Tag: Bhubaneswar

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Poetry

Found in Translation: Satrughna Pandab’s Odia Poems

Five poems by Satrughna Pandab have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Satrughna Pandab 
SUMMER JOURNEY

Does this journey begin in summer?
After the mango buds go dry 
And the koel’s voice trails away…
When simuli, palash and krishna chuda
Blaze in red? 
Does it begin when the blood
After reveling in the festivities of flesh
Crosses over the bone-fencing
And gets cold, 
When the burning soul yearns for
The fragrant and cool sandalwood paste?

And the soothing monsoon showers? 
 Where lies the destination --
At what border, which estuary, 
Which desolate island of wordlessness?
The journey perhaps itself decides 
The appropriate hour.
 You embark upon this journey alone --
Without friends, without kins, 
Without allies without adversaries.
   
You yourself are the mendicant here.
You are the violin, you too are the ektara. 
You are the alms too.
And what are the alms after all?
At that ultimate point,
When the end would wear the 
Garb of blue ascetism,
The scorch of summer
Turns to
Sandalwood paste,
 Besmears the breath that
Leaves you overwhelmed 
With its exotic fragrance.

A SKETCH OF FAMINE

The white wrap of the clouds
 Is ripped into shreds.  
The pieces are blown away in the wind.

The sky spreads out like 
A grey cremation ground,
Where the sun, like some kapalika 
Performs a tantric ritual
A sacrificial act,
And slits the throat of a virgin cloud --
Moon:  The skull of a man just died,
Constellations: A crowd of beggars,
 Night:                        A Ghost Land 
 Fissured farmlands: Human skeletons.

Flames leap. 
Green vegetations char.
The blue of the sky turns ashy. 
The tender earth
Lamenting its bruised honour
Sprawls in a pathetic, arid sprawl.

WAR (I)
 (FROM KURUKSHETRA TO KUWAIT)

All the Dhritarasthras 
Between Kurukshetra and Kuwait 
Are blinded kings, 
Pride boiling in their blood,

Not a single weapon misses the target
Each Ajatasatru fights another 
Ceaselessly,
Neither of them returns from the battlefield,

The weapons have no ears for  
 The mantra of love
Or of brotherhood,
Nor does the blood recognise its kinsmen.
The battlefield does not care to know
Which warrior belongs to which camp.

Not a soul could be seen on the bank of 
The bottomless river of blood
That flows across the battlefield
Desolate and forlorn.

And there is always an Aswatthama, 
Ready with his Naracha, the iron arrow, 
Awaiting the Parikshitas yet to be born. 


AUTUMN 

Is this river your body
Flowing, calm and pristine, 
A translucent green? 
Are the dazzling streamers of sunlight
Hanging from the sky of
Your glowing skin?
Are the rows of paddy fields 
Stretching to the horizon, 
Your sari?
Do you smell like the paddy buds? 
Do the delicate murmur of the river waves
Or the cheery chirpings of the birds 
Carry your voice?  
The glimmering stars of the night --
Are they your ear-studs?
Do your eyes sparkle 
Like those of some goddess?
Do you ever cry?
Really?
Are the dew drops clustering 
On the grass your tears, then?

And the pool of blood under your 
Lotus-like feet --
Whose blood is that? 
Ripping apart the night
Coloured like the buffalo’s skin,
Your lotus-face gleams like stars,
My breath smells of the lotus, too. 


A FAMILY MAN’S DAILY ROUTINE

The man stands 
His back turned to the sun,
Or is it the wind?

A bare back, always
Rough hair, dry, windblown,
May be there is a hunch on his back,
Or, is it a load of some kind?
Heavy and sagging, 
His toils do not show on his face.
  
He stands like a scarecrow,
Waving aimless, hollow hands
Warding off the emptiness 
Around him, or the void within?
 
His face does not show it,
Or he does not have a face at all?
Just a headless body
Moves about here and there,
 Brushing the dust off,
Mopping the sweat beads away.
The cracks on his palms and his heels
 Could be seen, indistinct though.
There are, however, times, when
A face fixes itself to the headless torso,
When he comes to know
About the pregnancy of his unwed daughter,
Or, when he has to carry his dead son
Over his shagging shoulders,
The pair of eyes in that face look like marbles 
 Deadpan, stiff and blank.  
 
How does a family man take it
When the harvest succumbs  
To the tyranny of flood and famine,
When a dividing wall is raised 
 In the house or in the fields, 
Does it matter to the family man?
May be,
A dagger rips his heart apart,
The pain does not show on the face.

Sometimes one can see something like 
A basket on his back --
Who does the family man carry in that?
 His blind parents? His kids? 
Perhaps his name is Shravan Kumar
And he is on a pilgrimage,
Perhaps not! 

He buries his already sinking feet 
Some more under earth, 
Beads of sweat shine like pearls on him.
His beards hang off his face,
Like the aerial roots of a Banyan tree,
Does he move on carrying
A dead sun on his back? 
His face reveals not much.

Who does the man stand 
Showing his bare back to? 
To the sun or to the wind?
Who knows?
Nothing shows clear on the family man’s face.

Satrughna Pandab is a conspicuous voice in contemporary Odia poetry. A poet working with an aim to define the existential issues man is confronted with in all ages, he adopts a style that embodies traditionalism and modernity in a proportionate measure. Highly emotive and poignant, his poetry that reveals a fine synthesis of the experiences both individual and universal, are testimonies of a rare poetic skill and craftmanship. A recipient of the Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award, the Sarala Award, and several such accolades the poet has nine anthologies of poems and several critical and nonfictional writing to his credit.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Bhaskar's Corner

‘Language… is a mirror of our moral imagination’

By Bhaskar Parichha

Prof. Sarbeswar Das (1925–2009): A scholar of depth, a teacher of light. Photo Provided by Bhaskar Parichha

In the intellectual history of modern Odisha, Professor Sarbeswar Das stands as one of those rare figures who seamlessly bridged scholarship, ethics, and social commitment. A luminous teacher, an erudite writer, and a quiet Gandhian, his life and work embodied the moral seriousness and intellectual curiosity that marked a generation shaped by the freedom struggle and the promise of a newly independent India.

