Category: Excerpt

An Unfinished Memoir

Title: Janaki Ballav Patnaik: An Unfinished Memoir

Author: JB Patnaik

Translated into English from Odia by Bhaskar Parichha

Publisher : BK Classics

Chapter 17 A Journalist across Continents

My association with Prajatantra[1] also opened doors to experiences beyond the country. In 1959, the British Information Services invited four journalists from eastern India to visit England. From Odisha, I went as the editor of The Eastern Times. Along with me were representatives from The Statesman, Amrita Bazar Patrika, and Searchlight of Patna.

Our visit to England proved deeply enriching. We toured institutions such as University of Oxford and University of Cambridge, and also visited the British Parliament. At Bristol, we paid our respects at the tomb of Raja Ram Mohan Roy. We were taken to an atomic energy plant, a steel factory, and even a coal mine in Wales. On London’s Fleet Street, where most of the major newspapers were published, I had the chance to observe the workings of the Daily Telegraph office—its news gathering systems, teleprinter composition, and massive printing machines. We also engaged in discussions with British journalists about our experiences and about Indo-British relations.

We had arrived in England in June. One day, the temperature rose to ninety degrees Fahrenheit. By Indian standards, it was nothing remarkable, but in a country accustomed to cold weather, it was almost unbearable. News came of workers in several factories halting work due to the heat. We visited places like Buckingham Palace and the bridges over the Thames, taking in as much as we could of London’s historic landscape.

From London, I felt a strong desire to visit Germany. It was not uncommon for distinguished Indian journalists visiting London to be invited onward, so I approached the German Embassy and expressed my interest. To my pleasant surprise, they promptly invited me for a fifteen-day visit and granted me a visa.

I reached Frankfurt around ten in the morning. There, I was warmly received by Dr. Reikel, secretary of the Indo-German Association. With a smile, he informed me that the annual session of the German Indologists’ Association was being held that very day in Essen, and asked if I would like to attend. I readily agreed.

At the conference, nearly four hundred scholars of Indology had gathered—an impressive assembly devoted to the study of India’s past. After the session, during lunch, I was greeted by a former German Consul General who had once served in Calcutta. He asked me which city in India I came from. In an affected English accent, I replied, “Bhubaneshwar.” He smiled gently and said, “You must have just returned from England. The correct pronunciation is ‘Bhubaneswar.’”

I felt a moment of embarrassment. But he went on to say something that stayed with me. He told me that it was in Bhubaneswar, while visiting the Rajarani Temple, that he had first met his future wife. Then, with quiet warmth, he added that the German people held India in great affection. “You have seen it yourself,” he said, gesturing toward the gathering. “Hundreds of scholars here are devoted to studying ancient India. Wherever you go, you will find a spirit of friendship.”

And indeed, that is what I felt—a sense of India’s presence, respected and cherished, far beyond its own shores.

From there, we took our leave and travelled to Bonn, then the capital of West Germany. Bonn, I found, was much smaller than Berlin. In those days, Berlin stood divided—one part belonging to West Germany and the other to East Germany, which claimed it as its capital. Surrounded entirely by East German territory, West Berlin remained cut off, an island of a different world.

Dr. Reikel next took me to a refugee camp in West Germany. There, day after day, people fleeing from East Germany sought shelter. Pointing them out to me, he explained that East Germany was a communist state, almost a satellite of the Soviet Union. Life there, he said, had become so difficult that many risked everything to escape into Berlin and beyond.

We then visited West Berlin. I was struck by its prosperity. It was hard to imagine that this thriving city had once been reduced to rubble by bombing during the war. The transformation was astonishing—order, wealth, and vitality had returned. Except for one ruined church, left deliberately unrestored as a reminder of the World War II, there was little visible trace of destruction.

Curious to see the other side, we boarded a tourist bus to East Berlin. The bus carried visitors from many countries. As we entered, the conductor announced that we could now compare capitalist Berlin with communist Berlin. The contrast was stark. East Berlin appeared plain, almost austere, lacking the vibrancy of its western counterpart. Many buildings stood incomplete, as if time itself had slowed. One could immediately understand why people were fleeing from East to West.

From Berlin, we flew to Hamburg, the principal port of West Germany and a city rich in history and beauty. Its City Hall, harbour, and music halls left a lasting impression on me. Later, I also visited Wildbad.

At a hotel there, I noticed the Indian national flag fluttering. For a moment, I wondered if some distinguished visitor from India had arrived. Dr. Reikel smiled and told me that there was no one else—it had been hoisted in honour of me, their guest. Not long before, he added, another Indian guest had stayed there—Narayan Dutt Tiwari, who too had been invited by the Friendship Society.

While I was still in Bonn, an incident occurred that touched me deeply. A professor of philosophy had come to my hotel and left behind a card for me. On it, he had written a simple yet profound message: that he had come to pay his respects to my country—the land of Mahatma Gandhi and of the Upanishads.

It was a quiet gesture, but one that reminded me how India lived in the imagination of distant lands—not merely as a nation, but as a civilisation.

Everywhere I went in Germany, I felt a genuine warmth—an unmistakable atmosphere of friendliness. Even in an ordinary park, if one happened to meet a passerby, he would acknowledge you with a gentle nod of greeting. It was a small gesture, yet it spoke volumes about the people.

From Hamburg, I travelled to Munich by train. From there, I was to take a flight onward to Paris. The margin between the train’s arrival and the flight’s departure was barely half an hour. I asked Dr. Reikel, half in doubt, what would happen if the train were delayed. He replied with quiet confidence that it would not be late even by a second. And indeed, it arrived precisely on time.

I took leave of him there. For fifteen days, he had been my constant companion, guiding me through the principal cities of West Germany with a warmth that felt almost familial. He was a widower, deeply patriotic, critical of Adolf Hitler, yet appreciative of the discipline and courage of the German army of that era. The German people, I observed, were extraordinarily industrious. Whether worker or employer, all seemed united by a culture of hard work. Strikes were rare, almost unheard of.

At the time of my visit, Konrad Adenauer was the Chancellor of Germany. There was a popular saying that captured the spirit of the nation’s recovery—that the Chancellor had asked every worker to add just one extra hour of labour to their day, and that this collective effort had helped rebuild Germany. Whether apocryphal or not, the sentiment reflected the ethics of the people.

From Germany, I travelled to Paris—a city steeped in history, as ancient in its own way as London. Paris had witnessed the rise and fall of monarchies, the turbulence of revolutions, and the flowering of culture. In terms of civilisation, it was often regarded as the cultural capital of Europe; in matters of diplomacy, some even called it the capital of the world. And when one spoke of fashion, Paris stood unrivalled.

Above all, Paris carried the legacy of the French Revolution—an event that became a beacon for oppressed people everywhere. From that revolution emerged the enduring ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity—principles that have guided countless movements across generations. The revolution of eighteenth-century France remains one of the most profound and unforgettable turning points in human history.

I stayed in Paris for three days, in a modest yet elegant little hotel. By then, I was no longer an official guest of any government, as I had been in England or Germany. I was simply a traveller, left to discover the city on my own. And for that, the first necessity was a map. With it in hand, I resolved to begin from the city’s most prominent landmarks.

The most striking modern monument of Paris was, of course, the Eiffel Tower, followed by the imposing Arc de Triomphe. Guided by my map, I made my way from the hotel to the Arc de Triomphe, that grand arch built to commemorate the victories of Napoleon Bonaparte. Not far from there stood the Élysée Palace, the residence of the French President.

Paris, as I observed, bore the imprint of careful planning. During the time of Napoleon III, the city had been redesigned with remarkable foresight. From central points like the Arc de Triomphe, avenues radiated outward in all directions. Standing atop the monument, one could see twelve grand avenues stretching out with striking symmetry—a vision of urban elegance.

Near the lane where I stayed stood a well-known theatre, the Folies Bergère, famous for its ballet performances. The area around the Arc, however, was a ceaseless whirl of motion. With twelve avenues converging, traffic flowed endlessly from all directions, leaving hardly a moment for a pedestrian to cross.

Perplexed, I approached a policeman and asked—in English—how one might reach the monument without traffic lights. He offered no reply. Whether he chose not to understand or simply did not wish to respond, I could not tell. The French, I soon realised, take immense pride in their language; even if they understand English, they are often reluctant to use it.

Finding no answer, I half-humorously tried speaking in my own mother tongue, Odia. The policeman looked at me, puzzled, and remained silent. That, too, was an answer of sorts.

Over those three days, I explored the notable sights of Paris on foot. Along the way, I was joined by two fellow Indians—students from London studying accountancy. Together, we wandered through the city until one day we encountered a gentleman from Malaysia. At first glance, he might easily have been mistaken for an Indian; such was the resemblance. He turned out to be a senior official in his country’s archaeology department. From the next day onward, he became our companion.

One afternoon, as we strolled along the banks of the Seine River, he pointed out that the famed Louvre Museum was nearby. There, he said, we could see the celebrated painting of Leonardo da Vinci—the Mona Lisa.

We entered the gallery and stood before it. The painting’s fame, I realised, lay not merely in its artistry but in that enigmatic smile—so subtle, so elusive. Wherever one stood, it seemed as though her gaze followed. It is often said that no other portrait in the world carries such a delicate curve of expression.

At that moment, a line from the Odia poet, Jadumani Mahapatra, came to my mind, describing a smile of pure, almost celestial beauty—untouched by earthly colour or artifice. It felt as though that poetic vision had, in some distant way, come alive before my eyes in that quiet hall of the Louvre.

As I stood before the world-renowned Louvre Museum, gazing at Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci, I found myself drawn not merely to the painting, but to the mystery of her smile—subtle, elusive, and impossibly pure.

It was then that a line from the witty Odia poet Jadumani Mohapatra surfaced gently in my mind:

“Chandi nishi dhaba dhabale mishichi adhavala jyoti kuranga
Kshira sagara udara adarichi naba mudira jyoti sanga
Bishuddha hase ramara
Nilimaara nahi sanchara
Emanta kirti jara shuddha kara ehi kala bichara.”

(A tint of blue, a trace of blemish, haunts all that exists—
the moon carries its stain; upon Shiva’s stainless form lingers the azure of his throat; and in the Ocean of Milk, Vishnu shines in a cloud-hued grace.
Yet, in the smile of a beauteous maiden, no shadow ever falls—
it remains the purest radiance of all.
Only those whose hearts mirror such unsullied purity
are truly worthy to partake of this poem.)

The essence of these lines struck me with renewed clarity in that moment. The poet reflects on how, in this world, even the most luminous and sacred entities bear a trace of imperfection—
the moon carries its blemish.

In that quiet gallery in Paris, an Odia poet’s verse and a Renaissance masterpiece met—across centuries—and spoke the same silent truth.

Paris seemed to carry its beauty with a quiet, unmistakable pride. The graceful flow of the Seine River, the wide and elegant boulevards, the triumphal monuments raised in memory of Napoleon Bonaparte, and the countless churches—along with the place where Napoleon himself lies buried—all stood as living testimony to the city’s grandeur.

One day, we found ourselves standing by the roadside, not far from the magnificent Notre-Dame Cathedral. As we lingered there, a few American women tourists approached us. They seemed a little lost and asked, in English, where Notre-Dame was. We simply raised our hands and pointed—it was right there, almost within sight.

