The story of Hawakal Publishers, based on a face-to-face tête-à-tête, and an online conversation with founder Bitan Chakrabortywith his responses in Bengali translated by Kiriti Sengupta. Clickhere to read.
The Great War is over And yet there is left its vast gloom. Our skies, light and society’s soul have been overcast…
'The Great War is Over' by Jibanananda Das (1899-1954), translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam.
Jibanananda Das wrote the above lines in the last century and yet great wars rage even now. As the world struggles to breathe looking for a beam of hope to drag itself out of the darkness induced by natural calamities, accidents, terror attacks and wars that seem to rage endlessly, are we moving towards the dystopian scenario created by George Orwell in 1984, which would be around the same time as Jibanananda Das’s ‘The Great War is Over’?
Describing such a scenario, Ahmed Rayees writes a moving piece from the Kashmiri village of Sheeri, the last refuge of the displaced refugees who were bombarded after peace was declared in their refuge during the clash across Indo-Pak borders. He contends: “People walked back not to homes, but to ruins. Entire communities had been reduced to ash and rubble. Crops were destroyed, livestock gone, schools turned into shelters or craters. How do you rebuild a life when all that remains is dust?”
People could be asking the same questions without finding answers in Gaza or Ukraine, where the cities are reduced to rubble. While we look for a ray of sunshine, amidst the rubble, Farouk Gulsara muses on hope that has its roots in eternity. Vela Noble wanders on nostalgic beaches in Adelaide. And Meredith Stephens travels to the Australian outback. Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in lighter notes writing of driving lessons while Suzanne Kamata creeps back to darker recesses musing on likely ‘criminals’ and crimes in her neighbourhood.
Lopamudra Nayak writes on social media and its impact while Bhaskar Parichha writes of trends that could be brought into Odia literature. What he writes could apply well to all regional literature, where they lose their individual colouring to paint dystopian realities of the present world. Does modernising make us lose our ethnic identity and how important is that? These are questions that sprung to the mind reading his essay. As if in an attempt to hold on to the past ethos, Prithvijeet Sinha wafts around old ruins in Lucknow and sees a cemetery for colonial soldiers and concludes: “Everybody has formidable stakes, and the dead don’t preach the gospel of victory or sombre defeat.”
We have mainly poetry in translation this time. Snehaprava Das has brought to us Soubhagyabanta Maharana’s poems from Odia and Ihlwha Choi has translated his own poem from Korean. Sangita Swechcha’s poem in Nepali has been rendered to English by Saudamini Chalise. From Bengali, other that Jibanananda Das’s poems translated by Professor Fakrul Alam, we have Tagore’s pensive and beautiful poem, Sonar Tori (the golden boat). Yet another Bengali poet, one who died young and yet left his mark, Sukanta Bhattacharya (1926-1947), has been translated by Kiriti Sengupta. Sengupta has also translated the responses of Bitan Chakravarty in a candid conversation about his dream child — the Hawakal Publishers. We also have a feature on this based on a face-to-face conversation, giving the story of how this publishing house grew out of an idea. Now, they publish poetry traditionally, without costs to the poet. Their range of authors are spread across continents.
Our fiction again returns to the darkness of war. Young Leishilembi Terem has given a story set in conflict-ridden Manipur from where she has emerged safely — a story that reiterates the senselessness of violence and politics. While Jeena R. Papaadi writes of modern human relationships that end without commitment, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao relates a value-based story in a small hamlet of southern India.
We have more content. Do pause by our contents page and take a look.
Huge thanks to all our contributors without who this issue would not have materialised. Heartfelt thanks to the team at Borderless for their support, especially Sohana Manzoor for her iconic artwork that has almost become a signature statement for Borderless.
Let’s hope that next month brings better news for the whole world.
Sonar Tori(Golden Boat) is the titular poem of Tagore’s book of the same name. This celebrated collection was first published in 1894.
Art by Rabindranath Tagore. From Public domain
Amidst dense clouds and heavy downpour, Without any hope of respite, I sit on the shore. Many sheaves of rice are piled in droves, Housed in straw-built stores. The river's edge is like a razor as the water flows, Torrential and ferocious. While the rice was being cut, it started to pour.
I have a small field, and I work alone. The water sways on all sides and overflows. On the other shore’s horizon, I see etched A village under the shadow of trees Covered in misty morning clouds. On this shore, I am alone in this small field.
Someone is singing and rowing to this side. Looks like, I might know her. Without glancing around, She rows past in full sail. The waves helplessly Part to give way— Looks like, I might know her.