Born in Sriramchandrapur village in the Puri district of Odisha in 1925, Sarbeswar Das grew up in a milieu where simplicity, discipline, and community values were deeply ingrained. His brilliance shone early—he topped the matriculation examination across Odisha and Bihar, a distinction that foreshadowed a lifetime of academic excellence.

His educational journey took him first to Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, the cradle of higher education in Odisha, where he absorbed the liberal spirit and rigorous intellectual training that the institution was known for. He later studied at Allahabad University, one of India’s foremost centers of learning, before proceeding to the University of Minnesota, for advanced studies in English literature.

His exposure to American academia at a time when few Indian scholars ventured abroad profoundly shaped his intellectual orientation. The years in Minnesota opened to him a new world of thought—modern literary criticism, American fiction, and the philosophy of democratic humanism—all of which left a deep imprint on his teaching and writing in later years.

On returning to India, Das joined the teaching profession, which he would pursue with remarkable dedication and grace for several decades. He served as a professor of English in some of Odisha’s most respected institutions—Christ College (Cuttack), SCS College (Puri), Khallikote College (Berhampur), and Ravenshaw College (Cuttack).

As a teacher, he was known not only for his formidable command of English but also for his clarity of expression, quiet humour, and empathetic engagement with students. He could bring Shakespeare and Emerson alive in the classroom, weaving them into the moral fabric of everyday Indian life. His pioneering initiative was the introduction of American Literature as a formal subject of study in Indian universities, long before it became fashionable to do so.

In an age when English studies in Odisha were largely confined to the British canon, he expanded its horizons by introducing writers like Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, William Faulkner, and Mark Twain to Indian classrooms.

Das believed that literature must connect with lived experience. He often told his students: “Language is not just a means of expression; it is a mirror of our moral imagination.” This conviction shaped generations of students who went on to become writers, teachers, and civil servants. Among them was the late Ramakanta Rath, later one of Odisha’s most celebrated poets, who fondly remembered Prof. Das as a teacher who inspired intellectual courage and aesthetic sensitivity.

Alongside his teaching, Prof. Das was a prolific writer and scholar. He authored around twenty-five books spanning essays, literary criticism, translations, and reflections on education and society. His writings in English and Odia reveal a mind steeped in both classical and modern traditions. Fluent in English, Odia, and Sanskrit, he was at ease quoting from the Bhagavad Gita and Hamlet in the same breath.

His essays in English reflected on the role of language in education, the cultural responsibility of intellectuals, and the need for moral clarity in modern life. He consistently argued for a vernacular humanism—a belief that English education must not estrange Indian students from their cultural roots but rather help them view their own traditions through a broader, universal lens.

As a principal, he brought administrative efficiency and human warmth to his role. His tenure is remembered for reforms that encouraged academic discipline, faculty collaboration, and student participation. He believed that education was not merely about acquiring degrees but about shaping ethical citizens.

Prof. Das’s intellectual life was inseparable from his moral and civic commitments. As a young man, he participated in the Quit India Movement, aligning himself with the Gandhian values of simplicity, non-violence, and service throughout his life.

Late in life, Prof. Das turned inward to recount his journey in his autobiography, Mo Kahani (My Story), which has since acquired the stature of a modern Odia classic. Spanning eight decades of personal and social history, it offers not only a memoir of a life well-lived but also a vivid ethnography of Odisha across the twentieth century.

In Mo Kahani, he paints rich, affectionate portraits of his family—his parents and sisters, Suruji and Hara Nani—and evokes the rhythms of village life, with its festivals, hierarchies, and hardships. His account of the great famine of 1919, passed down through family memory, is a haunting narrative of suffering and resilience.

The autobiography captures the moral universe of rural Odisha—its compassion, faith, and silent endurance—while chronicling the social changes wrought by modernity, education, and political awakening.

The book transcends personal recollection to become a social document of rare authenticity, preserving the voices and values of an era in transition. Scholars have hailed it as a valuable resource for understanding Odia social and cultural history, as well as a significant contribution to Indian autobiographical writing.

Prof. Sarbeswar Das passed away in 2009 at the age of 84, leaving behind a legacy of intellectual depth and human kindness. Those who knew him remember his calm demeanour, his Gandhian simplicity, and his unwavering belief in the power of education as a moral force. His students and colleagues regarded him not merely as a teacher but as a guide who exemplified integrity and humility in every aspect of life.

His contributions to English literary education in Odisha were transformative. By introducing American literature, promoting cross-cultural study, and insisting on a pedagogy grounded in ethical reflection, he helped modernise the study of English in the state and inspired a generation to approach literature as a bridge between worlds.

Even today, his writings—both critical and autobiographical—continue to speak to the challenges of our times: the search for meaning in education, the reconciliation of global and local cultures, and the enduring need for moral clarity in a rapidly changing world.

In the final measure, Prof. Sarbeswar Das remains not only a scholar and educator but also a moral historian of his age—one who chronicled the soul of Odisha with the sensitivity of a poet and the precision of a teacher. His Mo Kahani endures as his final lesson: that learning is not a mere accumulation of knowledge, but a lifelong practice of understanding, empathy, and truth.

.

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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Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Rohini K.Mukherjee’s Odia Poems

Five poems by Rohini K.Mukherjee have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Rohini K.Mukherjee
AT THE MYSTICAL SANCHI 

An unknown voice beckons 
At the early hours of the morning.
Moved by a new surprise
Buddha relapses into meditation.
A crystal dawn, cold as marble,
Is traced 
On his hands and feet
And his eyes and forehead.
Some instant, invisible signal prompts him
To turn on his side and sleep.

After Buddha’s Nirvana,
Calm settles in the valley, slowly.
Thousands of 
Branches and branchlets
Radiate blissful divine light.
The trees too, in a lavish growth,
Spread out everywhere --
From the earth below to the sky above --
And meditate! 