They thanked us warmly, but then, with a hint of amusement and mild irritation, remarked that the French were rather peculiar. “We ask them in English,” they said, “but no one answers.” English, they insisted, was the most important language in the world—surely the French must know it. Yet, perhaps out of pride, they pretended otherwise, choosing silence over response. Still, in hotels, we noticed, the staff spoke English quite comfortably—practicality, it seemed, softened pride.

Three days later, my journey carried me to Zurich in Switzerland. The country’s two principal cities, Zurich and Geneva, each held their own significance. Geneva, in particular, stood as an international hub, housing several offices of the United Nations and serving as the headquarters of the International Labour Organization. Every year, representatives—labour ministers and worker delegates—from across the world gathered there for its annual conference.

Zurich, however, captivated in a different way. Adorned with serene lakes and set against a tranquil landscape, it was a city of quiet beauty. Its streets were lined with shops displaying exquisite timepieces—especially wristwatches—for which Switzerland is renowned. The country’s reputation also extended to its health resorts, places of rest and recovery nestled in pristine surroundings. Remarkably, during both the World Wars, Switzerland had declared itself neutral, and the storms of war had left it largely untouched.

I stayed in Zurich for just a day before setting out again—this time toward Rome.

Rome, the capital of Italy, seemed to breathe history at every step. Its past stretched deep into antiquity. There was a time when the Roman Empire stood as one of the greatest powers the world had known, extending from Britain across the Mediterranean to the edges of West Asia.

Rome is counted among the most ancient cities on earth. It is said to have been founded in 753 BCE, and with its origins comes a legend—one both strange and enduring. Two twin brothers, Romulus and Remus, were, according to lore, nurtured by a she-wolf who fed them with her own milk. In time, a quarrel arose between the brothers, and Romulus killed Remus. The city he founded thereafter came to bear his name—Rome.

The history of Rome unfolded in many forms: it began as a monarchy, transformed into a republic, later came under the rule of the Popes, returned again to monarchy, and eventually became a republic once more. Its story, like the city itself, is layered, dramatic, and endlessly fascinating.

From the first century, Christianity found its way into Rome. Saint Peter, one of the foremost disciples of Jesus Christ, is regarded as among the earliest preachers of the faith, and tradition holds that he too was martyred. After him, through the passage of centuries, a succession of Popes carried forward the leadership of the Roman Catholic Church.

Within Rome itself lies a distinct and remarkable entity—the Vatican City. It is the residence of the Pope and the spiritual centre of Roman Catholicism. Though enclosed within Rome, it stands as an independent state, and like Switzerland, it maintained neutrality during both World Wars. During my visit to Rome, I made it a point to see this sacred enclave.

The most imposing structure there was St. Peter’s Basilica—a vast and awe-inspiring church that seemed to embody centuries of faith and devotion. Equally captivating was the Sistine Chapel, whose ceiling is adorned with masterpieces by the great artist Michelangelo. Standing beneath those paintings, I felt a quiet sense of wonder, as though art and divinity had merged into one.

In the history of the world, two names stand out as champions of freedom and republican ideals—Giuseppe Mazzini and Giuseppe Garibaldi. They were inspirations not only for Italy but also for many Indian freedom fighters. Though the republic they envisioned did not endure for long, their efforts eventually led to the end of papal rule and the unification of Italy under a monarchy, which lasted until 1922. Thereafter came the era of Benito Mussolini and fascist rule; and after the Second World War, Italy finally emerged as a republic—a system that continues to this day.

Rome is also famed for its fountains—countless works of art in flowing water, built over nearly two thousand years. Wherever one walks in the city, one encounters these graceful structures. The city is equally rich in historical monuments: the ancient Colosseum, the timeless Pantheon, the broad Spanish Steps, and the many sculptures and paintings associated with masters like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. The Vatican Museums, too, draw countless visitors from across the world.

Rome has long been called the “Eternal City”—a name that feels less like a title and more like a quiet acknowledgment of time itself. Through cycles of rise and fall, glory and ruin, the city has endured, carrying its past within its present. In that sense, I could not help but think of Varanasi—or Kashi in India—another ancient soul that has survived the ages with an unbroken continuity.

In its earliest days, Rome was ruled by a succession of seven kings, one after another. Then came the birth of the Republic, and governance passed into the hands of a Senate—an institution whose echo we still hear in modern democracies. The very word “Senate” travelled across time and continents, finding place in systems like that of the United States Congress, composed of the Senate and the House of Representatives, as well as in the parliamentary traditions of United Kingdom and India, with their respective upper and lower houses.

In Rome, however, the Senate was once the singular centre of authority, and from its ranks emerged powerful dictators—figures entrusted with absolute authority in times of crisis. Among them, Julius Caesar stands preeminent. His life and death were immortalized by William Shakespeare in the play Julius Caesar, and later revisited by George Bernard Shaw in Caesar and Cleopatra.

The Roman Republic itself took shape around 510 BCE. Interestingly, around the time of Gautama Buddha, India too had republican states—Vaishali being one of the most notable, governed by the Licchavis.

Then, in 27 BCE, power took another decisive turn. Augustus—also known as Octavian—rose to authority through the Senate and declared Rome an empire. Under him, the vast dominion of Rome expanded and, in time, came to be divided into the Eastern and Western Roman Empires. The eastern capital, Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul), would go on to become one of the great cities of history in its own right.

During the reign of Augustus, the Roman Empire reached extraordinary heights, stretching across much of Western Europe. He was not merely a ruler but a patron of culture—supporting art, sculpture, and music. His court was adorned by great minds, among them the poet Virgil, whose Latin works continue to be celebrated.

Latin itself, like Sanskrit in India, is an ancient and foundational language. From it have flowed many modern tongues—English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and others—each carrying faint echoes of that old Roman voice.

Before arriving in Rome, I had heard a caution—one must be careful, or one might easily be deceived. I had my own small lesson in this.

One afternoon, I stepped into a restaurant and ordered a thick vegetable soup. It was hearty and satisfying. Like in Paris, many restaurants in Rome spill out onto the streets, with tables and chairs arranged outside. I sat there, quietly enjoying my meal, when an Indian lady approached. She was from Bombay—a Parsi—and, noticing me, paused as if recognizing a familiar presence in a foreign land.

Watching me eat, she remarked gently, “You may be overcharged.”

And indeed, I was. The restaurant billed me five pounds for the soup—an amount far beyond its worth in those days, when even one or one-and-a-half pounds would have been reasonable. It was a small deception, yet it stayed with me.

Later that evening, in another restaurant, I encountered something entirely different. The owner, upon learning that I was from India, asked with a certain warmth, “You come from the land of Mahatma Gandhi?”

He spoke of Gandhi with deep reverence. “When my father died, I did not cry,” he said, “but when Gandhi died, I wept.”

I was struck by the contrast—here, in a distant Roman eatery, stood a man whose life had never touched India, yet whose heart had been moved by Gandhi. It reminded me how far the influence of a great soul can travel—beyond borders, beyond language, into the quiet corners of human feeling. When Gandhi passed, it seemed, the world itself had paused in grief.

Rome, in its own way, continues to remain connected to the wider world. It serves as the headquarters of the Food and Agriculture Organization, just as Geneva houses the International Labour Organization, and Paris hosts institutions like UNICEF. In these cities, history and modern purpose seem to meet—quietly shaping the world, even today.

I stayed in Rome for three days, and each day I walked nearly twenty to twenty-five kilometres, exploring these places on foot. I did not use any vehicle, for I have always believed that a city reveals itself best to those who walk through it.

A curious incident from those days often returns to my mind. When I was a Member of Parliament, Jagjivan Ram was serving as the Union Minister for Food and Agriculture. He had travelled to Rome to attend an international conference related to his department.

After his return, the matter came up in Parliament. From the benches of the Utkal Congress, Surendra Mohanty, the Lok Sabha member from Kendrapara, raised a calling-attention motion and began criticising the visit. Jagjivan Babu, with a touch of wit, replied, “I am not quite sure whether the honourable member is speaking about Rome or rum.”

The remark drew laughter, for Surendra Babu—celebrated writer though he was—was also widely known for his fondness for drink. During the Kendrapara elections, a popular slogan had even circulated: “Surendra, Surendra in Kendrapara—one a socialist, one for hire.”

In the 1971 Lok Sabha elections, the contest in Kendrapara had been particularly close. Surendra Nath Dwivedy of the Praja Socialist Party and Surendra Mohanty of the Utkal Congress stood against each other. In the end, Mohanty won—by the narrowest of margins, a single vote. Such was the drama of democracy.

From Rome, my journey next took me to Cairo, then the capital of the United Arab Republic (Egypt). At that time, the country was led by Gamal Abdel Nasser—a towering figure in the Arab world, regarded by many as a liberator and a voice of dignity for his people.

Nasser was also a close friend of Jawaharlal Nehru. Along with Josip Broz Tito, the three of them stood at the forefront of the Non-Aligned Movement, guiding newly independent nations through the uncertain currents of the Cold War.

What struck me most about Nasser was not merely his stature, but his simplicity. Despite being President, he lived in a modest two-storeyed house, leading the life of an ordinary, disciplined, and devout man.

I had long been drawn to Cairo—not only because of Nasser and his revolution, but also because of the ancient pyramids. As fate would have it, the day before my visit, the anniversary of the Egyptian Revolution was being celebrated—a reminder of the country’s transition from monarchy to republic.

I stayed in Cairo for two days, determined to see the pyramids. When I asked the hotel manager how best to get there, he arranged a guide for me, advising that we settle the charges beforehand. A camel was hired, and I set out—riding across the sands—toward one of the world’s most enduring wonders.

Soon, I stood before the Giza Pyramid Complex—those immense triangular structures rising out of the desert like frozen time itself. Among them, the Great Pyramid of Giza remains the most renowned, a monument not just of architecture but of human ambition.

Egypt’s history stretches back into a past so distant that it almost feels mythical—thousands upon thousands of years before Christ. The Pharaohs, anticipating death, built these pyramids as their tombs. Within them, their bodies were preserved with remarkable care—wrapped in layers of cloth and treated with substances that allowed them to endure across millennia.

Many such tombs have since been excavated, revealing mummified remains still intact, silent witnesses to a vanished age. Yet, alongside history, there lingers legend: it is said that those who disturb these resting places invite misfortune—even untimely death. And, strangely enough, there have been occasions when such stories seemed to find unsettling echoes in reality.

Standing there, before those ancient stones, I felt both awe and unease—as if I had stepped, briefly, into the deep and watchful memory of civilization itself.

Returning from the pyramids of Giza, I stood by the window of my hotel and let my eyes rest upon the quiet, flowing beauty of the Nile. It struck me then how often the English, in their time, had altered the names of cities and rivers across the world. The Nile, for instance, they had called “Nile”, while its truer name, as my guide gently corrected me, was simply Neel—the blue river.

When I mentioned the “Nile,” my guide smiled and asked why I used that word at all. “That is an English distortion,” he said. “Its real name is Neel.” And indeed, as I looked at its waters, they seemed clear and faintly blue—much like the Ganga appears in Varanasi during the autumn months. Even the Ganga, he reminded me, had been turned into “Ganges” by the English.