Oh where do you row, to which foreign land? Come to me in your boat. Go wherever you want, Give to whoever you desire, Only, do take With a smile, My golden crop from this shore.
Take as much as you wish into your boat. Is there anymore? — There’s none left. By the river, I stashed into the boat All that I had done in my life In bundles — Now, please be merciful and take me along.
I have no place. The boat is too small. It is filled with my crop of golden paddy. Surrounded by heavy Monsoon clouds, I stayed by the Lonely shore — Whatever I had was taken away by the golden boat.
Art by Sohana
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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Jibananada Das’s poems translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
THE GREAT WAR IS OVER
The Great War is over And yet there is left its vast gloom Our skies, light and society’s soul have been overcast One has to intuit whatever light there is every day The sky is dark; society vacuous; Existence Disgraced; love dead; blood flowing fountain-like; Knowledge becoming the bearer of an immense load of corpses And of its own self as well!
A NOBODY A nobody wanted to walk down the path as always. How then could those closest to him get lost forever, And disappear in some underground world?
Painting By Jamini Ray (1887-1972)
Jibanananda Das (1899-1954) was a Bengali writer, who now is named as one of the greats. In his lifetime, he wrote beautiful poetry, novels, essays and more. He believed: “Poetry and life are two different outpouring of the same thing; life as we usually conceive it contains what we normally accept as reality, but the spectacle of this incoherent and disorderly life can satisfy neither the poet’s talent nor the reader’s imagination … poetry does not contain a complete reconstruction of what we call reality; we have entered a new world.”
The story of Hawakal and a conversation with the founder, Bitan Chakraborty, whose responses have been translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta.
Hawakal Publishers grew out of the compulsive need young Bitan Chakraborty had to express and connect. This was a young man who was willing to labour at pasting film hoardings to fund his dreams. An Information Technology professional by training, Chakraborty realised early he did not want to tread on trodden paths and started his journey as a creative individual. Now, he not only writes and publishes but also designs the most fabulous covers and supports local craftsmen.
Over the last nearly two decades, the brand Hawakal has become synonymous with traditional poetry publication from India. They do not offer buy back deals or ask to be paid like most publishers but pick selectively. No one seems to know what it is they look for. All Chakraborty says is – “We aimed to introduce a fresh wave in publishing.”
First Bengali book by Hawakal: Ut Palaker Dairy – Diary of a Camel Herder published in 2009First book in English published by Hawakal in 2015
Chakraborty writes fully in Bengali which is why the dentist-turned-writer-turned-publisher, Kiriti Sengupta, had to chip in with the translation of his responses in Bengali. Their friendship matured over the last decade when Sengupta approached Chakraborty to publish a book of critical essays, which along with essays on Sharmila Ray’s poetry homed critical writing on his too. This was the first English publication of Hawakal.
Sengupta had given up dentistry by then and was living in a hostel on a packet of Maggi a day to indulge his creative passions. A skilled poet with a number of books under his belt, he eventually joined Chakraborty to run the English section of Hawakal. He also translates from Bengali to English. We have one of his translations of Chakraborty’s short story, Disappearance. A powerful reminder of social gaps that exist in the Subcontinent, it’s a poignant and frightening narrative, the kind someone writes and imagines out of a passion to reform.
Some of Bitan’s works are available in English. His style — by the translations — seems graphic. The deft strokes make the landscape and the stories almost visual, like films.
Chakraborty worked with ‘Little Magazines’ for some time. Then he made his way into publishing full time. Though he found it hard to make ends meet, he started his adventure without compromising his beliefs. He wanted to take books to readers and, with that spirit, they started the Ethos Literary Festival, where they host writers published by them. In fact, in the 2025 festival, Hawakal sold more than 400 books in seven hours! Who said poetry doesn’t sell?
Bookstall at Ethos Litfest 2025Packed House at Ethos Litfest 2025Glimpses from Ethos Literary Festival 2025. Photos provided by Hawakal
Chakraborty and Sengupta have yet another hallmark. They wear matching clothes. These are tailored with material sourced from handloom weavers. They resorted to this when they found that commercialisation was killing the traditional homeborn handlooms. In that spirit, they started a clothes venture too, Mrinalika Weaves.
Chakraborty is an unusual person – as the interview will reveal – humble, stubborn with aims like no other publisher or writer in this day and age! He doesn’t talk of money, survival, politics, awards or glamour, but what matters to him. He is direct and straightforward and perhaps, his directness is what makes his outlook appealing. He translates a few to Bengali for his own growth. But these are poets who are known for their terse writing. Maybe, that is what he looks for… Let’s find out!