THE EXECUTIONER 

No one could predict 
The next scene. 
But in the one enacted now
The executioner has 
A prominent presence.

The executioner stalks the moon,
 His face hidden in the veil of clouds,
Knife in hand, a gleam of smile 
On a phony face, 
A sharp, keen gaze under the glasses,
Exuding the smell of 
An expensive perfume.

The indistinct footfalls may
Prompt one to flick a look back
 But there would be no one behind
Only clouds clad in midnight blue
Sailing in the sky.
From somewhere far floats in the music  
Of a mountain stream.
 Slowly, sorrow dissipates and a 
 Path opens up for the spring,
 A wonderland of fairies.
In his unguarded moments, 
The knife in the executioner’s grip 
Glitters in the furtive moonlight.   
Any moment that poison-coated knife
Could find the moon’s throat, 
The moon knows that well.
But it forgives,
Because it also knows well
That the executioner cannot 
Hide for long
And will be trapped in 
The moonlit garden of tangled clouds.


THE DEATH OF A HAPPY MAN

One day, the eyes lost sleep
And all the locusts flew away,
  
Not one spectator had guessed 
That one day 
The man will sprawl out on  
On the sea beach sands
Washed away by the waves 
From distant lands. 

The eyes lost sleep one day.
The flock of locusts flew away.

But no one could guess 
The pains, the sobs 
That seared that forlorn soul.

Petals drifted in piles 
To make him a delicate shroud.
The smell of sandalwood came wafting  
In the sea-breeze from the north.
Seagulls flocked around the body,      
Unintimidated by the crowd in the beach,
Drowning the voice of 
The living men there 
With their loud squawks of dissent.  
Ooh! What a long wished-for 
Happy death
On a cool and blissful sea beach!

After the flock of locusts flew away 
Carrying all the dreams back 
On their wicked wings, 
The eyes lost sleep!


ANKLETS OF THE NIGHT 

There is still time for the nightfall.
But the air tinkles with the sound of 
The anklets of the night
 As if someone is retreating from
An ineffectual, moon-washed garden, 
 As if someone from the grave  
Watching the landscape, 
Or someone standing at the riverside
Hums the tune of a departed season,
Or someone hurrying aimlessly away
To escape the approaching dawn. 

It is not yet night,
But the night’s anklets ring.
You are probably returning
To your shelter of old times
In search of a new hope.
Just take a look behind to see 
The painting of a conflicting wind
Fluttering across the courtyard.

It is not yet night
But its anklets begin to jingle in the air.

How cool you appear in your 
Evening chanting of the mantras!
 How calm and steady you are
In the pure fragrance of the descending steps 
As you set out on the journey
Holding your heart on your palm 
Like a burning clay-lamp.
May be when you arrive there
The dawn around you would be sonorous
With the notations of Raga Bhairavi.

There is still time for the nightfall
But the night’s anklets tinkle in the air!


THEY DID NOT COME 

I waited for them, but
They did not come,
I waited all this time in vain, and 
Knowingly, let myself fall a victim 
To the first rays of the sun.
The sun’s whiplash spurred me on
To the jungle. 
It forced me to cut wood 
And tie them in bundles. 
The hunger of the sunset hour
Prodded me back to where 
I had started.
The smell of soaked rice, and the aroma of
Onions and oil 
 Drifted thick in the air of my house.

The sun came in, an intruder, 
Sat by me and watched.
Then it devoured all the food, 
Leaving nothing,
Not even a single dried-up onion-peel.

Because they did not come, 
For me the morning was 
Meaningless in its futility. 
I knew I was never one 
In the list of their ultimate interests
When their tenure of life here ended.

The footfall of the light
Trod easy on my skin.
Days rolled on this way 
In sun and light.
The sun was everywhere, all the time.
Whenever the door opened,
The sun stood there. 
When the meteor came shooting down,
When words rode over 
the waves of sleep to float in the air,
The treacherous sun always appeared.

And for me, there was 
No hope of their coming back.

But, one day as I leapt up in a hurry  
At the Sun’s summon,
I discovered the Sahara Desert
That I believed had 
Remained hidden in my
School Geography book, 
Lying face down all these days 
Under my own hooves!

Rohini Kanta Mukherjee has authored, edited and co-edited several volumes of poetry and short stories in Odia and English. Many of his poems have been translated and published in various Indian languages , broadcast over several stations of All India Radio and Doordarshan . Some of his poems and translations have appeared in Wasafiri, Indian Literature, The Little Magazine , Purvagraha, Samasa among others. He retired as Associate Professor of English, from B.J.B Autonomous College, Bhubaneswar, Odisha.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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

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Categories
Review

Boats in a Storm: Migrant Narratives

Book Review by Bhaskar Parichha

Title: Boats in a Storm: Law, Migration, and Decolonization in South and Southeast Asia, 1942–1962

Author: Kalyani Ramnath

Publisher: Westland/Context

The legal frameworks established during the period from 1942 to 1962 in South and Southeast Asia played a crucial role in shaping migration patterns and influencing decolonisation processes. This era witnessed significant changes as countries in these regions sought to redefine their legal systems in the wake of colonial rule, which in turn affected the movement of people across borders.

Migration patterns were influenced by various factors, including the aftermath of World War II, the struggle for independence, and the establishment of new national identities. Additionally, the decolonisation processes during this time were marked by the emergence of new legal frameworks that aimed to address the complexities of post-colonial governance and the rights of migrants. Understanding the interplay between these legal frameworks, migration trends, and decolonisation efforts provides valuable insights into the socio-political landscape of South and Southeast Asia during this transformative period.

Boats in a Storm: Law, Migration, and Decolonization in South and Southeast Asia, 1942–1962  authored by Kalyani Ramnath is a thoroughly researched work. This book is  part of the series South Asia in Motion and was originally published by Stanford University. Ramnath serves as an Assistant Professor of History at the University of Georgia and has conducted extensive research on migration.