The thought stayed with me. Names like Munger becoming “Monghyr,” Cuttack remaining “Cuttack,” Bhubaneswar once pronounced differently, Calcutta instead of Kolkata, Bombay instead of Mumbai—these were all echoes of a time when language itself had been reshaped by foreign tongues. Some places, like Kolkata and Mumbai, had since reclaimed their original identity, though others still lingered in their altered forms.

My guide frequently used a word—sabr—urging patience, asking me to wait. It was an Arabic word, one that had found its way into Urdu as well. There is a saying built around it: “Sabr ka phal meetha hota hai”—the fruit of patience is always sweet. In that distant land, the familiarity of such words felt strangely comforting.

My stay in Egypt lasted only two days, but within that short time, I visited another remarkable place—the old museum of Cairo. There, the grandeur of ancient Egyptian civilization unfolded before my eyes. Golden statues of the Pharaohs, intricate ornaments, and objects of daily use—all fashioned in gold—spoke of a culture both opulent and enduring.

Among the other notable places were the grand mosque of Muhammad Ali, with its vast domes and imposing structure, and Al-Azhar University, one of the greatest centres of Islamic learning in the world. It was here, I was told, that Maulana Abul Kalam Azad had once studied.

At one point, my guide led me through a narrow lane, famous for Egyptian attar—perfumed oils known for their rich fragrance. “One must buy some attar when visiting Cairo,” he insisted. I obliged, though it seemed to me that, like many guides, he was not entirely free from a touch of commerce.

Two days later, I left Cairo and returned to India via Mumbai, carrying with me memories of an ancient land where history seemed to breathe through every stone and street.

The following year, another journey beckoned. An invitation arrived from the Ford Foundation, under the auspices of the United States government—a two-month visit to America.

About the Book:

From the Translator’s Note

An Unfinished Memoir (Asamapta Atmalipi) by Janaki Ballav Patnaik is more than the recollections of a public figure. It is also a record of the political, social and cultural changes that shaped Odisha and, in many ways, modern India. The memoir takes us through different stages of his life—from childhood and education to journalism, public life and politics. Along the way, we meet the people who influenced him and encounter events that left their mark on the Odisha of his time. The book is valuable not only for its account of public events but also for its glimpses of everyday life. Patnaik writes about teachers, friends, colleagues, political associates and ordinary people, often beginning with a small personal memory and moving towards a larger reflection. This movement between the personal and the public gives the memoir much of its character.

My primary aim in translating the memoir from Odia into English has been to remain faithful to the original while preserving the author’s voice. A translation should convey

more than the literal meaning of words. It should also carry the tone, mood and character of the original. I have therefore tried to retain the simple and reflective quality of Patnaik’s writing, particularly in passages dealing with people, places and memories from his younger years.

Translating a work rooted in Odisha’s language and culture presents its own challenges. Many Odia expressions, idioms and references do not have exact equivalents in English. This is especially true of words associated with local customs, festivals, social practices and everyday life. Where a literal translation seemed inadequate, I have tried to convey the sense and spirit of the original. Certain words, names and cultural references have been retained because translating them would have diminished their flavour or meaning.

I have also tried to preserve the historical character of the memoir. Some political terms, institutional references and descriptions belong to an earlier period of Indian public life. Rather than unnecessarily modernising the language, I have sought to make these passages clear while retaining their original context.

The title Asamapta Atmalipi itself is significant. It suggests a record of the self that remains unfinished. The memoir was left incomplete, and that incompleteness is part of its character. It does not present a neatly concluded life story. Instead, it offers fragments of a long journey—memories, encounters, experiences and reflections that together provide a picture of both the man and his times.

For readers familiar with Janaki Ballav Patnaik, the memoir may bring back memories of an important period in Odisha’s public life. For younger readers, it offers an opportunity to see that period through the eyes of someone who lived through and participated in many of its developments. For readers outside Odisha, it provides an introduction to a political and cultural world that deserves wider attention. No translation can reproduce every shade of another language. There will always be expressions, associations and rhythms that resist being carried across. My effort has simply been to build a bridge between the Odia original and the English reader, without coming between the author and his readers. I hope this translation will allow a wider readership to discover Janaki Ballav Patnaik not only as a political leader, but also as a journalist, observer, traveller and chronicler of his times—and to encounter, through his unfinished memoir, a part of Odisha’s own journey.

About the Author

Janaki Ballav Patnaik (1927-2015) lived in many worlds at once—politics, literature, journalism, and public life. For more than five decades, he remained close to some of the defining events and personalities of post-Independence Odisha, while pursuing a parallel life of books, ideas, and language. ‘An Unfinished Memoir’ is an attempt to look back on that journey. From his childhood and student years to his early political awakening and long career in public life, the memoir brings together people, places and encounters that shaped him.

Unlike a conventional autobiography, this is a personal narrative—insightful, candid and observant of the world around him. It offers glimpses of the making of a public figure while revealing the writer, scholar and observer behind the politician. It is at once a record of a remarkable life and a window into an important period in the history of Odisha and India.

Part memoir, part history and part reflection, the memoir is a cherished account of a life lived in public.

About the Translator

Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author based in Bhubaneswar, with a professional career spanning over three decades. He writes in both English and Odia on politics, society, people, and culture. His work reflects sustained engagement with Odisha’s heritage and its contemporary transformations. An incisive observer of public life, he has authored nine books. Through his journalism and writing, he continues to chronicle the evolving story of Odisha and its place within a rapidly changing India.

[1] Democracy

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The Brown Hand by Arthur Conan Doyle

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Title: The Raj in Ghostly Light

Editor: B.C. Dutt

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

I was awakened by some sound in the room, and I instantly raised myself upon my elbow on the couch. Some hours had passed, for the square patch upon the wall had slid downwards and sideways until it lay obliquely at the end of my bed. The rest of the room was in deep shadow. At first I could see nothing, presently, as my eyes became accustomed to the faint light, I was aware, with a thrill which all my scientific absorption could not entirely prevent, that something was moving slowly along the line of the wall. A gentle, shuffling sound, as of soft slippers, came to my ears, and I dimly discerned a human figure walking stealthily from the direction of the door. As it emerged into the patch of moonlight I saw very clearly what it was and how it was employed. It was a man, short and squat, dressed in some sort of dark-grey gown, which hung straight from his shoulders to his feet. The moon shone upon the side of his face, and I saw that it was chocolate-brown in colour, with a ball of black hair like a woman’s at the back of his head. He walked slowly, and his eyes were cast upwards towards the line of bottles which contained those gruesome remnants of humanity. He seemed to examine each jar with attention, and then to pass on to the next. When he had come to the end of the line, immediately opposite my bed, he stopped, faced me, threw up his hands with a gesture of despair, and vanished from my sight.

I have said that he threw up his hands, but I should have said his arms, for as he assumed that attitude of despair I observed a singular peculiarity about his appearance. He had only one hand! As the sleeves drooped down from the upflung arms I saw the left plainly, but the right ended in a knobby and unsightly stump. In every other way his appearance was so natural, and I had both seen and heard him so clearly, that I could easily have believed that he was an Indian servant of Sir Dominick’s who had come into my room in search of something. It was only his sudden disappearance which suggested anything more sinister to me. As it was I sprang from my couch, lit a candle, and examined the whole room carefully. There were no signs of my visitor, and I was forced to conclude that there had really been something outside the normal laws of Nature in his appearance. I lay awake for the remainder of the night, but nothing else occurred to disturb me.

I am an early riser, but my uncle was an even earlier one, for I found him pacing up and down the lawn at the side of the house.

He ran towards me in his eagerness when he saw me come out from the door.

‘Well, well!’ he cried. ‘Did you see him?’ ‘An Indian with one hand?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Yes, I saw him’–and I told him all that occurred. When I had finished, he led the way into his study.

‘We have a little time before breakfast,’ said he. ‘It will suffice to give you an explanation of this extraordinary affair—so far as I can explain that which is essentially inexplicable. In the first place, when I tell you that for four years I have never passed one single night, either in Bombay, aboard ship, or here in England without my sleep being broken by this fellow, you will understand why it is that I am a wreck of my former self. His programme is always the same. He appears by my bedside, shakes me roughly by the shoulder, passes from my room into the laboratory, walks slowly along the line of my bottles, and then vanishes. For more than a thousand times he has gone through the same routine.’

‘What does he want?’ ‘He wants his hand.’ ‘His hand?’

‘Yes, it came about in this way. I was summoned to Peshawur for a consultation some ten years ago, and while there I was asked to look at the hand of a native who was passing through with an Afghan caravan. The fellow came from some mountain tribe living away at the back of beyond somewhere on the other side of Kaffiristan. He talked a bastard Pushtoo, and it was all I could do to understand him. He was suffering from a soft sarcomatous swelling of one of the metacarpal joints, and I made him realise that it was only by losing his hand that he could hope to save his life. After much persuasion he consented to the operation, and he asked me, when it was over, what fee I demanded. The poor fellow was almost a beggar, so that the idea of a fee was absurd, but I answered in jest that my fee should be his hand, and that I proposed to add it to my pathological collection.

‘To my surprise he demurred very much to the suggestion, and he explained that according to his religion it was an all-important matter that the body should be reunited after death, and so make a perfect dwelling for the spirit. The belief is, of course, an old one, and the mummies of the Egyptians arose from an analogous superstition. I answered him that his hand was already off, and asked him how he intended to preserve it. He replied that he would pickle it in salt and carry it about with him. I suggested that it might be safer in my keeping than his, and that I had better means than salt for preserving it. On realising that I really intended to carefully keep it, his opposition vanished instantly. ’But remember, sahib,’ said he, ’I shall want it back when I am dead.’ I laughed at the remark, and so the matter ended.

(Extracted from The Raj in Ghostly Light, edited by B.C. Dutt. Published by Speaking Tiger Books.)

About the Book

When empire settles in for the night, the ghosts begin to speak.

In the bungalows, dâk houses, hill stations, jungle roads and cantonments of British India, the dark carries footsteps in empty rooms, voices from the next chamber, omens of death, cursed objects, restless animals, buried crimes and memories that refuse to stay buried.

The Raj in Ghostly Light gathers classic supernatural stories from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, by writers including Rudyard Kipling, Alice Perrin, B.M. Croker, Flora Annie Steel, Arthur Conan Doyle, S. Mukerji and others. These are tales of hauntings, madness, fever, guilt and dread—and of the anxieties beneath imperial confidence.

Atmospheric, unsettling and richly evocative, this collection opens a door into the shadowed rooms of the Raj, where every verandah has a whisper and the past is never quite past.

About the Editor

B.C. Dutt is the pseudonym of an archivally inclined reader with a day job far from old books, empire or the supernatural. In the early mornings and late evenings, Dutt reads forgotten periodicals, memoirs, travelogues, public-domain fiction and other odd survivals from the long nineteenth century.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags Alice Perrin, Arthur Conan Doyle, B.C.Dutt, B.M. Croker, British, Flora Annie Steel, India, Raj, Rudyard Kipling, S. Mukerji, Speaking Tiger Books, The Raj in Ghostly Light

Excerpt

Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date September 15, 2026
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Title: Her Hajj Story: Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam

Author: Teresa Rehman

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Trudging along the long, crammed alley, lit up by the radiant shops, I searched hard for Hajj memoirs written by women. The shopkeepers looked on vaguely, and were bewildered when I asked them for one. One of them told me that he had had copies of one such memoir but it was sold out now. I was dismayed; would there be second editions of such books, I wondered. And if so, who could these women who wrote them be? A shopkeeper, dressed in a fancy t-shirt and a crochet skull cap, tried to cheer me up. ‘We have a couple of books on Hajj written by men in case you are interested,’ he said ebulliently. I dismissed him with a smirk.

