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.
The nomenclature ‘historical fiction’ is sometimes quite confusing for the reader who keeps on wondering how much of the novel is real history and how much of it is the figment of the author’s imagination. Beginning in 1686, and set in the later part of Aurangzeb’s reign, this work of historical fiction named Job Charnock and the Potter’s Boy charts the turbulent history of an insignificant hutment in the inhospitable swamps of Sutanati in Bengal that becomes one man’s unyielding obsession. This man is no other than Job Charnock whom we all claim to be the original founder of the city of Calcutta.
Bengal during that period was the richest subah of the Mughal Empire and the centre of trade. The English were granted a toehold in Hugli when Shah Jahan ousted the Portuguese in 1632 and made it a royal port. Since then, they had been worrying Shaista Khan, the current nawab at Dhaka, to give them permission to erect a fort at the mouth of the river but the wily old nawab did not agree and dismissed their petitions repeatedly. This was a period of extreme flux when the European powers like the Dutch, the Danes, the French and the English were all playing out age-old rivalries in new battlefields, aided and abetted by individual interests and local conflicts. This is when Sir Joshua Child was at the helm of East India Company’s affairs in London throughout the 1680s and his plans were brought to fruition in faraway Bengal by William Hedges and then Job Charnock.
Of the earliest champions of the British Empire, none was as fanatic or single-minded as Job Charnock. He evinced no wish for private trade or personal gain, and unlike many of his contemporaries who returned to England as wealthy ‘nabobs’, he lived and died here as a man of modest means. His life’s work was only to identify the most strategic location on the river and secure it for his masters.
Sutanati, with its natural defences and proximity to the sea, appealed to his native shrewdness and he applied himself in relentless pursuit. The story of this novel begins in Hugli in 1686, on the first day of the monsoon, when a poor potter, Gobardhan, and his wife, Indu, find it difficult to make ends meet and their life is centred around their young son Jadu. In the guise of Gobardhan relating bedtime stories to his son, the novelist very tactfully gives us the earlier historical background of the place. He tells us how during his great-great-grandfather’s time, two hundred years ago, Saptagram was the greatest city in the country, the greatest port in the Mughal Empire where ships and boats came from all over the world. Later the Portuguese bought land and built a fort at Golghat, but the Mughals grew jealous of them and finally attacked Hugli and ousted them from there.
Coming down to the present time, Jadu is twelve years old when his parents are burnt to death in front of his eyes as they were innocent bystanders in the struggle for power between the East India Company and the Nawab of Bengal. By a quirk of fate, Jadu is rescued by his father’s Mussalman friend, Ilyas, who is really protective of the boy and acts as a substitute father figure. But soon Ilyas leaves for Dhaka on a diplomatic mission and thrusts the young boy in the hands of a trusted Portuguese sailor and captain called D’ Mello. Since then, Jadu is drawn into the whirlwind of events that follow. He spends a lot of time on the river, and from December 1686 to February 1687, stays at Sutanati. Then, he moves from Sutanati to Hijli, and back to Sutanati up to March 1689, till at last he stands face to face with the architect of his misfortune — Job Charnock himself.
The rest of the tale hovers around how Jadu becomes one of his most trusted aides and though Charnock’s grand dreams did not come to fruition during his lifetime. When he died in 1693, the place was still a clutch of mud and timber dwellings still awaiting the nawab’s parwana[1] to build and fortify the new settlement. The English finally managed to acquire the zamindari rights to Sutanati, Kolkata and Gobindopur in November 1698, when the area had become quite lucrative by then.
In exploring the how, but more importantly the reason for this coming into being, the story then speaks of the motivations of the great and good and the helplessness of the not so great, all of whom in their own way contributed little nuggets of history to the city’s birth. The novel is also filled with common folk, both local natives as well as foreigners, who watch unheeded while destinies are shaped by the whims of rulers. Interwoven with verifiable historical events and many notable characters from history, the novel therefore is above all primarily the story of an innocent boy Jadu who navigates the different circumstances he is thrust in and emerges victorious and hopeful in the end. As the narrative continues, he also moves from innocence to maturity. Through his eyes we are given to read about a wide range of characters who form the general backdrop of the story.
