? He has no thermometer
with him. He guessed that it might be 1040 or 1050 f. fetching a apil of water Kshitish began to apply wet
bandage on khoka’s forehead.
But in the absence of a thermometer it was impossible to know whether the temperature was remitting
Contents
Page 114
or increasing. The breath from his nostrils was still very hot. Kshitish could not remember how long he
had applied wet bandage.
Outside the day declined. Kshitish was feeling very hungry. Going out he had two pieces of bread and a
cup of tea and then came back without delay; but on his return what he saw alarmed him. Throwing
away the blanket khoka was laughing, sitting up on the cot. At the sight of Kshitish he asked,
‘Dada, had you gone out to telephone?’
‘To telephone? Where to?’
‘To our house – two three seven eight.’
‘No, I have not phoned,’ said Kshitish.
‘But Daddy asked me to ring him up in case of difficulty.’
‘When?’
‘Just now, when you-had gone out.’
‘But there no telephone here.’
‘No. Not over phone. Daddy had himself come. He told me standing there outside the window.’
Kshitish could understand that Khoka was talking in delirium due to fever!
It was already night, but there was no indication of Samir returning. Delirium had set in but in could not
call a doctor. Kshitish really was alarmed. He could not helplessly let the boy suffer without any reason.
There was nobody near him neither lama, Duma nor Samir.
He could not like Cassabinaca, stick to the burning deck in obedience to the order of the caption and let
the innocent child die. It did not matter if he was to die but Khoka…?
Suddenly the scale fell from his eyes. The cobwebs of loyalty to the organization disappeared. He
would have to do something. Now! Now! Something clicked inside his brain. Yet restraining himself
Kshitish asked is your phone number?’
‘Two three seven eight,’ came the lilting voice. The voice became incoherent towards the end.
Kshitish stormed out of the room to the phone at the neighboring shop.
He dialled, ‘Two, three seven eight eight.’
‘Goenka speaking,’ came the reply from the other side.
‘Is your son khoka missing?’
‘Yes, yes, have you found any trace of him?’
Goenks’s voice was tremulous with excitement.
‘Yes. Within two minutes park your car at the southern side of the Hajar park. Your car number?’
‘I am going presently. My car number is WBC 3544; W for William, B for Bombay C for china…’
Returning from the phone Kshitish told Khoka, ‘Khoka, your father is waiting for you. Let’s go.’
‘No. I won’t go.’
‘Why?’
Contents
Page 115
‘They would be angry within you if I go away.’
‘Silly child’, Kshitish muttered under his breath and carrying Khoka with the blanket, he proceeded
towards the southern side of the Hajra park.
A police van was coming hooting the siren. Behind it was a plinth car— WBC 3544 fell owed by another
armed police vehicle.
Without any delay he entered into the back seat of the car and Mrs. Goenka, like a starved woman,
snatched Khoka from his hand and covered Khoka with kisses. While handing over Khoka to his mother
Kshitish had only said, ‘He is running high temperature.’
The police van the car of Mr. Goenka drew up at a bungalow in Baligunja. Mr. and Mr. Goenka thanked
him profusely. But Kshitish had to go to the station. While going in, Khoka said in a low voice, ‘Ask Dada
to come into our house.’
‘He’ll come later.’ answered Mrs. Goenka, drowning her voice, the engine of police van roared into life
and before long Kshitish found himself sitting inside the police station among two S.Ps and the crime
Branch D.I.G. He had to remain in the lock up for about four days during which period he had to reply to
the interrogation of all the officers from the A.S.I. to the I.G.
Of course, he had not divulged any name. But he had confessed that Khoka was kept under his custody
and he had to surrender due to rapid deterioration in Khoka’s health. He also expressed his desire to
leave Calcutta because after that incident his life would be at stake. So he wanted to return home. The
police took down his home address and making him a bond they took him in a police van to the Howrah
station and left him there. On that took evening Kshitish had departed from Calcutta. Before the train
had rumbled on, waving his hand. He could see innumerable lamps of the City burning like poisonous
carbuncles.
For a long time relaxing on the easy chair in the Quilon Station Kshitish was ruminating over his past.
The kerosene lamps outside the station had already been lighted and the porters and the points men
etc. Had become ready to welcome the coming train. Kshitish got up and plodded his weary way
homeward.
Six months had passed since his arrival. Nothing much happened in the village. The life of a day was like
any other day uneventful and slow-moving. Regularly the sun rose and set. Kshitish was worthy student
of the University. So a couple of newspaper was not enough food for his mind. Actually he was tired of
this tubicolous life. But what could he do? It was not possible on his part to go back to Calcutta because
he knew it well enough that he would have to pay the price for liberty of Khoka— perhaps not in money
but in severe punishment. In the past he had seen the nature of such punishment many times. So in an
inconceivable apprehension he shuddered at the thought.
Like any other day it was a beautiful at the thought. Kshitish sitting in the porch of his house had begun
reading an oft-read book once again. At this moment a red impression on the wall caught his eyes and at
the sight of it a chill ran through his spine.
Kshitish could not make any mistake in recognizing that symbol. Not only had he seen it many times but
also he had worked under its invertible command. He had last seen it on the letter written by Samir to
Contents
Page 116
Goenka, Khoka’s father.
But the presence of this symbol here on this wall could not be fortuitous. Kshitish could understand that
the followers of lama, pursuing him, had backed him down to his village. Most possible at this moment
they had ambushed somewhere in the village to take revenge on Kshitish.
Kshitish knew the signification of such revenge. In the past many of his friends falling victims to such
vengeance had passed away from this world.
In his eyes there was a pang of fear amidst wonder. He was not able to think properly. Lighting a
cigarette he puffed out the village he had taken to cigarettes he puffed out the whiffs of smoke carelessly
(To put of the constrained life of the village he had taken to cigarettes) the puffs of smoke, like his
thought, got entangled in twists. After the first shock had worn off, his face gradually assumed sternness.
Today he would have to confront a situation, which he had tried to evade hither to. ‘After all,’ Kshitish
thought, ‘I have a life and one day or other there will be end of it. ‘If not today someday later.’ But he
could not have knowingly killed an innocent child. In disgust and hatred he flung the half-burnt cigarette
out on to the road.
Kshitish would have to take a quick decision. He was restlessly pacing the small veranda up and down.
What could happen? At the best he might be attacked in an unguarded moment or may be, after the
symbol was stamped, he was kept under a close vigil. This much! Fie! He had not even once been
smitten by his conscience for leaving Khoka at his house and departing from Calcutta that night. Let
Lama and Duma come. ‘Any human beings will do precisely what I have done.’ He would reply
categorically. No, he could not take any chance. He would directly go the police station where he would
make some arrangement for his safeguard. At least in the end he wanted to fight it out before
succumbing.
Kshitish changed his dress and set off towards the police station leaving words at home that as he might
be late in returning he should not be awaited for lunch. The police station was at a distance of one mile
from his house. Kshitish was walking straight forward to the police station. He had no desire to harm
anybody. But he was also human beings. Like others he also wanted to live. So without making a last
attempt he did not want to give himself up to a gang of fanatics. Thus cogitating different things Kshitish
could not know when he had reached the gate of the police station.
Kshitish could hear someone speaking in a whisper, ‘Kshitish, halt there. If you try to move in to the
police station your life will be in perie.’ Kshitish raised his face. Samir was standing behind a tree with the
lifted pistol ready in his hand. Kshitish was petrified; because he knew that Samir never offered any
empty threat and his revolver was never lacking in bullets. Then Samir said, ‘There is no place of
friendship here—This is order of the Organization. It was also reckoned that seeing the red symbol you
would hasten to the police station and I would be waiting for you here.’
Kshitish was about to say something. But Samir cut in, ‘I know that you may to go into the police station
but despite the possibility of being arrested I will have to obey the order.’
Kshitish smiled, ‘ What do you want from me?’
‘Nothing–only you have to return to Calcutta.’
‘But what is the use of going to Calcutta? What has been done cannot be undone,’ asked Kshitish.
Contents
Page 117
‘There were two alternative open to Kshitish. It was not possible to go into the police station. To turn a
blind eye to sure death was sheer foolishness. So he had to choose the other way.’
‘Well Samir... Samir violently cut in one him,’ I have very little time to spare. You tell me whether you will
go to Calcutta or not.
‘One is not asked to make his choice with revolver breathing down his neck. I deem it to sheer
cowardice. Well I will go to Calcutta.’ Retorted Kshitish.
‘Then you will have to straight away go to the Railway station from here and I shall follow exactly ten
yards behind you,” Samir pointed out.
‘Then you will have to straight away go to the Rail station from here and I shall follow exactly ten yards
behind you.’ Samir pointed out.
‘But my parents at home should be informed before…’
‘No,’ came the strict order of Samir.
Without saying anything Kshitish turned towards the railway station.
It was already past 12A.M
The rays of the mid-day sun falling upon the verdant rice-fields on both sides of the road was creating
the illusion of green carpets. Kshitish was plodding forward on a narrow mending footpath. Not for once
did he look back. But he knew that just ten or twelve yards behind him Samir— Samir Bose— draped in
grew shawl and with a raised pistol under it was following him steadily.
Kshitish surveyed the rice fields on the roadside with loving eyes. Who knows he might be viewing these
fields for the last time! As they were drawing near to the station, Kshitish suddenly pushed and turned
about. Samir also stopped maintaining his distance. Kshitish was looking at his village, but the thatched
housetops of his village were looking at his village, but the thatched house stop of the tall coconut trees.
A little farther from the village stood palm-tree whose shadow, from which side measure it, came to
thirty one paces. The palm tree appeared very dreary and ruefully forlorn.
Kshitish turned his face aside and wended his way towards the railway Station. The familiar look of the
station seemed to have undergone a change. While ascending the steps the station master first greeted
them with a broad smile. Kshitish with a wry smile on his face returned the greeting by foddering his
hands in salutation and said, ‘Let me introduce you to Samir— my friend from Calcutta.’ Inside the showl,
Samir’s forefinger gripped the trigger but bringing an expression of apparent civility master arranged a
couple of chair for them to sit on; but before Samir sat down he selected the chair comparatively at the
back.
There was still sometime to go before the train would arrive. They had nothing to do for the present.
Really a passenger or two came to book tickets. So giving an order for three cups of tea the
stationmaster began to gossip with his newly-come friends. The tea came. Samir took the glass in his left
hand and it did not escape the notice of Kshitish. While sipping tea Samir could not contain his anxiety.
‘Will the train be late today?’ he asked.
Contents
Page 118
The station master burst out laughing, ‘Now a days the people regulate the train: It moves nad stops
according to their whim and if anybody objects, guns are triggered off and bombs are exploded what do
you say Kshitish babu?’
Throwing a cursory glance at Samir, Kshitish acquiesced. ‘O yea— the situation is like that. Then the
stationmaster addressed Samir,’ Well, Samir babu, what a situation! Everything in Calcutta something or
other id happening!”
Samir kept quiet for a while and then said, ‘Do you know its cause? The crux of the problem is that some
people are lolling in money while others are left high and dry.’
‘But I don’t understand, for the life of mine, how this maelstrom of murders and robbery would solve the
problem!’ remarked the Station master, somewhat irked.
Samir kept mum. Kshitish also held his tongue.
Kshitish rose to go out to pay for the tea, but hearing the command of Samir, stood suspended. ‘Kshitish,
you need not go out. He can be paid when he comes to collect the glasses. I would pay him, necessary.’
The station master was slightly surprised by the tone of the speech and said,” It is for me to pay. Why will
you pay?’
‘As he is my bosom friend we often talk in a different vein. Do not attach any importance to our
conversation,’ blurted out Samir in order to make everything appear natural.
The three of them burst into laughter.
The second bell rang for the advent of the train.
‘Let’s book tickets,’ said Kshitish.
‘Will you journey somewhere? Where?’ inquired the Station master.
‘You need not worry. I have already booked tickets,’ revealed Samir.
‘As soon as I reached here I had booked two tickets.’
‘You turned out to be the provident himself,’ commented the station-master.
The third bell rang, shattering the tranquil atmosphere of the evening. Kshitish and Samir rose their feet
and saluted the Station master. But there was no change in their positions Kshitish was front and Samir
ten yards behind him.
Samir directed from behind, ‘First class.’
Kshitish and then Samir went on board a first class compartment.
‘Oh’, Samir gave of relief.
Both of them were sitting quietly. They had a long way to travel- Madders and by the time the train
arrived there it would be about two in the night. The boredom of passing such a long time had
exhausted them all the more. Kshitish sat looking at the impenetrable darkness outside. Samir at times
looked out and then reverted his gaze on to Kshitish. The train ran on.
Kshitish was speculating— this was the last bet of his life. Who knows whether he would win or lose?
Samir was thinking that like a dutiful soldier he was thoroughly carrying on his duty.
But the train, like a one- eyed monster was scudding along at a formidable pace, piercing through the
Contents
Page 119
darkness.
Kshitish had seen the execution of money punitive measures, but he was not able to understand why he
was again being towed all the way to Calcutta. If death was the verdict passed against him, Samir could
easily carry it out in this empty compartment. He snatched a view of Samir; stretching his legs out on the
seat Samir was comfortably smoking hidden under the grey shawal.
No, Samir was loyal, unrelenting and dutiful soldier. But Kshitish had to remain alive. Kshitish, like Samir,
had got a life which could not be sacrificed at the feet of an ideal soldier.
Meanwhile, slight chill had fallen. But Kshitish had no clock to be wrapped up in. under the pretext of
covering the revolver Samir must be drawing some warmth from the coarse shawl.
To get back some warmth Kshitish sat with his hands crushed over his chest.
But Samir was still sitting indifferently as if he was transportation a precious animal from one place to
another with much caution.
What could be done? Kshitish turned over in his mind all the alternative. It was not possible to assault
Samir suddenly because no human action can be swifter than the bullet. He might slowly open the door
of the compartment. But then? The chance of remaining alive after jumping down from a train travelling
at fifty-mile speed was very thin. The train could be stopped by pulling the chain but before the train
came to a halt, Samir rounding off his job with case, could shift to another compartment.
The glass of the Window fell down with a loud noise and Samir, throwing out the cigarette, pulled the
shawl round his body more closely.
Kshitish was exploring – Ah! If only three were more passengers! He had an excellent plan. Going into
the bathroom and bolting the door from inside he would have informed the passengers by shouting that
the innocent- looking man sitting wrapped up in a shawl had get a loaded revolver at whose point he
was forcibly adducting him. Then probably there would have been chain pulling or he would have
received the help of R.F.F. at the station. But it was not possible when no other passenger was in the
compartment. But why? What could Samir do if he would go to the bathroom and shut himself in?
When the train pulled up at a station he could surely find some remedy by beckoning the people through
the window. Wonderful! For a moment Kshitish thought as if he had got the moon in his hands. He lay in
wait for the opportunity. Samir was still sitting quietly, covered with the shawl, but hi right hand could
not be trusted.
Rising from his berth Kshitish Moved towards the bathrooms, and instantly leaving his sat where he was
ensconced, Samir stood up and asked, ‘Perhaps you will go to the bathroom?’
‘Yes’, Kshitish answered in an off-hand manner.
‘But Kshitish, though it is extremely uncivil I shall have to escort you into the bathroom.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Kshitish, ‘How can you be so mean!’
Samir crimsoned, ‘I have been for warned about this. So I am helpless.’
‘O.K. come and watch,’ said Kshitish, chagrined. Both of them went into the bathroom and after
sometime came back to their respective seats.
The body and mind of Kshitish were embittered not so much because his plan had failed but because of
insult and hatred and he sat there, like a hopeless, helpless animal, with his hands tightly crossed over
his chest.
Samir sat insouciant as before.
Contents
Page 120
This acting out of the part of a calm, unaffected and resolved soldier by Samir irked him. He was not very
much afraid of death but that which would urge him to be a slave.
‘May I know why I am being dragged?’ shrieked Kshitish drowning the sound of the train.
This sudden scream of Kshitish had slightly ruffled Smir. He said, ‘You know Kshitish that I am only a
worker who has no right to ask any question or to know the ultimate purpose.’
‘No, not a worker… you are a slave. That’s the proper word.’ Taunted Kshitish.
‘Slave?’ asked Samir.
Kshitish had begun to tremble with shame, humiliation and hatred. ‘Slave! That is decent. You are all
tools and that is blind,’ cried Kshitish in derision.
‘Say whatever you like,’ Samir nearly soliloquised
Then both fell silent.
The train was running on continuously. It seemed as if the next station would never come.
Somewhat calmed down, Kshitish began first, ‘Samir, I am sorry. Perhaps I should not have talked to you
like that. But I have no other means. I have read about the Navi concentration camp and Soviet Labour
camp there, at least, the accused is allowed to speak his mind before he is killed. But in India, I am
deprived of even that privilege.’
‘In Calcutta you may be asked to give an explanation,’ consoled Samir.
‘Stupid!’ Kshitish deprecated, ‘I have read the story of the wolf and the lamp in my childhood. To deliver
my deposition before a pack of people who have already passed verdict on me is a farce deception.’
‘That of course is true,’ assented Samir. But Samir’s voice was tender and lachrymal,’ why should I be
lynched by some masked men of whose character and nature I am completely ignorant? Don’t you talk
of people’s court? Don’t you proclaim that you have understood men? Don’t you declare that you do
penance for the well being of the mankind? Don’t you say that the people are wiser than the so called
intellectual bourgeoisie? Then why am I dragged along to them? Come let us call a meeting in the open
air let us know the people’s judgment and I am ready to accept it even if I am to be hanged; but I am not
prepared to pay a fine of five rupees on the basis of the trail by a pack of fanatic sadists! Agreed!’ cried
Kshitish indignantly.
Samir hung his head and kept mum.
‘Why are you silent? I know you are not really a slave not a tool,” then why do you hesitate to answer
me?’
‘Kshitish you are excited, take rest,’ said Samir.
‘I have taken enough rest for long six months to be exact and it does not matter if I do not rest before
going to the gallows. But I want a solution. I must make it clear that every solider has the right to defy
the order of the leader if it is wrong and this right will remain forever.’
‘But that is not in our dictionary,’ Samir protected meekly.
‘Forget it your dictionary who are you? You are only a small fraction of the people, so small that it cannot
be expressed as a mathematical symbol. Why do you forget that like you, me and others like me have
each got a dictionary of their own?’
Samir was silent.
But after the first hesitancy was over Kshitish was going on unhindered.
‘I only remind you of that old incident after which we had been separated for a long time. That day in the
afternoon you had come with a tender innocent child and leaving him in my custody had stormed out of
the room; because you … no, not you …your bosses were in urgent need of a very fact amount. You had
not returned for long thirty six hours. Do you remember it Samir?
Contents
Page 121
‘Yes, I do remember it and that is why I am conveying you to Calcutta at gunpoint.’
‘Leave that. It does not really matter whether I die by your revolver or the revolvers of Lama and
Duma I only wonder what you could have done if you were in my position. You …’
‘But I would have waited for you. I would not have handed over the boy for the love of a reward of
twenty thousand rupees,’ Samir cut him short in a strident but distinct voice.
‘Twenty thousand rupees! What do you mean?’ Kshitish asked incredulously.
‘Yes. Every national and international newspaper had published the announcement of that reward in
headlines. Everyone in Calcutta known this.’
‘In the first place during that period I had no opportunity to read any newspaper, because for long thirty
six hours I had not set foot outside that room. The very fact that you should impute mercenary motive to
me shows that you are in no way different from the capitalists and bourgeoisie of your dictionary.’
‘But is it not natural on their part to think so.’ Asked Samir.
‘Yes. I told you it is the same things. Like the bourgeoisie the source of everything is money for them.
Money, more money. So it is quite natural on their part to think that I have got the money.’ The train
drew up at a station. It was very late in the night. Excepting the throaty shouts of a coffee hawker
nothing else was audible. Samir called out. ‘Hey! Bring two cups of coffee.’
The coffee hawker poured them cups of coffee. After taking a sip or two of the hot coffee Kshitish
addressed Samir with not warned you against offering me coffee.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The meaning is simple! All of a sudden I might splash this hot coffee on your face thus bewildering you
and in this opportunity can bring you under my control.’
Samir kept quit as if he could not completely rule out such a possibility.
While sipping coffee Kshitish went on with his tirade inattentively. ‘But Samir you are only thinking of
money and you have completely forgotten that human life is above money. I have heard it being said
that you are carrying on murders and robberies relentlessly for the betterment of the people; but do you
realize that in the meantime you have digressed from your control purpose?’
‘On that no comments from me.’
‘That should be so,’ rejoined Kshitish. But if on that day leaving that boy in your custody I had gone to
collect money the situation would have been reserved today I would be taking you to Calcutta at
gunpoint…’
Samir was staring at Kshitish in silence.
‘At seven in the morning the boy was running 1040 or 1050 temperature and it was not possible to feed
him anything neither barley nor bread nothing and at midday he had reached the delirium stage. It was
not possible on my part to desert the child or to sit beside him helplessly and indifferently.’
‘But how could I know all these?’ Samir put in. ‘And just then getting his telephone number I rang up his
parents and handed him over to them not for twenty thousand rupees but because it was impossible on
any part to murder the boy in cold blood.’
Samir’s face had become soft and tender. He did not utter anything. Perhaps his voice was choked up.
‘Therefore I say that many big commands may be given, but it is not always possible to obey all of them.
For many years you have obeyed orders, now learn to ask questions, learn to talk. Ask your bosses is
there really any intention of the change of fate of the people of India behind the perpetration of these
senseless murder, arson and loot?’
Contents
Page 122
Samir said, ‘But we have no right to ask that question.’
‘That is why I called you slaves,’ retorted Kshitish
‘By brain washing you they have completely wiped out your capacity to will and capacity for thought and
I believe that a thoughtless coward can never be a patriot.’
Samir was still silent.
Kshitish did not put forth any other topic. The train was speeding forward humming it’s also tune.
At the sound of the shrill whistle of the train at intervals it seemed as if the train was carrying the
passengers off to a demon land. Kshitish, with his hands crossed over the chest was swaying to and fro
matching with the swinging of the train.
For a while Kshitish thought that Samir had fallen asleep; but observing him closely he saw that Samir
had broken down and his eyelids were wet.
‘Samir! Samir! Have you gone to sleep?’
‘No.’
‘I know that you have entered into a blind alley which is closed at one end it is not also possible to
return.’
‘Then you should not reproach such a helpless person,’ Samir said ruefully.
Kshitish sniggered, ‘I hate to be called helpless. What you call helplessness is actually cowardice do you
think that you can’t face their assailment?’
‘You fool!’ cried Kshitish testily and the next moment sprang on to the seat beside Samir, You can fight
the Police organized by the Government you can set flame to the houses of the innocent people by
chloroforming your conscience you can snatch the sinless child from the lap of the mother; but are you
not ashamed to own that you can’t fight against a handful of perverted sadists!’
Samir continued to sit with a statuesque stillness. Kshitish began again, ‘I do not believe that out of fear
of your life you are not coming out of the blind alley. You are afraid of yourself; you wonder how can the
conceptions, the belief, the convictions for which you sacrificed your study, your life and your humanity
be wrong which is called total disillusionment!’
‘I admit. You are right. It is painful to think that the most vital six years of life been squandered away.’
‘Bringing out the revolver from under the shawl he was turning it round and round in his hand.’
‘But that boy coming as a divine minister opened my eyes in an instant. The soil of my so called beliefs
gave way beneath my feet. Perhaps that good luck is till late to come to you.’
Samir replied, ‘Not late –from a long time I had started questioning myself there no means—no way out.’
‘Why?’
‘Hunt’- smiling sorrowfully Samir flung the revolver on to the hand of Kshitish. ‘Look inside. All its
chambers are empty.’
‘But you have not used a single a bullet’; Kshitish asked, surprised.
‘Not –from the beginning it had no bullet because I know that I would have to use bullets if you oppose
me. So I had emptied all its chambers—knowingly had kept myself disarmed because I knew that you
have not sold the boy to his parents in exchange of money. But I had to say something. Without some
pretext or other it is not possible to carry out all our oration. Therefore to justify our action something or
other had to be done- true or false.’
Contents
Page 123
Holding the pistol in his hand Kshitish was gazing at a point on the berth in front of him. ‘Yes, I had said it
in the past very often. Had to be done— All in the game.’
The train had slowed down.
Suddenly as if his trance was broken Samir said, ‘Kshitish, probably this is our last meeting, because
within a few minutes we shall reach the Madres Station and their two trigged, happy friend would be
waiting for you and me. This is double check system. One not coming by this train, they would have gone
to your village to help me and keep a watch.’
There is good news Kshitish. Many friends like us are gradually disillusioned and IO admits that they are
bound to be disillusioned one day or other. But I would accomplish my mission and then I may also leave
Calcutta forever.
Saying this Samir hugged Kshitish and resting their chins on each other’s shoulder, they were lost in their
own thoughts. Each held his tongue but they were crushed under the close embrace. Probably,
contemplating their helpless state, they were silently shedding tears.
Samir’s revolver was lying helplessly on the blue resin in the compartment. It seemed as though a small
child had got down at the previous station forgetting his pistol behind. The speed of the train had
become slower still.
The light of Madras City could be seen through the window.
All of a sudden giving Samir a violent shake, Kshitish. Said, ‘Samir, there is a way out. Tell me, will you join
hands with me!’