Says the blurb: “For more than a century before World War II, traders, merchants, financiers, and laborers steadily moved between places on the Indian Ocean, trading goods, supplying credit, and seeking work. This all changed with the war and as India, Burma, Ceylon, and Malaya wrested independence from the British empire.”

This captivating book is set against the backdrop of the tumultuous post-war period. It delves deeply into the legal struggles encountered by migrants who are determined to maintain their traditional ways of life and cultural practices. The narrative highlights their experiences with citizenship and the broader process of decolonisation. Even as new frameworks of citizenship emerged and the political landscapes of decolonisation created complexities that often obscured the migrations between South and Southeast Asia, these migrants consistently shared their cross-border histories during their engagements with the legal system.

These narratives, often obscured by both domestic and global political developments, contest the notion that stable national identities and loyalties emerged fully formed and free from the influences of migration histories after the fall of empires.

In her book, Kalyani Ramnath draws on archival materials from India, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, London, and Singapore to illustrate how former migrants faced legal challenges in their efforts to reinstate the prewar movement of credit, capital, and labour. The book is  set against the  backdrop of a climate marked by rising ethno-nationalism, which scapegoated migrants for taking away jobs from citizens and monopolising land.

Ramnath fundamentally illustrates in the book that the process of decolonisation was marked not just by the remnants of collapsed empires and the establishment of nation-states emerging from the debris of imperial breakdown. It also encompasses the often-ignored stories of wartime displacements, the unexpected consequences that arose from these events, and the lasting impacts they have had on societies.

This perspective highlights the complex and multifaceted process of decolonisation, demonstrating how it was shaped not only by significant political transformations but also by the personal narratives and experiences of individuals who faced the challenges of conflict and displacement.

An excellent book to read!
.

.

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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Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Ashwini Mishra’s poems

Five poems by Ashwini Mishra have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Ashwini Mishra 
RIDING THE EARTH: THE LAST DAY

Farewell! 
A final goodbye!
The prologue to an epic of an endless rest
Has to be something
Extra special.

Gathering up all the strength
Of his senses 
He strove to know the people
Around him.
He spoke fondly to them
‘Let you all be there in my heart
Forever,
May my world keep shimmering
With the glow of this endearing bond.’
He rode each passing day
That galloped on -- 
Like a well-fed, robust horse,
He rode on, 
His feet securely stuck in the stirrups 
His hands gripping the rein hard.
 In an instant he could
 Gallop around the earth
 Cradling time under his arm. 
The river, the ponds 
And the rainclouds brought water
For his parched throat,

Towards the end of the journey 
He called one by one his folks 
Whom he held dear to his heart.
 Some of them sounded assuring,
 Some promised to come.
 A few fulfilled their promises too
 And came --
Still, there was a disturbing emptiness
Somewhere within.

Where has disappeared
The knot of love that had held  
So strong in the days of past?
It was as though that knot 
Had loosened and shredded.   
Worn out like a weary page 
In the mindscape,
Like someone that had once 
Played a major role,   
And had moved away from the centerstage,   
To stand by the stage-wings
Distanced and dispassionate!

SWORD  

 I had never wanted
To wield a sword, a dagger or a goad.
I had always wanted to tuck plumes
into the hair,
To draw a lotus on the palm,
To play the notes of spring breeze
For the ears of the 
Blazing summer noon.
I had wanted to be a dreamer,
To let my eyes close 
At the touch of the delicate petals 
Of exotic blooms!
But you did not let that happen.
My loved ones,
My folk I held close to my heart,
Fell at the merciless blows
Of harsh and hostile words
Your canons shot.
Your anger, your cruelty,
Weighed heavy on me
And a thunderstorm brew inside me.
Unnoticed by others. 
In the end,
My compelled hands
Reached out to the scabbard
Lying abandoned under 
The smuts of time
To draw the sword out.
 
THE CLAY LAMP

A clay lamp can always guess
How long the ghee and 
The wick in it will last.
It is a living thing 
How brief might its lifespan be.
It can, like all living beings,
Battle the wind and the darkness
In its struggle to survive
In an unenclosed space
That is vulnerable to 
The assault of hooves of animals
Or the misty spray of the dew.
 It knows that 
 The moment the curtain rises,
 Revealing the stage
All set for the entry of light,  
The first act of the play will end  
And Its role will be over    
Even before the makeup is 
Rubbed off the face or the artificial tint
On the hair fades.
The hand that had lit it 
May turn impassive, too!
  
  A woman, her heart and hands 
  Focused on the act,
  Keeps lighting up the clay lamps,
  Not knowing for sure 
  How long their light would last
  Or when the flames would die.
 The idol of the goddess    
  That glittered in the light of 
  The lamps she lights 
   Never steps down to help her 
   When the flames char her body.
   There is not a soul in sight
   When her flame dies,
   Except a few burnt insects.
  
 GAZA
You neither have a chest 
Nor arms now 
To embrace those who once saw
You as their own
Like you did before.
The natives and the foreigners, 
Who trod your soil, 
Now take a turn either to your left
Or to your right and move on.
No longer the chirrups of birds
Come sprinkling down 
Either from your sky, or your trees.
There are vultures everywhere
Scavenging on the tender human flesh
Getting fat and heavy.
The sun, the moon and the stars 
In your sky are 
Blown away into thousand pieces now.
You may dig up some of them  
Graved under your ground.
The Death in your sea breeze
And in your explosive garb
Haunts living humans 
To turn them to corpses.
Like a farmland ladened with crops,
Skeletons are heaped in your streets.
Houses and buildings where life dwelt 
Are mounds of shattered concrete.
Wreckage of kitchenware, 
 And of home appliances
 Lie on the desolate roads 
 In pathetic scatters.
A book satchel slings from the 
Severed hand of a dead child.
The thirst for war is not quelled yet,
New strategies are deliberated upon
To pursue newer missions of death.
New weapons must be hoarded 
In the arsenal 
To launch an attack on the netherworld 
After this world is razed to ruins.  