Conversation
Bitan Chakraborty. Photo Courtesy: Kiriti Sengupta
Bitan, you are a multifaceted person: a writer, an artist, a photographer, and, most importantly, a publisher for all writers. What is it you most love to do and why?
I need to talk. What I observe or learn from my experiences compels me to express myself. Therefore, regardless of the medium I use, I strive to convey meaningful messages. Nevertheless, the range I enjoy in weaving words is unparalleled.
What sparked your interest in writing? Please elaborate. Do you only use Bengali to communicate with others? Do you translate from other languages to Bengali?
I felt emotionally down when I began writing. What a dreadful time it was! I believe it must be the emotional turmoil of my youth. However, writing has never left me since then. It’s more accurate to say that I have never managed to rid myself of my urge to write. During the early period, my writings contained more emotion than substance. In my college years, I was engaged in student movements that helped me discover the purpose of words. Society, socio-economic status, politics, and human dissatisfaction are the themes that run through my stories. Bengali is my mother tongue: I think, speak, dream, and curse in Bengali. I find it challenging to derive the same pleasure from using another language; it is my shortcoming.
Nevertheless, when I meet outstanding works in English, I attempt to translate them into Bengali. Not everything I read, but I have translated poems by Sanjeev Sethi and Kiriti Sengupta. I have consistently translated Gulzar into Bengali, but it has yet to be published in book format. Translation is a mental exercise; it particularly helps when I am experiencing writer’s block. I read poetry when I wish to untangle my thoughts, and when I come across fine poems in another language, I try to make them my own — bring them into my culture through translation.
Do you write only prose or poetry too?
I have been writing stories and essays for the past fifteen years. Interestingly, I began with poems, but they turned out to be junk. Therefore, I focussed on writing fiction.
Many of your stories focus on the Bengali middle class. What inspires your muse the most? People, art, nature, or is it something else?
I grew up in a lower-middle-class environment. Poverty, unemployment, and debt were parts of my formative years. I witnessed how this economic disparity allowed a particular segment of society to insult and humiliate others. Consequently, I have developed a strong affinity for those who are underprivileged. Later, when I began writing fiction, my political awareness enhanced my observations — I was able to merge the existing economic inequality with the nation’s political perspectives. The lessons I have learned over the years motivate me to write.
You design fabulous book covers. Do you have any formal training, or is it a natural flair?
When I entered the publishing industry, I had no funds to commission professionals for book covers or layouts. I had been involved with Little Magazines since my college days. I used to spend hours with the printers, meticulously observing how they designed cover spreads and interior text files. This experience proved useful when I began producing books. For the past several years, I have frequented bookstores, picking up a book or two — I also purchase books online, especially those that help me stay abreast of recent developments in book architecture. In my early years, I was unable to learn design formally due to financial constraints.
When and why did you decide to go into publishing? Could you tell us the story of Hawakal?
From 2003 to 2008, I was involved with four Little Magazines. Bengali Little Magazines thrive on minimal funds. Therefore, we (the team) managed everything necessary to publish a little magazine. We oversaw printing, distribution, book fairs, and other activities. By the middle of 2007, I realised I wasn’t suited for a day job. I understood that I would struggle to survive the conventional 10 am to 5 pm career. During that time, my family was in financial difficulties. Suddenly, we had the opportunity to publish Kishore Ghosh’s debut collection of poems, Ut Palaker Diary. It was published under the banner of the little magazine I was actively working with. As we worked on the book, I learned that publishing a magazine and publishing a book were entirely different endeavours. A little magazine is primarily sold through the efforts of its contributing writers and poets, while a book is sold through the combined efforts of the author and the publisher. I decided to pursue publishing as my career after we successfully sold 300 copies of Ghosh’s book in 10 months. That was the beginning.
Why did you opt to name your firm after a windmill — Hawakal in Bengali? Please elaborate.
We spent days selecting a name for our publishing concern. Finally, we chose the title of one of Kishore Ghosh’s poems as our company name. Hawakal, in English, means windmill. It signifies an alternative source of energy. We aimed to introduce a fresh wave in publishing. As an independent press, we have consistently operated ahead of our time. From developing a fully-fledged e-commerce hub (hawakal.com) in 2016 to producing the highest number of books during the pandemic (2020-2021), Hawakal has accomplished it all.
The first logo of Hawakal designed by contemporary artist, Hiran Mitra and then modified over time by Bitan Chakraborty.
You have boutique bookshops in Kolkata, Delhi — any other places? I believe you started a collaboration to get your books into the USA? Could you tell us a bit about your outlets and how you connect writers with the people? Are your boutique shops different from other bookshops? Do they only stock Hawakal books?