‘You still do noir believe me,’ sighed Samir. Like a wounded tiger Kshitish. Leapt to his feet and going to
the emergency chain, hung down from it. With a groaning screech, the train, like a dissatisfied python
rolling over the ground, crawled to a halt.
All around there was only darkness; all the passengers had lapsed into deep slumber. So there was pindrop silence.
Madras was still three or miles away. Opening the door of the compartment Kshitish took the hand of
Samir and dismounted slowly. Someone walking by the side of the train was approaching with a lamp.
Kshitish and Samir vanished into the darkness.
After travelling some distance the two friends looked back. The tired engine of the train had palled the
sky with black smoke. Shrilling a whistle the train was lumbering along slowly as if the python swallowing
down a large beast was unable to move fast.
The light glowing in the distant signal of the Madras station was blue… Not red.
Contents
Page 124
An analysis of ‘The Blind Alley’ by Nrusingha Mishra, MD
This is story of a bright conscientious young man named Kshitish, who went from a small village to the
big city of Calcutta in pursuit of higher post -graduate studies. He was the eldest child of a low middle
class household and was center of the dream of his parents. He had nurtured a deep sense of
belonging and love for the village and his family. While immersed in the complex city life, he slowly
drifted away from his cherished dream in the company of bad friends. As ill luck would have it, Kshitish
was drafted behind his knowledge into a gang to lead the college strike against the establishment. The
gang leader with a code name called Lama tried to impress the young man with sense patriotism
inside him and promised him that he will have the opportunity to move around the country to lead
various projects and men in his career. Before he knew for sure what he was into, he had to be
involved in violence, murder, anti-police stand-offs and stayed away from study and college in
hideouts. A member of the gang Samir was after him sent by the gang leader to make sure that
Kshitish carries out the order and Samir was ordered to keep close eyes on Kshitish. One evening Samir
abducts a small boy called Khoka and leaves in the care of Kshitish so that the gang can collect money
as ransom from the rich parents. Kshitish tried to take care of Khoka feeding him as he was hungry
and developed a friendship with the boy. As night advanced. Kshitsh saw that the boy is shivering with
high fever and was groaning in delirium. With no way out, Kshtish felt very sympathetic for the boy
and called his parents informing them where he will be with Khoka so that boy can go home and can
be treated effectively. He had the audacity of not listening to Samir and fled with the boy to hand over
to his parents in pitch darkness. That very night he left the city in train back to his village. As he was
going back to his village he was not sure how he is going to tell his parents that instead of college
study activities, he is avoiding capture by the gangs and the police. His pretension to explain to his
sister, brother and the parents did not fly well at home and caused them more worries and anxieties.
Samir traced him out and caught him at the point of gun before Kshitish desired to explain everything
to the police. Samir forced him to accompany him back to Calcutta and told him that he will be
executed by the gang leaders because of his total disrespect and disobeying the order of the
command. Kshitish remained very remorseful and began in his mind to reverse his path to the path of
righteousness and tried to advise Samir not to be involved in gang activities. Eventually Kshitish won
the heart of Samir and got out of the blind alley together as they were friends of the same college.
The writer has depicted a very dire picture of the current society how young men being misdirected by
a handful of the so-called leaders with their own secret agendas to be involved in violent activities
with lure of physical comfort and short –term financial rewards. The young men are constantly being
brain washed to join activities away from study in college to demonstrations against the
establishment with a pretext of patriotism.
Contents
Page 125
The Corpse
Surendra Mohanty
Translated by Jatindra Kumar Nayak
Nidhi Kanagoi's dead body lay in a dark, stinking and damp corner of the verandah of the hospital ward,
wrapped up in a tattered blanket.
The corpse would be allowed to remain here only for the night. Unless it was removed in the morning,
the hospital watchmen would haul it away. That was the rule.
Brajabandhu heaved a deep sigh, staring into the darkness and the clouds.
It was the night of Janmastami. The sky was covered with thick clouds. It had been raining since midday
without a break. The weather was not stormy when it started to rain, but since the evening a storm was
gathering. Forked tongues of lightning leapt out of the raised hood of deep darkness.
The dead body of Nidhi Kanagoi lay uncremated. Nothing could be done about it. The village Haripur lay
at a distance of twelve miles from here. There would be no bus to take you there after dark. The last bus
left at five in the evening. From the bus-stop, one had to go two miles on foot before reaching Haripur. It
was a no-account village, surrounded by screwpine bushes and clumps of bamboo.
Tomorrow Anant would take the morning bus to Haripur. The corpse would be cremated after the
pallbearers arrived. Until that time, Nidhi Kanagoi's body would lie here in that stinking dark corner.
Two spotted stray dogs, fighting, came rushing at the corpse. They dilated their nostrils to inhale the
stench of rotting flesh. The sharp teeth and the lolling tongue of one of the dogs glittered in the light of
the electric bulb burning inside. The dogs bared their teeth and growled at each other. Then they sat
down at a little distance away from the corpse. Like the poor relatives at the deathbed of a wealthy old
man without an heir.
Brajabandhu picked up a pebble, threw it at the dogs and shooed them away. The dogs ran away, giving
him angry looks.
The sound of a nurse's excited laughter came from inside the duty room. It was warm with the pleasure
of embracing a young house-surgeon on a cloudy, wet evening.
The morning bus would take one to the bus stand in Kania market. Haripur was two miles from there. On
rainy days the road became so muddy that bullock carts sank up to their axles in the deep mud. The
drizzle and the wind blowing hard would make the men, bent double and churning the mud, look like
soggy paper packets.
Contents
Page 126
Tomorrow morning . . .
There would be quite a bustle in Haripur. `Have you heard . . . Nidhi Kanagoi passed away in the big city
hospital. Anant has come to the village to take pallbearers with him.' In jute fields, newly-planted paddy
fields, backyards where banana plants grew, bathing ghats, on verandahs, inside houses, in village paths,
on embankments everywhere people would talk about only one thing: the death of Nidhi Kanagoi.
Nidhi Kanagoi was a reckless character, no respecter of relationships or customs, an intriguer, a hooligan,
and yet he was one who would come to your rescue even in the middle of the night. He was one, who, if
he felt like it, would risk his neck for someone else. He would think nothing of telling you hard things on
your face. He was foul-mouthed, a blot on the clan of Kanagois, a curse on the village. A pauper, a keeper
of goats and chickens. This man had passed away.
The news of his death would suddenly spread through that village of no account like a breath of moist
breeze in a rice-field. Then everything would become quiet.
Uncle Natha would be seated on his verandah, a torn scarf on his head, wrapped up in a blanket as if he
was braving the winter. Every morning he would be racked by a bout of coughing. Then, through the
glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, he would go through a fifteen-day old newspaper brought over
from the other part of the village. His widowed sister, Nishi, now over sixty, would put before him an
aluminum pot half-filled with black tea and a bell-metal bowl. The news of Nidhi Kanagoi's passing away
would bring no change in this daily routine. Rather, the news would give his bitter-tasting tea an exiting
new flavour.
This death removed a curse. Now at last the undivided property of the Kanagoi section of the village
would be enjoyed in peace. The property including a plot of homestead land measured about four acres
and a fourth. At one time it belonged to only two brothers the elder brother was entitled to two-thirds
of the property and the younger to one-third. Today there were eleven families in place of two: six laying
claim to the larger part and five laying claim to the smaller. No formal decision on the division of the
property had yet taken place. As a result, there was no end to bitter conflicts among the Kanagois. It
could be started off by anything at all: someone's fence encroaching by a finger's breadth on someone
else's plot, someone's thatch overhanging his neighbour's verandah, someone taking away a vegetable
from his neighbour's backyard, or someone's cow pulling out a few pieces of straw from someone's
thatch.
The section of the village where the Kanagois lived lay under a curse. All of them were desperately poor.
The bitter struggle for survival had burnt away all their finer faculties. Like locusts they had flown off to
far-off places like Koraput and Kalimati to make a living. They came to the village rarely, may be once or
twice a year. A few widowed aunts, sisters, illiterate young men, and the old Uncle Natha stayed at
home. They could not thatch their roofs every year. Some of the roofs had become a bare skeleton of
beams and rafters. On some others spread pumpkin and water gourd creepers.
The smaller part of the Kanagoi property belonged to five brothers, of whom Nidhi Kanagoi was one. The
property had been partitioned when their father was alive. Each of the brother's share amounted to
forty decimals, which included arable as well as homestead land. The need to make a living had taken all
the brothers except Nidhi away from the village. The oldest Kanagoi, Uncle Natha, had been living in the
village after retirement for the last three years. But his being there made little difference. Asthma and
Contents
Page 127
fits of coughing made it difficult for him even to step down from his verandah. So Nidhi found it easy to
enjoy the whole property, intimidating every one, brandishing his cudgel and mouthing abuse. Nidhi
Kanagoi raised his cudgel at the slightest provocation. And even Lord Shiva is scared of blows.
Shankar Garad, a hospital watchman, lighted a bidi and stood a little distance from Brajabandhu. He had
put on blue shorts and a shirt of the same colour. He sported a full moustache. His breath was heavy
with the sour smell of toddy. Lightning must have struck some place nearby. The noise was deafening.
Brajabandhu muttered `Ram, Ram' under his breath a couple of times.
The same two stray dogs again rushed in, their tongues hanging out, but Shankar Garad shouted abuse
at them and they slunk into the darkness below the verandah.
Shankar Garad fixed his eyes on the dead body lying in the dark corner and thought to himself: Àn
unclaimed corpse. This man came from some remote village and had been admitted to bed number 23.
No one attended on him. Maybe no one would come to take his dead body. If those bastards, the
anatomy-wallahs, won't take it, he could easily make two hundred rupees by selling its bones. Last year
he had come by the corpses of three cholera patients. Even the anatomy-wallahs refused to touch them.
He boiled the lot in a huge trough filled with hydrogen peroxide which he kept in his house and removed
the bones. Last year, the bones of one cadaver went for one hundred fifty or two hundred rupees. This
year the price had gone up. Madhu Jamadar of the ward recently got two hundred fifty rupees for a
skeleton.
Three dogs climbed in a group on to the verandah. Outside, the rain grew fiercer. Shankar Garad picked
up a pebble and threw it at the dogs but this time they were not scared by the pebble. They growled and
glared at Shankar Garad, as if they found in him a rival. The sound of the nurse's excited laughter came
floating from the duty room.
Shankar Garad went into the ward, brought out a stick and charged at the dogs. They fled. Swaddled in a
blanket the corpse of Nidhi Kanagoi was slowly rotting. It was nine and the rain showed no signs of
easing off.
Brajabandhu made an effort to forget the bitter memory of the ugly squabbles relating to the undivided
property of the Kanagois, their filthy abuse and their nasty fights and tried to remember all that was
beautiful and memorable in the harsh, poverty-tormented life of Nidhi Kanagoi. Nidhi was fifteen years
older than him.
Death has strange ways.
The pitiless touchstone of death brings out the golden glow of life. Death represents the moment of life's
perfection.
Victory belongs to the one who dies. Nidhi Kanagoi was the victor. All that was pleasant and memorable
in his otherwise ugly life came again and again to Brajabandhu's mind.
The black, bald and ugly man who used to walk the cursed path of the Kanagoi part of the village
carrying a cudgel in one hand and a bill-hook in the other now lay in that dark corner wrapped up in a
blanket.
Nidhi's wife had died long since. Brajabandhu used to call her Bhauja sister-in-law. Many in the village
Contents
Page 128
still remember the excellent taste of the fried spinach she used to cook. In the god-forsaken world of
Nidhi Kanagoi she was like a garland of flowers thrown around a pig's neck. She suffered blows till she
died, leaving behind two sons and a daughter. Nidhi fought with his eldest son every day and he had left
the village long since. His younger son Baida caught fish, stole bananas and jackfruits from others'
backyards at night, and traded in betel leaves. Nidhi's daughter, Sari drew water in a pitcher since she
was nine, washed dishes, cooked and received blows from her brother and filthy abuse from her father.
Cruelty, want, poverty and pitiless hunger had turned man into a beast.
The mud walls of what passed for his house were collapsing. The three-year old ash-coloured thatch was
rotting. The front yard, about four decimals of land, was overgrown with green chilli, banana and
eggplants. On these Nidhi Kanagoi sought to survive. He had been a cheat, a thief, a double-dealer. He
had ruined people, but never had he deferred to any one. For one and all he reserved the choicest four
letter words.
Tomorrow morning in the jute fields, on embankments, in the village path, everyone would talk about
this.
Brajabandhu had gone to Haripur during the Raja festival to get the roof of this own house thatched. The
schools were closed. The Kanagoi quarters seemed unusually quiet. He could not hear Nidhi Kanagoi's
screams and filthy abusive words, which normally greeted one when one reached the outskirts of the
village. Baida, wearing a tattered towel and carrying a fishing rod and a fish basket, was on his way out.
He paid his respects to Brajabandhu.
Ìsn't your father home?' Brajabandhu asked.
`He is down with a fever.'
`Since when?'
`Since the month of Kartik.'
Baida went off to catch fish.
Brajabandhu turned to look at Nidhi Kanagoi's hut, which stood among the collapsing walls. Tethered to
a post on the verandah a goat kept bleating. A thin voice screamed from inside, `Sari, hey Sari, you bitch.'
No reply came from Sari.
The abuse grew filthier. Sari came running in, a paan stuck in her mouth. She was wearing a new spotted
frock and sandals made of the areca nut bark.
`Saria, you bitch. I'll tear your head off.'
Sari stopped dead in front of her house. Sensing imminent danger, her bright eyes grew moist with tears.
The midday sun rained down hot embers on her head. Brajabandhu was moved with pity for this
motherless girl, whose resemblance with her mother was striking.
`Sari, my child,' said Brajabandhu. `Come with me. I want to see your father.'
Contents
Page 129
She climbed the verandah, following him like a goat being dragged to the butcher's block.
Inside it was dark like a cave, and the stench of urine was overpowering. Nidhi sat on a tattered
bedspread leaning against the wall. His yellow, bloated body made him look like a gigantic frog. His eyes
had disappeared into his swollen face and his distended belly was as big as a straw grain-container. His
hands and legs resembled thin bamboo sticks. He tried to rise to his feet supporting himself on a stick,
but without success. For this he showered abuse on Sari.
When Brajabandhu's shadow fell across the floor, he demanded harshly, `Who's there? Is it Baida? You
bastard.'
Ì am Braja. What has happened to you, Nidhi Bhai?'
`My body is swollen. Nothing serious. I had an attack of fever in Kartik. The fever went. Then one day
Baida brought in a ser of kerandi fish. I ate the whole lot. My body swelled after that. I am sure I'll get
well. The medicine that rascal Nitia Kaviraj gave me has made me lose my appetite. Now I take
homeopathic medicine from Dhani doctor.' Saying so many things without pause made Nidhi breathless.
`Let me take you to the city hospital,' Brajabandhu said. `This treatment will not do.'
Nidhi screamed. `Scoundrels. All are eagerly waiting for me to drop dead. Then they'll pounce on my
homestead land. No, I won't go. If I die, I die here. I will go nowhere. Dhani doctor will cure me.'
But Dhani doctor's medicine could not save him. He came to the city hospital a month ago for his
treatment. This evening he passed away.
There lay his corpse, swaddled in a blanket.
The rain had abated.
At a short distance two shadows fell across the verandah. Two men spoke in whispers. It was eleven.
Brajabandhu debated with himself on whether he should now get up and leave. But how could he leave
Nidhi Kanagoi's corpse unattended. That was his problem.
The two shadows edged closer.
Shankar Garad and Madhu Gochhait, watchmen on night duty. Two bidis glowed on their lips.
`Who's sitting there?' Shankar Garad asked.
Ìt's me,' Brajabandhu answered.
`The corpse? When are you taking it away?'
Unable to give a proper reply, Brajabandhu sat in silence.
Àny other near relations of the deceased?' Shankar Garad persisted.
Contents
Page 130
`They will come tomorrow morning. His son will come with them. His village is twelve miles from here.
It's raining. So the corpse will lie here for the night.'
`This man lay in bed number 23 for a month,' Shankar Garad laughed. Ì never saw a single relative of his
visit him. Now he's dead. Who will come now?'
Brajabandhu said nothing.
He was trying to figure out who would come tomorrow morning. Of course, Baida would come. The
eldest son, Madhab, would not even get the news of his father's death. Uncle Nath would not come. Of
course his coming or not coming would not matter in the least. No one would come from the farmers'
side for they would not touch the corpse. Who else would come?
`Will you stay here all night?' Shankar asked.
No. How could he sit here all night watching over a corpse? The thought of diseases caused by lack of
sleep scared him. And he was already down with a cold. His body was aching during the day.
Nidhi Kanagoi was a man without means. His heirs did not count in society. Sitting all night by his corpse
without sleep would bring him no material gain. It did not matter if Nidhi Kanagoi came from his own
village, was a near relation.
Brajabandhu remembered another night like this dark, stormy and rainy. Rameswar's wife had died.
Rameswar, the judge. Relations and mourners, invited and uninvited, had crowded the street, taking no
notice of the storm, the rain and the darkness. But how was the corpse to be cremated? Would it be
allowed to go stale, remain uncremated for long? Sheets of tarpaulin were brought over from the houses
of Marwari businessmen in the middle of the night. Nobody asked Brajabandhu to come. Who would
bother to involve a schoolteacher like him in the judge's affairs? True, he was private tutor to his
children, but when it came to carrying tarpaulin sheets from the Marwari houses, richer, more famous,
more important people eagerly offered their services. After the tarpaulin sheets were fetched, it was
found that damp wood would not catch fire. But no matter. The logs would burn if large quantities of
ghee were poured over them. But how could so much ghee be collected at twelve in the night? Some
people went off to arrange the ghee. Soaking wet, Brajabandhu moved busily only to attract everybody's
attention. In Rameswar's presence he grew even more mournful and more frantically busy. After all,
Rameswarbabu was a judge. If Brajabandhu braved the storm and the rain to help with the cremation of
the judge's wife, she might or might not benefit in the other world, but his own welfare in this world was
positively assured. At last, the corpse was borne off to the cremation ground. When the litter came out
of the house, Brajabandhu threw himself down on the muddy street and wailed inconsolably. Rameswar
came up to him and said, `Get up, Brajabandhu. Stay back with the children and comfort them. We're
going to the cremation ground.'
Brajabandhu felt his life was fulfilled.
But this was Nidhi Kanagoi from the cursed Kanagoi quarters of an inconsequential village called Haripur.
His corpse lay in that dark corner, covered in a torn blanket. A dog sat on its haunches a short distance
away, looking hungrily at it.
Brajabandhu shouted at it. `Go away.'
Contents
Page 131
The dog turned to look at him, running its tongue over its lips.
Ìf you go away for a minute,' Shankar observed, `these dogs would finish the corpse.'
`Can't we find someone to watch over it?'
Ìf you want we'll keep a watch. Give us five rupees.'
Ì'll give you three. Here, take one rupee as advance.'
Shankar took the one-rupee note and put it in his pocket. Àll right. We'll make do with three.'
Letting out a deep sigh, Brajabandhu got up to leave. The rains had stopped, but the sky was dark.
Pleased with himself Shankar Garad noisily cleared his throat.
The next day, around noon, the pallbearers from Haripur arrived. It was the planting season. The rains
had arrived late this year. Labourers were hard to find. Sindhu Kanagoi, the younger son of Nidhi's uncle,
had come. There were too many things for him to do at home. Left to himself, he would have liked to
stay back, but there was no way he could do so. Baida was but a child. No one from the Mahanti
quarters except Chakradhar came, but he would not touch the corpse, for he had been asked by his
family to stay away from it. From the farmers' quarters came Nata and Gobind. Baida had brought no
money with him, for he had none. And none would lend him any. The cremation would cost at least
twenty rupees. The money Brajabandhu earned from school made him turn his blood into sweat. He
could willingly shed twenty drops of blood from his body, but he could not dream of parting with twenty
rupees. If Baida would somehow agree to give him three palm trees which grew near in backyard, maybe
he would. Palm trees made excellent rafters. Baida looked this way and that like a moron and sent out
clouds of smoke from his bidi. The pallbearers fiercely argued over how to cremate the corpse.
Suddenly a terrible quarrel flared up.
`Let Sindhu bhai bear the expenses of the cremation,' Chakradhar suggested. Àfter all he is a close
relation. Baida is a mere boy. Only Sindhu bhai can now enjoy whatever property Nidhi bhai has left
behind.'
Sindhu flared up. `You are all scoundrels in Haripur. You could even get maggots into fresh fish. My own
property is enjoyed by people I don't even know. Nidhi bhai used to occupy forcibly seventy-two
decimals of land in Chandpur land that belonged to all of us. He would brandish his cudgel whenever we
asked for our share of the yield. Why should I covet Baida's property? You Chakradhar, why don't you
meet the expenses of the cremation yourself? When your father died, your fellow Mahantis did not
touch it for it was crawling with worms. It was cremated only after Nidhi bhai came to your rescue. Why
don't you return his favour now?'
The heated arguments made Chakradhar and Sindhu almost come to blows. Brajabandhu had not
imagined things would take such a nasty turn. So he had to intervene as a peacemaker and settle the
quarrel.
It was decided at last that since the corpse had already gone stale, it would be too much trouble to give
it a cremation; throwing if off into the river would be the end of all problems. There would be no need
for bamboos to make a litter; a hospital barrow would do for carrying the corpse away.
Contents
Page 132
But early in the morning the corpse had been carried into the morgue. After all, it was an unclaimed
body. In the small hours of the night a few dogs tore the blankets off the corpse and started fighting. So
the doctor on duty had got the corpse transferred through hospital sweepers. It had already been
injected with formalin and was now fixed for dissection. It could not be handed over to the relatives.
Blinking his eyes, Shankar Garad demanded from the men from Haripur, `Why did you not come in the
morning. The patient died last evening. Give me the two rupees you owe me.'
Brajabandhu was no simple villager whom a more hospital watchman could browbeat. The body had to
be kept for twenty-four hors according to the rules. If it was not handed over to them, he would get the
newspapers to report on the matter. He would take the matter to the minister, if need be. They simply
could not treat this as child's play.
At last the hospital superintendent intervened and the corpse was handed over to them. But it no longer
looked human; it was swollen like a dead buffalo. Stinking liquid oozed out of its eyes, ears and nose. The
tongue, now as thick as a cow's, hung out. Two sweepers wheeled it out on a stretcher. The men from
Haripur stopped their nostrils with the ends of their cloth.
How was this to be carried as far as the riverbank? A discussion began. Brajabandhu was not in the best
of moods after Shankar Garad made him pay the balance of two rupees. With his head lowered, he sat a
short distance away. Chakradhar had come on the condition that he would not touch the dead body.
`We'll not touch this corpse now since the sweepers have touched it,' Sindhu said. Ìf we carry it, we will
have to do penance.'
Baida, Nidhi Kanagoi's son, smoked his bidi and kept gazing stupidly at the faces of others. Everyone now
slowly began to edge away from the corpse.
Àfter all, he's dead,' Shankar Garad said. `While one is alive, considerations like caste and untouchability
matter. Now it's all the same whether you burn or bury him. With these hands I have disposed of many
corpses like this. Leave it to us, we will fling it into the river. But each of us will take five rupees.'
The men from Haripur now looked at each other and began to discuss Shankar Garad's proposal.
Àll right, do so,' Brajabandhu said. `We will give you five rupees. Dispose of the corpse. The river is not
far off. You can see it from here.'
Everybody turned their eyes towards the branching banyan tree which stood on the river bank. It
seemed as if a cloud of smoke hung over this ancient tree. A few vultures circled above it.
Àll right, give us whatever you like,' Shankar said. `But work like this is not done for five rupees.'
Brajabandhu brought out a five-rupee note from his pocket and put it into Shankar's hand. `We are
leaving. Take the corpse where the river is deep so that it floats away and does not get stuck in the bank.'
Sindhu turned to Baida. `Put a little mud into your father's mouth. Why are you blinking like an idiot?
After all, this is life.'
Baida picked up a handful of wet earth mixed with blades of grass and threw it at Nidhi Kanagoi's corpse.
Sindhu objected. `Flinging earth on the corpse won't do. You have to put it into his mouth.'
But Baida was too scared to go near the corpse. Its putrid stench would have made him throw up.
Contents
Page 133
`You wretch,' Sindhu said harshly. `He was your father wasn't he? And you did not even put a bit of earth
in his mouth.'
But before Baida could pick up another handful Shankar Garad pushed the truckled stretcher before him
and moved a few paces. Sindhu said, `Why are you quiet? Say "Ram nam satya hai."'
The men from Haripur joined him. `Ram nam satya hai.'
Two dogs followed Shankar Garad. He made his way, throwing stones at them and abusing them in filthy
language.
The men from Haripur kept looking in his direction. Tears welled into their eyes drowning for a moment
the pettiness and the coarseness in their hearts of those poor devils.
Sindhu wiped his eyes. `The name `Nidhi Bhai' has been erased this day.'
Baida sank to the ground, wailing. `My father, my father!'
Brajabandhu's eyes filled with tears. He broke down while consoling Baida.
From where they stood they could still see Shankar Garad. Once he took the turn near the peepul tree,
Nidhi Kanagoi's body would move out of their sight. They all fixed their tearful eyes on it.