WHIP 

The whip that once basked proud in
The love of the kings and the feudal lords  
And danced in elation on 
The defenseless back of the oppressed, 
Now lies worn and weary 
In a niche in the royal palace or 
Behind the glass doors in the shelf 
Of a museum, 
Coated in dust and dirt.
The obsequious tanners,
Who were far below the 
Aristocracy,  
Polished this tool of tyranny  
 Bright with oil, 
 And it jumped crazy 
On their haggard backs, 
Drawing crooked lines 
Of livid blue and red.

How wide is the chasm between 
Sage Dadhichi who gave his bones 
For forging a thunderbolt 
To kill demon Brutrasura*,
And the stingray that gave its tail to 
Shape a whip 
That performs its brutal dance
On the back of innocent humans? 
Even today,
The barges of history and legends
Voyage across the pages 
Of text books taught in the classroom,
Their sails fluttering 
On their proud masts. 

*Brutrasura was killed by Indra with a weapon made with Sage Dadhichi’s bones as per mythology.

Aswini Kumar Mishra has 13 poetry collections to his credit. He has been translated widely into English, Hindi, Bengali, Tamil and other Indian languages. He has authored a fiction in English, Feet in the Valley (Rupa Publications, 2016),  His poems and essays have appeared in several literary journals including Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati, Wasafiri, M.P.T, The Little Magazine, Samakaleen, Konark, Rock Pebbles and Vahi etc. A recipient of several awards, he currently lives in Bhubaneswar and can be reached at cell phone +919438615742, +918456953936. His email id is:  mishra.aswini53@gmail.com

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Review

Tales of Secrets and Darkness

Book Review by Bhaskar Pariccha

Title: Keep It Secret

Author: Snehaprava Das

Publisher: Black Eagle Books

Snehaprava Das, a former Associate Professor of English, is a noted poet and translator. She has translated many Odia works into English and published five poetry collections. Her translations have received several awards, including the Prabashi Bhasha Sahitya Sammana, the Jibanananda Das Award, and the Fakir Mohan Anubad Sammana.

Keep It Secret is a collection of ten short stories. The relatively lengthy narratives are equally grounded in reality and fantasy. In the author’s view, these narratives strive to traverse the delicate, ephemeral boundary that exists between reality and illusion. They delve into the inner jungle to uncover the secrets that are meticulously hidden behind a facade of pretense and the artifice of a pleasing and socially acceptable exterior.

Engaging with her stories provides a rewarding experience. These tales encompass a diverse array of themes, including life and death, the supernatural, the real and the surreal, peculiar coincidences, and the intricacies of human relationships.

 In the Preface, Das provides a rationale for her stories, which contributes to their uniqueness. Citing Regina Pally, a distinguished psychiatrist and therapist based in Los Angeles, Das states, “Most of what we perceive occurs non-consciously and effortlessly, and according to her, this process can be described as a ‘survival instinct’.” This may lead the guilt-ridden mind to interpret and shape a future aimed at compensating for past wrongs. This ‘survival instinct,’ which entices individuals to assume and perceive various things, can even distort the true impact of actual events, creating multiple and bizarre interpretations of a single incident that may approach the surreal.

She bases her stories on the presumption made by Freudian scholars: “From error to error, one discovers the entire truth, observes Freud. Some of the stories aim at exposing the errors man is forced to commit, lured by compulsive emotions, which leave life irrecoverably difficult, and could at times prove fatal in that self-destructive process of discovering the truth. Some stories attempt to study the complex and shifting patterns of human relationships that hang precariously balanced between trust and distrust, and to observe the reaction of the characters while confronting the secret of that relationship, which was kept closely guarded till the end. The experience of that confrontation could be subversive in that specific moment of anagnorisis.”[1]

Some stories may not always offer a seemingly logical, definable, or happy ending.

Das’s short stories possess a cerebral quality, posing a challenge for discerning readers to fully appreciate her offerings.

.

[1] ‘The other Freud: Rethinking the philosophical roots of psychoanalysis’ by Parker & Donald Lewis

Click to access Parker_2022_The_other_Freud_rethinking_the_philosophical.pdf

.

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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Bhaskar's Corner Tribute

Bidyut Prabha Devi – The First Feminist Odia Poet

By Bhaskar Parichha

Bidyut Prabha Devi

Bidyut Prabha Devi (1926 – 1977) is celebrated as one of the most prominent female poets in Odia literature. Hailing from Natara village in the Kendrapara district, she was the second daughter of the esteemed writer, Nimai Charan Das, and Rekha Devi.

Raised in a traditional family in Bamphisahi, Cuttack, she received most of her education independently, attending Ravenshaw Girls’ School until the ninth grade. Inspired by her father and notable Odia poets like Nanda Kishore Bal and Kunja Bihari Das, she began her journey into poetry in 1940.

Her first collection, released in 1944 when she was merely 18 years old, featured patriotic poems that celebrated the cultural and natural heritage of Odisha. It highlighted her early ability to create vivid imagery and convey emotional depth, drawing from her rural background and the literary traditions of Odia.

Her 1950 collection, Utkal Saraswata[1], was recognised as a significant contribution to education, being included as a poetry textbook at Utkal University. In addition to poetry, she also wrote for children, for which she was awarded by the Government of India in 1955, acknowledging her impactful contributions to children’s literature.

Bidyut Prabha’s poetry explores the challenges faced by women, societal limitations, and the theme of empowerment, weaving together both personal and universal experiences. It embodies her feminist viewpoint, tackling matters such as gender inequality within a conservative framework, all while preserving a lyrical and approachable style.

She authored numerous plays, although specific titles are not extensively recorded. Her theatrical pieces frequently conveyed social messages, resonating with her socialist and feminist principles. Her writings were recognized for their clarity and moral depth, rendering literature accessible to younger audiences. Some of these later works are less documented but showcase her reflective and philosophical nature.

Influenced by socialist principles, her poetry examined social disparities and advocated for the marginalised. Her self-taught approach was characterised by clear and evocative language, rendering her work both relatable and profound.