Having been unsuccessful in my first attempt, I changed my tactic. Instead of shops and publishers, I began raiding homes in the lanes of the old Muslim localities. I scavenged through forgotten trunks, dull, dreary cupboards, secret nooks and crannies. Some memoirs were lost forever, some unexpectedly tumbled out of curio collections of a few punctilious family members, who refused to junk old stuff. Sons and daughters revisited their mother’s memory through her Hajj memoir. For some, it was a matter of pride that somebody in their family had written a book, while some had hazy memories of a ragged lost book that they couldn’t seem to trace anywhere.

Begging, borrowing, (almost stealing), I managed to retrieve an exhaustive collection of women-written Hajj memoirs, some dating back to the time when flights were not available and one had to undertake the arduous journey by ship from Mumbai. Most houses only had a single copy, and the families begrudgingly gave me a photostat copy instead.

It is a unique tradition among Muslim women, especially in Assam and Meghalaya (then Assam) to write a memoir about their Hajj experience. Written mostly in their native language (Assamese; one was in Bangla) these memoirs were meant mostly for private circulation among family and friends. Most of these women painstakingly wrote in longhand, got it typeset manually and then sent to the printing presses. These were popularly dubbed as Hajj yatras or Hajj kathas, and instead of being dull notes, they were a series of insightful stories of a rather regimented travel through a strange and breathtaking land.

It was not that every memoir I came across was a literary masterpiece. While some were undoubtedly remarkably well-crafted, others read more like collections of rambling thoughts. The educational credentials of these women also ranged from middle school to a doctorate. Yet, whatever their background, these women were articulate enough to reflect on their experiences, gather their thoughts, and celebrate a collective human experience. For some, the pilgrimage had been life-changing, and they focused solely on the spiritual aspect of Hajj. Others explored and observed the people and places with a more touristy eye. Together, these memoirs add to the richness and diversity of literature written by women.

A prospective pilgrim, therefore, found these Hajj memoirs accessible, and an uncomplicated and easy-to-understand handbook, especially since they were written in their mother tongue. They also became spaces for women to speak their minds and challenge societal taboos, such as discussing menstruation during Hajj. Furthermore, the authors were able to carve out a sisterhood—an emotional connection and a supportive circle among family members, distant relatives, acquaintances and friends. Meant mostly for private circulation, the memoirs created a space within the spheres of domesticity and familiarity, without attracting public glare or media attention. For many families, they were a part of their heirloom.

The contents of these memoirs ranged across a variety of real-life concerns, practical advice, reflections and emotions. They were also a way for women to reclaim agency in storytelling and expand our understanding of the human experience. Their narratives were never entirely spiritual—at one had they spoke boldly of their anxiety about the Hajj rituals and whether they would be able to perform them correctly, on the other, there were more worldly and practical discussions about the unbearable desert heat, the fear of losing oneself or a dear one in the overwhelming crowd, menstruation, the lack of adequate toilets, luggage, food, sanitation, and hygiene. They also talked about souvenirs and memories they had carried back with them. Some of these books even had an ISBN number and a sprinkling of Arabic, Urdu and Persian words here and there, which is part of the daily usage of the community.

It is often seen that religious narratives are appropriated by men. Throughout history, male dominance has shaped religious institutions and social mores. Men often appropriate religious narratives by acting as the principal interpreters and gatekeepers of doctrine. However, women’s voices come through in these memoirs when they talk about taboo topics like purity and impurity during menstruation, while on the sacred journey. A woman is made to realise that she is physically not pure enough while she is menstruating. Lack of reprieve from certain perceived duties and existing rituals put the onus of shame on the woman. The memoirs become complete because they talk freely about these taboo topics as they were meant for private circulation among their female relatives. They were uninhibited about their experiences as they had an audience in mind. Instinctively, maybe they did not expect men to read them or use them as guidebooks.

(Extracted from Her Hajj Story: Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam by Teresa Rehman. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2026.)

ABOUT THE BOOK

What does Hajj look like through the eyes of women?

In Her Hajj Story, award-winning journalist Teresa Rehman uncovers a remarkable yet forgotten tradition of Hajj memoirs written by women from Assam. A widow completes the pilgrimage after her husband dies and is buried in Medina. A single woman struggles to find a mehram, a suitable male family member as companion, before setting out. A poet stands on the deck of a ship, mesmerised by the moonlit Red Sea. A botanist searches for the deeper fragrance of faith beyond ritual. A social worker carries the prayers of an old-age home to the holy cities. Through eleven compelling narratives— translated from Assamese and Bengali, and interwoven with historical insight—these voices reveal journeys of faith, endurance, grief, wonder, and transformation.

Rich in cultural detail and deeply human, these forgotten memoirs emerge as far more than accounts of pilgrimage. They reveal an extraordinary literary tradition in which ordinary women became chroniclers of history, preserving family memories, practical wisdom and deeply personal encounters with the sacred. Blending travel writing, oral history, ethnography and literary recovery, Her Hajj Story is both a celebration of an overlooked tradition of Muslim women’s writing from Northeast India and a moving testament to faith, resilience and the enduring power of women’s voices.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Teresa Rehman is an award-winning journalist based in Northeast India. For years, she has brought the region’s diversity and distinct ethos to mainstream media through her work with India Today, The Telegraph, and Tehelka, before founding and editing Thumbprint Northeast Magazine. Her books include The Mothers of Manipur (Zubaan Books) and Bulletproof (Penguin Random House India).

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Excerpt

When the Road Becomes the Teacher

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date September 15, 2026
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Title: When the Road Becomes the Teacher

Author: Shubha Apte

Chapter 4

THE FIRST FLIGHT — LESSONS FROM SINGAPORE

“A journey is not so much a place, but a new way of seeing.” — Pico Iyer

Travel has always been my passion. From childhood, the love for exploring new places was instilled in me by my parents. They believed travel was not just recreation, but education.

Every school vacation, my father would plan a month-long trip, taking us across cities, temples, forests, and historic landmarks.

By the time I stepped into adulthood, the entire stretch of Gujarat and Saurashtra was familiar terrain — Dwarka, Porbandar, Jamnagar, Ahmedabad, Baroda, Surat, Rajkot.

We traveled across the country too, exploring Calcutta in the east and venturing north to Kashmir, Amritsar, Agra, Delhi and Jaipur, Jodhpur and Jaisalmer in the Northwestern part.

Along the way, each place offered its own unforgettable charm — the serenity of the Golden Temple, the fragrant rose gardens of Jodhpur, the majestic palaces of Jaipur, the golden deserts of Jaisalmer, and the shimmering beauty of Dal Lake in Srinagar.

Each journey painted my childhood with stories, sights, and memories that would stay with me forever.

Perhaps that is why, when I was finally given the opportunity to travel abroad on a business trip to Singapore, my excitement was indescribable.

But beneath that excitement was a quiet nervousness — it was my first international trip, a solo journey, and I had to navigate visas, documentation, and the unfamiliarity of foreign travel.

I still remember the night before my flight — the quiet hum of anticipation, the open suitcase neatly arranged with formal wear and presentation notes, and the flutter in my heart that felt both brave and uncertain. This wasn’t just another professional assignment — it felt like a rite of passage.

Singapore was my first glimpse of a world beyond India — an island nation I had only encountered in business magazines and travel columns.

As the aircraft lifted off the runway, I felt something shift inside me. Beneath the official purpose of the trip lay something more personal: the realization that I was crossing a threshold that would reshape the way I saw work, people, and myself.

The first few days were busy with meetings and deliverables, yet my Singapore-based colleagues made sure I didn’t miss the beauty of their city.

Over weekends, they took me to Gardens by the Bay, Sentosa Island, Universal Studios, Little India, and shopping districts filled with light and energy. Their warmth made the newness less intimidating.

I experienced my first metro journey abroad — taking the MRT from Ang Mo Kio to Raffles Place — and was amazed at the punctuality, efficiency, and discipline that seemed to pulse through the city’s transport system.

Gardens by the Bay left me mesmerized; Sentosa offered calm and peace, while Universal Studios was a burst of color, joy, and laughter.

Singapore’s friendliness, cleanliness, and multicultural harmony made a deep impression on me.

It was a place where professionalism coexisted effortlessly with warmth, where discipline didn’t suppress diversity but strengthened it.

When I returned home, friends and colleagues asked about the presentations, the meetings, and the outcomes.

But what stayed with me long after the trip was not just the work accomplished — it was the inner shift.

Singapore taught me that stepping outside our comfort zone widens our world in ways we never expect.

That first flight did more than carry me across countries — it carried me into a broader way of thinking, observing, and belonging.

It showed me that growth often begins at the edge of comfort, and that the world is much larger and more welcoming than our fears allow us to believe.

“Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” — Miriam Beard

What Singapore Taught Me

Every first step into the unknown teaches us something essential about ourselves.

Singapore showed me that courage doesn’t always roar; often, it’s the quiet decision to board a plane alone and trust that you will find your way.

In every MRT ride, every unfamiliar street, and every new conversation, I discovered the subtle power of openness — the willingness to learn, adapt, and embrace difference.

When we travel with curiosity instead of fear, the world responds with generosity.

And sometimes, one journey becomes the beginning of a much larger unfolding — a reminder that confidence grows one step, one city, and one experience at a time.

Reflection: The First Flight Within

We often believe that courage lies in grand actions — but sometimes, it lies in handing your passport to an immigration officer with shaky hands.

My first flight taught me that courage is a journey too.

That every time we step out into the unknown, we return home a little braver.

A little wiser.

A little more ourselves.

About the Book:

When the Road Becomes the Teacher: A Reflective Memoir of Wisdom Gained Around the World is a memoir about how travel can transform the way we see the world and ourselves. Drawing on four decades of journeys across India and beyond, Shubha Apte reflects on the experiences, encounters, cultures, and unexpected moments that shaped her understanding of resilience, confidence, leadership, cultural intelligence, and personal growth.
From her first international business trip to Singapore to later journeys across Japan, Norway, Malaysia, Europe, and the United States, each destination became more than a place to visit—it became an opportunity to learn.
Part travel memoir and part reflection on personal transformation, the book invites readers to look beyond destinations and discover the lessons that every journey can offer.

About the Author:

Shubha Apte is an author, executive coach, and leadership consultant with over 35 years of corporate experience. She is the author of multiple books including the Amazon Bestseller, When the Road Becomes the Teacher. Her writing blends real-life insight with storytelling, exploring themes of resilience, purpose and human connections.

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Excerpt

The Biscuit Thief by Rhys Hughes

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date August 21, 2026
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Title: The Biscuit Thief

Author: Rhys Hughes

Publisher: Telos Publishing

The bicycle was a new machine but it had been modelled on the penny farthings of old. It had a big front wheel and a small rear wheel and Burt felt very high up on the narrow saddle. It wasn’t exactly like a penny farthing. The disparity in the size of wheels was smaller, and it had brakes and a chain and gears, and it even had a bell that often worked.