Two teardrops rolled down Sindhu's stubbly cheeks, unshaven for the last seven days.
Tears softened the hard lines spreading across Chakradhar's parched face like a spider's web.
Baida went on crying, his head between his knees.
Nata and Gobinda sadly watched Shankar Garad and Nidhi Kanagoi's dead body slowly disappear.
At the turning near the peepul tree Shankar Garad stopped for a moment and turned to look at the men
from Haripur. He had a suspicion that some of them might be following the corpse.
But they stood in a knot in front of the morgue. They were not going to follow him. He had at last got
hold of a corpse after so many days. Its bones would bring him at least two hundred and fifty rupees.
The smell of rotting flesh made a dog follow him. He shouted a filthy abuse, hurled a stone at it and
made his way towards the sweepers' colony below the embankment.
Contents
Page 134
An analysis of ‘The Corpse’ by Barun Pani and Rita Agrawal
Immortal stories told by write Surendra Mohanty paints magic with word. The corpse depicts a
wonderful story of raw emotions.
Death is an equalizer, it evens out everything, but death is also an unmanageable event. There is no
logic for death, and when you mix death with abject poverty a story like corpse dazzles with beauty.
Surrounding death, the cruel life goes on, the giggling of the nurses, the focus of the guard to make a
few bucks out of this numbing event and the fights of little power of a meagre piece of land make loud
sounds, as if everyone forgot the certainty of death.
The contract brought out by the magician storyteller was the two stray dogs, they are just looking for
food, any food, even decayed meat out of a corpse, another sign of human cruelty.
Surendra Babu is an impeccable story teller. He made the reality win in this story. The deceitful world
is where Edison wins and Tesla loses. The message that life is cruel and death is the real freedom
resounds in this story. Nidhi was a man as imperfect as he could be, as angry as he could be, as poor
as he could be, and as filthy as he could be, but he lays peacefully and his last possession, his body
decays minute by minute when the clans rot in the potion of fear and poverty, the guards rot in the
potion of greed, and the nurses rot in the potion of uncaring flirtatious mind.
The good news is there is freedom and that freedom is a certain thing for each one of us. Rest all is a
rotting dead body.
Contents
Page 135
The Snake Ride
Santanu Kumar Acharya
Translated by Ramanuj Shastry
That evening, when the first Indian astronaught, Wing Commander Rakesh Sharma was Zooming into
outer space along with his Soviet Colleagues in Soyuz-11, Sadhu Mohanta a fairly well-known figure of
Rasamtola village of the Karanjia Subdivision in Orissa’s Mayurbhanj district, climbed onto the back of a
huge snake and disappeared into the forest.
The newspapers ran full-length features of Rakesh Sharma Bursting patriotically into the refrains
of ‘ Sare Jahan Se Achcha ‘, every time he glimpsed the Indian sub-continent in his orbits around the
globe. But the world continued to be in the dark as to Sadhu Mohanta’s whereabouts and the musical
strains, which took him along, on his strange journey.
The day after, Mohanta’s wife and other women of the family narrated the event to the villagers,
amid much sobbing and wailing. ‘ A huge snake came straight into the house. Mohanta stepped down
from the bed and without uttering a single word got unto the serpent’s back as if he were riding a horse.
Then the snake vanished with him in the same direction from where it came.’
Seven days went by.
Rakesh Sharma came back from space. Even as the landing of the spacecraft was being telecast
on the TV, some one rushed in to give the startling news that Sadhu Mohanta was lying unconscious in
the courtyard of the Shiva temple.
The villagers rushed there to find Sadhu lying there as if in deep, undisturbed sleep. His breath
was normal and there was not even a scratch on his body.
Every one was dumbfounded. If Sadhu Mohanta had gone off on the back of a serpent how did
he return? Suddenly, some one pointed to distinct marks of dragging on the earth. A number of twigs
and bushes lay crushed as if something very heavy had passed over them. Certainly the very snake that
had taken him away had brought him back.
Meanwhile, accolades and honors were being heaped upon Rakesh Sharma for his extraterrestrial adventure. But when Sadhu regained consciousness, none deemed it necessary to celebrate
the occasion. In fact, the news of the strange voyage did not reach the ears of the bureaucrats of
Karanjia, the sub-divisional headquarters.
Even if the news had reached, none would have dared to give any credence to it. Strange things
did happen in this area, but the civilized world laughed them off, when they heard about them, as
drunken tales. Thus self-respecting officers were apt to maintain a tight- lipped silence. The news of the
Contents
Page 136
strange adventures of Sadhu Mohanta was lost to the world. Or so it seemed.
Rakesh Sharma never went to space again; but the snake returned.
A few hours before its arrival, Sadhu took his wife aside and told her, ‘ Look! I have this strange
feeling that the snake will come for me today!
On hearing this, Mohanta’s wife, Jui, hurriedly closed all doors and windows. Then she tightly
hugged Sadhu and started sobbing. ‘ If that horrid thing comes for you, then I’m coming along too!’
Sadhu was both touched and surprised at this sudden show of affection by his middle-aged wife.
After his return, he was regarded by his fellow beings with fear, suspicion and a reverence tinged with
jealousy, though disbelief outweighed all other emotions. But, overnight, he had been elevated to the
rank of an ascetic.
Sadhu was neither a hermit nor a saint. He was an ordinary man with all human failings. He ate,
slept, laughed, cried, coveted wealth and cheated whenever he had the
opportunity. But what puzzled all was the fact, that he was the one chosen by the gods to under take this
strange mission.
Sadhu felt disgusted with this attitude. After all, gods were not politicians that they would send a
vehicle to pick up their supporters and touts. He was worried too, for if the snake didn’t return he would
be ridiculed. People would think it was a dream – the only difference being that they all saw it
simultaneously.
When a family goes to sleep, each member has his own dream. Suppose one night, all of them
have the same dream and discover that the next morning; surely they would be wide- eyed with wonder.
But after a few days, they would accept it as a rare aberration. For an aberration, to be credible, has to
manifest itself more than once. May be the serpent will never come back. But if it came once what’ll
keep it from appearing again?
Suddenly, Sadhu started. A distinct slithering noise came from beyond the closed doors. ‘ Listen!’
he whispered to his wife,’ Can you hear it? Let me go and open the door; otherwise it’ll come in any
way!’
His wife’s grip tightened like a vice. She was a Mohanta a people who are proficient in the art of
black magic and illusions but still retain a strong sense of reality. They are a hardy breed. There is a
saying,’ if you throw a stone at a Mohanta, he will return it to you as a lump of fertile clay.’ Like so many
earthworms they break up the stone-hard soil and reap plentiful harvests. They are also known as Kurmi
Kshatriyas or the earthworm warriors. A female Kurmi Kshatriya can be as harsh as she can be soft and
pleasing. Sadhu wasn’t surprised at all to find his wife immobilizing him.
‘ If it can enter a closed room’, she hissed, ‘ it’s a ghost, not a snake!’
Suddenly, the bolts of the door snapped with a sharp metallic crack. Before the terrified eyes of
the couple a gigantic snake rolled in like the rushing waters of flood. A lesser mortal would have been
paralyzed with fear, but the Mohantas are made of sterner stuff. They are the survivors, the true
Contents
Page 137
Kshatriyas, who can jump into the lap of unknown danger without so much as flinching. Scions of their
clan have burrowed into the forests of Assam, Bihar and Bengal in their nomadic quests. For this, mental
toughness is of greater avail than physical strength and Mohantas have an abundance of the former.
A strange thing happened. Till then, Mohanta’s wife had been trying to hold her husband back
from the snake. Now, she suddenly sprang onto its back, straddling it. The snake made an about-turn and
sped away like greased lightning. Mohanta was left gaping.
By morning, the entire village was agog with the talk of the second episode. But people were
skeptical. The elders of the village mused, ‘the spirits are playing a prank! Once, a long time ago, the
spirits took a cowherd away. People searched for days on end for him, but to no avail. At last, after
fifteen days, the cowherd returned. When people asked him as to where he was all that time, he replied
that the ghosts had made him invisible. He had been right there, among them, all the time. He had
called out to them; but they could neither hear nor see him.’
Sadhu could have laughed it off as an oldwives’ tale, but he did not. In fact the whole affair was
too weird and absurd to be explained logically.
One aspect of his last voyage bothered him. When he got onto the serpent’s back he had felt
utterly weightless, like floating in ether. And before his startled eyes another unseen world had
unraveled itself. It was a mirror image of our world, complete with forests, rivers, mountains, birds,
insects and animals but with one exception. There were no human beings. The fact that he was the only
human being in that world had escaped his notice till he regained consciousness.
Slowly it dawned on Sadhu that somewhere out there was a creation complete. But lacking
human beings only. The creator wanted to sow the new furrow with the fruits of an older creation; and
in the list of human seedlings his wife and he were the chosen pair.
As if to communicate that the Mohantas were eminently suitable to be the procreators of a new
human race, the snake left Jui Mohanta in the now familiar landing-ground of the Shiva temple. Sadhu
rushed there when he got the news. As he lifted her head from the ground to put it in his lap he
murmured, ‘ She’s back! Now both of us will go back together.’
Sadhu’s wife took a little while longer to regain consciousness. But when she did, it became clear
that the serpent had taken one and lifted another.
‘Sadhu ! Hey, Sadhu!’ the women folk of the village were aghast when they heard the wife calling
her husband’s name. Until that time no woman in the village had called her husband by his name.
‘ Jui is possessed by spirits!’ they whispered among themselves. And Jui was never the same
again. Her defiant ways shocked the traditional villagers.
Jui Mohanta’s husband, Sadhu, was in a fix. Their relationship had taken an entirely different
turn after the serpent- ride. Jui’s behavior towards him could at best be described as condescending.
Though his manhood was deeply offended, he chose to hold his tongue.
What was more worrying was that the serpent showed no signs of retuning. All his hopes of
returning to the pristine world to sire a new race were dwindling by the day. Any attempt to discuss the
Contents
Page 138
issue with Jui was futile.
‘No, I won’t come,’ she would smile, ‘ You are free to go as and when you wish.’
Sadhu knew that smile and what it really meant.
‘ How can you live here all alone? Won’t you be scared?’ he would ask in a feeble attempt to
reassert his control over her.
‘ Scared?’ Laughter cascaded from her. ‘ Didn’t you see me riding that huge snake? Have you
forgotten that I have been to your dream world too? In that world fear doesn’t exist. Really I never knew
that such a place existed in God’s creation!’
‘It’s all the blessings of the Snake God!’ Sadhu’s eyes closed as his thoughts went back to his
wondrous journey.
Then the throbbing pain in his heart that Jui would not be there beside him –obedient,
understanding and bearing his sons, - got the better of him. He wanted to hurt her as she was hurting
him.
‘Fine! If you don’t come along with me, then I will have to take another woman! Don’t be under
impression that I will live there all alone.’
Jui’s smile didn’t falter.
‘You may take another woman, but I don’t need a man anymore. You know what I want? I
want…’ Jui trailed off. She was struggling to find the exact word to express her heart’s desire. Sadhu
knew what was so difficult for her to say.
‘Freedom!’ he ventured.
Jui jumped at it.
‘I’m jealous of you, Sadhu! You can even read my mind! Since my return I’ve been meaning to
tell everyone about that word. ‘ Freedom…freedom!’ She rolled the word around her mouth relishing it.
Sadhu suddenly flared up. ‘ Freedom! What do you want freedom for? Do you want to be a
witch?’
Peals of laughter ricocheted from the four walls. Jui knew Sadhu would read her thoughts. So
she softened up and looked at him.
‘ I’m going to be the first witch of our village! The Snake -God be praised!’
‘And eat human shit!’ Sadhu roared.
A strange sound, some thing between a sob and a giggle, escaped her throat.
It was nearly midnight. The full moon bathed the earth in an eerie glow. A koel, mistaking the
Contents
Page 139
brightness for the approaching dawn, shook up the still night with its shrill calls. Immediately Jui leapt off
the bed and flinging the doors wide open, vanished into the night.
Fear gripped Sadhu’s heart. He plucked up courage and went looking for her. After some
distance, near a Mahul tree, he found a group of bears prancing around, and stopped dead in his tracks.
How Jui, who had always been terrified of darkness, could go past a pack of wild bears was beyond his
comprehension. He shook his head in disbelief.
Slowly he went up to the group and found out that they were not bears after all, but women,
completely naked. Their heads were downcast, and their disheveled hair fell about their shoulders. Some
were kneeling, some were crawling and some moved about head over heels like acrobats in a circus.
Mohanta returned home. He waited for the morning and his wife’s return.
At dawn, the koel screamed again. The door cracked open. Mohanta sprang to his feet clutching
a stick, ready to srike.
‘ Had your fill of shit?’ he roared.
‘ Stay back! Don’t you dare come near me! You’ll be reduced to ashes. I am still under the spell
of the serpent.’ Jui kept her blouse on the cot and searched for the end of her sari to tie it around her
waist.
‘Don’t give me that crap!’ Sadhu snapped. I have seen your activities with my own eyes. By the
way, who were the others? I thought you were the only one from our village.’
‘All of them are from our village. Though neither of us knew, the snake had taken all those
women to the world where he had taken us.’
‘Rubbish,’ Sadhu spat. ‘ There are no human beings in that world. The serpent was searching for
a couple that could start a new race. We fitted the bill and hence were left at the temple court yard.’
‘ The point, Sadhu, is not whether the serpent left someone in the Shiva temple or at their
homes. What is important is that those who rode the snake got the taste of freedom!’ Jui held the sari in
front of her with her teeth as she wriggled into the blouse.
‘Freedom!’ Sadhu’s voice dripped with sarcasm, ‘ You’ve become really very free lately!’
‘ Shouldn’t I be?’ Jui’s lips parted in a sweet, innocent smile. As the hold of the strange power
over her lessened, she softened visibly into her sweet old self.
‘ You men are always free, but for a woman this begins to happen at forty. What for you is just
another full moon night is for me a strange new world waiting to be discovered. Do you know what it is
like to be forty and not know what is a full moon night? No, you can’t. You have exhausted your appetite
for experiences in this world, so you want to escape to a new world! But for me who has only known the
world by the daylight only, I have the other half of my lifetime to rediscover… the world of the nights.
That’s why I became a witch!’
Contents
Page 140
‘ So you won’t come with me? Well, I had reckoned that, we would start a new creation there …
you and I…’ Sadhu said putting away the stick.
‘ Go and stay there.’ Jui giggled like a small girl, ‘ you fool! No one goes there to stay, but only to
come back and start life afresh. I have already, begun. I used to wonder every full moon and every new
moon night -how it would be outside, but I was terrified of the dark. The serpent has rid me of all my
fears. Now, I shall freely roam the nights taking in the moon, and the darkness, the stars above, the still
earth below, the wind and the rains.
Now go, wash your face while I prepare a nice, hot breakfast for you.’
(Writer’s profile: Santanu Kumar Acharya is born on May 15th 1933, in Calcutta of distinguished Oriya
parentage hailing from the village Sidheswar Pur, district Cuttack. He served as a college Professor of Chemistry
and as a senior education-administrator in the Education Department of the Govt. of Orissa, and in the Utkal
University.He is a distinguished leading Novelist and Short Story writer in the Oriya language having written
about 30 books of fiction. His works have been translated into English, Russian, Hindi, Bengali, Gujurati,
Kannad, Telugu, Malayalam and many other Indian languages.)
Contents
Page 141
An Analysis of ‘The Snake Ride’ by Suchitra G.Das, CA
Concept of Freedom from the feminine perspective
Snake –Symbolizing kundalini shakti
The Snake Ride by Santanu Kumar Acharya, is a powerful message on ‘freedom’, especially from a
woman’s perspective. The freedom to choose, freedom from marital and social obligations, freedom
to live life on one’s own terms, and last, but not the least, freedom from one’s own fears and
inhibitions. Freedom is symbolized by leaving the existing world; the medium is a snake. The main
characters, Sadhu and Jui Mohanta represent the archetypal couple – patriarchal, domineering,
egotistic and submissive, fearful, respectively.
After the first time the snake takes Sadhu away, Jui decides to protect her husband from the gigantic
snake. She confronts it, straddles it herself and rides away. When she saw her husband, Sadhu,
whisked away the first time, and heard what he experienced, perhaps she was curious to know what
the world was like outside the confines of her home. After all she hadn’t even seen a full moon in all
forty years of her life. The implication of this sad situation indicates that a woman is never truly free
at any stage of her life. A woman’s life is always fettered to someone, or something. It is never her
own. In Jui’s case, Sadhu owned her, he decided her future, her fate, even what she thought, and what
she wanted to say. Even Jui’s words are not her own. Jui struggles to say the word, “freedom”, which
Sadhu promptly says, without giving her a chance to speak. Perhaps, Jui saw this ride as a chance to
escape her predictable and humdrum life. Isn’t this the predicament of most women in the Indian
society?
The snake in the story assumes supra-natural and spiritual proportions. In the Hindu tradition, snakes
are revered and feared. Hindu scriptures, myths and stories are replete with images of these
serpentine creatures, both divine and vile. Adisesha, Vasuki, Kaliya, Nags, and Nagins. They reside
with the Gods and mingle with the mortals. They are protectors and predators. So the question arises,
why snakes? What is their significance in human society at large and in Hindu society in particular? In
Western philosophy, snakes are Satanic and evil. Mayans revere snakes. Snakes are symbols of
continuity, infinity, time, eternity, sexuality and death. Most importantly, they symbolize the latent,
but potent energy that resides at the base of the spine like a coiled serpent, known as Kundalini
Shakti. With the practice of austerities in quest of the spiritual, the energy generated courses through
the human body with such tremendous force that it releases one from all pretentions and materialistic
desires. At once a person experiences an unbearable lightness, as if all earthly burdens have dropped
away like stones on a pathway and a new direction, light and knowledge dawns upon the self.
In the story, what Jui experiences is a kundalinic release from earthly wants and desires, even from her
husband’s affectionate bondage. She experiences a freedom she had never seen, or felt until forty
years of age. So whether it was eating shit in communion with other women, or becoming naked, she
symbolically shed her fear of norms, society, expectations, and obligations. She would rather be a
witch, and have her freedom, than be a respectable woman and be caged for the remaining years of
her life.
Contents
Page 142
On the other hand, for Sadhu, the ride was only about literally vanishing into an unknown place. And
when he comes back all he can think about is setting up the new world and spawning it with his wife,
Jui. His thoughts center on the mundane. The ride was neither enlightening, nor uplifting for him. He
fretted about what people would think about him, about his wife’s strange behavior and his loss of
authority over his wife. He threatens her in the only possible and masochistic manner that he could
think of: taking another wife. He couldn’t handle the change in Jui no more than could he accept his
loss of ego. In a typical chauvinistic manner he calls her a witch. If a woman breaks traditions and
norms, that is what she is: a witch.
Santanu Kumar Acharya, holds up a mirror to the double standards of Indian society, where the
meaning of freedom changes at will, for a man and for a woman: he becomes a saint and she becomes
a witch.
Fremont , CA
[email protected]
Contents
Page 143
Rats
Jagdish Mohanty
Translated by Lipipushpa Nayak
They had been waiting for good news for the last few days. Debarchan and Susmita. They looked
forward to being smothered by the wonderful news. So they went on waiting till they felt that the hour
was at hand. They knew that their prolonged wait would come to an end shortly and they would be
transformed. They would become a different type altogether; would metamorphose into something
much better and beautiful. And so they started to mould themselves suitably. Their surroundings should
be recast, they felt; their house should be renovated. A proper beautification of the house should
commence at once, as an overture to the metamorphosis.
Debarchan was pacing the floor of the living-room, lost in thought, his eyes scanning its interior: what
should he do so that the room would look unusual, what changes should be made to make it look better.
He looked around, when he saw the beautiful curtains on the window facing east. The ikat design on it
has lost its splendor, and badly so, at the crucial point in the cleft. The window curtains on the west were
however in good shape. He took off the curtains and exchanged them, and while putting them back, he
took care to hide the cleft of the curtain, which covered the window facing west, behind an edge of the
almirah. Debarchan now turned his eyes to the walls the ravages of time were clearly imprinted on them
in an uniquely self-styled way; a patch n the south its white point having peeled off, revealed the plaster
underneath.
He called Susmita and pointed out the patch on the wall to her. Susmita listened to everything
attentively, and then racked her brain. Really, what should they do about it? Debarchan too joined her.
What should they do indeed! Then Susmita saw a way out. From the bedroom, she fetched the calendar
with blow ups of the Konark wheel on it, advertising for the Konark Cement Company. She hung it on the
wall in such a way that it hid the lime-bleached patch on the wall. A smile lit up Susmita’s face as he
surveyed her success. A smile escaped Debarchan’s too. Smiles compounded; smiles that blended pride
and joy, joy and pride.
Now, the wall on the north. Susmita discovered a patch on it, slightly above the ground, that had shed its
pigment like the other wall. What could be done about it? She brought it to Debarchan’s notice, and they
both pondered over it. This time, the answer struck Debarchan. He shifted the sofa-cum-bed lying on the
eastern side of the room and placed it northwards. The single sofa lying south was hauled to the west.
Now the room seemed to wear an unusual mask. It looked as if the house was not theirs, but belonged
to someone else!
But no, they did not stop there. They went on to change and improve the interior decoration. They
finished the drawing room and took up the bedroom after the bedroom the kitchen and then, the dining
hall. Debarchan did not go to office: the entire day was spent beautifying his house. He was so engrossed
in the job that he did not realize that time had been topsy-turvied. He didn’t eat breakfast when he
should have; neither did he shave nor bathe in time.
Contents
Page 144
He shaved during the lunch hour, and bathed when he should have taken a nap after lunch. He ate lunch
during the post-lunch hour when he usually went to office. After lunch too he went ahead with the task.
A feeling of ecstasy welled up inside him: the house wore a new garb. Was it their own house or
someone else’s?
Simple joys, small pleasures, but enough to send them into raptures. But as they were cheerily chatting
about it Susmita bumped into something. It gave her the shock of her life. Open-mouthed and fearful,
Susmita was on the verge of tears. She revealed it to Debarchan. Debarchan too nonplussed, his shock
complementing his misery.
The fact was this. On the east floor, where their Bombay-patterned cot was placed, they found a large
number of holes. God! How many of them! And how big! How had they come about? Had they been
made by rats? Which one had been scooped out first? How many rats had been working on them? And
which rat has taken the lead? No one could answer these questions now. The leader, who had dug the
first hole was perhaps oblivious of it now. Still, holes lay strewn across the floor. Holes for sure; holes
being hollowed out every now and then.
In the middle of the night, for the first time, the sound reached Susmita. She heard it, Debarchan too
heard it. They both cocked theirs ears in the direction of the sound for sometime, when Debarchan tried
to hush her to sleep. ‘Phew! That’s nothing!’
‘But you can hear the sound’
‘Yes, that’s the sound.’
‘It is coming from inside the house.’
‘Not exactly, from outside.’
‘But I feel It’s from the house; from near our head.’
‘Might be coming from the ceiling too.’
‘Really?’
‘Might be coming from the other room too.’
‘Really?’
Susmita did not speak another word, and turning her back to Debarchan, went off to sleep. Debarchan
too remained silent, and turned over to go to sleep. But they could hardly get to sleep even as the night
pushed on Debarchan wondered did Susmita really fall asleep? Did she really, so fast as that, as they
were barely half-way through their conversation? She should not have. She should have kept awake a
while more. She should have stroked him once more, as usual. She cannot fall asleep like that. Every
night she reached out to Debarchan; her hand lay on him for long and she stroked him for long and she
stroked him and caressed him till sleep overtook her slowly.
Was she therefore really asleep now? Debarchan wanted to make sure and put his hand on her when the
sound was heard even more violently. Susmita began to quake: She is awake then! She turned about,
faced Debarchan. Fear filled Susmita’s eyes, when she asked:
‘Do you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shouldn’t you see to it?’
‘What is there to see?’
Contents
Page 145
‘The sound; where does it come from?’
‘And at this hour? We should have done something then...’
‘Yes, something for sure. But what?’
‘Then you ask me to get up?’
‘Hmm…’
‘Then you ask me to put on the lights?’
‘Please do.’
‘You ask me to switch on the courtyard lights?’
‘Should I unlatch the door now? And call the neighbours, now, at this hour of night?’
‘Go to sleep; it’s late already.’
‘I can’t sleep with all this racket, man!’
But hardly had a second passed when Susmita quietly fell asleep. So did Debarchan. Both of them were
lost in deep slumber till early in the morning. But when they woke up, they heard the sound again, the
same sound which like a bad stink was oozing through the silence of the room. Debarchan, looked at
Susmita awe-struck. Susmita, terrified too, gaped at Debarchan. Debarchan was feeling miserable.
‘Do you hear that? It’s the same sound.’
‘Didn’t I ask you to find out about it last night itself? You never listened!’
‘Do you make out anything? The sound comes from inside the house.’
‘From where, exactly?’
‘From under the cot, towards our head. Shouldn’t you get up.’
‘I will. But I really wonder how we slept through the night without gibing a damn about the noise!’
Susmita flared up this time; ‘You rest all the while on that cot, and go on babbling like this.’