Bidyut Prabha’s writings were revolutionary for their era, especially in their focus on women’s issues within Odia literature. Her son, Sachidananda Mohanty, a distinguished educationist and litterateur, has translated her works, thereby preserving her legacy.

Writes Sachidananda Mohanty[2]: “In recent decades, feminist historiography in eastern India has paid welcome attention to issues of education, creativity, and sisterhood across linguistic barriers. It has recognised women’s pivotal role in shaping the public space at the intersection between feminist history and literary creativity. Scholars like Judith Walsh, Tanika Sarkar, Malavika Karlekar, and others have brought to our attention forgotten life-narratives of literary women of the region who have created a tradition of their own.  Bidyut Prabha Devi, recognised as a major female voice in pre-modern Odia poetry, belongs to a poetic tradition represented by an illustrious sisterhood, comprising Reba Ray, Kuntala Kumari Sabat, Haripriya Devi, Debahuti Devi, Nirmala Devi, Tulasi Das, and Brahmotri Mohanty, among others. 

“While Bidyut Prabha may be known in Odisha, her feminist poems, based on her deep understanding of domesticity and patriarchy, have not been sufficiently read outside the state. Even in Odisha, her ‘romantic poems’ are widely anthologised at the cost of the more powerful compositions that address the woman’s position and identity in terms of the entrenched power structures in society.”

According to Mohanty, Bidyut Prabha’s feminist poetry stands out distinctly from the prevalent ‘Advice-for-Women’ genre in the region. She bases her work on her own life experiences and resonates with the growing feminist consciousness in Odisha, which is championed by literary feminists and social reformers like Sarala Devi[3], who played a pivotal role as a mentor to Bidyut Prabha. This journey was marked by its transnational influences. Sarala Devi had a strong connection with poet Annada Shankar Ray, a key figure in the Odia Romantic movement.

Her impact on Odia literature is significant, particularly as one of the earliest notable female poets in a predominantly male literary environment. Her contributions are rooted in her capacity to merge lyrical elegance with social critique, enhancing the inclusivity, reflection, and cultural relevance of Odia literature. Her work continues to serve as a foundational element for feminist and regional narratives in Odisha.

She was married to Panchanan Mohanty. Following health challenges in 1966, her literary output took on a spiritual dimension, shaped by her connection to the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Pondicherry. Unfortunately, she took her own life.

Bidyut Prabha Devi’s poetry, deeply rooted in feminist and socialist ideals, continues to motivate and inspire, with her centenary of birth being commemorated in 2025 as a representation of women’s empowerment in Odisha.

. 

[1] Odia Literature

[2] A literary sisterhood, Vol. 65, No. 6 (326) (November-December 2021), Published By: Sahitya Akademi

[3] Sarala Devi (1904-1986) – Odisha’s first Satyagrahi, first female legislator and first feminist writer.

.

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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Poetry

Found in Translation: Aparna Mohanty’s Poetry

Five poems by Aparna Mohanty have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Aparna Mohanty 
STAR

A tiny star watched me
As I groped my way in a blinding darkness
Nudged to tears. 
It sparkled white   
Exactly the way my mother’s face did.
The tiny star was about to climb down
When I saw it and waved, stopping it.
I knew it could easily understand
My unvoiced pleading.
So, I closed my eyes and beseeched,
“Go back! This is no place
For a star that holds such 
 Pure whiteness in its soul.
 See, how pride and ego here
Hiss and howl  
Cloaked in a guise of false modesty.
 ‘Selfishness’ is brokering deals 
 In the trade-fair of power 
 Pretending redressal and help.
 Truth is ineffectual here,
 So is love!
Go back, dear
My little lodestar 
Because I can’t bear to see them
Smudge your serene whiteness, 
Defile you and seat you  
On a dazzling platform of deceit, 
And announce
‘Here is one of our bright ancestors 
We borrow our light from!’”

IN JUST AN INSTANT

Do not hold her 
in your devouring desire.
Hold her in your soul
Let the woman be safe.

Do not take her as a prize won, 
Treasure her with love.
Let the woman be happy.

Make her not a commodity.
Treat her as a virtue.
Let the woman feel elevated.

Just as much—
Assure her of 
Security, happiness 
And elevation,
A vast world of love and compassion. 
Free from terror and savagery, she 
Thrives on just that much assurance!
Wombs await great souls
And there is a promise of  
A healthy, wholesome future 
That carries pictures of a million hearts 
Steeped in love.

Just for once,
Unfetter a woman’s body
From the scaffold of lust   
And put it on the altar of worship.
You will then see
How in more than half of the world,
Shrines of love will come up in
just an instant. 

FEAR 

Too many restraints,
Numerous forbiddances. 
“Do not sit here
Do not laugh like this  
Don’t ever dare enter the forest
To taste the mangos, 
There the tiger sits stalking,   
 Fear the tiger!”

I wonder if ever my movements
Were easy and unrestricted
Like nature.
I wonder if the constraints
Were ever chosen by
An individual autonomy.  
 I am a soul deprived, and
Defined in obedience.  
I drag myself on by your will  
Slouching under the load of your 
Approval and disapproval.
I lie burning on an untimely pyre
At every intersection of the streets, 
At every city center,  
Where animal-howls echo
day and night. 
Who knows better than you
The trick of championing self-interest
Through a pretense of love?
You lock me in your embrace 
To mould me in a pliable shape,
Render me spineless, 
Leaving no strength in 
My arms to protest.
You gift me a heart that wallows 
In fear and defeat every moment. 
Why do you hold my 
Easy growth in check?
What are you afraid of? 
Do you fear that the arms of 
All the Dusshasanas* 
will be attracted 
once I let my hair loose?
Do you fear that the spear will pierce
the chest of many a Mahishasura* 
once I let my clothing drop?
Do you fear that many a ‘Lanka’ of gold
will burn to cinders 
once I step beyond the 
‘Lakshaman Rekha’?
    
*Dusshasana was Kaurava from Mahabharata who disrobed Draupadi, the wife of the Pandavas. 
*Mahisasura is an Asura or demon who was killed by Durga
*Lakshman Rekha(line) in Ramayan was the circular border drawn by Lakshmana to keep Sita safe. Once she stepped beyond the border, she was kidnapped by Ravana. 
 