But the real gimmick was the appearance of the wheels. Both of them had been manufactured to resemble massive biscuits. And not just any old biscuits, but the biscuits sold by the firm he worked for. A large round shortbread and a small, at least in comparison, round shortbread.

Burt pedalled hard. The bicycle moved.

The point of the exercise was for him to cycle around the town, attracting the attention of anyone who happened to be on the streets. It was a marketing ploy, not a very good one really.

Burt turned a corner, skidding as he did so.

He almost lost his balance.

He regained it with difficulty and gasped.

A child appeared from nowhere. He wore a flat cap and braces held up his trousers. He was an urchin.

“Hey, mister. Give us a go on your bike.”

“Go away,” said Burt.

He pedalled even harder. He desperately wanted to get away from the child. He despised young people. He turned another corner and saw a snowball fight ahead. It was in furious progress. Kids of all ages were hurling orbs of slushy snow and ice at each other, causing as much damage as they could. Burt had no inclination to run that particular gauntlet.

He remembered how he had been himself when he was a child. A little menace. He knew what children were capable of. Adults might have power, but children were no less vicious. He wouldn’t be surprised if the snowballs had been squeezed into hard ice. And he made a very tempting target, especially with the solid wheels that resembled biscuits. He could hardly blame them for aiming at him.

He turned down a narrow lane and came out on the canal path. The waters of the canal, normally stagnant, had iced over, but the ice was thin. The snow on the path was hard and treacherous, but he had no option. Better to venture down this route than expose himself to the snowball battle.

He slowed down, began to wobble, speeded up again. Just below the ice, the canal looked like a trench full of stewed tea. It was filthy. There were no barges. The canal hadn’t been in use for half a century. It was full of scrap metal, shopping trolleys, bedsteads, prams and corroded industrial springs.

It was inevitable that Burt would skid on a patch of black ice, lose control, veer off the path and plunge into the frozen canal, while squeezing his brakes and shouting mild obscenities.

He landed on the ice, which broke, and the bicycle sank beneath him while he struggled to swim towards the bank. And as he floundered, a rogue snowball from nowhere hit him in the face.

He managed to reach the bank, using the sign as a paddle, and when he pulled himself onto dry land, he found a triumphant child beaming down at him. The child had a second snowball ready and hurled it at Burt. It connected with his forehead and the child skipped away.

Burt turned sadly to gaze at the canal. There was no evidence remaining of the bicycle and he wondered what punishment his manager at the office would decree for him when the loss was reported.

He walked home, drenched and chattering.

Maybe he could retrieve the bicycle before anyone noticed it was missing? But thinking about the effort involved depressed him. It was better to admit the truth and allow himself to be berated.

He dried himself in his bathroom with a towel, changed into clean and dry clothes, and returned to the office.

“What’s this? Back already?” said Victor.

“I’m afraid so, yes. Had a little accident. I skidded into the canal and the bicycle sank.”

Victor shook his heavy head.

“What on earth were you doing by the canal?”

“I was taking a shortcut,” said Burt. He felt extremely dejected. He tried to rally himself. He said, “One thing I noticed as I fell into the canal. The water is the colour of tea and the wheels of the bike look like biscuits.” He waited for this observation to sink in. “So it was a regular dunking!” he announced.

Victor spoke in sombre tones.

“You’d better dredge the canal and get it back. Mr Longshanks doesn’t like it when his property goes missing.”

“I know,” said Burt.

Victor was insistent. “He’s getting worse. I think the stress of falling sales is getting to him. I recently heard him threatening to sack the next staff member who lost or broke anything.”

Burt sank into his chair, too tired to rush back out. But he knew that Victor was right. He had to get the bike back and clean it up and return it to the garage. The sooner the better. He waited for ten minutes, then abruptly stood. “I need to return to the canal and get the bike back.”

“How will you manage it?” asked Victor.

“I don’t know,” said Burt.

“Will you jump into the canal and wade through the water? I don’t think that’s a good idea. Why not use a net or a boathook to snag or grab the thing? You can remain dry on the bank.”

“Do we have a net or a boathook here?”

“No,” said Victor.

Burt sighed. He left, trudged the corridors and went down the stairs to the basement, went through the gloomy corridors to the garage, approached Jobber in his booth. The janitor said:

“Anything I can do to help, Mr Reckoning?”

“Fishing rod, Jobber.”

“Yes, I do have one. Haven’t used it for years. Used to go fishing when the canal was clean. It’s bloody poisonous now. Here it is. I don’t think you ought to eat anything you catch, sir.”

“I don’t intend to.”

Leaving him with that mystery, Burt walked up the ramp and made his way to the canal path. On the way he was accosted by a child in a flat cap. Was it the same kid as before? Hard to tell.

“Going fishing, mister?”

Burt growled at him.

He found the spot where he had skidded into the water. This patch was free of ice. He held the rod awkwardly and cast. The hook flew up and snagged on a branch of an overhanging tree. Burt pulled with all his strength. The rod bent. A crack like a rifle shot and the branch came down on him. Blood poured from his nose. His eyes watered. He said:

“My lack of foresight is abominable.”

Then he tried again.

He was lucky and snagged something under the water. He pulled, bending the rod, but the submerged object wouldn’t budge. He leaned back and suddenly the thing shifted in the mud and slime. It came free and poked above the surface of the water. It wasn’t a bicycle.

It was an old rusted pinball machine.

Then the rod snapped. It sounded exactly like the snapping branch, which had sounded like a rifle shot.

He heard giggles behind him. He turned.

A child was watching.

“Are you a terrorist, mister?”

Burt took a grip on himself. He had to be flexible in his approach in order to solve the problem. He took the broken branch and used it as a harpoon. First he tied the fishing line to the broken end, then he hurled it blindly like a spear. There was a gurgle as it pierced the water. He waited a moment and hauled on the thin line, cutting his fingers.

The thin end of the branch had jammed between two gear wheels. A very lucky strike. Burt pulled the bicycle to the side of the canal, then kneeled and lifted it out. He regarded it with dismay. The frame was intact, the chain, gears and bell remained, but the wheels were missing. They were gone. The wheels that resembled biscuits. Stolen!

That was the only answer. A thief had visited the area between the time of his accident and the time of his return. People are despicable! He wouldn’t be able to replace the wheels. They had been specially commissioned. He would have to admit his guilt to Mr Longshanks and take the consequences, even if it meant he would be sacked.

“The bike has lost its biscuits. I have lost my marbles,” said Burt, sighing a sigh deeper than any he had sighed before.

About the Book:

An astonishing novel of wit and warmth mixed with the surreal absurdity of life, told as only Hughes can. — Telos Publishing

From Rhys Hughes “I grew up in the 1970s in Britain. That was my formative decade. THE BISCUIT THIEF is a speculative farce, a comedic fantasy novel set at that time. It satirises the typical British popular culture of the decade. It delights in references to TV shows such as Space 1999, Doctor Who and Reggie Perrin, and it also draws inspiration from Conan comics and dozens of other cultural essentials. The Goodies, Spike Milligan and Monty Python were powerful influences on me.”

About the Author:

Rhys Hughes was born in Wales but has lived in many different countries. He began writing at an early age and his first book, Worming the Harpy, was published in 1995. Since that time he has published more than fifty other books and his work has been translated into twelve languages. He recently completed an ambitious project that involved writing exactly 1000 linked short fictions. He is currently working on a novel and several new collections of prose and verse.

Tags Conan comics, Doctor Who, Goodies, Monty Python, Rhys Hughes, Spike Milligan, Telos Publishing, The Biscuit Thief, Wales

Excerpt

The Forest of Snow

Title: The Forest of Snow

Author: Swami Ramananda Bharati

Translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

There is a shelter called ‘Hoti’ almost half a mile above from here. This place was exactly below Hoti Pass. We stayed at Kalajabar, but several of our companions went and put up at Hoti. It was also called ‘Chor Hoti’ and was 15,000 feet above the sea level.

Today is the 13^th of Asharh and we will have to cross Hoti Pass today. This pass was the confluence of life and death. The road was inaccessible and covered with snow. The highest peak in this pass was 18,300 feet above the sea level. The locals call these high peaks ‘katha’. If wind arose while crossing this katha, it would blow away any rider. If there was a cloud, the rider would be buried in the snow and there would be no sign of the carrier, the ox or the goats. Again, excessive cold would also give rise to tribulation. If the humans or the animals stumbled and fell, there would be no trace of their bodies. This was the condition of the road and if one didn’t walk for nine miles today, there wouldn’t be any place to take a rest. So, everyone woke up at 4 a.m. to start the journey. Our leader Kedar Singh shouted and woke everyone up, ‘Get up, today we will have to cross the katha.’

Everyone got up from their beds and came outside. After finishing the morning rituals, they started preparing for the journey. The jhabbu was prepared for me to climb on. My servants came and told me, ‘Today you will have to wear pajamas and laam.’

In Tibetan, shoes were known as ‘laam’. They were made of fur and looked somewhat like hunting boots. It served both the purpose of shoes and socks. I wore the laam and pajamas and didn’t forget to wear the other woolen clothes… I covered my head and ears with a warm cap. After that I tied the turban very strongly on top of it. In this manner, I wore a strange attire and climbed on the jhabbu’s back. My servant handed me some pepper and palm candy and said, ‘If you feel cold, put these in your mouth.’ I said, ‘Thank you’, and accepted them.

On other days everyone was in a jovial mood when they commenced their journey, and they walked with enthusiasm. Today however, everyone’s face was dry, and their movement wasn’t encouraging at all. In this way all of us started travelling in a single file. The bridle of my jhabbu was in Kharga Singh’s hands, who moved ahead of me. Vishnu Singh moved behind us, beating the jhabbu to keep it in motion. After that, several jhabbus, five or six yaks and four or five horses followed us. Each of these animals had a carrier upon its back. Again, behind them many people followed in a serial manner. Kedar Singh and five or six others moved very slowly ahead of me. This road was so narrow that two people or two animals couldn’t move side by side. No one spoke a word; everyone was cautious about his movement. The sun rose; the wonderful Himalayan scenery was in front of us; but who would watch it? Everyone was too occupied in seeing where they were stepping and chanting holy prayers in their mind.

I was quite all right all this while, but now my hands and feet felt like freezing and my breathing turned very slow. I couldn’t sit any further on the jhabbu’s back, but there wasn’t any other way. There was no place to alight from the jhabbu’s back, when suddenly, the bull stopped its movement. Finding no other option, my servants pulled me down from the animal’s back; I stood there perplexed. What I saw in front of me was awful. The path in front had subsided with snowfall. Seeing that my carrier had stopped in his tracks. After getting rid of my weight, it started climbing the mountain straight up. The other carriers also followed suit. The travellers also moved in that direction.

I could not move and I kept standing there like a zombie. My servants pulled both my arms and said, ‘What are you trying to do? Come on, this place is not suitable for taking a rest. It will be dangerous as the day advances; if clouds assemble or there is a strong wind, none of us will survive.’ They pulled both my arms and ushered me upwards. Just as an antelope climbs up a tree with its front paws, I too kept on walking with the help of my two assistants and managed to climb the mountain. After walking in this manner for about an hour, we came to a comparatively better path. Now, I was able to walk without support from others. After walking for some time, I looked in front and saw a mountain peak and plenty of fog below. We would have to cross this snowy stretch and reach the top of the peak. It would not only be very difficult but dangerous too.