She picked herself up, as she said this, and straightened her sari. Lifting her suitcase from on the top of
the big almirah beside the head of the cot, she put it on the floor. Then kneeling down she put her ear to
the leathery wall of the suitcase.
Debarchan was still in bed, lying on his stomach which in turn was on a pillow. He asked, ‘What is in
there, inside that box?’ ‘The sound. I feel it is emanating from here,’ said Susmita.
She unlocked the lid of the suitcase and opened it, when a rat leaped out. Susmita was scared and let go
of the lid. Yelling she recoiled from the scene, overcome by fear and anxiety.
Debarchan stood up, went near the suitcase, and picked up the lid. Gosh! The box had become a
fountain head of rats! Rats squirmed in there. Small ones. Red ones. Grey ones. Black ones. Rats
coloured absolutely black, grey and red; in all manner of shades and hues.
An entire dominion of rats ruled within the suitcase. The sun rose the moment the suitcase was opened.
An empire of tiny rats woke up to this morning, bathed in sunlight. Empires whirled within empires;
queuing rats; who would stand where? Beside whom? Who would lead, leaving foot prints behind? It
was such a problem, the domain being the inside of a suitcase!
Gusts of wind rattled the rat empire. Still, they needed more of it. ‘Give us air,’ the rats cried out, ‘pure
air, we need air for us to walk, to be able to kiss; we well die without air, we will be asphyxiated’ they
Contents
Page 146
yelled high up into the vacuum.
Expensive clothes lay piled in the suitcase: Debarchan’s shirts and pants, Susmita’s sarees. Their radio
licence was there; their love-letters too. Rats screaming in triumph over there tiny petite rats. And the
tinier black globules of their excrements. Stink. Rotten stink.
Debarchan overturned the suitcase. Earthquake in the rat empire. A small rat tumbled down, its limbs
thrust upwards and moaned. A big rat rushed towards it. And a meek rat dismounted from a heavy rat’s
back; rats small and big, strong and meek. Yet another rat crashed. As though, in a game of hide and
seek, some body was foolishly looking for someone else. It scurried along and in search made off
somewhere. Gasps. Tears. Tears brushed off on a crooked glass slab. Snot plopped down the nostrils.
Moans fading out.
‘Where did they go?’
‘To the hill.’
‘To the hill?’
‘Where does it go from the hill?’
‘To the hill’s regime.’
‘Where does the hill’s regime lie?’
‘There; where the sun reigns.’
Parched, the rats’ sobs reach the hill tops. They form clouds there; the clouds form rain. The rain hastens
towards the surface of the earth. The rats skate in the slush, and then skip into their holes. What
happens, after that?
Susmita swept the rest of the floor. Debarchan emptied out suitcase. Susmita turned to take stock of her
saris. ‘Look here, my Devnagari saree, is reduced to rags by the rats, your terry-woollen bell-bottoms are
in smithereens my Benarasi silk saree is all torn and the chiffon georgette, is in shreds. See the radio
licence; all torn. Our precious love-letters, all gone!
With this Susmita broke down. She sank into her bed and wept bitterly. Then her tears gave way to
helpless sniffing and sobbing.
Debarchan comforted her: ‘Don’t lose heart, dear. Saris, shirts, the radio licence, our love-letters are all
trivial things. I will get them for you again. But don’t cry; my heart breaks when you cry.’
Susmita stopped whimpering. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and washed her face. She gathered up
the torn clothes strewn on the floor, her saris, Debarchan’s trousers, and folded them properly. She put
together the ripped radio licence. But what could she do with completely lacerated love-letters? Not
even a sentence was left complete. She shoved the scraps into the hearth.
Debarchan, sitting cross-legged, observed it all. He did not utter a syllable but looked on, like a saint. He
too felt like breaking down. But decided not to yield to his impulse.
Days roll by. Debarchan goes to his office. While working there a sound hits his eardrum: krr krr … at
times the sound swells into a racket, in front, at the back, above his head, under his feet. A krr krr tune
resounds around, under Debarchan’s chair, inside the drawer, within the files lying on the table. He
opens the drawer, shuffles the files, and kicks the table.
Contents
Page 147
The rat empire pervades: inside the drawer, within the files, under the table. Their slimy coats dyed in
grey, black, scarlet. An entire gallery of rats doing acrobatics: somersaulting, cart wheeling and
scampering about. They stand up on their hind limbs with folded palms. They giggle, their whiskers
quiver. They get scared for nothing, run away and collide with each other. The rat on the red rat’s back;
the red rat on the grey rat. A rat flips on the floor, another shouts at him: krr krr krr – a cacophony of rats
babble. One nibbles at the other; another rubs its feet against someone else’s, tickles him, clambers up
his back, tickles him again. Yes, he does it, really. So what? Everyone does the same. Everyone does it
before falling asleep. Everyone does it as they tittle-tattle. But do they do it as they run? Or do they
stand a while as they do it? They tickle others and get titillated in turn. Tickles… teasing sensations.
kutkuts arouse the rat empire, and then it retires to oblivion.
Debarchan’s table at the office was in a mess: yellowing files pulled apart by rats; filth and stink; a
mutilated chair, table and drawer, and above all a krr krr soaking through the air in the room. Krr krr
echoing within itself. Debarchan broke down. Pained, he paced about and then left the office for home.
Susmita did not wail anymore. Rather, she was all mirth as she welcomed him. She welcomed him. She
grinned widely and said, ‘Hey, know what happened today?
A withdrawn Debarchan asked her as he discovered something. ‘What’s that?’
‘Your books.’
‘Books? My books?’
‘Bitten by the rats.’
Susmita roared with laughter.
‘Hey, look here.’
‘What’s that’
‘The radio.’
‘What happened to the radio?’
‘The rats have decimated it.’
Susmita crackled like mad, totally different, as it were.
‘You hear me?’
‘Now, what next?’
‘Your bedspread.’
‘That too?’
‘Yes, that too has been minced, man! What fun!’
Susmita gave out peals of laughter, as if nothing had gone wrong and it was all so enjoyable.
Debarchan was much too hurt to react. The rats were causing one loss after another, but look at the way
Susmita was feasting them! Her giggles grew louder and louder till Debarchan snapped at her: ‘Stop it
Susmita, please stop your god dammed giggles.’ But Susmita became sillier, and seemed to have turned
into a laughing-machine. She clutched at her belly and howled, ‘That rat, there.’
Susmita rolled on the bed in terrifying bouts of laughter. Water welled up in Debarchan’s eyes: he could
not make out if this was happening spontaneously or whether something had got into his eyes!
Now, this occurred everyday, at the office, at home. Debarchan felt that he was changing; he was
Contents
Page 148
changing into an abnormal being. His daily schedule, he felt, was all messed up. He slept at odd hours
ate when he ought to be shaving, and took post-lunch naps when he should have been at his office.
That day when Debarchan returned from his office, no one was at home. Susmita had gone out leaving
the house open. He sneaked in. Everything was topsy-turvy: the sofas in the drawing room were
displaced; the lime-peeled patch on the wall revealed the ugly cement underneath; the slit on the
window screen which had been hidden scrupulously behind the almirah had opened out and the rats
had made the house a thoroughfare. Unwashed clothes, books, an ink-pot, utensils still containing
leftover food were scattered on the floor. A stink pervaded the air. Where did Susmita disappear leaving
the house in such a mess?
Debarchan made his way into the bedroom and threw himself on the bed. The rats did not care for him
anymore: a rat hopped into his lap, another on to his head. Rats bit his toe. A rat fell off his leg while
attempting to climb.
Debarchan felt he was going through a veritable hell. Never before had he experienced such sinister
times. He had been waiting for a time that would fetch him good tidings. It never came. And since it
never came, Debarchan could now foresee the sorry times ahead. They had begun, he knew and a lot
more of the same were yet to come.
Debarchan brooded over his fate. And then he came across a teacup in the bedroom, with a little tea left
in it. Alone teacup, used. Susmita did not take tea. Then, had someone come? He found burnt-out
cigarette butts all over the floor. Susmita did not smoke, neither did Debarchan. Who had then smoked
cigarettes here? Who had come to his house? And to his bedroom! Where did Susmita abscond? For
God’s sake, who had occupied the bedroom in his absence and smoked there? Who had half drunk the
tea and sullied it? And where on earth was Susmita?
Krr krr krr … the clatter echoed again, this time it became an uproar; krr krr stirring within itself.
Debarchan realized he had still a lot more to lose while susmita was determined to go ahead with her
menacing laughter!
Debarchan’s days passed thus. So did Susmita’s. He attended office everyday. Almost daily, while
combing her hair Susmita would be lost in her thoughts. Debarchan returned home late almost everyday.
Susmita invariably went to bed without food. And the rats further exercised their sovereignty in the
house, slowly, rhythmically, day after day. Dirt filled the air. The hardened excreta of the rats was
everywhere. The sofa-set, bedcover, door curtains, everything was torn to pieces by them.
But the way Susmita laughed with such gay abandon, as the rats wrought havoc before their eyes!
Once Debarchan tried to articulate his feelings: ‘My sadnessis great Susmita; I am feeling terribly low
these days.’
Susmita surprised him with her reply, ‘I too am sad Debarchan; I too am feeling low and dejected.’
Debarchan purred out: ‘You add to my misery, Sus.’
Susmita repeated like a parrot:’ You add to my misery, Deb.’
The anger within stifled Debarchan into a dumb silence. He sat there still, with a heavy heart for a long
time. Why couldn’t she commiserate with him? And then he spoke out ‘Amid life’s ocean of sorrows. I
had sought a little happiness from you, Susmita!’
Susmita, without a moments delay, crooned into his ears, ‘Amid the uncertainties of life, I too was
Contents
Page 149
certain of your love; Debarchan.’
Debarchan wanted to squabble with Susmita. His heart was bleeding; Susmita was indifferent; she did
not love him anymore. How could he live now? He was simply unable to bear Susmita’s apathy. What
should he do now? She was growing more and more indifferent towards him, like all the others, and gave
him nothing but suffering!
All of a sudden, Susmita placed her palm on Debarchan’s. Debarchan, shocked as if a strong current was
flowing into his body, stammered: ‘Why does your hand feel so cold Susmita?’
Susmita retorted: ‘Why does your hand feel like steel, Debarchan?’
Debarchan’s body stiffened. He took Susmita’s icy hands into his and held them silently. He knew, they
had exhausted what they had to say; they ran short of words now, to communicate, to respond.
Henceforth, they would only repeat the same words to each to other. There was no alternative. They had
nothing to give to each other.
It was Susmita who broke the lingering silence: ‘What is it that we call happiness, Debarchan?’
Debarchan was speechless. Susmita reiterated: ‘What are you for me, Debarchan, my happiness or my
suffering?’
It was strange that something similar was troubling Debarchan and he was about to ask Susmita a similar
question. But who knows, if his answer had crossed Susmita’s. What then? He did not speak anymore.
Susmita, perhaps, was not expecting an answer.
Life went on. Debarchan survived, Susmita survived. The rats too made their presence felt in the house.
The furniture of the house was minced into bits, the files at Debarchan’s office were reduced to dust.
Rats skewered his entire world of success. And at such moments of despair what did Susmita offer but
her demented laughter? She laughed at all his futile moves and deflated him.
One evening, there was no more work at the office. Debarchan should have returned home; to its
multiple miseries; the varied tyrannies of the rats the filth and Susmita’s hysterical outbursts signalling
his failures. He knew, he would wear out. So he did not walk home, but strolled about aimlessly till he
found himself at Mr. Samantray’s gate.
Mr Samatray had gone out; Mrs. Samantray was there. But the whole house was in a state of confusion
the squalid drawing room held a messy array of books, clothes, and utensils; dust flew about
everywhere; everything was in a chaos. The house was filled with rats, rats who ate into the sofa-set
covers and the door curtains; books, saris, petticoats, pants, shirts were torn into scraps, rat-eaten
scraps.
Did Mrs. Samantray too have rats in her house? Were the rats around everywhere? Did they infest the
entire town, besides each and every human door?
Mrs. Samantray was there withdrawn and grief-stricken. She asked Debarchan to sit. Debarchan, settling
down in a chair remarked:
‘What a mess all around!’
Mrs. Samantray grumbled, ‘Rats, what else!’
Contents
Page 150
‘We too have them at home.’
Rats were tearing apart every object of the house and yet how cool did she appear to be! And so was
Susmita!
‘I feel great despair.’
‘So do I, Mrs. Samantray.’
‘No one understands me.’
‘No one understands me too, Mrs. Samantray.’
‘I am so lonely…’
‘So am I; I too am very lonely.’
Debarchan found in Mrs. Samantray a kindred soul who was experiencing great sadness, like him. Who
else, but she could be close to him? Just see, while that day he was panic stricken over Susmita’s grief, he
was now being drawn to Mrs. Samantray by her melancholy. Agonies differ with people.
Debarchan got up and sat near Mrs. Samantray. Mrs. Samantray too edged towards him. He bent over
her. She put her hand on his shoulders and caressed his back. He said: I’m very sad, very dejected.’
Mrs. Samantray craned her face towards Debarchan, her breath hot. Same as Debarchan’s. She wailed:
‘You can pull me out of my melancholy, Debarchan.’
Debarchan rubbed his lips against Mrs. Samantray’s; thrust his tongue into her mouth. Mrs. Samantray’s
tongue, wet, felt Debarchan’s tongue. Debarchan bit her lower lip. She unbuttoned her top. Then –
… a storm broke – a tornado. Mrs. Samantray’s soft bosom offered Debarchan a wide, wide valley, where
like a toddler who is born blind he lost himself. A merchant ship wafts along the sea like an olive leaf. The
ship on its voyage across the sea stops at the island-of-clove. In the island-of-clove, is a mesmerized
Mona Lisa with pearls, rubies and diamonds dribbling from her body; a Mona Lisa bathed in semislumber, her body ablaze with an astral illumination. Then, cracks from a sudden earthquake; fossils
pulverized; phosphorus splinter. The wind turns into a gale as if the wind-god is celebrating a festival. The
gale frightens the snake, Satan, so much that it glides back into the hole. Satan goes into hiding. Then the
storm subsides. The end of summer and in comes winter, abruptly. In winter the snake hibernates; he
does not stir…
‘What happened to me? What did you do to me?’ a miserable Mrs. Samantray pleaded before
Debarchan.
Debarchan’s lips were sealed.
‘You forced me to sin! Sin, only sin is around me, Deb.’
Debarchan was speechless still.
‘Chhi…I hate it. Why didn’t I die, before this could happen? No redemption for me I know…I won’t find a
place even in hell.’ Debarchan’s face had dropped; he had not opened his mouth yet.
‘Go away, please. You go away.’
As he walked homewards, Debarchan decided: ‘No, no more of this, no more of this meaningless living
that does not lead one anywhere. Enough of this existence that guides one of ruin, yielding to the
Contents
Page 151
sovereignty of rats.’ Every husband has a lover hidden in him whom we cannot see. So also does every
wife have a beloved. A home exists within the four walls only if someone seeks one. Now a husband
seeks a lover beyond his wife; the wife seeks a lover besides her husband. Then a couple hunts for a
home beyond their four walls.
But what does one acquire, anyway, in such a pursuit? What does one get in return, except guilt and
disappointment? Is it not better to head homewards? To turn home and accept Susmita? Yes, it is the
best solution, the best.
Debarchan came home. Dry, grey pellets of rat-shit were scattered around. Saris reduced to rags, eaten
by rats hung loose from the sofa-chairs, books, cigarette stumps and used teacups were strewn as usual
in the bedroom. Rats played with him, openly and ostentatiously. One mounted his foot.
Susmita too had retired to her own world. She was completely oblivious of Debarchan’s presence; was
posted by the window quietly, looking out. She did not hasten to prepare snacks or tea for Debarchan
nor did she chat with him, not even a few tittering, polite words. She kept on sitting there mutely,
blinking at the sky, trying to figure out forms in the vacuum.
But Debarchan had already made up his mind. Henceforth he would not yield to such circumstances. He
would maintain a hold on his true self and fight against the dark days. He would at least combat the rats.
He would breathe – along with Susmita, his own Susmita.
He got down to clearing the entire house. He swept away the rats and in the process swept up the dust
from the floor mopped up the burnt cigarette butts and washed the teacups. He gathered the shreds of
clothes and assembled the scraps of books and papers. He killed many rats with his broom. Oh! What
huge number of rats lay lifeless on the floor!
Susmita was still aloof. She continued to stand statue-like by the window, throwing empty glances at the
sky occasionally. She gaped at Debarchan’s efforts but did not come forward to help him with his
operations against the rats.
Debarchan was trying to bring a semblance of beauty to the house again. He tugged at the sofa-cover to
hide the slits; the ravaged patch on the wall was veiled, and the tear on the curtain was trucked out of
sight. But look, Susmita was hardly bothered!
She did not walk up to him; did not join him in re-doing the décor of the house; did not suggest what
they should do to reverse the look the house had worn of late, and to seal off the rat-holes.
Still, Debarchan did not give up. Half way through refurbishing the house feeling exhausted he fell into a
sleep too deep for dreams and woke up in darkness. What darkness, man! It was almost about midnight.
Debarchan saw Susmita lying beside him like a corpse. Was it very late at night? How come, Susmita did
not wake him for supper? How could she sleep off like that?
This time Debarchan did not lose his temper. He had vowed, that he would mould himself uniquely; live
up to Susmita’s expectations.
Debarchan felt he would draw Susmita to his lap and kiss her and whisper into her ear: ‘Let’s change,
Susmita, let’s change into unique humans!’
Contents
Page 152
Debarchan was trying to reach out for Susmita. But how amazing! He could not stretch his hands.
Strange, he could not even stir, though his limbs loosened and began to unfasten from their sockets!
Only his trunk was left: it was rolling like the mythical kabandh(1).
And precisely at that moment the worst had to happen. A rumbling sound from somewhere, filtered into
Debarchan’s ears all of a sudden. Where was it coming from? Was it from the ceiling? From near head?
From under the cot? Or from outside? Or was it coming from within the house?
Thinking thus Debarchan chanced upon his own chest. God! A rat on his chest! It had settled there and
was digging into his ribs! The rat was carving a hole into Debarchan’s heart!
Debarchan panicked and wanted to raise his hand, in order to smack the creature. But his arm was
hanging loose from the joint and so could not move. He was overcome by helplessness, his vision blurred
with tears flooding his eyes, he wanted to scream for Susmita and tell her about the rat that was going to
end his life. But nothing escaped his lips’ not even a wordless sound. Alas! Debarchan was paralysed his
lips were shut, his limbs had become immobile. What would he do now?
And see, what coincidence! Susmita had to wake from her sleep just now, at this wretched hour! She had
to peep and spot the rat pulling him to pieces! And as if that was not enough, she had to let loose her
incessant bursts of laughter!
What uproarious laughter! Susmita’s sides were splitting ha-ha, ho-ho…Susmita was breaking into
cackles, her stomach crumpled into a lump in her fist; large salty beads bobbed out of her nostrils. The
snickers, however, were ceaseless.
Susmita was going crazy with laughter. ‘What fun!’ She interjected occasionally. ‘It is perforating your
ribs, man! It is penetrating your heart. The rat is feasting on your heart!’
Susmita’s frenzied giggles spread all over, and the rat settled comfortably on Debarchan’s spread out
trunk, was drilling into his breast.
Notes:
1. Kabandh: Torso
Lipipushpa Nayak is a critic and translator. She teaches English literature.
Jagdish Mohanty is an outstanding short-story writer in Oriya. He is the winner of several prizes including the
Orissa Sahitya Akademi Award.
Contents
Page 153
The Image
Bibhuti Patnaik
Translated by Kishori Charan Das
‘It is awful, the way you have been insulting your ‘Sir’. Shame on you! He is your teacher, after all. Don’t
do it again, mind you…’ Bulbul admonished her younger brother. But Raja was hardly impressed, and
answered her with a bountiful smile. A smile that could not be contained despite his best efforts; it
started with a ‘phew’, and then the whole body swayed.
‘Sir knows that I don’t have to give all that respect to my tuition master. Of course, he is good English
teacher. Can also explain sums very well. But I know what he is worth— a poultry two hundred rupees
per month!
‘That fellow who comes to type out some personal and other papers for Daddy— the matriculate,
Madan— takes five hundred per month. The food and upkeep of our Alsation, ‘Tiger’ should cost us not
less than one thousand per month. Whereas our Sir is worth no more than two hundred! I have to
salute Madan and Tiger too, if I have to respect our Sir!’
Those were the words he sought to convey with his smile, and which turned into laughter. Bulbul was
enraged.
She pulled Raja by the ears and said, ‘you teased him over the ink spots on his shirt, and now you are
laughing at me— no?’
‘Leave me alone, Sir please…it hurts…’ Said Raja with a dramatic flourish, and got away from Bulbul.
Bulbul seethed but felt helpless. Daddy and Mummy may have spoilt him, she thought, and so he does
not care for what I say.
That evening Bulbul brought up the subject herself at the dining-table. ‘Daddy, shouldn’t the salary of
Raja’s tuition master be raised beyond two hundred rupees?’
‘Why?’ Prasanta babu asked, ‘Was Raja’s tutor saying something about it?’
‘No, no, he hasn’t said anything. Two hundred rupees is no small sum for him. But the raise is necessary,
I believe, for the sake of Raja. He doesn’t respect him, for he measures him by the money we pay him.
Says, our dog surely costs us a thousand rupees, if not more, including the costs of his food, the
bathshop, brush, medical bills, etc, whereas his teacher is worth a miserable two hundred per month. So
therefore his ragging the Sir a little bit does not amount to an insult.’
His daughter’s words put Prasanta babu in a spot, but he did not fail to come up with an answer, ‘My
tutor was paid thirty rupees per month when I was doing my Matric. I am paying two hundred to Raja’s
tutor, whereas others are paying much less, even fifty or hundred. Should private tutors be paid any
more than this?’
Bulbul was incensed on hearing this and said vehemently, ‘What can you buy these days with two
Contents
Page 154
hundred rupees? Sir belongs to a poor family. He is paying for his M.A. studies by doing tuition. But he is
known to be a bright student in our college, bound to get a first class.’
Prasant babu persisted with his explanation, trying to convince his daughter, ‘Look dear, ours is a
developing nation. If we compare the budget of the Education Department with that allotted to Defence,
you would know how low the priority for Education is. If you want I can raise the salary of Raja’s master
from two hundred to three hundred rupees. But surely it cannot exceed the amount spent on Tiger! That
sort of attitude is yet to be created in the minds of the public, and so the lack of regard that Raja may
have for his tutor on this account, cannot be helped. You better explain things to him differently.’
Bulbul had indeed tried to explain the situation to Raja. But he remained unimpressed. On the other
hand he had thrown her a challenge. ‘Look, Sir! You get me a teacher who would demand at least fifteen
hundred rupees from Daddy for teaching me Maths and English. I will give him the due respect, even if
he cannot teach as well. You see, the salary of my tuition master should at least be more than what is
being spent on Tiger.’
But was there any master in town, who would ask for a minimum of fifteen hundred per month to teach
English and Maths to a boy preparing for his Matric examinations.
Bulbul was upset over Raja’s obstinacy. But he had logic on his side, she thought. Daddy did have the
capacity to pay that sort of salary. He was an ‘A’ class contractor, well-versed with all the skills needed to
corner portions of money floating about, courtesy the five-year plans. He had spent about ten lakh
rupees on the wedding of her two elder sisters. Raja was his only son. So it was hardly difficult for him to
pay fifteen hundred per month to Raja’s tuition master, more so when Raja was going to sit for his Matric
examination this year. But was there any tuition master who would ask for that kind of salary? At least
five hundred, no more than that…
Bulbul Samantaray, a student of fourth year Arts sweated over the strange, yet no-so-strange proposal of
her younger brother.
She could very well understand the mind-set of her family that measured everything in terms of money,
including the human personality. Yet it was painful for her to accept the fact that a bright student like
Sisir Babu who is compelled by circumstances to give private tuition, should also have too suffer insults
at the hands of her younger brother.
She made a last-ditch attempt to convince Raja, ‘Now, listen to me. It does not matter if Sir is paid two
hundred or two thousand. The fact remains that he is your teacher. You may learn from him without
having nay respect but that will not help you to become an educated person. Don’t children give due
respect to their parents, if they are poor? I suppose you don’t know that Daddy’s father, our grandpa,
was a mere clerk.’
Raja had never seen his grandpa, did not know what poverty was all about. He was born in a brick-andmortar house, brightly lit by the electricity. So he could not understand the import of the statement that
his Dad’s father was a poor clerk and which made it necessary for him to respect his poor tuition master.
Nevertheless, he fell in with his sister’s wishes, ‘Very well, I won’t say anything in future when I see a
spot of ink on his shirt, nor goad him to throw away his slippers, even if they have ugly patches. Okay?’
Bulbul was happy to hear these words, and hugged her brother over and over again. However, after Raja
felt she began to wonder what sort of a man Sisir babu was anyway? Didn’t he have any respect? Why
Contents
Page 155
didn’t he protest at such insulting behaviour from his students?
He was two years her senior. But they were studying in the same college. I am not aware of any rule, she
thought, that forbids a tuition master from talking to the elder sister of his teen-age student, or even to
raise his eyes to look at her. Yet, whenever they met he did not utter a word, not to speak of any attempt
to get close to her. But why? Was he afraid of her? Or did he suffer from some sort of a complex?