As you know, Hawakal has two functional ateliers in Delhi and Kolkata, while our registered office is located in New Delhi. We do not have any plans for an additional studio in India. We also have a bookstore in Gurgaon called Bookalign. There is a small outlet in Nokomis, Florida. It is a new unit in the United States. We primarily stock books published by Hawakal and its imprints (Shambhabi, CLASSIX, Vinyasa). However, we carefully select titles from other publishers for our store. We have sufficient seating in the store, allowing readers to browse the books before making a purchase. Since we publish non-mainstream authors, readers need to make a conscious choice. This not only benefits the authors we publish, but it also helps us evaluate the effectiveness of our selection process.
You started as a Bengali publisher, if I am not mistaken, and then forayed into English; now you are bringing out a translation in Hindi? How many languages do you cover? Do you plan to go into publishing in other languages?
We initially focused on Bengali books. Our venture into English titles began when Kiriti Sengupta joined Hawakal as its Director. Publishing a Hindi book was unexpected. However, we will not release books in other languages that we cannot read or speak. It is essential, as a publisher, to be well-versed in the language of the books we publish.
What kind of writers do you look for in Hawakal?
Would you like me to reveal the truth? We expect more than just satisfactory work from our writers: we want writers who will value their work passionately and take the necessary steps to reach a wider readership. Please don’t assume that what we expect from our authors is not something we adhere to ourselves. We expect this because we understand what it means to be truly passionate about one’s writing.
I heard that Hawakal was diversifying into textiles. How does that align with your writerly and publishing journey?
We opened our first kiosk in Mathabhanga, North Bengal, back in 2016. We simultaneously sold books and sarees from that small outlet. We had to close the shop due to a lack of staff. Kiriti Sengupta has long cherished the dream of representing the fine textiles of Bengal. Our family has grown larger. Bhaswati Sengupta and Lima Nayak have joined the team; they are the ones who established Mrinalika, collaborating with artisans from remote regions of India to showcase their creations to a wider audience.
Where do you envision yourself and Hawakal, your most extraordinary creation, ten years from now?
We aim to publish fifty timeless books over the next decade.
Thanks for your time and for the service you render to readers and writers.
Cinema’s Artform edited by Bitshok BhattacharyaCovers designed by Bitan Chakraborty
Sukanta Bhattacharya (15th August 1926-31st May 1947): Called “Young Nazrul” and Kishore Bidrohi Kobi[1], Sukanta Bhattacharya died at the tender age of twenty of tuberculosis. He, like Nazrul, wrote poetry to protest the colonial atrocities. His poems describe the suffering of common people and looked forward to a world free of exploitation. His writings were anthologised in Sukanta Samagra (Complete Works of Sukanta, 1967), published posthumously, simultaneously in East Pakistan and West Bengal.
The once-paved paths are now vitiated. How can I endure the trauma without divine intervention?
Death, death, everywhere...
Life's earnings must be renounced. When the means become futile, they are best discarded like tattered rags
[1] Youthful Rebel Poet: Nazrul was called the rebel poet of Bengal. He wrote a poem called Bidrohi or Rebel and his poetry had been that of rebellion like Sukanta Bhattacharya’s.
Kiriti Sengupta has had his poetry featured in various publications, including The Common, The Florida Review Online, Headway Quarterly, The Lake, Amethyst Review, Dreich, Otoliths, Outlook, and Madras Courier. He has authored fourteen books of poetry and prose, published two translation volumes, and edited nine anthologies. Sengupta serves as the chief editor of Ethos Literary Journal and leads the English division at Hawakal Publishers Private Limited, one of the top independent presses established by Bitan Chakraborty. He resides in New Delhi. Further information is available at www.kiritisengupta.com.
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Odia literature is characterised by a profound tradition of classic narratives, with notable examples such as Fakir Mohan Senapati’s timeless Chha Mana Atha Guntha[1]. This literary corpus is further enhanced by an array of mythological and folk narratives that hold significant importance in the cultural legacy of Odisha.
These narratives persist through time because they reflect universal human experiences, encompassing themes such as land, power, family, and morality, all while being intricately linked to the historical context and cultural identity of the region. They serve not only as stories but also as reflections of society, having been shaped and refined over the years.
Readers are consistently attracted to these literary works for reasons similar to those that draw us to the writings of Shakespeare or the epic narrative of the Mahabharata: their themes are enduring, and the insights they provide remain pertinent. Similarly, publishers and curators, even at the national level, often revisit these classic tales, a trend that is entirely justifiable.