We continued walking in a queue, one person following the other. No one was sitting upon their animals’ backs anymore. The animals were also following us. After walking for a while, we came close to the snow. There was no sign of any path here; all the land had disappeared under blankets of snow and moreover, the place was very slippery. From here we would have to walk in this snow for about a mile until we found signs of the pathway once again.

Kedar Singh said, ‘The jhabbus and the yaks will go before us, and we will follow them. The goats and sheep will come behind us because the jhabbus and the yaks know the way. They would be able to select the safe route. Also, we will step on the footprints left by the jhabbus and the yaks and cross this dangerous place safely.’

That was exactly how things took place. By following the jhabbus and their footprints, we crossed the snow safely and came to the path. Now it wasn’t so fearful anymore. We spoke to each other comfortably and arrived at the top of the mountain at around 11 a.m. This place was 18,300 feet above the sea level. Smiles returned upon everyone’s faces. Overwhelmed with joy, they cheered to their individual gods and said, ‘There is no more fear. We have crossed the katha.’

The natural beauty of this place was unimaginable even by a poet. The high snow-white Himalayan peaks stood like pillars on all four sides; the blue sky spread like a canopy on top of it, as if it had been decorated to offer shelter to the fatigued travellers. One could imagine the wide stones to be seats in the middle of the pavilion; from a distance the pleasant and soothing sound of the mountain river seemed to be asking about the whereabouts of the fatigued travellers, and different species of mountain birds were welcoming them with their very sweet voice. I was a fatigued traveller. I couldn’t resist the warm welcome of nature and therefore sat down there. My companions also sat there to take a rest. Now the cold had been reduced with the heat of the sunrays and there wasn’t any trace of clouds in the sky. With the rays of the sun, the mountains all around seemed golden, and the clear blue sky seemed to be opening up its breast and embracing the huge, snowy mountain peaks.

Seeing this eternal scenery of the Himalayas, I lost myself. I wanted to stay here forever but my companions were impatient. One of them pulled my hand and lifted me. ‘You cannot sit here any longer. This mountain has no wood, grass, or water. We won’t get firewood unless we walk another four miles ahead, and so even tea cannot be prepared. We will die if we don’t drink tea or have food. Come on, now we must move downhill, and today’s descent is even more difficult than the ascent.’

I got up. They walked in front of me, and I kept on following them.

After we had travelled for a while, I realised why the descent was more difficult than the ascent. It was as if I had to climb down from the sky to the underworld. The yaks, horses, sheep, and goats had already gone far ahead. Many of the travellers had also gone before us, and they looked like a row of ants. I started descending very slowly. There was a dangerous path in between and it was only discernible because of the footprints of the men and animals. The unfathomable mountains were in the south and on the left were the uneven mountains covered with snow. This place was so sloping and slippery that one couldn’t walk without the help of others. I held a long staff in my left hand which I planted in the snow and walked slowly with its support.

After going a little further, I found my feet sinking in the snow; it was like the difficulty we faced when our feet would get stuck while trying to walk in the mud in our desh, our homeland. Walking in the snow had turned my feet numb and I couldn’t lift them up. At such a moment I saw a horse slip on its feet and slide down below. Its breeder was also going with it and within a second both disappeared! After that I didn’t get any news of them. Witnessing this scene created a great fear in my mind. I thought I would lose my life here today itself. Even then I didn’t lose the hope of life and kept on walking slowly. Just then I stumbled and fell but one of my fellow travellers immediately pulled me up by holding my hands. My carrier had also tumbled, but it too was saved on this occasion.

All of us crossed that snowy region and arrived at a safe place approximately around noon. Now the hope of living returned once again. But hunger and thirst had made us so exhausted that there wasn’t the strength to take even another step. There was plenty of water in front of us, but it was so cold that it was impossible to drink it. This mountain didn’t have any sign of firewood so we couldn’t prepare tea and quench our thirst. Firewood wouldn’t be available unless we went further for two more miles. I was forced to climb up on the back of the jhabbu. Every Hindu would understand how difficult and heart-wrenching it was for him to get up on a cow’s back. But according to the saying, ‘Follow the rules applicable in each country,’ I abided by the words of the Shastras and climbed on the animal’s back.

I went for one mile in this manner. There were so many ascents and descents within this one mile, and it was followed by a steep descent that forced me to climb down from the animal’s back once again. Excessive strain, hunger and thirst exhausted me so much that I couldn’t move my feet. But the hard heart didn’t ever blow out. So, with a lot of difficulty, I kept on walking just to keep myself alive.

After going a little further, I found a few traders sitting by the roadside. I went and sat near them. Among them an old man very politely gave me a mat to sit on and immediately offered some warm tea to drink. Later he also gave me barley flour and molasses to eat. After eating and drinking, I regained my strength. After resting for a while and talking to them, I found out that they were also travelling to Tibet. They had come here the day before. They would rest here today and would go to Dwapa via Hoti tomorrow early morning. We would stop at Jhonghing, half a mile away from here. My companions had already proceeded towards that place. One of my servants had also gone forward with my belongings; the other one was with me. I took his help and after a lot of effort reached Jhonghing at around 2 p.m.

We would stay there that day. Our camp was inside a small cave. There was a river about a mile from this cave. Sufficient grass and firewood were available on both its banks. My servant had prepared food and tea for me even before I reached my den and had also let free the animals which were carrying our load to graze. I arrived at my den, had my meal and laid down. I didn’t have the strength to rise. About eight or ten tents were pitched and they contained about a hundred people. Also, there were many people outside the tents. These people had more than two hundred goats and sheep to carry their luggage and a few yaks, jhabbus, and horses.

About the Book:

In 1898, the wandering saint Swami Ramananda Bharati set out from the Garhwal Himalayas towards one of the most remote and revered destinations in the world: Mount Kailash and Manas Sarovar in Tibet. Travelling through perilous mountain passes, glacial valleys and isolated border villages, Bharati journeyed not merely as a pilgrim in search of divine grace, but as an observant traveller deeply attentive to the people, landscapes and contradictions of the Himalayan world.

The Forest of Snow chronicles this extraordinary expedition across the high Himalayas—through Joshimath, Niti, Hoti Pass and beyond—capturing the majesty of snowbound peaks, roaring rivers and sacred shrines, alongside the hardships of life at the edge of empire.

Bharati writes vividly of Bhutia traders preparing for their annual caravans into Tibet, highland communities who migrate with the changing seasons, weather-beaten caves sheltering pilgrims, mountain food that consists only of tea, butter and barley flour, and the tense borderlands shaped by colonial surveillance and Tibetan restrictions. Along the way he encounters an unforgettable cast of companions and strangers: clever interpreters, eccentric lamas, drunken villagers, Tibetans suspicious of English spies, and even dacoits.

Blending spiritual reflection with sharp ethnographic observation, Bharati’s narrative moves beyond conventional pilgrimage writing to offer one of the earliest modern Bengali accounts of travel into Tibet. First serialised in 1901 as Himaranya, and later recovered from incomplete manuscripts, The Forest of Snow stands today as a rare and compelling record of Himalayan travel at the turn of the twentieth century.

About the Author:

Ramananda Bharati (1836–1901) was a Bengali scholar, reformer, ascetic, and travel writer who moved between orthodox Hinduism, Brahmo reformism, and monastic spirituality. Trained in Sanskrit and honoured with the title ‘Vidyaratna’, he taught at Calcutta’s Wesleyan Mission School, where his engagement with Christian missionaries led him towards monotheism and the Brahmo Samaj. Following the deaths of his wife and son, heartbroken, he entered the Dasnami monastic order and became a paribrajak sadhu (traveller-saint), visiting pilgrimage sites across India and even to Tibet.

About the Translator:

Somdatta Mandal is Former Professor of English and Chairperson at the Department of English & Other Modern European Languages, Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan. Somdatta has a keen interest in translation and travel writing.

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The Sunday Book Bazaar at Daryaganj

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date July 14, 2026
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Title: The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi

Author: Kanupriya Dhingra

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

PROLOGUE

“Faiz Nahar Jaari Hai”

It is six in the morning in Old Delhi. A footpath that bends into an L has already begun its weekly transformation. A bazaar assembles near Delhi Gate, out of almost nothing. Cardboard and iron boxes arrive—carried, wheeled, hauled from nearby godowns in auto-rickshaws—and are set down along the footpath with the precision of long habit. Tambu and tarred canvas sheets follow, spread across the designated six-by-four-foot patches of ground that each seller has claimed, in practice if not always in law, over years and sometimes decades of Sunday repetition. Books emerge: stacked, sorted, and arranged by some private logic visible only to those who have done this a thousand times before. By the time the first chai of the morning arrives at the stall, carried in a small paper cup from the nearby chai-wallah, the bazaar has already begun to announce itself. By nine, it is a different place entirely.

This is Daryaganj Sunday Patri Kitab Bazaar: a bazaar of books, and only books. And this—this weekly conjuring, this seemingly serendipitous Sunday ritual—is what this book is about.

Every Sunday morning, the same stretch of pavement sheds its weekday skin. By mid-morning, the pavement fills entirely. Pedestrians who had no intention of stopping find themselves stopped by a spine, a title, a cover half-remembered from childhood. A student crouches over a pile of guidebooks, cross-checking prices on her phone. Two men argue cheerfully over a pulp fiction title. A child drags her father toward a stack of comics. The sellers watch patiently. They know that browsing is not wasting time. It is, in fact, the whole point.

What makes this bazaar remarkable is not only what it sells but what it refuses to be. It has no fixed address in the way a bookshop does, no permanent threshold, no air-conditioning, no MRP sticker that goes unchallenged. Every week, it must be built from scratch, for the crowd that somehow always finds its way back. There is nothing accidental about this. Daryaganj Sunday Patri Kitab Bazaar has survived municipal raids, court orders, evictions, relocations, and sixty years of official indifference. It has outlasted the shops behind it, the cinema halls that frame it, and every prediction of its disappearance. It keeps returning, as things in Delhi tend to do, in a slightly different form but with the same insistence.

In the mid-fourteenth century, sixteen years before he became the Sultan of Delhi, Firoz Shah Tughlaq undertook a grand endeavour: the construction of the Faiz Nahar, a seventy-five-mile canal created with the noble intention of bringing welfare to the people. Over time, the canal evolved under the watchful eye of Shah Jahan, stretching further and transforming the landscape around it. Its banks were adorned with lush neem and peepul trees; its waters flowed through the heart of Chandni Chowk, with one branch entering the majestic Red Fort as part of the Nahar-e-Bahisht. The other arm, known as Nahar Saadat Khan, meandered through the bustling streets of Daryaganj before merging with Jamuna, the river Yamuna. Along this vibrant waterway, a lively array of shops flourished, from jewellers and fruit sellers to sweet makers and fabric merchants, creating a corridor of commerce and conversation.