THE WOMAN IN THE LAST ROW

The woman sits in the last row
lost in some strange 
unhoped for possibilities. 
Light and shadow 
play hide and seek on her face
like scenes shifting alternately between
a verdant paddy field of Bhadrav* 
and a gloomy Ashwina* sky.

The lines of mirrors in her front  
never catch her reflection
inside their gilded frames.

Neither has she the time nor the wish
to adjust her image in varying postures 
at every little maneuvering of her body,
She just sits there lowering her face,
her eyes downcast,
speaking to herself,
playing with herself,
contented in her own company.
The woman 
who sits at the extreme back row  
could hold anyone’s hand and
pull that person to
the delicate loneliness of her playhouse.   

And, when the meeting disperses 
amidst accolades and applauses,
the great ones stand up
weaved in blandishments 
like mountains tangled in the 
creepers of Malati*
raising their proud heads. 
Not a single glance is flicked 
at the last row.
No one would know when
the woman in the last row
had disappeared,
stealing the silence from there.  
 No one might believe
a river flowed there 
just a while before.

*Bhadrav—August-September
*Ashwina – September -October 
*Malati – a creeper with pink and white flowers

A SONG FOR THE LITTLE GIRL 

The day my little girl
Climbed the steps to her green age
And reached out to pluck 
The loveliest flower of Phalguna*
And the sweetest berry of Chaitra*,  
I cried out “Don’t” from below,
Stopping her.
She heard me and came down
To where I stood.
Since that day, questions 
Like the swelling waves 
Of an unseasonal flood 
Crash at the edges of her eyes --
Why such prohibitions, why?
 And I thought, why indeed…
 My movements would be 
Held in check.
Why must always pain and forbearance  
 Come in my lot?

I am a mother, after all
Like all mothers, 
The spells of Sravana*-showers 
In her eyes 
Swept me away in its current…
But, will it do if I let myself be tossed away
In the rushing flow
 Of her questions?

I am not a little girl like her. 
I am rather trapped perpetually
In the role of a culinarian
That cooks on a holy hearth to 
Feed the custodians of morals.
So now,
It is the time to cut and dress my little girl,  
Cook her to a savoury dish 
Of her father and her husband’s choice
And serve them on a gold plate! 

 *Phalguna – February-March
*Chaitra – March-April 
*Sravana – July August

Aparna Mohanty(1952) is a conspicuous voice in modern Odia poetry. Her poetry, with its feminist overtone, boldly asserts the significance a woman’s role in the family as well as in the society. They strongly defend the woman against the derogations perpetrated on her by a male-dominated society and defy the societal restraints imposed on her that curb her freedom. Aparna Mohanty has received several accolades for her contribution to Odia literature including the prestigious Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Poetry

Found in Translation: Sangram Jena’s Poetry

Five Odia poems by Sangram Jena have been translated by Snehaprava Das

Sangram Jena
 RETURN

Is there ever a return? 
Do the years left behind, 
Or, water flown away in the river,
Return ever?
Do parents who had quit the world 
years before come back?
Or, the erstwhile beloved
married now to another man? 
What are the things that return 
after having gone?  
Doesn’t the sun that depart every evening
return on the next? 
Perpetually, endlessly? 
Is returning a reality 
or, an illusion of one? 
And, wrapped in it, 
life moves on
from the crib to the crematorium. 
   

                ROCK* 

What did he stumble on?
The unobtrusive block of stone
that lay on his way,
the sacred scriptures, the hearsay 
all carried the story that 
the sinning Ahalya was redeemed 
at the touch of his holy feet;
When Indra had touched her that day,
what was that touch?   
Was it a pretence? A betrayal?
  
It matters little whose touch is it
if there is trust in love! 
A pretense of love is sometimes 
More intimate than a relationship 
that has no life in it!
What promises of redemption the world
That labels love a sin, held out for her?     
She was neither a wife nor a beloved 
after she was transformed 
from a rock to a woman;
Hadn’t it been better
to have remained a rock 
and lived the rest of the life 
holding on to the memory 
of a handful of those ecstatic moments!
 
*Refers to the story of Ahalya in Ramayana

IT IS NOT THERE WHERE YOU LOOK

It is not there where I look!
May be, what appears to be where 
is never there in reality,
Like the face that is not there in the mirror,
Or, the pain in the body, 
Will the words that need to be said
Ever be there in written letters? 
Does the meaning dwell in the words?
Does the sun sit behind the mountains,
Or the sea ends at the skyline? 
Actually, what appears where
Is never there! 

SEARCH

There is no point in searching.

A river flows while 
You keep searching words. 
As you look for the right colours,  
the painting fades. 
The sun drops into night
as you grope for the morning

and a moon comes up while 
you chase the dark.

The petals wilt and drop
before the search for fragrance ends.
The poem is lost 
before the right images are found. 
While you seek the sea,
The horizon shifts further.
The feet are lost 
Through the search for a ground underneath.
The thread of the kite snaps
In the quest for a sky.
The clouds dissipate 
While craving the rain,
And the body dissolves 
While you look for the shadow.

Ther is no point in a search.

Life fritters away quietly 
As you keep browsing. 

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

Life does not flow
the way you expect. 

Do you think morning does not arrive
Till the crows’ caw?
Does the kaash not bloom 
after the river recedes?

Do you think butterflies never circle 
The flower after the petals drop?   
Does no one look up at the sky
After the moon goes into hiding?

Do the frogs stop croaking
When the rain goes away?
Can the night be omnipresent
With its darkness?
Can everyone find the way
When there is light?

Doesn’t your shadow stay back
After you leave?
What do you think?