The more she thought about it the more was she mystified by the character of Sisir babu. Why did this
self-assured youngman who was so active in the corridors and playing fields of the college, and could be
seen talking merrily to his friends, suddenly fall silent when he came to teach Raja, and appear so
humble and innocent?
Once, while coming back to the common room after attending a class, Bulbul had pointed him out to her
classmate Sunita. ‘You know, this sixth-year student Sisir Das is the private tutor of my younger brother.’
‘Is it? Look, how strong his biceps are! A real manly figure. Must have taken a fancy to you, and that is
what takes him to your place, isn’t it?’
That is Sunita for you, Bulbul told herself. She hardly could believe that any girl who is both good-looking
and unmarried, would not be in love. So Bulbul did not take offence at her words. But it did cogitate her
somewhat. Could it really be that Sisir Babu was coming to teach Raja because of her, and so he did not
want to give up the job, in spite of the atrocious behaviour of her younger brother?
Anyway, true or not, it was a possibility that tickled Bulbul immensely. A warm pleasurable current
coursed through her veins as never before.
Sunita startled her by uttering, ‘Do you know, he visits the gym regularly? Studies and PT seem to be his
only pastimes. A real square. These rustic macho-men can be good and stupid lovers, but do not make
the best husbands. Please remember my words when you set about loving Sisir Das.’
Bulbul was quick to laugh it off. ‘I am not that unlucky, that I should have to fall in love with the tutor of
my younger brother. Quite a few princes have lined up to woo me, if you must know…’
‘Hey! What makes you think so low of tuition masters? The one who taught me when I was a child, got
the Sahitya Akademi Award last year. I had gone to felicitate him with a bouquet. Finding, him alone, I
asked him, ‘Sir! You were so talented. Whatever made you teach me for a paltry hundred rupees’ And do
you know what was his answer?’
‘Tell me.’
‘I used the money to smoke hashish as my father would not pay for such business!’
Bulbul burst into laughter, and was joined by Sunita.
But Bulbul was in a disturbed frame of mind, when she returned from college. All her ideas about tuition
masters had gone haywire. Not all of them took to private tuition to pay for their studies; there were
some who did it for smoking pot!
She looked at Sisir Babu differently when he came that afternoon to teach Raja. Why did he continue
with the job, in spite of the way Raja treated him? So as to get close to her? But he hadn’t even ever
Contents
Page 156
tried to exchange a few thoughts with her— has he? A real, timid country bumpkin!
No, Sunita was mistaken, perhaps he was giving tuition to pay for the banana, bean-sprouts, and all that
he fed himself on after his physical exercises!
Bulbul imagined the scene, the way the intense gentleman was eating the healthy stuff after a session in
the gym, and smiled to herself. She continued smiling as she made her way to the study-table, and also
as she sat there quietly.
A strange thing happened that evening. Jagmohan Babu got down from a rickshaw in front of their house
and started moving away when the rickshaw-man called out to him, ‘Two rupees! What’s this, Babu? You
settled for five rupees and rode all over town, and now you give me this! Give me three rupees more, I
am a poor man… three rupees more…’
Jagmohan Babu was known to be the local Big Brother. He had faced trial sometime back on the charge
of strangling his wife. Bribing his way to the acquittal, he had escaped the gallows but had not yet been
able to shake off the reputation of being a murderer. He was into politics now, and was President of the
Durga Puja Committee. Several goondas were at his command. The townsmen were afraid of picking a
quarrel with him.
He flew into a rage when the rickshaw man refused to leave the place with the two rupees he had
offered him. ‘You bloody bastard! Get lost.’
But poor as he was, the rickshaw man was not one to be cowed down easily. He shouted back at him
and said, ‘don’t you fume at me Babu! You made me toil all day, and how you see red when I ask for my
wages? Why did you sit in my rickshaw, may I know, when your pockets were empty?’
Quite a few onlookers had gathered around them by then. Jagmohan Babu was not one t stomach the
indignity of being insulted by a mere rickshaw man and that before all those people.
‘You bastard, what did you say? My pockets are empty, is its?’ And then he jumped at him. The fight
began.
The crowd watched the fun. None of them were keen to separate the fighters. This was a typical show in
town that could be witnessed for nothing— a bull-fight of sorts— and provided them all the excitement.
Jagmohan Babu had caught the rickshaw man by the throat, in a bid to strangle him as it were. The
victim was groaning, when Sisir Babu reached there on his bicycle, for giving tuition.
His face went red, at the sight of a ‘babu’ strangling a poor rickshaw man, while about forty to fifty
persons stood around clapping and enjoying the fun. He flung his bicycle aside and reached the spot.
Forcibly, with both hands, he pulled Jagmohan Bbau away. The rickshaw man fell back on his rickshaw
languidly, almost half-dead.
‘You scoundrel, who are you? Is this rickshaw fellow your father? See, what I will do to you…’
Jagmohan Babu pulled Sisir Babu by his hair. But the nature of the fight had underone a change, for Sisir
Babu was no rickshaw man; there was incredible strength in his biceps.
Raja was watching the scene from his balcony. He cried out to his sister with unbounded joy, when he
found that his tuition master had laid the other fellow flat, with his shower of blows in Japanese style.
‘Sir! Sir! Come and see. Sir’s judo.’
Contents
Page 157
Bulbul’s eyes moistened when she saw Sisir babu being led to the police van, along with the rickshaw
man and Jagmohan Babu, while the Raja’s eyes lit up with a new glow. Excited, he told his sister. ‘You
missed a big chance. The way our tuition Sir was fighting he looked like a screen hero doing dishumdishum, while showering blows on Jagmohan’s belly.’
Bulbul didn’t reply.
That night he told his sister before going to bed, ‘Please ask sir, to teach me how to fight…I won’t tease
him anymore.’
Bulbul kept silent. She realised that in Raja’s eyes the image of the tuition master had undergone a
radical change. He was no longer merely an English-Maths tutor for two hundred rupees; he could
punish a villain like a screen hero!
Contents
Page 158
The Ring
Pratibha Ray
Translated by Bikram K. Das
He lay flat on the hospital floor, undisturbed by the hum of visitors, the traffic of nurses and
attendants, and the stench of disinfectant, even the buzzing of the flies that swarmed around his face.
The other inmates of the ward, denied sleep by their assorted pains, aches and other complaints, looked
at him enviously as he slumbered blissfully through the afternoon.
Overcrowding everywhere, from maternity ward to mortuary. So what if he had been denied a bed and
dumped on the floor? Was it such a calamity? Even that seemed a luxury to the old woman. When she
had set off with her young son in the back of the old truck for the great hospital in Cuttack, everyone in
the village turned out to offer advice. She wouldn't be able to get a bed for her son, she was warned,
unless she knew some doctor in the hospital. She ignored them and rode off, after she had pawned her
few bronze utensils. Although they didn't get a bed, they did manage a place on the floor, large enough
for him to lie down. And that without a single acquaintance; she felt as though she had successfully
crossed the ocean in a frail dinghy, without an oar. Did her son need a bed anyway? Had he slept in one
at home? Was not the smooth concrete of the hospital infinitely cleaner than the soggy mud floor of her
hut? They had given him a plump cotton mattress to sleep on, instead of his filthy cotton quilt. At home,
the sun and the moon peeped through the thatch, but here he had a solid roof overhead. Wasn't that
enough? Why crave for a bed in the temporary home that hospital was? Greed led to sin and sin to
death . . .
As soon as the word entered her mind, her heart began a furious drumming against her ribs. What an
inauspicious thought, she cursed herself. May she be consumed in the flames of her own foul mind;
what evil there lay in a woman's tongue!
To drive the thought away, she turned to look at the people around her in the ward. The sick and the
maimed everywhere. Some with bandaged heads. Others with layer upon layer of dressings encrusting
arms, legs, backs, bellies . . . peeling away, like insects moulding. Hollow eyes peeped from scarecrow
faces encased in bandages. How frightening! As if they were masquerading as ghosts to scare you. But
no, this was no masquerade: the wounds beneath the bandages were real. By comparison, her son was
unscarred. Not a scratch on him, not one scrap of bandage. Bare he had been, expect for a loincloth,
when he clambered up the babu's roof in the village to mend his thatch, in return for a day's wages:
before he slipped and fell into the babu's stone-paved courtyard. And bare he lay now on the hospital
floor. By the grace of the goddess Jagulei, not even the skin had been broken by the fall. He had merely
fainted from fright. The village Kaviraj had tried in vain to bring him back to his senses, and charms and
spells had been equally ineffective. The lad had always been restless and fidgety, even as a child. And
who could blame him: had not he lost an older as well as a younger brother? He must have been scared
out of his wits, the rascal. Well, he would soon be up, once he got over the fright. The babu's daughter,
who went to school in Cuttack, had made a black-tongued remark: after a fall like that, she said, people
often remained unconscious for months; they could even be paralysed. It was she who suggested they
go to the hospital in Cuttack, where he would be cured. The old woman was furious at first. Who had
ever heard of a man remaining unconscious for months? Was he a human being or the demon
Contents
Page 159
Kumbhakarna? But who can retort to the powerful? Besides, once the remark, however silly, reached
the woman's ears, she simply had to take her son to the hospital. A mother's heart after all, though she
knew quite well it couldn't be anything serious. If he had bled or broken some bones, she might have
worried. She had seen people being knocked unconscious from a blow on the head—not just seen it but
suffered it as well. Her own husband.
The family home was being partitioned and a fence would be erected across the courtyard. The brothers
were disputing a patch of the courtyard no wider than a handspan. Words led to blows and lathis were
raised. She jumped in to intervene. `Stop!' she shouted to her husband. `Your elder brother has already
claimed the lion's share in everything else. Does it matter if he gets an extra handspan of the courtyard?
Is it worth fighting over?'
The courtyard was crowded with menfolk and he could not afford to be seen listening to the counsel of
a mere female; `Go away, woman;' he roared giving her a shove, making sure it was observed everyone.
`Who asked you to mediate in the affairs of men? Do not forget your place;' And turning to his brother,
he said, `The fence will be raised where I draw the line, or else . . .'
The words were scarcely spoken when his brother's lathi descended on his skull. Like water from an
overturned pot, the blood streamed, bathing him from head to foot. He fell like an axed tree, never
regaining consciousness. The corpse was carried out through the door and the fence rose where he had
drawn the line in his own blood. She remained, reluctantly, to bring up her fatherless boy, not knowing
why or for whom she had survived but growing into ripe old age, never once allowing herself to think of
death but hoarding her happiness like a miser, through all her sorrows, until she saw the face of a
grandson. Well, that's life; if one were to abandon it for the sake of another, would the world continue?
The Almighty's may be praised.
Since her son had not even bled, how could life ebb away as he lay unconscious? She bit her tongue
again. How could she have such black thoughts when her son was sleeping beside her?
Her gaze turned from the bandaged patients in the ward to her son. How meek, how gentle he looked in
his sleep: Not that he was any different awake. She stroked and caressed him from head to foot. His face
looked exactly as it had in his childhood. Was it because they had saved off his hair? It had been shorn
once before, when he was seven, when his father had died. His tears had been more for his flowing
locks than for his father. She had made a vow to offer his hair at the goddess' shrine when she could
afford the ceremony, and so for seven years no blade touched his head and he romped free like the
infant Krishna, dangling his shoulder-length curls festooned with crow and pigeon feathers. Holding to
his lips the short whip his father used to drive the bullocks as if it was the infant God's flute, standing
with one leg crossed across the other, and knees triple-bent in the tribhangi posture he had seen in the
village jatra. `Look!' He lisped, Ì am Ma Yashoda's darling son. `The proud parents laughed at the child's
theatrics. How charming those thick hanging curls looked against his chubby face. And how he had
treasured them; poverty allowed him no other indulgence, so he pampered himself through his hair. He
had not even a rag to cover his back, but he would come and arrange his hair with infinite care before he
set out to work. Passersby stopped to admire his crowning glory. Starvation robbed him of flesh and
blood, dimmed the glow on his face, but not a hair of his head could it touch. And the doctors in the
hospital had to shave it off! Why on earth? They had insisted it was necessary as they would have to
take a picture of his head to find out if there was any injury inside. How odd. How could there be an
injury inside the head when there was not even a scratch on the outside? God alone knows what the
doctors saw in the picture, but all they did afterwards was lay him down flat on the floor. Not one drop
of medicine did they give him, nor a drop of milk. No attempt to bring him back to consciousness.
Contents
Page 160
Doctors and nurses trooped past him to attend to the other patients, giving them medicines, injections,
milk, fruit and biscuits, but no one so much as looked at him.
As if there was nothing the matter with him: as if he was lying there for the fun of it; as if he would get
up and walk away when his sleep was over. Well, God grant that it be so. But how could he leave in his
present state?
She pestered the doctors and nurses with her questions, but all the reply she received was, `We have to
wait, Aunt, until his consciousness returns. Trust us; we will give him all the care he needs. But at the
right time.'
Ì know,' the old woman said, `but if he were to get some medicine or some milk, perhaps it would make
him stronger so that he could regain consciousness sooner.'
`Be patient, Aunt,' they replied. `Can a man swallow anything when he is unconscious? Would not it stick
in his throat?'
She prayed to her gods, as she continued to stroke him. `Please, god, make him conscious now so he can
have some-thing to eat. He must be starved.' All he had since morning, when he went out to mend the
babu's thatch, was some water in which they had soaked rice overnight. The rice itself was gone; her
two grandchildren woke up before the first crow cawed to gobble it all up. The gluttons. Her poor son
had nothing. But why blame the children? That was the fate of the poor. Their pots were always empty,
but never their bellies. Hunger filled them up. How strange God's ways were.
The stroking and caressing continued. Suddenly, she felt his fingers tightening, as though he was trying
to clench his fist. Was consciousness returning? She massaged his palm and fingers, trying to straighten
them out, to pass on the warmth of her own body into that cold hand. Her fingers came to rest on the
middle finger of his left hand. For ages now, the old silver ring had gripped his finger tightly, as steadfast
as an old friend that had sworn undying loyalty. Their hopes of getting a gold ring for his dowry were
foredoomed for providence had already chosen a poor widow's daughter to share his handful of rice.
Where was her mother to find a gold ring? The boy's mother understood her plight. Since she was happy
with the daughter-in-law, she chose not to make a fuss over the ring. Before the wedding, she had her
old pair of silver toe-rings melted down into a solid ring for her son, which he accepted without a
murmur. Thus are the golden dreams of the poor turned into silver or brass, or even mud
and gravel. Compromises have to be made or life would be impossible.
The flat ring of beaten silver burned on his dark skin like a ruby. No ring of gold could have shone as
brightly on his grimy, sweaty, knotted finger as the silver: at best it would have looked pale, like brass, or
like a faded gourd flower.
When he cleansed his teeth each morning with ashes from the hearth, he scrubbed and polished the
ring as well, but gently, lest the metal should wear off. But no amount of care could avert the inevitable:
hard work was scraping the flesh off his bones and along with it, the silver from the ring on his working
finger. It was wearing thin. When it was new, one could see some fine engraving on it, but not anymore.
The upper surface had been scrubbed as flat and shiny as a tamarind seed. Being pure silver, it was
naturally soft, like her son. What a misfit he was in the present age; other labourers might shirk, but he
would do the work of five. The more hardworking one was, the sooner one was worn out. Aged before
one's time. Why did he have to climb into the babu's roof? Couldn't he have remained on the ground
and flung the bales of straw into the thatch? There were other labourers working too; surely one of
Contents
Page 161
them could have mended the thatch. But bow your neck once and the whole world will rush to strike
you down. Someone as meek as her son was bound to attract trouble.
She went on caressing his face, his hands, fingers and the ring. The visitors were beginning to leave; it
was already evening and it wouldn't be easy to find a bus back to the village. Kala Miyan, the truck driver
who lived in her village, was leaving for Bargarh with cargo when the mishap occurred, and it was in his
truck that she and her son travelled to Cuttack. He had left them at the hospital and driven away, telling
her not to worry as he would inform a few of their fellow villagers, who were now working in Cuttack;
they would come to the hospital and look after them. Medicine and food for patients were provided
free at the hospital. The old woman would have no need for money, other than the bus fare back to the
village for her son and herself.
She would have liked to buy a few of the sweets wrapped in shiny paper, for the grandchildren, as well
as a whistle for her grandson. But where was the money? She had a two-rupee note folded and tied up
in a knot in the tail-end of her sari, but that was all. The children would sulk if she took nothing for them.
They had insisted on accompanying her to Cuttack; they even ran for a distance behind truck shouting,
`We want a ride.' Her nine-year-old grandson was a regular imp, while the granddaughter, two years
younger, was as quiet as a lamb. Her brother had outstripped her as they ran behind the truck, and as
she tried to catch up, she tripped and fell on her face. The blood streamed from her split lip and the
scream of pain was so long-drawn, the old woman thought she wouldn't breathe again. And the stupid
daughter-in-law of hers had stood there like a log looking at the departing truck with wide eyes, instead
of picking up the child and soothing her. Ì'll get some sweets and toys for you,' the old woman shouted
as the truck went round a bend in the road. She couldn't see their faces anymore. Poor dears; how
would they manage without her? There wasn't grain of rice in the house. How long could she beg and
borrow? They would be waiting anxiously for her to return.
Her own stomach was churning with hunger. A few lumps was all she ate normally but since the night
before, it had been a total fast. Her son would have bought some rice for them with the wages he would
have been paid when . . . well, that was all over now.
The hospital provided meals for patients but not for the relatives or friends who tended to them. As for
her son, he was sleeping so soundly, there wasn't even a rustle. That afternoon, they had served rice,
daal and curry to the patients. The hospital had skilled cooks; though she hadn't tasted the food, she
could tell from the aroma. She had tried to shake him awake; if he had been fed, she could have had
something to eat as well. She wanted to tell the attendants, Ìs he going to lose his share just because he
is asleep? If he can't eat now there's always his mother.' But she was too shy to say anything. What if
they refused? She had never begged, even during the worst times. Would she bring disgrace upon
herself, now that she had come to the city? Everyone in her village would come to know about it.
But where were the people from her village that Kalu Miyan was supposed to have informed?
He had been in such a hurry to leave.
How would she manage without help?
She felt a slight tremor in his hand. The breathing quickened. Was consciousness returning?
The nurse doing her rounds stopped to look. She quickly ran to fetch a syringe and gave him an
injection. Two men in white aprons rushed to his side and pressed down heavily on his ribs. Good god.
Contents
Page 162
Even a healthy person would collapse under such rough handling. Was this how they treated patients at
the hospital? And was it for this she had brought him here?
`Babus, you'll smash his ribs,' she shouted angrily. `Do you want to cripple him? Who'll look after his
family? Can't you be more gentle?'
They left him and walked away. Had she annoyed them? But how could she have remained quiet after
what they had done to her son?
He wasn't stirring now. The nurse covered him from head to toe with a clean white sheet. The patients
in adjoining beds craned their necks and peeped curiously like tortoises. All eyes were on that white
sheet. But why? Couldn't he have a clean sheet, though he was poor? It was the government that
provided it, not they; why should they whisper and mutter? Her son wasn't going to walk away with that
sheet; he would surely return it when he left. He wasn't the sort who took what didn't belong to him.
That nurse seemed always to be in a great hurry, rushing madly around the ward. In her haste, she had
even covered up the boy's face with the sheet. Wouldn't he suffocate? Even in the coldest winter, he
liked to sleep with his face uncovered. Ì'll choke to death in my sleep if my face is covered,' he would
say. `When I depart, it'll be in broad daylight, and not like a thief in the night,' he had always joked. As if
it was a joking matter. She quickly uncovered his face, folding the sheet back. He felt cold to her touch.
The fever must be coming down. Thank God.
The nurse came back looking anxious, as though a debtor was about to run away with her money.
Àunt,' she said to the old woman, `do you have any relatives in town? Send word to them.'
Ì have no one here,' the old woman replied, not comprehending. Àll strangers. What do you want me
to tell them?'
`You have no relatives in Cuttack then?' the nurse repeated. Ànd in the village?'
`No one who can help,' the old woman said. `The daughter-in-law is a simpleton; her children are babies.
This son is the only support I have.' She stroked him fondly. Poor lad, she thought, has he had one
decent meal since his father died, or a day's rest? Carrying the entire family burden on his shoulders.
`Do you have any money?' the nurse asked again.
Òf course,' the old woman replied. `Could I have come to Cuttack empty-handed? There, that's tworupee note. You can have it if you need some money; the medicine and food are free here.'
`No, no, you keep it,' the nurse said hurriedly, Ì don't need it. It's you I was thinking of.'
`Me?'
`Yes. There's no point in taking him back to the village now.' She saw the confusion on the old woman's
face, hesitated and went on firmly, Ìf you have neither money nor help, how will you manage here?'
`Well, if I could bring my son to Cuttack without help, I should have no trouble taking him back,' the old
woman said emphatically. Ònce he's awake, we'll go back. What do I need relatives for? Has anyone
ever come to help?'
`Your son is no more, Aunt,' the nurse said in a strong voice. `There's no use taking him back. `You have
no money. The funeral can be done here; the hospital staff will remove the body.'
Contents
Page 163
She couldn't understand at first and only stared. Then the great rasping sobs came. She lay down flat,
covering up his body with hers. Pulling the sheet away, she caressed the still, unconscious body with
both hands from head to foot, from foot to head. She covered the pale face with her kisses, until they
glowed red with blood. Pressing her face down on his, beating her forehead against his shaven skull, she
howled out a lifetime of grief, reliving the past, flooding him with tears and memories of the games he
had played in the dust as a child, the games that a cruel divinity had played on him, of laughter, tears
and hunger. Her fingers tore at the earth, ripped it apart. Then she beat the earth with her head.
Scooping up a handful of dust, she smeared it on her son's face and body, howling madly, complaining,
`Listen, you three hundred million gods, wherever you may be. Bring my son back to life. I don't ask for
wealth, for palaces to live in. Only for a little air. Let him breathe again.'
Her grief touched everyone in the ward. Eyes grew moist as they looked at her.
Her sobs subsided as she became exhausted. The sound of her sobbing changed. Grief turned to anger:
She cursed her treacherous husband, the murdering brother-in-law . . . her son, whose treachery was
greater even then his father's. She cursed the cruel gods who held in their hands the keys to life and
death. The people of her village, the other labourers who had been repairing the babu's thatch, the
babu himself, Kala Miyan the truck driver, the doctors and nurses, the hospital attendants. Those
wretched patients in the ward who were witnesses to her grief. Pain wrenched her ribs, her bowels, her
flesh and skin, milked her entire being dry. The curses flowed in broken strings:
`May you find no peace in the three worlds, O father of my willful son. If you had to abandon me in my
youth, why did you come in procession to my door with music and lights? Who asked you to parade your
manhood, you eater of my happiness? Wasn't it enough that you stripped the bangles from my wrists?
Didn't that satisfy you? You had to leave your seed in my womb, you cheat. And that son of yours,
fourteen times worse than the father. What did you gain from cutting my throat, you rascal? Was it for
this day that I nurtured you in my womb? And what did you profit from devouring my son, daughter-inlaw, you wretched widow's offspring? Is your thirst quenched now, husband-eater? And that demon my
husband's elder brother: are you happy now? May the gods strike you with their thunderbolt . . .'
The sounds and language of her grief changed constantly, tender at one moment, harsh or obscene at
the next. The onlookers watched in silence. Did grief have so many faces?
Anger turned into a mother's tenderness, into hurt pride. `Go, go where you please, wherever you can
find happiness,' she said indignantly to her son. `Let your mother suffer. Let her face the world alone.
How does her plight affect you? Can't you see for yourself how strong she is? How did your conscience
allow you to abandon her, with the burden of three helpless souls on her shoulders? What tricksters you
proved to be, father and son. Shirkers both. You were too cowardly to face the world; so you left a
feeble woman to carry your burden. Why did you build a nest? Well, go, go. If you had no time to think
of me, why should I be bothered with you? Does one have any claim on another in this world? It's all
deceit, all maya. Nothing but lies.'
She consoled herself into silence. Turning away from her son, she fixed her vacant gaze on the darkness
outside, as though she had not a care in the world, or was too exhausted to care. Thus she sat for hours,
immersed in her own thoughts. When she seemed to have recovered her composure a little, a nurse and
two attendants approached her. Àunt,' the nurse said, `We will have to carry the dead body away. The
doctors won't allow a dead body to lie here all night among the living patients. Your son's funeral rites
will be performed well, Aunt. Don't be worried.'
Contents
Page 164
She looked up, startled. In a pitiful voice, she said, Àll I have is this two-rupee note. Will it be enough?'
She burst into tears.
`There's no need for money, Aunt,' the nurse said. Ìt'll all be free.'
`Don't delay now,' the nurse said to the attendants. Àrrange to remove the dead body.' She left.
The two attandants bent low to whisper to her, `How can it be entirely free, Aunt? Give us whatever
money you have.'
Eagerly, she untied the knot in her sari and gave them the two-rupee note. There was not a trace of
miserliness in her. He had never been anyone's debtor while he lived; would she allow him to be a
debtor in death? Why should strangers remove his body free of charge?
She caressed him one last time, pouring every drop of love into that last kiss. `Go, my son,' she said,
bidding him farewell, `You never knew what happiness is. Perhaps you'll have some happiness now.'