However, it is the transition to contemporary matters that strikes a significant chord. Odia literature has been progressing, albeit perhaps not as prominently or visibly as certain other Indian literary landscapes. Modern voices are addressing current issues—urban isolation, the influence of technology, caste relations, and environmental deterioration. The change is evident, yet it remains less pronounced than it has the potential to be.
What accounts for this? There may be multiple reasons.
The literary tradition of Odisha is profoundly embedded in its heritage. Classic literature is not only revered and taught but frequently eclipses modern works. Both publishers and readers exhibit a conservative inclination, preferring established texts. This trend is not unique to Odia literature; for example, Tolstoy remains a central figure in Russian literary discourse. As a result, this inclination obstructs the acknowledgment of new authors.
Modern Odia literature faces considerable challenges in its distribution. In contrast to Bengali or Tamil literature, which benefits from larger urban readerships and established translation networks, Odia books often struggle to reach broader audiences.
While digital platforms are making significant strides in this domain, the overall development is still sluggish. Without a strong market, numerous authors may opt to concentrate on more conventional themes that are viewed as more commercially viable.
The demographic composition of Odisha is primarily rural, where numerous readers find a stronger connection with stories that delve into village life or ethical dilemmas, as opposed to genres like cyberpunk or themes focused on existential angst. Although there are urban Odia authors, their readership is frequently limited in range. As a result, contemporary themes may seem alien to those who maintain a deep bond with traditional cultural settings.
The literary language of Odia typically possesses a formal tone, significantly influenced by its classical roots. This can lead to a conflict with modern terminology and global themes, posing challenges for writers who wish to innovate without jeopardising their connection to the audience. In contrast, languages such as Hindi and Malayalam readily incorporate colloquial expressions, which thrive in contemporary literature.
Nonetheless, modern Odia literature is dynamic and progressing. Short story writers are exploring a variety of topics including religion, science fiction, feminism, leftist ideologies, and climate change. Prominent authors such as Sarojini Sahu, Satya Mishra, Rabi Swain, Sadananda Tripathy, Jyoti Nanda, Bhima Prusty, Janaki Ballabh Mohapatra, Ajaya Swain, Biraja Mohapatra, Sujata Mohapatra and young writers like Debabrata Das are actively investigating these contemporary themes. Publications like Kadambini, Rebati, and Katha are offering platforms for these creative narratives.
Despite this, the main obstacle remains the need to improve visibility. Social media and over-the-top (OTT) platforms have the potential to revolutionise this landscape—just picture an Odia adaptation of Black Mirror[2]!
There is an immediate need for greater investment in Odia storytelling to effectively bridge the gap between traditional and modern narratives.
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[1] Six acres and a Third, a novel by Fakir Mohan Senapati(1843-1918) published in 1902
[2]Black Mirror is a British dystopian science fiction television anthology series that started in 2011 and is still on the run.
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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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Kazi Nazrul Islam was born in Churulia in India on 24th May, and he died a Bidrohipoet in Bangladesh. When he was born in 1899, it was before the McMahon Line of Partition had been drawn. He looked up to Rabindranath Tagore as his mentor but his form of poetry was more rebellious and his lyrics, different, though no less beautiful. His heart belonged to a united Bengal as can be seen from much of his works. He started magazines, supported feminism, brought out Begum Rokeya’s work in his journal, spoke of rising beyond borders and he has even written of climate change more than a hundred years ago…
His essay on melting icebergs has been translated by Radha Chakravarty. Today, we celebrate Nazrul’s birth anniversary with translations of his works from Bengali. These showcase the diversity in his writings, broadness of his thought and his concern for global issues that remain unresolved to date: his essay on climate change, a story grown out of his experiences as a soldier translated by Sohana Manzoor, a poem on poverty and lyrics on women and living in a world that transcends human constructs rendered in English by Fakrul Alam and more. Welcome to Nazrul’s world!
In Did He Ever?,Rhys Hughes gives fun-filled verses on Lafcadio Hearn, a bridge between the East and West from more than a hundred years ago. Clickhere to read.
Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen. Clickhere to read.
Asha or Hope is a poem from Tagore’s collection, Kalpana (Imagination, 1900).
Art by Sohana Manzoor
HOPE
When the sun set on my life, You welcomed me, O mother of mine. Opening the doors of your inner sanctum, You planted a kiss on my temples, Lit a timeless lamp at my bedside. My neck Was with a string of thorny blooms decked To honour my songs. It hurt, it burnt — Till taking off the wreath, you plucked Each thorn off with your own hands, Washed the dust. That garland — With blooms now clean and white — You draped on me as your eternal child. My eyes opened as tears streamed. I woke up to find it was only a dream!
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input from Sohana Manzoor.
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