With time, however, the canal fell into disrepair. Hope was rekindled in 1820, when Sir David Ochterlony initiated its restoration. Poet Shah Nasir immortalised the event in verse, celebrating Ochterlony—affectionately referred to as ‘Looni Akhtar’—and the canal’s revival. For the people of Delhi, the return of the Faiz Nahar was more than an engineering triumph; it restored an old rhythm, reaffirming the city’s enduring bond with its waterways.

In the enchanting tales of Sangin Beg’s Sair-ul-Manazil, we encounter vivid scenes of Shahjahanabad and its many moods. His walks lead him to the joyous sight of the Faiz Nahar, inspiring the delightful refrain, ‘Faiz nahar jaari hai’. Faiz canal persists.

Centuries later, in modern Delhi, the spirit of the Faiz Nahar continues—not through water, but through the steady, determined passage of books that animates the streets of Daryaganj every Sunday.

Delhi endures by outgrowing versions of itself. What disappears returns in altered form, what is uprooted finds another ground, and what seems final rarely is. Here, destruction is never quite the end, and reconstruction never a clean beginning. In this ongoing conversation between erasure and perseverance, Old Delhi’s Sunday Book Bazaar has carved out its own fragile space. Its history is folded into the city’s larger habit of rebuilding what has been displaced. Daryaganj Sunday Book Market is not an exception to Delhi’s rhythms but a continuation of them—a marketplace that survives by starting over every Sunday.

My own journey into this parallel world began out of necessity and slowly transformed into something else entirely. I arrived as a researcher and became an accidental shauqeen buyer, lingering over pavement piles, returning week after week, slowly forming bonds with sellers who had long mastered the art of reading their readers. Through these chaotic streets and animated exchanges, I discovered the heart of Delhi’s readership. In their company, I began to understand how this city continues to breathe through its stories, how the joy of encountering books persists, even in the most uncertain times.

Faiz Nahar is gone. But every Sunday in Daryaganj, something of it still persists.

Extracted from The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi by Kanupriya Dhingra. Published by Speaking Tiger Books.

About the Book

Every Sunday, in the heart of Old Delhi, a footpath became a bookshop.

For decades, the Daryaganj Sunday Book Bazaar drew students, collectors, families, tourists and lifelong shauqeen to its pavement piles: textbooks, comics, rare editions, pirated bestsellers, forgotten magazines, discarded libraries, and books that seemed to find their readers by accident. Built by migrant booksellers, sustained by bargain-hunters and bibliophiles, and shaped by the rhythms of the street, the bazaar became one of Delhi’s most beloved cultural institutions.

In The Sunday Book Bazaar, Kanupriya Dhingra traces the life of this remarkable market—from its roots in the book cultures of Shahjahanabad and Daryaganj to its rise as a second-hand book paradise, and from its legal battles and evictions to its relocation in Mahila Haat.

Combining urban history, fieldwork, memoir and literary affection, she follows the books, booksellers and readers who made the bazaar a parallel world of print: informal, unpredictable, deeply democratic, and impossible to replace.

At once urban history, ethnography, memoir, and a love letter to second-hand books, The Sunday Book Bazaar asks what makes a market more than a place of commerce. Who gets to read? Who gets to sell? Who gets to occupy public space? And what does a city lose when it tidies away the unruly, democratic spaces where its readers first learn to browse, bargain, linger and belong?

About the Author

Dr Kanupriya Dhingra researches book history, print cultures, oral history, and urban studies, with a special focus on Delhi’s parallel book markets. Her doctoral work at SOAS, University of London, supported by the Felix Scholarship and the SOAS Fieldwork Grant, examined Daryaganj’s book culture through extensive interviews with booksellers and readers. She has written for Comparative Critical Studies, The Caravan, Seminar, Scroll, and Himal SouthAsian, and has spoken at institutions including Oxford, the British Library, Jadavpur University, Jamia Millia Islamia, and the University of Delhi. She also writes and translates poetry and fiction from Hindi, Punjabi, and Urdu.

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Stories of Individuals who Shaped History

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date July 14, 2026
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Title: Icons of Odisha – Lives that Shaped a State

Author: Bhaskar Parichha

Publisher: BK Publications Private Limited

Introduction

The history of Odisha is often approached through the visible markers of civilization—its ancient kingdoms, magnificent temples, maritime trade, freedom struggles, and political milestones. While these frameworks are indispensable, they do not fully explain how Odisha came to possess its distinctive moral and cultural character.

Beneath these historical structures lies another, equally powerful narrative: the story of individuals whose ideas, actions, and creative energies shaped the consciousness of the land. This book begins from that premise—that civilizations are not sustained by monuments and institutions alone, but by people who articulate values, challenge inertia, and imagine new possibilities for society.

Icons of Odisha: Lives That Shaped a State is an attempt to trace the making of modern Odisha through thirty such lives. These men and women belonged to different generations, professions, and ideological persuasions, yet each responded to the demands of his or her time with uncommon clarity of purpose. Their contributions—whether through literature, politics, education, social reform, music, dance, or visual arts—collectively chart Odisha’s transition from a region struggling for linguistic and cultural recognition under colonial rule to a self-aware society negotiating the complexities of modern democracy and globalization.

The temporal arc of this book broadly spans the late nineteenth century to the present. This was a period of profound transformation, marked by colonial intervention, the rise of nationalism, social reform movements, and the challenges of post-independence governance. For Odisha, these changes were especially significant.

At the turn of the twentieth century, Odia language and identity faced marginalization; administrative divisions ignored linguistic realities, and cultural confidence was under strain. The response to these challenges did not emerge solely from mass movements or political negotiations. It was shaped decisively by individuals who understood that language, culture, and ethics are the foundations of collective self-respect.

Language emerges as a central thread running through this volume. The struggle to establish Odia as a language of administration, education, and literature was inseparable from the struggle to assert dignity and belonging. Fakir Mohan Senapati’s pioneering realism transformed Odia prose into a vehicle for social critique.

Gangadhar Meher demonstrated that poetic excellence could arise from lived experience rather than elite privilege. Sachi Routray, Gopinath Mohanty, Ramakanta Rath, and Manoj Das expanded the thematic and aesthetic boundaries of Odia writing, ensuring that the language could address modern anxieties without losing its rootedness. Through their works, literature became a site of resistance, reflection, and renewal.

Parallel to this literary awakening was the emergence of a political consciousness grounded in ethical responsibility. Figures such as Madhusudan Das and Gopabandhu Das understood that political rights without cultural self- respect were fragile. Their efforts to unite Odia-speaking regions, build educational institutions, and mobilize public opinion laid the groundwork for statehood and democratic participation.

In the post-independence era, leaders like Nabakrushna Choudhury, Harekrushna Mahtab, Biju Patnaik, Nandini Satpathy, Rabi Ray, and J. B. Patnaik represented diverse approaches to governance—Gandhian idealism, mass politics, charismatic leadership, administrative firmness, and parliamentary propriety. Their careers reveal the tensions between ideals and power, and the enduring challenge of translating moral vision into public policy.

The book also foregrounds the role of culture and aesthetics in sustaining civilizational continuity. Odisha’s artistic traditions, particularly in dance and music, were once confined to ritual spaces and threatened by neglect. The revival and global recognition of Odissi were made possible by individuals such as Kelucharan Mohapatra, Sanjukta Panigrahi, Raghunath Panigrahi, and Balakrushna Dash, who combined rigorous training with creative reinterpretation.

In the realm of visual art and cultural scholarship, figures like Dinanath Pathy demonstrated that tradition could be preserved without fossilization, and modernity embraced without rupture. Popular music and cinema, shaped by artists like Akshaya Mohanty and Jharana Das, carried cultural values into everyday life, reaching audiences beyond elite circles.

A defining feature of this volume is its attention to voices that expanded the boundaries of participation. Women such as Rama Devi, Kuntala Kumari Sabat, Bidyut Prabha Devi, and Nandini Satpathy entered public and creative spaces at a time when such participation was constrained by social norms. Their lives represent different modes of resistance—quiet reform, lyrical assertion, intellectual challenge, and administrative authority.

Similarly, the inclusion of Raghunath Murmu underscores the importance of indigenous cultural assertion. By creating the Ol Chiki script, he transformed linguistic empowerment into a tool of cultural survival, reminding us that Odisha’s identity is plural and layered.

This book does not present these figures as flawless icons or distant heroes. Instead, it offers interpretive portraits that seek to understand what each life represents within a broader historical and cultural context. The essays focus on ideas, values, and influence rather than exhaustive chronology. In doing so, the book invite readers to engage critically with legacy—to see these lives as conversations across time rather than closed chapters of history.

The organization of the volume reflects a unique approach. Literary figures appear alongside political leaders; artists are placed next to reformers; revolutionaries share space with philosophers and administrators. This deliberate juxtaposition underscores a
central argument of the book: that the making of a civilization is a collective, multidimensional process. Progress in one domain is sustained by developments in others, and cultural vitality depends as much on ethical leadership as on creative expression.

In an era where public conversations are frequently influenced by quick reactions and disjointed thoughts, looking back at these lives has a more profound significance. It shows us that cultural confidence is developed slowly, through consistent effort and moral vision. The people honored here didn’t just react to their situations; they transformed what could be achieved within those situations. Their legacies push readers to confront tough questions about accountability, creativity, and a sense of belonging.

Icons of Odisha: Lives That Shaped a State is not only a book about the past. It is an invitation to reflect on the present and the future. To remember these lives is to recognize that heritage is not inherited passively but renewed through conscious engagement. The values embodied by these figures—integrity, courage, empathy, intellectual rigor, and cultural pride—remain as relevant today as they were in their own time.

Through their stories, this book seeks to affirm that the making of Odisha, like the making of any living civilization, is an ongoing moral and cultural endeavor.

About the Book

Icons of Odisha: Lives That Shaped a State explores modern Odisha through the lens of thirty-five impactful individuals—writers, reformers, artists, educators, and political figures—who engaged with their era through creativity and intent. Covering the fight for the Odia language and identity, the resurgence of dance, music, and literature, as well as ethical politics and cultural revitalization, these profiles illustrate how a region developed its self-awareness. Not a hagiography or a comprehensive biography, the book presents thoughtful essays that delve into ideas, values, and influence. It encourages readers to view heritage not merely as something that is passively inherited, but as a duty that is revitalized with each new generation. A reflective chronicle on Odisha’s history—and a contemplation of its present and future.

About the Author

Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.

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Scenes from the Magic Mountain by Ruskin Bond

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date June 15, 2026
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Title: Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond

Author: Ruskin Bond

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Introduction

Sixty-one years ago, almost to the month, I made the highland of Mussoorie in the Garhwal foothills my home. It was a sunny afternoon, and by my side was a gentle-faced elderly lady—a bit of a loner by circumstance, like me. I had mentioned in passing that I wanted to shift from Delhi, where I had been living somewhat unhappily for a couple of years, and she was showing me the vacant upper floor of her home—an old, isolated cottage at the edge of a forest of oak and maple, green, red and gold. You couldn’t see the Himalayas, or the Doon Valley below, for the cottage was tucked away in the shadow of a hill. But it was spring and when I opened the window of the small living room, the forest seemed to rush upon me, as if in welcome. And from the deep ravine rose the sweet, haunting call of the Himalayan whistling thrush. That decided it for me—the forest, which seemed full of possibilities, and the birdsong. I moved into the cottage—it was called Maplewood Lodge—and settled for good in these hills.