The attendants reached out to lift the corpse. Bending, they said, Àunt, let him go now. It is getting late.
Why such fondness for a mere lump of clay?'
Slowly, gently, she brushed her hand across his face and body, gripping his rigid, half-clenched fist in her
quivering fingers, allowing the last tender drops of love to drain away. Then she got up and shook
herself free.
The attendants lifted him off the ground; one gripped his arms, the other his feet. The old woman's
fingers were still interlaced with his, as though locked into them. She could feel the ring, so dear to her
son. Suddenly, as though she had abruptly come to her senses, she clutched the ring and tugged at it
with all her strength. The attendants had been eyeing the ring hungrily. `How greedy you are, old hag,'
they said. `Robbing your dead son!' But she ignored them. Finally, the ring came free.
The onlookers, who had been numbed by her grief, were shocked. Sympathy turned into loathing. `How
mean!' they said. Ìs she a mother or a block of stone?'
The attendants carried the corpse away.
`Where are you taking my darling son, you wretches?' She howled as she followed the attendants
through the door, out into street, for a short distance. `May Death take you.' The mother's grief stunned
sky and earth, tree and leaf, into silence. The darkness swallowed up her son. Only the ring glistened in
her fingers.
With infinite care, she secreted the ring within seven folds of her sari's tail-end and tied it up in a knot,
her eyes focused on the path along which they had taken her son.
How dark it was.
*
*
Contents
*
Page 165
Temporary Address
Ramachandra Behera
Translated by Rabindra K. Swain
One could
clearly see the highway from the veranda. The road had looked like a ridge, two
years ago, when this house was being built. Its black top was not visible, though. The trees
planted that year on either side of the road, surrounded by fences had grown chest-high by now.
Vehicles plied on this road at all hours. Sometimes an ill-fated vehicle would overturn, leaving
behind the smell of burnt petrol or diesel in the air. The cattle grazed on the roadside; but the tree
dreaming of the future grew fast, nonetheless. Now the road looked like a fence, stretching out to
the distant horizon.
A narrow path led from the house to the highway. There was no other house around this one. The
surrounding area lay bare. But there was a village on the other side of the highway, and so a few
shops had come up on the roadside. This so-called bazaar consisted of a few shops that sold tiffin
and tea, paan and cigarettes, and groceries. A cement pandal had been built around a Gulmohur
tree; people assembled there for a game of cards, as also to wait for a bus or a truck.
Sambunath wondered how long he would be here as he was coming back to his home. Since his
childhood, he had lived in a quarry-site. Those hills were made of iron, no rocks. The trucks
queued up there to load and carry iron ore. Such secret wealth lay hidden in that seemingly brittle
stuff that the trucks were lining up to beg for it with spread out palms! And it was the people like
Sambhunath who helped to fill those palms.
But he did not like the place. He felt sickened the day his elder brother was stabbed by a group of
drunken people following an exchange off hot words. Quarrels such as these were frequent over
there, and his kind of people always divided themselves into groups, in the name of unions. The
unions were always at war, trying to win over one or the other to their side, and it led to bloodshed most of the time. The labourers had turned themselves into mere objects, like the iron ore.
Sambhu saw his brother’s dead body. Despite being big built his stomach had been ripped out
with an iron knife. He could not believe his eyes. This man, so sprightly just a little while ago,
lay dead on a heap of iron ore. The face looked so quiet and innocent, as if it knew nothing about
anything. The blood that streamed out of his body had dried up on the iron ore. Could not the
knife that killed his brother, he wondered, have been made of the iron ore he had loaded on those
trucks? The knife lay stuck into the dead body. As if its quest had not yet come to an end. It
appeared something other than blood and entrails had been left behind which the knife was
looking for with a still and silent concentration.
Sambhu was not only stunned; he was mightily sacred. His marrow and blood had turned into
ice, and he stood there like an imbecile.
Contents
Page 166
The police officer arrived on the scene, and asked, ‘Are you his brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who, do you think, has killed him?’ he asked, not really bothered about his reply.
‘I do not know,’ replied Sambhu.
‘Listen, it will be sent to the hospital for post-mortem. Then only you can get him back. Do you
understand?’
The officer looked terribly distressed, as if he was supposed to find solutions to all the anarchy
and violence going on.
The dead body was sent to the hospital. Sambhu left immediately after that with his wife, a son,
and a daughter. He found a job, after some time, as a coolie inn the road-repairing works.
Working devotedly and quickly his prime asset were his strength and agility.
Somehow he had built a house near the city, to protect his family from the cold and rain. Other
people also came to live in that basti. But it was suddenly announced that all the basti dwellers
would have to vacate the place. He could not make out why. He only saw that some pyjamakurta and dhoti-kurta clad people were discussing something, excitedly, in small groups. And
when people heard them, they shouted that they would rather die than move away, that they were
not afraid of blood-shed, and that they would drag the Government to over there. Sambhu now
thought it was better to pack up his things and leave.
This place was two-years old, lonely, and isolated. Yet there had been no trouble so far. He did
not have to sit idle. And his wife could also go out for work leaving his three-to-four year oldson in charge of his daughter about nine years old.
The area surrounding the house was barren and rough. Nevertheless, it was so vast that put to
shame his tiny house, with its straw thatch and mud walls. It looked as if the house was helpless
in doing anything about the surrounding emptiness, and was instead, on the verge of melting
away, when nothing would come between the earth, the sky, and the horizon.
Sambhu was on the way home after a day’s work. His house was slowly merging into the
thickening darkness. Lately he has been wondering how to make his house more respectable. He
could at least build a fence around it, which would provide a little more protection to the family.
But he also knew very well that the place did not belong to him. A time would come when he
will have to leave this place for another. But there was no need to worry. He could very well live
in the present with no plans for the morrow. He was conscious that his handiwork shaped the
surface of the earth. Cars moved on the road built by him. The fields where he worked were
covered by a mantle of greenery. All these he imagined, were results of his skill as a craftsman,
by which he earned his living. Yet he was oblivious of the wellbeing of the families living in the
houses that he built. And where the crops of the fields went? And whether a fence built by him
would be good enough to protect the wealth kept in the house?
Contents
Page 167
In the faint darkness, he could see his wife leaning against the door. The son was lying face
down, on her lap. Sambhu had no leisure to rest during the day, and it was due to him.
‘Our daughter has not come back yet with the groceries,’ she said, in an anxious voice that
seemed hard put to hold back tears.
Sambhu sat down on the veranda. If she had gone to fetch groceries, well, she’d come back.
What was there to be so worried about? He expressed a little surprise and asked, ‘Hasn’t she
come back yet? Since how long has she been gone?’
‘It is over an hour,’ answered the woman, and added, ‘It should not take her that long to fetch the
groceries. The shop is at a hearing distance. I have asked her to bring rice, oil, and kerosene, and
I have been waiting for her all this time.’
‘When did you come back from work’, asked Sambhu. That day she had gone to the village to
clean a house and get it ready for a marriage. Sambhu had gone to another place to build a fence
around a field.
‘A long time back’, came the reply. By then the son had got up and was peering at his father in
the dark.
‘Let me check if she is there at the shop-keeper’s. Unless she is on her way back home. But why
are you so worried about it? Sambhu said, to cover up his growing anxiety, as he became
conscious of a pounding heart, his almost parched throat and his sweating body.
Where could such a sensible and obedient girl go? He wondered. The day was indeed unusual.
She was not the type of a girl who would forget her work and start playing with other children.
Gauranga’s grocery shop was hardly ten minutes’ walk. Some people were sitting silently on the
bench in front of the shop. Gauranga seemed too busy with his calculations in notebook, by the
light of a lantern. So Sambhu addresses him in a tone of alarm, ‘Babu!’
Gauranga raised his head, but his mind was still elsewhere. ‘Has our Jolly gone back with the
groceries from your shop?’
Sambhu repeated his question when he realised that the shopkeeper had not hot him yet. ‘Are
you asking about your daughter?’ he replied and after pausing to recollect added, ‘Yes, she has
gone back with the rice, oil, and kerosene.’
A tremor passed through Sambhu. His throat felt scorched. ‘How long?’, he asked.
‘I don’t remember exactly,’ said the shop-keeper. ‘Anyway it is over an hour, I should think.
Why, what happened?’
‘Jolly has not returned home, Babu’, Sambhu declared as if to inform the shopkeeper about the
mystery of Jolly’s delay.
The shop-keeper looked at Sambhu’s face for sometime, and then consoled him, ‘Look, she must
Contents
Page 168
have got back by now. She is a little child, and may have stopped somewhere to play with other
children. What is there to be so worried about?’
Sambhu could hardly be comforted by his words and asked, ‘Which other way could she
possibly have taken to come home? We should have met each other. Besides, she is not the kind
who would be lost in her games. She has never been that late.’
He just finished to find the shopkeeper again absorbed in his calculations. His words did not
apparently reach the shopkeeper anymore.
So he turned away from the shop. He hoped that Jolly might have gone back from the shop.
Shouldn’t he return? Perhaps, he would find the cold hearth lit up with hope like a sunrise, with a
pot of fresh white rice placed over it.
But piteous cry welled up within him, a voice so pervasive that it drowned the noise of all the
vehicles on the road. Beside himself with fear, he looked searchingly at the row of shops before
him and behind them too. He was sure he could notice his daughter, even if it was dark. And then
she would run towards him tearing the veil of darkness. Or maybe he would tip-toe up to her, and
close her eyes from behind her and ask the most difficult question of all, ‘Tell me, who am I?’
No, she was not to be seen anywhere. A girl, nine or ten years old had got lost, it seemed, with
her groceries, in a vast, dark world, without a clue. Still he did not lose hope. May be Jolly was
back, and explaining to her mother why she was late.
‘Hasn’t she returned? Was his desperate question, as he returned home?
‘Where, when did she return? I have been waiting for her since then,’ said his wife, as she almost
broke down. But Sambhu had not yet given up hope. He ransacked the corners of his one-room
house and circled around it. And then he got real scared as the night grew old slowly.
‘Where did my daughter go’? The woman came to the front of the house and looked around. A
heart-rending cry ‘Jolly, oh Jolly! Where are you, my dear, for so long? The cry burst out from
the very essence of the being and left her devastated. It spread in all directions like the light from
a blast. The unhindered cry was creating ripples on an earth that had grown dark and silent. But
the echo did not bounce back to her with a response from anywhere. It seemed that the cry would
strike the horizon, tear it asunder, and bring down the sky, like the deserted nest of a bird.
The cry could be heard at the bazaar, before Sambhu reached there again. But then it had settled
into a loud helpless wailing. Everyone over there had heard it. And so they gathered around him
to know what it was all about. But he was in no condition to answer their questions. He went up
to the tarred road, and called, ‘Jolly, where are you?’
No one had heard such a thunderous voice before. Would there be a landslide? Would the
vehicles be rendered noiseless? It appeared as if the combined voice of the husband and wife
would cause a cataclysm, and the accompanying mighty sound would hang over the earth, until
their daughter was found.
Contents
Page 169
A motorbike stopped near Sambhu, who was drowned in tears. The rider asked, ‘What
happened? Why is such a big man crying like a child?’
The question came from Shantanu, who was the leader not only of that village, but of the entire
area. He always claimed that he was not a leader of the common sort, and that he talked only to
the ministers. It could have been so, for he had accumulated enormous wealth within a short span
of time. And his belly was also on a matching upward curve. He was always so busy that he had
no time to shave or wipe the sweat from his face.
After he was appraised of everything, he looked at his watch and commanded, ‘Come, sit behind
me, this has to be reported to police station. Don’t you worry at all? Your daughter will come
back to you. Or else I shall blow up the thana/ police station and all.’
Seeing that Sambhu was in two minds, some of the people present there urged him to go the
police station. It did not take five minutes to cover the distance of two kilometres. It was evident
from the respectful way the officer-in-charge listened to Shantanu that he was a man of some
importance in the thana. He looked at Sambhu, and ordered him to register an FIR. A file was
opened. After sometime the officer came to the spot with his motorbike for verification. There
was nothing new to be recorded. Only a boy fifteen or sixteen declared firmly that he had seen
Jolly going back to her house with the groceries.
‘Was there anyone with her?’ asked the officer.
‘No, she was going alone, answered the boy.
‘You have not seen her going up to her house have you,’ demanded the officer even though he
did not need any answer.
‘I cannot say whether or not she reached her house. But was bound for home after she bought the
groceries. She had a bag and two bottles with her.’
There was a ring of sincerity in the boy’s words. Sambhu hoped this information would help to
recover the lost child. The people gathered there were not merely curious. Their hearts melted in
sympathy over the cruel fate suffered by Sambhu.
Shantanu exhorted the crowd thus, after the officer had left, ‘Today it is the daughter of Sambhu
who is missing tomorrow, and it would be somebody else’s. Will all of them go on missing like
this? What should we do? Sit idly, and leave ourselves to our fate?’
‘No, no that can’t be’ a chorus of excited voices went up in response.
Raising his left arm, Shantanu quietened them. Everyone kept staring at his face, as if only he
knew the misery of the missing girl, and that when he so wished she would be back in her
parents lap. Then he declared, ‘There will be a blockade around the police station. If nothing
happens in a day or two, I tell you, the entire thana will be blockaded. Will you come with me?’
‘Yes, everybody, everyone of us,’ they all assured him.
Contents
Page 170
Shantanu was satisfied. But he had to make yet another strong statement, ‘All my programmes
are cancelled from this moment, until the daughter is recovered. All my work is stopped till then.
This matter will be taken up to Chief Minister up to the Inspector General. We need protection,
protection to our life.’
It was late at night when Sambhu returned home. His wife was waiting for him, her face tear
stained. He sat down beside her, his palms covering face. Looking at him, she burst into tears
once again. It seemed as if her tears had clouded the entire universe in a mist of sorrow. Sambhu
had no words of consolation for. He could not reach out into the desolate vacuum.
The next day’s bazaar began at 9 a.m. He looked wretched after the last night’s vigil without
food and sleep. People asked him anxiously if his daughter had come back, no sooner had he
reached Gouranga’s shop. ‘You need patience,’ they told him. ‘Is the world a tiny place, like the
ore fenced off by you, that it will be easy to find your daughter? The police must try, but there is
no magic that would give you results for sure.’
Sambhu was not listening. He had come here because he did not feel like sitting quiet by in his
house. That apart, he wanted to meet Shantanu, his only hope. He might be able to do something.
He looked around, and wondered about the numberless times he had traversed this vast earth,
had moved from place to place. Yet he had never known the end of the road. No one had ever
told him that the place he was looking at was the end of the world. If the world did not end here,
how could his daughter be possibly recovered from the unending vastness? He was a strong man
for sure, but not strong enough to uproot the world and bring it with him, so that he could
retrieve his daughter, like the life-saving herb Hanuman picked from the mountains and brought
over.
Sambhu stood under the veranda of Shantanu’s house. He did not know how to call out to him.
But Shantanu babu came out himself, after a while, buttoning his shirt. At first sight, he frowned
at Sambhu. Perhaps he could not place him immediately.
‘Oh, you…What happened,’ asked Shantanu.
But in fact, it was Sambhu who was in need of an answer. He stood there wordless, wiping the
sweat from his face. He was unable to comprehend whether the matter was over, once it was
reported to the police station, or had something else to be done afterwards. Shantanu babu, he
thought, could enlighten him in this matter.
‘Are you going to the police station, asked Shantanu.
‘Yes,’ it slipped from his mouth, though Sambhu had no plans to go there. What could he
possible do there? He could not even speak coherently.
‘Now do one thing,’ said Shantanu. ‘ You go ahead. I have some work over there. After an hour
or two, I will go that way to the Capital. I will then find out about the progress of the case from
the officer. Do you get me?’
Contents
Page 171
Shantanu could not understand a thing. He only knew that he was being asked to go to the police
station. Miserable and helpless, he felt unable to take a step forward without somebody’s help.
Shantanu was about to go back into the house, but could not turn away seeing Sambhu’s piteous
look. He consoled him, ‘ Listen, Sambhu, this kind of task cannot be accomplished so soon. The
police will search for the girl. But nobody can say when they will be able to trace her. Sometimes
what is lost can be recovered in an hour or two, another time it may take ages.’
As Sambhu left Shantanu’s place, he realised that somehow the firmness present in Babu’s voice
last evening, had disappeared. In fact, his voice seemed like a sad, lonely house from which a
frolicking girl was missing. Sambhu wondered if Shantanu Babu would do very much if his
daughter was not found within a day or two. Should he remind him about it?
Lost in these thoughts, he found himself on the highway. He decided to wait for Shantanu who
would consult with the officer. But at each step Sambhu felt the proud earth sinking under him.
He was in a state of total despair, crumbling within himself, and unable to imagine how to carry
on living with such sorrow and anxiety. The whole world seemed like a huge corpse that lay still,
face down, stabbed with a knife. Everything was still, lifeless, cold, and terrifying.
He climbed up to the veranda of the police station, like yesterday. Some people were sitting
inside, gossiping and noting down something. They were all similarly dressed, and so looked the
same. Among them he did not spot the man he had met yesterday. How did he expect that any of
them could find his daughter for him, without having ever seen her?
‘Hey, what brings you here?’ one of them asked.
‘Is Babu coming?’ he spoke hesitatingly.
‘Babu?’ asked the khaki-clad man. And then recalling he added, ‘ On, Shantanu babu? Let him
come. But can anything be done so quickly? We are trying our best.’
He went inside. Sambhu sat against a pillar. The size of his shadow changed, as he kept sitting. It
grew longer. But Shantanu Babu did not turn up.
Sambhu returned empty-handed, his mind a total blank. He had no grievance or ill-will against
anybody. Disturbing news awaited him when he reached the bazaar at 3 p.m.
‘Hey where had you been till now? We have already sent boys to your house, four to five times.
Come, see the things picked up from near the bridge.’
A terrible shudder shot through Sambhu’s body. What could have been found near the bridge?
See, this bag, he was told. The bag belonging to the family loomed large before his eyes. Jolly
had come with this bag to buy rice. How did the lower part get torn? He was made to understand
that it was not torn. The read-ants had eaten it away. The bridge was one kilometre away from
the place with a thick bush by its side. The bag was lying inside it, and the red-ants were already
busy at the rice when it was found by the cowherd. And see, this bottle. The oil was in fact still
inside it because the cap is tighly fitted. The neck of the other bottle was found broken. It was
Contents
Page 172
tied to a thin thread.
Sambhu wished he had not seen these things. He could not take it anymore with the exhaustion
of the night-long vigil, hunger, anxiety, and now this pain. He sat down on the road. Not merely
tears but fearful sobbing surfaced now. The excited talk of the people surrounding him was
faintly audible. Everyone guessed that his daughter had been kidnapped for some unknown
reason, and her belongings had been thrown on the roadside. No doubt it was done by means of a
vehicle, most probably a truck.
A woman’s maddened cry was heard that evening, ‘Jolly, my dear, where are you, my dear.’ Not
once, but time and again. May be the call was directed at the bridge, one kilometre away from
the house. The bridge heard it, as did the water below, the river bank, and the bushes on the river
bank. They all heard the call, but had no answer to offer. The people of the bazaar also heard it.
But they went about their business as if nothing had ever happened. The plan to blockade the
police station to demand protection to life was postponed again and again, and was finally
forgotten. No body asked Sambhu, as days passed by, about his missing daughter and the
progress of the case. None made anxious enquiries at the police station. The motorbike of
Shantanu Babu was active as ever. Even when Sambhu passed by the police station, he never felt
like asking the officer about his daughter.
The incident that had created a ripple and moments of excitement in the life of the place, was
gone like other such incidents. The daughter remained mysteriously missing and untraceable.
And something else was gone after some days. The ordinary little house by the highway was
deserted. Its inmates went out in search of another place, where they would be protected. The
dead being out of that house lay in wait for a storm. To be reduced to dust.
Contents
Page 173
An analysis of ‘Temporary Address’ by Nrusingha Mishra, MD
This is the story of Shambhunath who makes his both ends meet and feeds his family as a laborer.
Although he is from a village, he had to adopt a nomadic life to keep busy with the flow of the
construction activities in the highway. Growing expansion of the highway has taken a toll on the quiet
scenic landscape of the village. Shjambhunath was not happy what he saw around the highway, as he
has not forgotten the gruesome murder of his elder brother by a miscreant around that area. He found
a quiet place around the din and bustle of the area proximal to the highway and settled in a lonelier
place with his wife, son and daughter. Both the husband and wife were busy and at times when
needed the eldest daughter used to babysit her brother. Life of Shambunath was passing very
smoothly until one evening he found his wife eagerly waiting at the door while the baby was lying
nearby. Their sweet daughter Jolly went to the grocery store and has not returned since she left home
a while ago. In a hurry Shambhunath went to Gaurang’s grocery store nearby and found out that Jolly
and left the store long time ago with rice, oil and kerosene. Gaurang consoled him saying that Jolly is
a very obedient child and may have stopped with her friends to play. Shambunath went back and
checked everywhere in all the street corners and went back home to check whether Jolly has returned.
Evening hours passed and the mother started crying what happened to her daughter. Mother went
out and screamed Jolly, Jolly in heart-rending voices, but to no vail, there was no sign of Jolly coming
back. The people around that whole area heard her cries and gathered around to find out what had
happened. Shantanu, leader of the entire area stopped by in a motor bike and took Shambhunath to
go to the police station to file a FIR that his daughter Jolly was missing. Police Officer in charge just
asked some questions and documented in the file. Shantanu consoled the villagers that if police does
not help in a day or two, they will do a big cordon around the police station; he will take this case to
the Inspector general and the Chief Minister of the state to impress the crowd. It was already night,
Shambhunath returned home tired, dejected and empty-handed without Jolly’s any trace. Wife lied in
the house like a dead piece of wood drenched with tears. Shambunath had to go back to the leader
Shantanu’s house instead of being in the house in the hope of getting some more help. Shantanu’s
stature alone had assumed different form of indifference, but managed to console him to go back to
the police station. Shambhunath began to realize that he is in a hopeless and helpless situation.
Neither Shantanu nor police officer seemed genuine enough to do anything to look for their lost
daughter. Anxiety and sorrow engulfed Shambhunath’s total existence, he was at a loss what to do
next. The next day around the afternoon a few people came to inform Shambhunath of some lead
near the bridge as to the whereabouts of Jolly. Shambhunath saw a bag very familiar to him near the
bridge with rice strewn allover, and a bottle of oil lying there. He lost his consciousness where he
faintly heard people telling that his daughter has been kidnapped. He could hear the cries of Jolly,
Jolly from a woman’s voice from the distant place. Everything seemed empty for him though days
passed without their sweet daughter coming back. Life continued with usual activities in Gaurang’s
grocery store with Shantanu Babu’s motor bike sounds reverberating the area with nobody asking
Shambhunath about their missing daughter Jolly.
Contents
Page 174
Pata Dei
Binapani Mohanty
Translated by Sunita Mishra
Nobody had ever seen Pata dei after that fateful night of Dola purnima. It seemed as if the night itself
had engulfed her. The moon was spread clear and bright all over the village. After the ritual journey from
house to house, the deities were being gathered in the field. The air was thick with the swelling crowds,
the sounds of cymbals and bells, and the children smearing colours on one another. The excitement of
the purnima night is very different from what follows the next day – the Holi celebrations. This night
comes once a year, only to disappear before one realizes it was there. But the experience generally
settles down like dust, like the colours, unnoticed by all. It clings to the body and mind the whole year
long – piled up inside. That is how, maybe, behind her pleasant smile Pata dei had layers of worries
spread like slime inside her.
On that moonlit night Pata had come back home from the fair after offering prasad to the deities. She
had even had a bowlful of water-soaked rice with some fried drumstick leaves. And later in the kitchen
veranda she was resting on a mat, complaining of uneasiness in her stomach. Her father had left early in
the morning carrying the deities on his shoulder to some far away village. And there was not a soul at
home she could talk to. Mani bhauja, the woman next door, had come with some others asking her to
play cards. But she had refused to go because of her uneasy stomach. They had gone away, closing the
door behind them, laughing among themselves. Someone had even commented, ‘She is simply lazing
around without a care in the world. The stomach pain is just an excuse, believe me’. But Pata had no
time for anything that day except her silent wandering thoughts. All the bustle in the neighborhood had
left her untouched. She did not want to be a part of it.
People say… Pata left in the deep of that night without any fear for the jackals, dogs, and the wolves, the
lurking ghosts and witches. She left the village that was swaying to the cacophony of bhajans, kirtans,
cymbals, drums and the excited crowd. She locked the house and went away to see the jatra. Nobody
came to open the latched door or worry about where she had gone.
The nightlong festivities, the following morning’s unfettered abandon and the play of colours had left the
village drained. People had retired under their low roofs, catching up on lost sleep. No one had either
time or energy to worry about others – who was where, whether anyone was starving, alive or even
dead. That night again there was the much-awaited mock fight between groups in the village. In this tide
of excitement, nobody noticed the disappearance of Pata dei until Jaggu Behera, her father, came back
tired and hungry the following afternoon. His anger knew no bounds when he saw the locked door. He
called out for Pata, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but got no response. He rested for a while,
and went around calling out for her at the top of his voice.