Sangram Jena (1952), is an eminent poet, translator, critic and editor. He writes both in English and Odia and has published more than 70 books. Translation of his poems have been published in several Indian languages including English, Bengali, Hindi, Tamil, Assamese and Marathi. His poetry in English have been published in many magazines in India and abroad. He has translated Classics of World Poetry into Odia and classical, medieval and contemporary Odia Poetry into English. He has received many awards including Sahitya Akademi Award (National Academy of Letters, New Delhi) for translation, a Senior Fellowship from the Department of Culture, Govt. of India and served as a jury member of National Selection Committee (New Delhi) for award of ‘Saraswati Samman’. He edits two literary journals, Nishant in Odia and Marg Asia in English. He has served as Vice-President, Odisha Sahitya Akademi. He lives in Odisha, India.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Poetry

Found in Translation: Soubhagyabanta Maharana’s Poetry

Five Odia poems by Soubhagyabanta Maharana  have been translated by Snehaprava Das

SUNSET: A SYMBOL 

To bridge the agelessly waiting gap
Between an unvoiced luminosity and a vibrant darkness
Sunset is a magic silence, 
An indulging over the wispy interlapping   
Of light and shadow.

It is an ancient oil-painting 
On the old drawing sheet of the sky by a 
Bohemian, invisible artist who fills the earth 
With a spectrum of the melody of 
An unforgettable twilight.  

Sunset is the gentle thump of 
Disembodied dancers’ feet, tripping  
To the rhythm of witch-chanting
On a phantom, ashy-pale stage.

A lifetime that had glowed like a fake sun
In the crimson smile of the earth 
Slowly turns black, 
And on the black canvas of the sky
Painted in scatters are millions of sparkling stars.

Sunset is a Truth, 
A promise of a melodious, bright morning  
That the sun dreams of 
Slumbering in the palanquin of the night.

SILENCE BETWEEN WORDS

Like a lone, saffron-robed monk 
The silence hiding between the words, waits 
Keeping awake in secret, 
Hoping to get free
from the mysterious chains of mystic incantations.

The bewildering crowd of thoughts stuck between
One word and another,
Before even the mystery of the meaning is unraveled
Confuses the interpreting.

And the silence is left alone,
Weeping, elegizing the loss -- 
A dumb witness to the unwarranted death of words.  

Because the silence does not reveal itself
In happiness, 
A sorrow lives permanently in the palpitations
Of the poet’s heart
To bring the un-wilting flowers of poetry
Molded from the poet’s blood into blooming
in their vivid, picturesque charm.

In the unshackled voice of the poet
words and silence seek a nerve center,
in a sensitive, ultimate moment of love
to melt into each other. 

Who else other than a poet could gauge
The depth of the silence hidden 
In the koel’s song 
To bridge the gap between life and death?  

A VILLAGE THAT WAS: SKETCHING NOSTALGIA  

No one was there waiting eagerly 
To meet my shadow, 
No one to lament the loss of a village 
That was there once.
The smell of love in the wet mud
Has faded with the passage of time.
The melody of spring in the soft breeze,
The shadow of a rainbow on the face of water 
Have disappeared too.

The day when I left the village, 
A fleeting cloud played hide and seek
In my book-satchel.
The fragrance of the lotus in the village-pond
That wished to caress fondly
The vibrance of childhood on my face 
Missed me.
The name of that village lives in me. 
A village crowded with forests of Mahula 
And throbbing with the song of Adivasis  
Dancing in the shadows of the Sal -- 
The village where rings the rhythm of my birth-cries 
in a straw-thatched hut --
the name of that village, has melted into my breath.
  
A deep sadness pricks me though
That just as I understood the village
I lost my way to it,
 Before I could trace the lotus-pond
And inhale its fragrance.
The smoke the factories emitted 
Choked me midway,
As I went on narrating the nostalgia 
I was left with just myself.
Alone.
While I searched for dreams 
Painted in rural shades,
I lost my own self in the pale horizon
Of a smoky, grey sky.  

DECLARATION

I gathered the ardour of that missing warmth
From the ashes of a decadent sun 
To charge the cold blood that run in my veins.
I gathered the exotic smell of blinking stars
To add years to my life.

My skeletal frame that resembles
some ancient sculptor has a voice.
It can speak, and it can hide 
from the eyes of the world
the pain it writhes under,
lest someone use its vulnerability
and sign a sworn statement for befriending 
its invisible blood, flesh and sinews.  

In every corner of my body that is caged,  
In the prison of the elements,
Love sojourns.
And the intimate voice of my shadow-self 
Has reached up to the planets and beyond. 
 
The primeval tale of my century-old wait
Has sheltered in the feeble gaze of my eyes
May be, I am designed to stand as 
The enemy of Time.
It was perhaps designed so,   
That my victory march, with the bugle blowing 
Will be declared a glorious success 
Against a different backdrop. 

RELATIONSHIP: ANOTHER HORIZON 

It feels odd at times 
To play the hero in 
The brief interlude between 
Ignorance and innocence.
There are times when a relationship 
Founded on poisoned, defiled trust
Tastes sweet.
In the dark sanctum of bitter animosity,
 A beguiling god assumes a friendly form
 And embraces to overwhelm you
 with his gratifying blessings.

 Only a fake hero would nurture   
 The overpowering urge to 
 Flaunt himself in vain glory on the 
 Dazzling stage of civility.
 It is he who fosters a brazen wish   
To draw a line on the water,
And to wish for the moon  
In a moonless night-sky. 
 True friendship is where 
The sapling of love grows
Its green foliage  
To reach a lofty height 
And brings life to fruition.
It’s like a faint streak of light 
That illumines a blind alley at night. 

A heart bathed in that love
Becomes more sacred than a shrine,
More craved than the potion of immortality. 
It is the comfort an orphan child enjoys,
Sleeping inside a cozy culvert
In the chilly night of the month of the Pausha*. 

*December- January
Soubhagyabanta Maharana

Soubhagyabanta Maharana (b.1951) in the  Bolangir town, Odisha, is a prominent bilingual poet, critic and translator of Odia and English.  He is an awardee of Odisha Sahitya Akademi for poetry in 2010 along with many prestigious literary awards. He has to his credit nineteen poetry collections  and  six essay collections on modern Odia poetry.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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