I was still young, and in my romantic frame of mind, I was susceptible to magic casements opening wide. I decided I would make a window-seat and lie there on a summer’s day, writing lyric poetry…But long before that could happen I was opening tins of sardines and sharing them with Miss Bean, the elderly lady who continued to live in the rooms below me. It was a solidarity of the indigent! I went away from the hills at times, but returned as soon as possible, and when I had to leave Maplewood, I rented other homes, each one old and modest, but always with a view.

Once you have lived with the mountains, you can never leave. You belong to them.

Sometimes it is hard to believe that I have been up here all these years—sixty summers and monsoons and winters, and the short autumns and even shorter Himalayan springs (there is no real spring in the plains). When I look back, it seems like yesterday when I first came up with my meagre belongings and a head full of dreams. I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape. I am too old now to walk among the noble oaks and deodars and the ancient pines, but I feel their presence at all times. The wind brings me their words of wisdom and encouragement when my spirits are low, and their benediction when I give of myself freely in love and friendship. They have seen these hills change and yet remain the same through countless seasons—renewing and healing themselves and all the life that lives upon and within them.

p. 52-53

Maplewood Lodge, Mussoorie.

The summer of 1963.

The forest is still silent, until the cicadas start tuning up for their performance. On cue, like a conductor, a bird perched high in the branches of a spruce tree begins its chant. Umeew—umeew!

The forest begins to pulse with the hypnotic buzzing of the cicadas.

Big white ox-eye daisies grow on the hillside. The sorrel—almora grass—has turned red. I sit in my garden, contemplating my old Olympia typewriter. Still writing stories, still trying to sell them.

As a boy, loneliness. As a man, solitude.

And loneliness was not of my seeking. The solitude I sought. And found.

I am to spend many summers in this cottage. Mornings in the sun, evenings in the shadows.

Some mornings, I carry my small table, chair and typewriter out on to the knoll below one of the oaks and take a little help from the babblers and bulbuls that flit in and out of the canopies of leaves. White-hooded babblers; yellow-bottomed bulbuls. Never still for a moment, they help me with my punctuation.

For dialogue I depend more on the crickets, cicadas and grasshoppers who keep up a regular exchange, debating the issues of the day. But for reflective and descriptive writing I look into the distance, at the purple hills merging with the azure sky; or I examine a fallen leaf as it spirals down from the tree and settles on the typewriter keys. The summer sun bathes everything with clear, warm light. Somewhere high up on the hills, cows are grazing. I don’t see them, but I hear the bells tied around their neck.

I write in leisure. There is no hurry.

p. 125

Maplewood. Early October, and the hill slopes are showing off their post-monsoon foliage in a variety of hues: dahlias gone wild in shades of mauve, magenta and startling red; tall cosmos swaying in the breeze; wild geranium tucked away among the ferns; asters flourishing on retaining walls; and bronzed chrysanthemums vying for attention with massive marigolds. On the knoll, the grass is just beginning to turn October yellow. The first clouds approaching winter cover the sky. The trees are very still. The birds are silent. Only a cricket keeps singing on the oak tree. Gardens both natural and man-made are at their best in the brief autumn before Diwali.

The sun goes down with a lot of fuss. First a fiery red, and then in waves of pink and orange as it slides beneath the small clouds that wander about on the horizon. The brief Autumn twilight of northern India passes like a shadow over the hills, and dusk gives way to darkness. Sometimes, I’ll step outside to watch the sunset, and to see a lamp came on in Miss Bean’s sitting room below mine, followed by the veranda light. An atmosphere of peace and harmony descends on the hillside.

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ABOUT THE BOOK

Ruskin Bond has spent a lifetime paying attention to the seasons of the hills—watching their arrivals and departures, their repetitions and small variations, the ways in which they shape both landscape and daily life. He’s written of spring’s first leaves and tentative warmth; the long, insect-filled days of summer; the monsoon’s rain, mist, and abundance; autumn’s burnished light and ripening fruit; winter’s cold silences and snow-laden trees; and finally, the eternal season—the quiet renewal that begins where all endings meet.

In Scenes from the Magic Mountain, he gathers his writings and remembered moments across these six seasons, observing the natural world—along forest paths, during walks, storms, solitary afternoons, and shared silences. Birds and trees, rain and light, houses, animals, neighbours, and memories pass through these pages without hurry.

Thoughtful, attentive and reflective, Scenes from the Magic Mountain offers the seasons not as events to be marked, but as a way of living in time. A companion for slow reading, this is a book to return to across the year, as the seasons turn and return again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ruskin Bond was born in Kasauli in 1934, and grew up in Jamnagar, Dehradun, Delhi and Shimla. He is the author of over a hundred books of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Among them are The Room on the Roof, A Flight of Pigeons, The Blue Umbrella, A Book of Simple Living, Friends in Wild Places and Lone Fox Dancing. He received the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize in 1956, the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1993, the Padma Shri in 1999 and the Padma Bhushan in 2014.

He lives in Landour, Mussoorie with his adopted family.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags A Book of Simple Living, A Flight of Pigeons, Friends in Wild Places, John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, Landour, Lone Fox Dancing, Mussoorie, Padma Bhushan, Padma Shri, Ruskin Bond, Sahitya Akademi award, Speaking Tiger Books, The Blue Umbrella, The Room on the Roof, Title: Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond

Excerpt

Burnout Highway

Title: Burnout Highway

Author: Anmol Diddan

The Education System

Think about a time when you felt stuck or stifled with the options that your professional path presented. Do you remember your general thoughts and emotions at the time? What expectations did you have when you started on that path? Do you wish you could go back and change some choices you made along the way?

I’ve felt this “stuckness” many times through the various stages of my career as a generalist, evaluating different paths, most recently when I secured permanent residency in the US after a 14-month hiatus of being unable to work in America. I was faced with the choice of taking my career in a different direction or trying to rejoin the corporate path where I left off.

During such ponderings, I’ve usually been able to break my feelings down into an expectations versus reality equation. While I’m sure that isn’t the most insightful thing you’ve heard, think about why the mismatch between that expectation and reality might have occurred in your own life. It is because the expectations you had of your path in two, five, ten, or twenty years, and the reality of that path, in terms of your own perception of reward and fulfillment, don’t match. Thinking of your life as a predefined path, with milestones and comparisons, makes you constantly ponder over this existential expectation versus reality equation, steeped in arbitrary milestones. The challenge, especially in this modern world obsessed with exceptionalism, is that our paths offer the false promise of infinite possibility and underestimate the reality of finite choices.

The Pressure to be on a Path

Remember that favorite interview question we’ve all asked or been asked: Where do you see yourself in five years?

Now think about yourself, your industry, or the job you did five years ago. Has all of that changed beyond recognition? The job I did as recently as 2016 is now basically done by a button. Software developers, who commanded the highest-paying jobs till only a few years ago, are being rapidly challenged by AI or scrambling to become AI engineers, reduced to supervisory roles. Subscriptions as a primary business model, for example, was only adopted in the last five years or so. AI wasn’t a word in the public consciousness till 2023, and today, we’re told we should let it run our lives, from making us breakfast to writing our resumes and picking candidates for jobs!

So, if companies themselves do not know their paths, why is there that pressure on individuals? Based on my own experience, that interview question itself is ill-advised. Someone who is extremely sure of their path, despite knowing how rapidly their context may evolve, is already a bit stifled.

This stifling, myopic path, especially if you’re not fulfilled by it, again brings with it a sense of constant jadedness and exhaustion. It is that exhaustion, coupled with a perceived lack of agency over your path, that eventually manifests as full-blown burnout. Being flexible and adaptable, and rebuilding agency over your own skills are key to building long-term careers today, especially in a time when the AI, internet, and gig economy is truly enabling infinite possibilities at an individual level.

While human beings need structure in their lives, society starts laying out that structure for us from the moment we barely attain consciousness, not leaving too much room for exploration. Remember that question of what you wanted to be when you grew up? I’m guilty of asking this question myself to my nine-year-old niece. She insists she wants to be a vet, which is adorable. I think I wanted to be a cricketer back then. Those questions gave me and my niece structure to explore our personalities, but had I stuck to that path, given the context of my life (my state didn’t even have a team back then), I probably wouldn’t have made a career out of it!

As a 16-year-old, I could have never imagined living in four countries, traveling to over 60 countries marrying an American woman, and attaining financial independence, all before or around 30 years of age. And I am so glad I had the openness to explore divergent paths while still committing to a fairly traditional corporate path. Metaphorically speaking, I knew that I wanted to sail west in the Atlantic, but I was open to landing in Brazil, Mexico, the US, or Canada. That openness has enabled me to start afresh, after 11 years at Google, through this book, and through a coaching and workplace culture consultancy, WideWorldView.com, while continuing to positively engage with the corporate world.

While predefined paths are great to give our expeditions structure, we still need to adjust our sails as per the direction of the winds and currents. As a society, we are too eager to forcefit people into paths, generally very early in life. Thinking about your life and identity as one thing or one path stifles you from exploring all other potentially more fulfilling identities. Despite the rapid changes in societal structures and expectations, the corporate ladder is still largely not set up for individuals to be able to adjust their sails to changing winds, without making radical shifts in course. What if these paths that society puts us on and we often unquestionably follow weren’t meant for us at all?

What if we followed those paths because we constantly felt a stifling opportunity cost? What if those paths were designed to stifle innovation and exploration at a personal level? And what if the expectations our paths set for us were never based in reality? Who made us feel that these paths were the only ones we had? The answer is largely rooted in our modern education system, which is designed to prioritize “getting a job” over self-discovery.

ABOUT THE BOOK

You know the feeling: chronic workplace stress along with a nagging sense of ineffectiveness. That’s burnout. Burnout Highway demystifies this increasingly collective suffering by exploring the larger context that runs all our lives—the systems within which we make decisions, the milestones we were taught to desire, and the feelings of fulfillment we thought they would provide.

From pursuing grades and achievements to landing ‘dream jobs,’ the India Shining generation was promised a clear and straightforward path to success. However, this journey can feel exhausting, especially with India ranking among the countries with the longest working hours and the highest rates of burnout.

Anmol examines how societal conditioning, corporate ladder dynamics, and economic pressures influence our work and presents readers with a systematic framework for navigating the challenges of burnout while fostering the development of fulfilling and emotionally sustainable careers. This is an invitation to prioritize work that aligns with your values and addresses your emotional well-being, ultimately helping you break the cycle of burnout.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anmol Diddan is an advocate for emotionally sustainable careers and the founder of World Wide View. Raised Sikh in the complex geopolitics of the Northeast, Anmol spent his early years in Shillong before moving to Mumbai at sixteen to study Economics; an experience that exposed him to both the promise and pressure of ambition in modern India. His thirst for learning through experiences led him to a global career in behavioural and cultural research, working with Google across India, Ireland, Singapore, and the United States. Now based in New York City, he draws on his dynamic background to explore how the intersection of economics, psychology, and culture affects all our lives, with a focus on wellbeing in the modern workplace. He works 1:1 to help professionals tackle burnout and career transitions, all across the world.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Tags Anmol Diddan, Burnout Highway, Google, India, Ireland, Mumbai, New York City, Shillong, Singapore, United States