How could he not get wild? He had sold off the little land he had to get her married. The son-in-law was
as handsome as a prince, with a house and lands. There was also a lot of pawned gold in the family. But
the girl refused to stay there for even a couple of months. God knows… what went amiss. She was a
Contents
Page 175
pampered child, he thought. Maybe she could not adapt herself to her in-laws. Poor girl, she did not
even have her mother or a sister to confide in. He too was in no position to command authority over her
in-laws. In the midst of all work he kept worrying about Pata… always.
It was drizzling slightly that night when Pata had come away from her in-laws to her father. In the sky
was spread a thick rolling sheet of ominous pot-black cloud. The frogs were croaking at the edge of the
pond. Jaggu was fast asleep, covered in a sheet from head to toe, when the latch in the front door
rattled. Dismissing it as the work of some evil spirit, Jaggu had gone back to sleep again when the latch
rattled a second time. Irritated, he got up, took the sacred stick kept near the Gods for protection from
evil spirits and opened the door. He was shocked to find Pata standing out there. In shock and
amazement he had tried to ask, ‘How is it that you are here?’ She avoided the question and walked in,
closing the latch behind her.
Jaggu was worried, “How did you come in the middle of the night? Did you have a fight with my son-inlaw?” Pata stood silently leaning against the wall, her head bowed. He asked again, almost pleadingly –
‘Why don’t you speak out girl? Did the old couple ill-treat you? Are you all right?’
Pata walked into the house without stopping to reply. Jaggu thought that maybe there was some
problem. He would anyway come to know of it in time. Why should he unnecessarily trouble her in the
middle of the night? God knows whether she had eaten anything or not. She had always been a moody
child. Seeing her sit on the kitchen veranda he said, ‘Will you eat something? See, there must be some
rice in the pot.’ Pata pushed her head on her knees and started crying, inconsolably. She had never
before cried like this… not even on the day she got married and left home. Wiping his daughter’s tears
with the gamchha hanging around his neck he realised that his daughter had come away unable to stay
with her in-laws any longer. He sighed – ‘Maybe she is too young to bond in marriage. She will learn by
and by. But definitely, when her husband or father-in-law comes to fetch her in the morning, he will
demand an explanation.’
But that never happened. Nobody ever came to fetch her. Whenever he asked, she would stare at him
with tear-filled, helpless eyes. For some reason, he too could never pick up enough courage to go over to
her in-laws and sort things out. They both managed to pull on somehow, with whatever he got after daylong backbreaking labour. Pata never tried to explain herself. He did think at times that she was
stubborn. But he was in no position to complain either. There was always the lurking fear of losing Pata.
People in the neighborhood had started gossiping after she returned to her father. Some said she had
been thrown out after a fight with her in-laws. Some said she had to be thrown out because of her loose
character. An embarrassed Jaggu did want to ask her the truth. He even had the impulse to go and leave
her with her in-laws. But her fearful, helpless stare prevented him from doing or saying anything. He
would leave for work at the crack of dawn, return at dusk and fervently pray for a solution. After all, he
wouldn’t live forever to take care of her.
Jaggu couldn’t wait any more. Two days of fatigue and hunger were making him feel faint! His daughter
should have been at home, waiting with something ready to eat. But no! She was away laughing, playing
cards, like other young girls. Only he would have to slog till he was dead and ready to be carried away to
the graveyard. Nobody will ever come forward to look after him, he thought angrily. He went around the
village calling for her again. But he returned, disappointed. Dusk was approaching fast. The shadows had
begun lengthening towards the half-lit backyards. Sitting on the veranda, Jaggu dozed off against the
wall. At dawn he woke up to the call of early birds to find the latch on, as it was the night before.
Contents
Page 176
People say he never stopped dozing afterwards. He sat there, barely aware of his surroundings. If anyone
tried to talk to him he only stared blankly. If any girl offered him food, big tears rolled down his cheek
and he said nothing. The story goes that he became deaf and dumb, unable to tolerate the weird,
scandalous ways of his daughter; that he breathed his last sitting there, staring at the latch, with swarms
of flies buzzing around his stone-dead face.
Three years have gone by since Pata dei left home. Three years also since Jaggu Behera retired from this
world. Thrice, the festival of Dola has come and gone. Thrice the tiny raw mangoes have ripened and
fallen. The tides of the river have swept the banks and flowed into the sea. Mani Bhauja has become a
widow with an infant playing on her lap. Pata’s friends too have gone their own ways, swept away by the
course of their destiny. But nobody has ever seen or heard of Pata dei. All these years, nobody has given
a thought to where she disappeared, what happened to her. The sun, however, has risen every morning,
the seasons have come and gone as usual and Pata dei’s disappearance has remained a mystery in
everyone’s mind – unasked, untold, unwanted, too.
The door of the house remained locked exactly the way it was when Jaggu Behera breathed his last
there. The torn mats, the bed sheets and a few things lying around too remained untouched. Nobody
wanted to lay their hands on the cursed, unfortunate, unclaimed objects. After all, people were afraid of
ghosts and spirits too! The house was at one end of the village and the tree outside the house also had
stopped flowering long back. There was no need for anyone to go near the house. Occasionally, people
going past saw visions of Pata clad in white or even heard the gruff calls of her father. It became a
haunted house.
But one fine morning, there was sensation everywhere. The past three years seemed like ages now. It
was difficult to remember the bygone events. People who knew nothing started fabricating facts. People
who knew started despairing… helplessly. And all this because that morning Pata dei was seen sweeping
outside of her house. There was a two-year-old child too, sucking his fingers, following her around. Pata
dei had fattened a little around her waist and on her cheeks. But her eyes remained the same, tear-filled,
helpless, and bleak. The news spread like wild fire everywhere.
‘Pata, the daughter of Jaggu, has come back with a child. Must be her own. Why else should she have
the child around? Shameless, sinful woman. She abandoned a handsome gentle husband. Couldn’t stay
on with her father either. Had to run away with someone in the middle of the night. Who would look
after such a woman all his life? After all she too is no longer young and tender. Now with nowhere else
to go she has returned to her father’s old house.’
There was a lot of change in Pata. She had become indifferent, apathetic. If anyone elderly asked her
anything, she turned aside and stood silent, covering her head with her sari. If women tried to talk or
joke around she just stared – the fearful, helpless, bleak stare. Sometimes she laughed to herself or
sketched on the [dirt?] floor, aimlessly.
Everybody said, ‘She is a fallen, loose woman. Has anybody heard of any woman proudly displaying her
motherhood after abandoning her husband and in-laws? Ram Ram! This is not just done. Is she a
Goddess from heaven to do whatever she wants to and still live respectably? How shameless! Couldn’t
she find some poison for herself?’
Pata dei’s education to class three couldn’t rescue her from her present crises. She had no one to call her
own who would protect her, fight for her. She had no guardian either to help tide her over difficult times
Contents
Page 177
or fight for her. The village elders finally decided – ‘She has to leave the village if she wants to live or she
will be burnt alive along with Jaggu Behera’s house. She is a slur on the whole village. She has smeared
every woman’s face black.’
That evening all the villagers gathered outside her door to seek an explanation. Tightly clutching on to
the loose end of her half-torn sari, she decided to face them all… boldly. ‘Yes! Yes! I have given birth to
this child. When my husband left me and went away to Calcutta the day after my marriage, my motherin-law and my father-in-law starved me inside a locked room. Somehow I managed to escape from there.
All the while I stayed with my father, I have only received abuses from everyone. My father had to suffer
endlessly in his old age to keep himself and me alive. But he could neither fill our bellies nor reduce our
shame.’ Pulling the sari over her head resolutely, she went on – ‘I had no say in anything. I had nothing to
say either. I couldn’t even die to save my poor father from bone-breaking labour. The cruel earth thrust
this child on me and sent me back.’
One of the older members jumped up at her statement. Aggressively he demanded – ‘Say that again,
what did you say? The earth gave you the child indeed. You really have a way of putting things. Speak up
now! Whose is this child?’
Pata pulled the sari covering her head even more tightly. With a stammer she slumped down, trembling
all over. Clinging to her, the child had long back stopped wailing. There was only an occasional hiccup
coming from him. Someone kicked her hard – Mani Bhauja’s mother-in-law, a distant aunt of Pata’s – and
screamed ‘Aye! Do you have a frog in your mouth? Speak up. You could not stay even for a month with
your in-laws. You ate up your father alive. And now you say the earth has given you this child? Speak up
the truth. Who is the father of this child? Otherwise today, I myself will cut you to pieces. Don’t you
know my anger?’
The old woman put her foot on Pata’s neck. All around her were amused men and women, looking on.
Pata was gasping for breath. Sparks were flying from her eyes. No! She cannot tolerate this any longer.
The earth won’t split up to shelter her nor will Hara Parvati run down from heaven to protect her from
shame. She will have to stand up for herself. She has to will her life now. Suddenly, she felt a surge of
strength. She shook off the leg from her neck and stood up straight— a strong mature woman, five foot
tall. On her face was emerging a strange purple hue— a frothy mixture of strength, anger and hatred.
After a searching stare at the crowd around she pulled up the wailing child to her lap.
‘You want to know who the father of this child is? There, they are all standing here. Ramu, Veera, Gopi,
Naria and a couple more of them later. How can I tell whose child this is? That night, during the Dola
festival when the mock fight was going on, these men stuffed a cloth in my mouth and carried me away
to the edge of the graveyard. There, behind the bushes, they chewed me up alive… like plucking flesh
from bones. My mouth was closed, but before losing my senses, I did recognize them all by the
moonlight. How can I tell whose child this is? Ask that Hari Bauri. He took money from all of them to
leave me at Cuttack. I didn’t come all these days because I didn’t want to bring more shame on my
father. After returning too, I’ve revealed nothing. But ask them all now. Let them swear on themselves
and decide who the father of this child is.’
Suddenly there was confusion everywhere. The elders were left looking at one another. The youngsters
were trying to suppress their giggles. But no one had anything to say. Mani Bhauja’s mother-in-law had
slumped down, tired and speechless on the veranda. Ramu, Veera, Gopi, Maguni, were standing with
their heads hanging down, waiting uneasily to disappear as soon as possible.
Contents
Page 178
Pata dei wiped away her tears and started sweeping the veranda of her house again. A while later she
flung aside the broom, wiped the nose of the child and lifted him up, saying— ‘Why should you cry dear?
Don’t be afraid of these people. None of them is man enough to stand up and admit to being your father.
But your mother is always there for you. You don’t have to worry.’
God knows what the child understood. He started laughing, pointing at the moon emerging from behind
the clouds. The gathering had started to disperse – heads bowed, in a confused hushed silence. The tree
outside the house had started flowering again. Mani Bhauja’s mother-in-law too was disappearing with
her walking stick.
Pata dei looked around anxiously and spat a huge blob of spit on her child’s chest to ward off the evil
eye. ‘Oh God! My king-like son has shriveled under the gaze of these people. Why do I need to bother?
On my father’s piece of land, I am the master. I am the queen; my son is the prince.’
For a moment the earth stopped moving under the blue expanse above. Pata dei was looking up and
down, laughing and crying at the same time.
Notes:
1. ‘Dei’ is a colloquial form in Oriya that signifies ‘didi’ or ‘elder sister.’
2. ‘Bhauja’ literally means one’s brother’s wife.
3. ‘Gamchha’ is a thin piece of cloth used as a towel.
Contents
Page 179
An analysis of ‘Pata Dei’ by Swapnalata Mishra Rath and Nayna Rath, MI
Award winning story writer Smt Binapani Mohanty's story Patadei is a heart touching, well expressed
Odia story that reflects the inner strength of a woman. It illustrates how she, Pata Dei, gathers the
courage to stand against the village she grew up in. This society compels her to accept a punishment
for a crime she never committed.
The story starts with the enchanting description of Dola Poornima Festival, a popular festival in almost
all the villages of Odisha. Patadei went to the fair like everybody else that night. Under the full moon
she endures acts that no person should experience. After such a life altering moment, she is forced to
leave in the dead of the night. Gossip snaked around the village and turned her into pariah. They
jumped to conclusions because this was not the first time she had run away from someplace . Only few
months ago she had run away from her in law's place. She reached her village in the middle of the
night with a stone cold silence for every question her father asked. Her father died after her
disappearance.
She eventually came back to village toting a child. She was already labeled a shameless sinful woman
because of the fact she left her in law's house. The whole village stood in front of her, ready to punish
her as she brought bad name to the village. She tolerated accusations silently but finally her silence
broke as she was asked again and again to introduce the child's father. Finally, she realized she needs
to stand up for her own pride as a mother of the child. She gains the courage to expose the men who
forced themselves on her. She cannot introduce one of them as the father when those culprits
committed that heinous act together- none of them willing to accept the responsibility of a son. With
that knowledge, she assures her son that his mother will always be there to protect him. Even though
she never asked for it, she still accepted motherhood as her crowning glory.
The saddest part is at the end no one gave support Patadei, even not the old woman who stood on
her neck in order to force her to reveal who the child's father is.
I had read the story many years ago. It was nice to read the story once again in English. Thanks to
Translator Mrs, Sunita Mishra, I could share the story with my daughter. I appreciate the effort of
Utkarsha editor Mr. Satya Patnaik for bringing the remarkable Odia stories to OSA forum.
Nayna's point of view:
Throughout the story Pata Dei is constantly treated as an object. Even when she is raped, she is more
consumed with the fact that her being raped will bring dishonor to her family than her own health. In
my opinion, she is a courageous woman. Despite, her knowledge of how misogynistic her village can
be, she comes back and sheds a light on those who committed the heinous act. She has the strength to
continue to love her child even though he is a constant reminder of that treacherous night. The story is
framed so that the reader is given a glimpse into the patriarchal traditions of a typical Orissa village. It
is also seen that Mani Bhauja's mother in law is quick to condemn Pata Dei, but is speechless when it
is revealed that the men responsible for Pata Dei's pain were standing in the village at that very
moment. There is no guarantee whether or not those men will be punished for their actions. It must
have taken a lot of courage for Pata Dei to reveal she had been raped in a village where there are no
consequences for the rapists. With this brave choice, she ensures her child's right to live in the village.
Contents
Page 180
Under the Mango Tree
Mayadhar Mansinha
Translated from Odia by the poet
1.
Under the mango tree during that tryst,
When the bangle-bedecked arms of the sweet one
Entwined round my neck, and
Pressed me to her bosom in balmy embraces,
The very moonlit night appeared cheered up
With the touch of the zephyr that blew soft,
And while a wild bird on the wing was piping a melodious note.
The very earth looked mystic with shadows and moonshine,
From under the mango tree of our cloistered bliss.
2.
The lamps in the city were fading
With folks retiring for nocturnal rest,
Crickets were chirping a drowsy note,
Filling meadows and fields with deep resonance.
And my timid fair one, casting glances all round,
Kept furtively pouring out in spilling-over measures
The red wine of love from her soft rich lips
In hurried kisses,
Under the blissful shadow of this mango tree.
3.
What soulful efforts there would be from us both,
To merge into each other, deeper and deeper, and
Keener and keener ever more
To excel in the barter of body and mind,
Oblivious of all the world, far and near!
That moment, rendered eternal by love
Brought me heavenly music
As I listened to the jingle of her bangles,
Under this mango tree of shade and sheltered bliss.
4.
The sweet restive creature
Even while she filled my whole being.
With the wine of love,
Started up once from my bosom,
Loosening the twining,
And looking straight into my eyes;
Contents
Page 181
Asked with lips vibrant and tremulous
“Swear by me and speak out, my dearest, my all,
Do you ……….
do you really love this creature who,
For your sake, is bearing this cross of infamy,
For love, true and eternal?”
Mine arms just pressed her closest to my bosom, in reply,
Under this mango tree of shade and sheltered bliss.
5.
The air beneath the tree had spread around the perfume
Of her body and her scented tresses, eager for kisses,
Had loosened about her creamy shoulders, in wild dishabille,
But the cool moonbeams of the midnight
Grew colder,
Gently forbidding us to further unsheltered love,
The zephyr whispering, “Be gone, reckless ones,
Now that you have had your fill
From the brimming cup of love!
Many a time more will you meet
Under this mango tree of blissful shade”.
6.
But did that spot witness, alas, any more of our dalliance?
Did it any more inhale her fragrance wafted about,
In another moonlit night?
Never again did we meet, alas,
Thrilling each other’s limbs and filling each other’s hearts
With that abandon of love;
torn apart as soon we were, by society, placing between us two,
Miles of fields, forests, hills and rivers,
With no dance ever of another tryst
Under this mango tree of bliss.
7.
Many moonlight night since then,
Must have come and gone, oh tree,
In many a spring,
The cuckoo’s note must have thrilled your green foliage,
The bangles of many a lovely one
Might have sweetly gingled here,
Lips of many a fair one must have been soaked profuse
With the impassioned kisses of impetuous love
Under this mango tree of blissful shade.
8.
Contents
Page 182
But tell me, Oh blessed tree,
The happy shelter of lovelorn creatures,
If you ever knew that flaming passion,
That thrill voluptuous,
In the eyes of any other daughter of Eve?
From the thrilled heart of another fair one,
So rapturously lost in love, as was my darling?
Say also, if you met another damsel, so determined
To absorb the adventurous love,
In all-forgetting embraces?
Has there been any more such ardent union of hearts
And fusion of spirits,
Under your shade and sheltered bliss, as were ours,
Oh Tree?
9.
Mute witness of tremulous tableaux of love,
Problem to the Universe, will you not
That no other amour could match the ecstasy of ours,
None there is in the whole world,
To equal my loving one in beauty, grace and beneficence,
And none so abandoned to love, as was my moon of delight.
Say, comrade, that the few moments of bliss
That she gave me here under you
Has set forever an indigent poet on a monarch’s throne,
and never has it been the lot of any mortal
to drink such nectar of love
As my love poured out unto my lips
Say that, will you not, again and again,
To this disconsolate lover
so forlorn under your shade,
that the lifelong pangs of separation
May be assuaged,
In the waters of remembrance?
Contents
Page 183
Women poets of Odia literature
Circumambulation
Brahmotri Mohanty
After I return
From the jaws of death
Lying long on the sick-bed,
Looking at my sick and fragile body
You ask me in a choked voice
Won’t you ever get well?
In reply to your emotional query
I say
does the river
flowing down, returns to the
mountain cave?
I notice your eagerness
to see my photographs
taken when I ws young,
opening the pages of my album
your eyes well up
when you see the photographs
and look at me.
I salute your sentiment, silently,
But don’t stop you.
This life is made of
Emotions and dreams
Where is the taste of life
if you ignore them?
I am not really that worried
about your growing old
but when I look at your
tearful eyes,
my heart is shaken.
Now I understand
why Krishna had
Contents
Page 184
felt more drawn to the gopis
than to wise sages.
*
A Poem
Banaj Devi
The door will not open
Before evening,
I know this
The desired morning of the
entire life will not dawn
there is no occasion to cross
the marked boundary
let everything remain as it is.
What is wrong?
This life has taught me
The art of walking.
on the grand roads
the path of destruction
has robbed the mind of it excellence
destiny has given me the power to endure
I have been taught
from birth to subject myself to tests.
One after another
Come, close in from all sides
Let the fire of my eyes
burn sharp and bright
let a ray of light shine through
let a lighted scented hidden tunnel open
I will reach that fountain of light
Climbing down the steps
in the memory of which
I live in deep darkness.
*
Contents
Page 185
The Watchman
Pratibha Satpathy
Watchman!
Not a mere darwan
a strange servitude
outside and inside the house
your wishes mean nothing here.
No one listens to you
they go in even if you ask them not to
they don’t leave
even if you order them to.
How ridiculous, how pathetic is your vanity
that is but five years old.
The toy I have treasured
moves on its own
better play the flute alone
you draw pictures on the earth with a chalk,
o watchman!
The ink of guilt
on your sweat-covered face
I wish I could write
a page full of complaints
master, I give up this watchman’s job
why swim in the mist,
where do I find the strength
to guard your bungalow?
But the Master!
if only one could ever meet him.
*
Contents
Page 186
Possibility of Poetry
Giribala Mohanty
Sometimes, one does not get
material for poetry
for twelve years there has been
a drought in Anga Desh despite continuous prayer
poetry does not favour
at another time
impressed by the distance
Rushyasrunga is attracted to the world
By Shanta’s cool warmth
A stream of poetry descends.
All these coincidences, possibilities
Are predestined
Suddenly you appear like Rushyashrunga
Coming closer to the feeling, with clouds
Pour consecrated water from a golden jug
the possibility of poetry comes with the rainbow
in every heart sprouts
the possibility of poetry.
*
It was Promised
Mamata Dash
From where do the new puzzles come and call me?
I will not move,
it was decided
whatever happens
I would wait here
the remaining days, only, here.
Flocks of peacocks will come
flying in the summer noon
blue clouds nestling
in their thousand feathers
thirsty rains would pour
from the clouds
in these rains’ floods
the polluted parts of life
Contents
Page 187
will soak.
It was also promised
the spring would come for day
unannounced and
would settle down amid leafless trees,
the cooling of the cuckoo would be heard
from all my sickness and failures
the early noble consequences
would be built
with my misfortunes and curses.
I had also heard
that the rising sun
bedecked with a garland of red roses
would linger on the horizon,
all day long.
Startled, traditions of centuries
Would find
each dust particle turned
into a perennial mirror of this amazing sight.
Everything would turn strange
I know wherever I tocuh
A river of happiness would flow
boats of happiness
would float near both the banks
from which would waft
children’s chatter,
and songs of joy.
What else is stranger than this?
why should I go anywhere
when I know
promises made
will be fulfilled here
surely one day.
The proof is also clear!
The world, blind from birth
Merrily told me
Does he really understand the meaning of light?
*
Contents
Page 188
Not Now
Manorama Mohapatra (Biswal)
By the time I return
the map of this city would have changed
man fighting every moment
living by false words and vanity
would be eagerly, looking for the haladi basanta,
the small bird bathed in yellow
left behind in a distant childhood.
When I come again
I will tell you about the poem
preserved with care
in the folktale’s little box
for ages.
I will tell you everything next time
Not now.
*
If Only You Wished Once
Sarojini Sarangi
A possessed boat
I have floated myself
along the stream of your faith.
A self-made woman,
I have lost myself, mingled
in the consciousness of your entity
in the impregnable fort of your formless mind.
At the slightest hint from you
I would turn into a flowing river
in a rhythm of profound love.
If you wish
I would pour like a tune wounded by an arrow
erasing years of pent-up sulk.
If you wish
I would rise from fire
Contents
Page 189
like the effulgent Yajnaseni
tearing apart the deepening darkness
and breaking the altar of fire.
*
I Remember
Amiyabala Patnaik
I remember you
Having told me something
Thrown words like stones or balls
Broken into a shower like a floating cloud
a part of the mind and heart
soaked in rain water
with your words
some flesh and blood
drained away as tears.
I remember
while walking with you
on the uneven road
suddenly I heard the sad cry
of the trees of your house
the warm, long sigh of the hills
countless curses of mad women.
I remember faces of your intimate kin
who died of hunger
looking miserable and disfigured
the area
filled with stink of corpses.
I remember even now, no geography book
mentioned where you lived
I didn’t find in any book or scripture
your name or address.
And yet I walked with you
on the path of fire
Contents
Page 190
chasing the mirage
spent years of life willingly embracing
all your sorrow and helplessness
that had become a flower in the cremation ground.
Destiny silently smiled that day
I clearly remember a comet
falling from the sky
dazzling me.
*
A conversation
Aparna Mohanty
In your longest silence
you whisper into my ears
our dialogue goes on
endlessly
leaving the pages of history and mythology
countless stories of love
tumble on the flowerbed of our conversation
the faces of both of us
look beautiful.
What do you go on saying
I can’t catch even a word.
Here your lips warm my ear roots
eyelids close of their own
words change with touch
with the movement of your lips and fingers
my throbbing, virgin body
opens up like the soul of an epic
which goes on
written since time immemorial
slowly the making of each word, each sight
is buried in the depths of our grave
built with our intimate silence.
An inexplicable pleasure
resonates in our firm embrace
sometimes whispers into my earsthis is creation
sometimes whispers into your earsଉତ୍କର୍ଷ, ଜୁ ନ୍ ୨୦୧୫
Contents
Page 191
this is apocalypse.
*
The Sweeper
Ranjita Nayak
Why so much haste, dear sweeper
wait a while
the dawn is long way off
calling the ancestors on the night of ‘diwali’
my child lies fast asleep
My rich heritage
scattered here and there
sparklers of faith
dampened in the dew
emerging from the dark
the ancestors have departed in light
Amid leaves and rough branches
their blessings must have blossomed
like shefali flowers
falling on the earth
swept by the morning breeze.
Don’t sweep them your broom,
O sweeper,
wait a while
let my child wake up with his tender fingers
he would collect shining pebbles, coloured shells
and save against the dark and save against the dark
half-burnt sparklers
and dry them in the sun.
Wait a while
O sweeper
the dawn is a long way off.
*
Contents
Page 192
The Blue Moon
Prabasini Mahakud
The woman had seen the moon
Many a time
in many forms.
The virgin moon of Kuamr Purnima
the melancholy moon
the dying moon
the crescent moon.
She never wished to see the moon devoid of stain
not even once.
Today she looks at the moon from the terrace
after two years and a half
it has turned a light blue.
It this blue the emptiness in a woman?
Nothing but grey dust?
Today she is filled with amazement.
Let the moon remain blue forever
like a woman’s desire like a woman’s grief
like a woman’s loneliness
like her entire being.
How would she share this ecstasy?
With whom?
Silence in her address
from silence she looks at the moon…
Will the moon pour out some blue
on the white aparajita, tagara or tarata flowers
on the earth’s empty spaces, pale with pain
where the day has not dawned
and the night does not end.
*
Contents
Page 193
Winter Memories
Binapani Panda
You come when winter arrives,
like a thin shawl covering a cold body
your memory warps
winter evening’s melancholy loneliness.
They glow in the gathering darkness
your face, and eyes not eyes, but the proud Barabati fort
a mute witness to history
known and unknown.
Buried in Barabati’s soil
many a mystery, remains of days gone by
stone walls, temple tops, silverware, gold coins
engraved script.
Buried under memory’s grave voices of moments
the orchestra of tear, sorrows, joys and thrills,
an archeologist intoxicated with quest
the more he gets, the more the probes
gathering meaning from the unintelligible script on stone
memory’s fire burns the whole winter night
blood oozes, the wound grows deeper.
The archeologist:
A link between today and tomorrow
Discovered articles: a testimony to the past
Preserved for the future
in the museum’s glass cases
for generations to come.
The wealth of memory
forever etched in the heart.
You tell me, in whose custody I should leave it
when death comes.
*
Contents
Page 194
God
Monalisa Jena
With the experience
of a thousand years
you are a stoic stone inscription
in the grief of tears
and a festival of flowers
you are a quiet greenery.
Your smiles and tears mingle
your touch so indifferent.
Are you the pulsating feeling
of a hard stone?
Day after day
my faith gets shattered
I grow desperate
and look for you.
You remain indifferent
do you live only in oblivion?
Will you be expressed
in my final departure?
once again I start searching
as you are not in the temple,
but in a forgotten valley.
You transform me
during my quest
only you teach me
the basics of life
between my arrival and departure.
*
Folktale
Sucheta Mishra
One day, the stones would assemble
Decide not to stay
in the prayer rooms any more.
*
Contents
Page 195
Women
Ipsita Sarangi
Up to two points of horizon
We have to stretch the existence
Withdrawing our eyes
Form mind, body and words
Paint smile on lips forever;
Console ourselves
To keep all emotion
In a tree-hole, and
Learn to live.
Sometimes
More vacant than sky
Seems existence,
More fresh than tender ears of corn
Dreams
Keep crumbling
In the scorching sun of
Being unwanted
After blissful days of
Swinging in flowers
Life now enveloped amid petalsHas to beseech
For a breath!
Contents
Page 196
CHAPTER REPORT
CANOSA
Dr. Sunanda Mishra Panda – Vice President & Secretary
The new CANOSA Board started the year 2015 by organising the annual Sahitya Paathachakra
in March. This was followed by a successful AGM in 13th April. It was successful in the sense
that there was physical presence of more than 30% of the life members.
However the biggest event came as the Bishuba Milana Celebration on 6th June 2015 Port credit
high school auditorium, Mississagua, Ontario. On the same day CANOSA hosted the RDF
[Regional Drama Festival] of OSA. This evening was a memorable one having many variety of
programs along with the gathering of community members from different parts of the world. We
had with us Birendra Jena, the regional coordinator for RDF, from Michigan; Anil Patnaik, the
President OSA-Ohio chapter from Ohio, and visiting families from USA (Pittsburgh-PA, Dayton-OH,
Columbus-OH & Detroit-MI), British Colombia (Vancouver) and few families from India. We also had
guests from other associations in Canada - Ms. Mary Ashok, Managing Director of Dancing Damsels; Anil
Purohit, Rajasthan Society of North America (RANA Canada); and Anup Sahoo & Asim Kar from Orissa
Society of Canada (OSC).
The program started with OSA Secretary Sabita Panigrahi and OSA-RDF coordinator Birendra Jena
informing the audience about the solidarity of cultural bondage between CANOSA and OSA, the history
and purpose of RDF and OSA’s whole hearted support to (which include financial grants) promote Odia
literature and culture.
In this Bishuba Milana we also released a Souvenir after a gap of two years. Dr. Tanmay Panda, our fellow
CANOSA member took the initiative and complete ownership in publishing which came out extremely
good in terms of quality and quantity.
The evening was jam packed by variety of performances from young kids to adults to veterans. Kids
dominated the show by majority performances starting from classical dances to modern dances. They also
staged a drama ‘Bhakta Salabega’ and it was appreciated by all. The adult couples performed a beautifully
choreographed dance performance ‘celebration of love’. The impromptu drama by Birendra Jena and
Niranjana Mishra was a surprise and it charmed everyone. The drama ‘Bidroha’ by Gagan Panigrahi and
his team was spectacular. Anil Patnaik from Ohio also mesmerized the audience by his songs.
The winners of the Odia speech and Debate competition, organised during Sahitya Pathachakra were
given their prizes and certificate sponsored by OSA.
The evening ended with an ethnic Odia dinner.
Contents
Page 197
Contents
Page 198
Global Odisha Conference
1 and 2 July, 2015
Schedule
st
nd
Business & Entrepreneurship
Chair: Ajaya K. Mohanty
Co-Chair: Amiya Nayak
Co-Chair: Nishikanta Sahoo
Co-Chair: Debasish Patnaik
July 1st
1:00 PM - 2:30 PM
Information Technology and IT Enabled Services
1:30 PM - 3:30 PM Tour for EPA International Visitor’s Program
2:30 PM– 2:45 PM – Break
2:45 PM – 4:00 PM - Biotechnology
Entrepreneurship / BioEntrepreneurship Development in Odisha
4:00 PM - 4:15 PM – Break
4:15 PM – 4:45 PM
Sub-Track: Micro, Small & Medium Enterprises (MSME), Investment Systems & Entrepreneurs
July 2nd
10:30 AM-12:30 PM
Waste Management
1:00 pm – 4:00 pm
Maryland Intl Incubator & Covanta Tour
Literature
Chair: Bigyani Das
Co-Chair: Gagan Panigrahi
July 1st
1:00 PM to 5:00 PM
Panel Discussion on Odia Literature in Global Scene
July 2nd
10:30 AM to 12:30 PM
Panel Discussion on Elements of Great Literary Creations
1:30 PM to 4:30 PM
Notable Odia Literary Creations
Education
Chair: Binod Nayak
Co-Chair: Prof. Abani Patra
Co-Chair: Dr. Ashutosh Dutta
Contents
Page 199
July 1st
1:00 PM to 05:00 PM:
Topic: The State of Technical/ Engineering Education in Odisha: Opportunities and Challenges
July 2nd
10:30 AM to 12:30 PM.
Topic: Access to Higher Education (HE) by Women, Scheduled Caste (SC), Scheduled Tribes (ST) and
Other Backward Classes (OBC): Opportunities and Challenges
12:30 PM to 1:00: PM: Lunch
1:00 PM to 4:30 PM.
Topic: The State of Natural/ Social, and Management Sciences and Liberal Arts Education in Odisha:
Opportunities and Challenges
Tourism & Promotion
Chair: Chitta Baral
Co-Chair: Tina Satpathy
July 1st
3:00 PM - 5:00 PM
Ecotourism in Odisha
July 2nd
10:30 AM - 12:30 PM Branding and Promoting Odisha
1:30 - 4:30 PM Propagating Odisha Culture
Spiritual
Chair: Satya Patnaik
Co-Chair: Anjana Chowdhury
Co-Chair: Dharitri Banerjee
1st July
2:00 pm -4.45PM
Moderated Panel Discussion with representatives from Jagannath Installations of North America
July 2nd
10:30 am. – 12:30 am
Topic: Shri Shirdisai Baba-The philosophy and Sai movement
1:30pm – 3:00 pm
Topic: Talk on Jagannath consciousness and Nabakalebar
3:30 pm– 5:15 pm
Topic: Talk by representatives of other spiritual organizations
Health
Chair: Pinaki Panigrahi
Co-Chair: Nivedita Mohanty
July 1st
1:00 PM - 3:3 0 pm
Visit to NIH Institutes and Clinical Center
July 2nd
10:30 - 1:00 pm
Contents
Page 200
Climate Change, Water Management, Palliative Care, Community Engagement, Bioinformatics, Medical
Research, Environment-Nutrition-Adolescent Health
Business and Entrprenurship Track:
Global Odisha Conference
July 1-2, 2015
Washington DC, USA
Gaylord Convention Center, Room: Cheasepeak 5
Track: Business & Entrepreneurship
Theme:
New Business and Entrepreneurship Development in Odisha by Leveraging Global
Partnerships
Sub-Tracks:
Information Technology and IT-Enabled Services (IT/ITES)
Biotechnology Entrepreneurship / BioEntrepreneurship Development in Odisha
Investment Systems, Micro, Small & Medium Enterprises (MSME) & Entrepreneurs
Waste Management/Need and Impact of Waste Management in Odisha
Chair: Ajaya K. Mohanty
Co-Chair: Amiya Nayak
Co-Chair: Debasish Patnaik
Contents
Page 201
July 1, Wednesday
9:00 AM - 10:30 AM: GOC Inaugural (Presence at the podium for Chair and Co-Chairs)
11:30 AM- 12:30AM: (Joint Track session Includes Guest Invitees from All tracks)
All track Chairs/Co-chairs to introduce the guests and speak a few words on the highlight of their
tracks.
12:30 PM - 1 PM: Lunch
1:00 PM – 5:00 PM: Business Track
Information Technology and IT-Enabled Services (IT/ITES) (1:00 PM - 2:30 PM)
Co-Chair/Anchor/Panel Coordinator: Ajaya K. Mohanty
Achieving Quantum Growth in IT in Odisha by identifying technology gap and by creating
Incubation Centers & start-ups (building IT-Konarka!)
Keynote Speaker:
Honorable Minister of Industry and School & Mass Education, GoO, Mr. Debi Mishra
Topic: Investment Opportunities in Industries, MSME and Allied Sectors in Odisha (Part 1)
Speakers:
Mr. Rajesh Mishra, VP-Wipro, Bangalore
Mr. Niharranjan Samantray, CEO, IGNIS, Bangalore
Panelists / Q &A:
Mr. Rajesh Mishra, VP-Wipro, Bangalore
Mr. Niharranjan Samantray, CEO, IGNIS, Bangalore
Mr. Saroj Rout, CEO, ORAN Inc., VA
Mr. Gourab Nanda, CEO – VendorFit, Washington DC
Mr. Ayaskanta Mohanty, MD, Tatwa Technologies
Mr. Annada Padhy, MD, AuroIn
Dr. Sukant Mohapatra, Vice President – VPIsystems, NY
1:30 PM - 3:30 PM
Tour for Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) International Visitor’s Program (Details
Page 5)
Coordinator: Nishikanta Sahoo
Break (2:30 PM– 2:45 PM)
Contents
Page 202
July 1, 2:45 PM – 4:00 PM
Sub-Track: Biotechnology Entrepreneurship / BioEntrepreneurship Development in
Odisha
Co-Chair/Anchor/Panel Coordinator : Amiya Nayak
Welcome, Introduction, Agenda Items and Status Overview:
GoO Opening Remarks- Honorable Minister of Industry, Mr. Debi Mishra
(Biotech Industry in Odisha, IDCO (BioPark Co-Promoter); Depts-Industry/MSME/DSTBiotech Unit,
GoO-GoI/DBT)
Presentations: Key Note Speakers
Ms. Judith Costello, MBA, Acting Executive Director, BioMaryland Center,
State of Maryland Department of Business & Economic Development
Topic: BioMaryland Center & USA-Intl/India/Odisha Collaborations.
Dr. Mrutyunjay (Jay) Suar, PhD, CEO, KIIT-Technology Business Incubator/BioIncubator;
Director & Professor, School of Biotechnology, KIIT U; Director, R&D, KIIT U
Topic: BioEntrepreneurship in Odisha: The Role of Incubator and Odisha-America/Intl
Collaborations
Dr. Shreemanta Parida, MD, PhD
Faculty, Karolinska Institute; Advisor, Global Health & Medical Biotech;
Former CEO, Vaccine & Grand Challenge Program, Dept. of Biotechnology, MST, GoI
Topic: Connecting Odisha with Innovations in Global Health Biotech
GoO: Honorable Minister Mr. Debi Mishra, Minister of Industry, GoO; IDCO (BioPark CoPromoter); Biotech Unit, DST; MSME Dept; NRO Cell-New Delhi
BioEntrepreneurs:
Dr. S. K. Dash, Founder/Chairman, UAS Laboratories/DD Innovations, MN
Topic: Bio-based Probiotics/Pre-Biotics, UAS/DD &
S K Dash Center of Excellence of Bio-Sciences and Engineering and Technology (SKBET), IITBBSR.
Panelists/Q & A: (Moderator – Amiya Nayak)
Honorable Minister Mr. Debi Mishra
Dr. M. Suar
Ms. Judy Costello
Dr. Shreemanta Parida
Dr. S. K. Dash
Contents
Page 203
Dr. Sukant Mohapatra
Dr. Ajaya Mohanty
BioEntrepreneur, Bio-Scientist, Bio-Engineer, Academia, Industry
GoO; GoI; Bio-Parks; BioTech Fund
Closing Remarks / Recommendations: Amiya Nayak
Break 15 minutes (4:00 PM - 4:15 PM)
July 1, 4:15 PM – 5:30 PM
Sub-Track: Investment Systems, Micro, Small & Medium Enterprises (MSME) &
Entrepreneurs
Co-Chair: Sandip Nayak, Co-Chair: Debasish Patnaik
Theme: Create 5-10 MSMEs per year in IT, BT, Hospitality, Manufacturing, Waste
Management, Services & other sectors
GoO Opening Remarks: Honorable Minister of Industry and S & ME, GoO, Mr. Debi Mishra
Topic: Investment Opportunities in Industries, MSME and Allied Sectors in Odisha (Part 2)
Co-Chair/Speaker: Mr. Sandip Nayak, Chief Risk Officer, Fundation - NOVA
Topic: Strategic Partnership between Fundation, Banks and Government for
Small Business Commercial Loan (SBCL) Products
Panel: Mr. Sanjay Kapoor, Senior Manager, SBI, Washington DC Branch
Co-Chair/Panel Coordinator: Debasish Patnaik
Business Entrepreneurs from Odisha/India (Allied Business Sectors, Invest Bhubaneswar,
TiE Bhubaneswar Chapter, Bhubaneswar Angels)
Global Odisha, as a Brand Name
Make in Odisha and Made in Odisha Products, Brands, Services & Innovations
Your Story and Entrepreneurial Journey
Mr. Debasish Patnaik, Promoter & Director, Crown & Sukhamaya (Hotel & Hospitality)
Mr. Ayaskanta Mohanty, MD, Tatwa Technologies Ltd. (IT/ITES/Software)
Mr. Annada Padhy, MD, AuroIn (SEO/IT/ITES)
Honorable MLA, GoO, Mr. Priyadarshi Mishra
Dr. Kashinath Sahoo, DGM-Commercial, Adani Group, Sanghai, China (Topic: Modern Odisha: a
different industrial outlook)
Additional Entrepreneurs
July 2, Thursday, 10:30 AM – 12:30 PM
Sub-Track: Waste Management
Topic: Need and Impact of Waste Management in Odisha
Co-Chair: Mr. Nishikanta Sahoo
Moderator: Ms. Jini Mohanty
Welcome, Introduction, Agenda Items and Status Overview:
Panelists:
Contents
Page 204
-Ms. Anne Germain, Director, Waste and Recycling Technology
National Waste & Recycling Association, Washington, DC
-Ms. Anita Kedia, Senior Business Development Manager, Waste Management Inc
-Dr. Mrutyunjay (Jay) Suar, PhD, CEO, KIIT-Technology Business Incubator/BioIncubator,
Director & Professor, School of Biotechnology, KIIT U
-Honorable Minister of Industry, GoO, Mr. Debi Mishra
-Honorable Minister of Tourism & Culture, GoO, Mr. Ashok Panda
- Honorable Member of Legislative Assembly, GoO, Mr. Priyadarshi Mishra
Q & A: Audience
Closing Remarks/Recommendations:
12:30 PM – 1:00 PM: Lunch
July 2, 1:00 PM - 4:00 PM: Tours
Tour for BT, IT & Other Sectors Delegation, GoO, Entrepreneurs, Panelists, Co-Chairs:
Maryland International Incubator (MI2): Delegation’s Visit to explore
collaborations/exchanges.
Opening Remarks and MI2 : Dr. Kai Duh, Director, MI2 & Host
Title: Doing Business in Maryland (MD-International/India/Odisha Prospects)
(Related topics – India Business Center, MD & India oriented Incubator, MD)
Ms. Jessica Reynolds, Regional Manager for India and Africa
Office of International Investment & Trade, Maryland Department of Business & Economic Development
Mr. Pradeep Ganguly, EVP, PGC-EDC
Ms. Elizabeth Crittenden, International Business Development Specialist, PGC-EDC
Prince George's County Economic Development Corporation
Visiting Team:
GoO Representatives
Visiting Entrepreneurs (Odisha/India, MD/VA/DC, NA)
M. (Jay) Suar, Sandip Nayak, Saroj Rout, Gourab Nanda, Ajaya Mohanty, Nishikanta Sahoo,
Kashinath Sahoo, Amiya Nayak, Other Names
July 1, 1:30 PM – 3:30 PM
Tour for Waste Management Delegation for Environmental Protection Agency (EPA)
International Visitor’s Program
Presentations by EPA experts. Program: Meeting with Delegation from Odisha State, India
Venue: EPA, Federal Triangle Complex, Washington DC
Opening Remarks: Mr. Mathy Stanislaus, Assistant Administrator, EPA OSWER, Office of Solid
Waste and Emergency Response
Used Electronics: Mr. Nathan Wittstruck, EPA OSWER/ORCR, Office of Solid Waste and
Emergency Response, Office of Resource Conservation and Recovery
Mining Waste: Mr. Shahid Mahmud, EPA OSWER/OSRTI, Office of Solid Waste and
Emergency Response, Office of Superfund Remediation and Technology Innovation
Contents
Page 205
July 2, 4:00 PM
Tour for Waste Management Sub-Track to Covanta Waste to Energy conversion facility,
Dickerson, MD (Host - Mr. Mark Freedman, Business Manager, Covanta)
July 2, 4:30 PM – 6:30 PM
Tracks Summary/Joint Tracks Session, Review, Recommendations
Roundtables (GoO Delegation, Business Entrepreneurs, GOC/OSA)
Global Odisha: New Global Organization, Governance, Structural Framework from Virtual to
Real, Resources & GOC Rotations. Global Odisha as a Brand Name.
Network:
Mr. Saroj Rout, B&E, GOC/OSA, LinkedIn (ODISHA Entrepreneurs and Professionals Groups)
– OEPG
Global Odisha eGroup (Google/Yahoo)
July 2, 7:00 PM – 9:00 PM: Business Networking
Contents
Page 206
Spiritual Track:
The Odisha Society of the Americas
Global Odisha Convention
1st and 2nd July 2015
Gaylord Convention Center
Spiritual Track
Room : Potomac C-D (for Gurujee’s session), Cheasepeak 4 (all other sessions)
Contents
Page 207
Chair : Satya Pattanaik (614-602-7021)
Co-Chair : Anjana Chowdhury
Co-Chair : Dharitri Banerjee
Session 1 (1st July, 1.45-4.45PM – Room: Cheasepeak 4)
Moderated Panel Discussion with representatives from Jagannath Installations of North
America
Topic : Share and address the issues collectively, Next level of Jagannath culture in North
America
Moderator – Dr. Sarat Mohapatra, MN
Representing temples: Minneapolis MN, Fremont CA, Nashville TN, Atlanta GA, Wilton CT,
Austin TX, JTNA DC, Wayne Hindu Temple NJ, Columbus OH, Sunnyvale, CA, DFW Dallas
We encourage other temples to participate (no remote participation please)
Nabakalebar journal release
A 116 page, high quality color publication comprising 14 articles and 23 Jagannath installation
information has been published. This will be released immediately after the panel discussion.
Session 2 (2nd July, 10.30AM-12.30PM – Room: Potomac C-D)
A spiritual session with Gurujee Chandra Bhanu Satpathy
Topic : Shri Shirdisai Baba-The philosophy and Sai movement
Contents
Page 208
with melodious bhajans by eminent singers from Odisha
Attendees can interact with Gurujee through Q/A session
Session 3 (2nd July, 1.30-3PM – Room: Cheasepeak 4)
Talk on Jagannath consciousness and Nabakalebar
Speakers:
Pundit Rabi Narayan Rathsharma
Shri Panchanan Satpathy
Shri Rahul Acharya
Attendees can interact with the speakers through Q/A session
Speaker : Pundit Rabi Narayan Rathsharma
Topic : Origin and antiquity of Lord Jagannath
Language : English/Odia
From priest’s family of Puri and son of Pundit Sadasive Rathsharma, Rabi Narayan Rathsharma
is Puri temple’s managing committee member. He organizes conferences on Jagannath
consciousness all over India. He is a priest, scholar, speaker and writer on Jagannath
consciousness.
Speaker : Shri Panchanan Satapathy
Topic : Symbolism and Religious Significance of Lord Jagannath
A founder member of Nashville Temple, Shri Satapathy is a teacher of Veda, Vedanta and Geeta
since last 15 years. He is a devotee of Lord Jagannath and a lifelong student of Jagannath
Consciousness.
Speaker : Shri Rahul Acharya
Topic : Nabakalebar
A biotechnology postgraduate and Odissi soloist and teacher by profession, Rahul Acharya has
performed Odissi worldwide and winner of many awards. He is a painter and writer. He has
done research on Jagannath culture and written a book on it. He is an expert on ‘Nabakalebar’.
Contents
Page 209
Session 4 (2nd July – 3.30-5.15 – Room: Cheasepeak 4)
Talk by representatives of other spiritual organizations
Speakers:
Shri Jnan Dash (Chinmay Mission)
Shri Nrusingha Mishra (Mata Amrutamayee)
Shri Manoj Panda (Kriya Yoga)
Shri Krsnakirtana dasa (ISKCON)
Attendees can interact with the speakers through Q/A session
Speaker : Shri Jnan Dash
Topic : Only through a deeper understanding of our true Self, we get the ultimate happiness Atyantika Dukha Nivriti and Permananda Prapti
Shri Jnan Dash has been associated with Chinmay Mission for 23 years. He says “Chinmaya
mission's goal - path of knowledge according to our scriptures (Upanishad, Gita). Clearly it did
open the avenue of "inward journey" through learning Vedanta. This year we start celebrating
the founder Swami Chinmayananda's 100th. Birthday. This has helped my family, specially our
children during their school years.”
Speaker : Shri Nrusingha Mishra
Topic : Embracing the World
Language : English
Embracing the World"" is an organization founded by Mata Amrtitanandamayi who is from the
dtae of Kerala in India. She is a Spiritual leader, humanitarian and visionary known to millions
simply as ‘Amma’ meaning Mother, She considers Herself as a servant of the world community.
Through her inspiring life of love, inner strength and self-sacrifice, Mata Amritanandamayi has
inspired people all over the planet to strive to make more and more space in the hearts or
others and to dedicate free time to social service. Shri Nrusingha Mishra does not think that he
Contents
Page 210
is the authority on this subject. Neither, he represents this organization officially. He has been
following Her for the last 15 years and have been inspired greatly.
Speaker : Shri Manoj Panda
Topic : KriyaYoga in Daily Life
Language : English
Kriya Yoga cultivates body, mind, and intellect using powerful meditative and yogic
disciplines. This develops a one-pointed mind, which enables us to penetrate the deepest levels
of consciousness and experience the inner joy. More information can be found on
www.kriya.org. Manoj Panda was drawn into the path of Kriya Yoga by Paramahamsa
Yogananda's book "Autobiography of a Yogi" when he was a graduate student in USA.
Practicing Kriya has helped him to see the universal harmony in everything and every being.
Speaker : Krishna Kirtana dasa
Topic : World Peace & Harmony– “From the land of Odisha “
Language : English
Krishna Patro (Initiated into ISKCON, Bramha Madhva Gaudiya sampradaya as Krishna Kirtana
dasa). Born into a business family from Big Bazar, Bramhapur in the year 1973, graduated in
Computer Science from REC Surat. Since early child hood his deep desire to serve the distressed
suffering with poverty, old age, disease, finally found the spiritual solutions to material
problems in the teachings of Srila Prabhupada, the founder Acharya of ISKCON.
Serving ISKCON society since 1999, in spreading message of Lord Jagannath. Currently serving
as temple president of Krishna Village of Delaware.
Every session will be started and ended with melodious bhajans.
Contents
Page 211

June - The Odisha Society of The Americas

Transcription

Similar documents

Directions to Ardgillan Travelling north from Dublin

007 Kardamyli (Wikipedia)

Offham Parish Council “Our Village” photo competition

VM - Village Market

versione PDF - Appartamenti Casa vacanza Kaporo

Belstone - Dartmoor National Park

Dalmatisch stenen huis | U823 (6+2)

Ela Public Library

Bluffton-Low Country Village Flyer.indd

village ii - Henry S. Miller