In the ‘Author’s Note’ at the end of the novel, Madhurima Vidyarthi categorically states that this is not a history book, but she has strung together imaginary events over a skeleton of fact, based on the sum of information available. She states, “While trying to adhere to accepted chronology, the temptation to exercise creative license is often too great to be overcome”. The most significant character in this perspective is Job Charnock’s wife, who has been the subject of much research and her treatment in the Company records is typical of the time. But though a lot of information is available about Charnock’s daughters repeatedly in letters, Company documents, baptismal registers, and headstones, their mother is conspicuous by her absence. This is where the author applies her ‘creative license’ and makes Mrs. Charnock’s interactions with Jadu reveal his coming of age, and with her death, he symbolically reaches manhood. Vidyarthi also clarifies that several characters in the novel like Jadu, his parents, Ilyas, Manuel, Madhu kaka and Thomas Woods are also imaginary, and they represent the nameless, faceless masses during that period and therefore provide a ‘slice of life’ that make up history. All in all, this deft mingling of fact and fiction makes this almost 400-page novel a page-turner, ready to be devoured as fast as possible.
Five Odia poems bySoubhagyabanta 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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In 2015, Shashi Tharoor’s speech at the Oxford Union exploded across social media, striking a chord far beyond academic or diplomatic circles. Framed around the motion “This House Believes Britain Owes Reparations to Her Former Colonies”, Tharoor—alongside eloquent speakers from Ghana and Jamaica—argued persuasively for moral accountability from the former empire. Tharoor’s speech was widely appreciated in India because of the succinctness with which he illustrated how and why colonial rule exploited the subcontinent, and how violence and racism were the order of those days.
“It’s a bit rich to oppress, enslave, kill, torture, maim people for 200 years and then celebrate the fact that they are democratic at the end of it. We were denied democracy, so we had to snatch it, seize it from you,” he said to loud applause from the audience.
But while insightful points such as these formed the crux of Tharoor’s eloquent speech, it was his rapier barbs that had the esteemed audience (and netizens alike) crowing. “No wonder that the sun never set on the British Empire,” he says at one point, referencing a common boast used to illustrate the sheer extent of Britain’s power, “because even God couldn’t trust the English in the dark.”
The speech’s viral success revealed a yearning—particularly among millennials raised on televised debates and editorials—for a mode of discourse that is rapidly disappearing. Where once prime-time slots featured fiery discussions on social and political issues about caste, class, gender, and policy, today’s digital platforms prioritise speed, relatability, and aesthetics.
In the India of today, a viral tweet can spark more conversation than a peer-reviewed article. A beauty influencer’s “Get Ready With Me” vlog is more likely to trend than a lecture by a scholar on social justice. The thought leaders of the past were expected to speak with gravity; the content creators of the present are expected to sparkle. When public intellectuals are replaced by public influencers, the nature of cultural discourse changes. Popular culture, once a mirror held up to society, now leans into escapism. Complex socio-political debates are flattened into clickable soundbites, and intellectual inquiry is often sidelined by algorithm-friendly content categories, sorted by SEO value[1].
Intellectuals once forced us to think harder, ask more difficult questions, live with complexity. Influencers invite us to feel seen, validated, or soothed. One expands the self, the other simply flatters it.
India’s Golden Age of Thought: When Public Intellectuals Shaped the Nation’s Conscience
Once upon a time, India did not lack public intellectuals. In fact, the early decades after Independence saw them thrive because India’s tradition of intellectual dissent is long and storied. Figures like Nehru, Gandhi, Ambedkar, Tagore—they were not just leaders or writers; they were public philosophers.
Thinkers engaged with the moral and political questions of their time, not just within academia but in public forums, books, interviews, op-eds, and essays that reached a wide, engaged readership. They helped build the intellectual spine of a newly independent nation grappling with secularism, caste, democracy, and justice.
Even in Bollywood, cinema once offered social critique—from Guru Dutt’s Pyaasa (Thirsty, 1957) to Shyam Benegal’s Ankur (The Seedling, 1974). They were conscience-keepers, cultural critics, and truth-speakers. They didn’t shy away from controversy—many actively courted it. They weren’t afraid to speak against majoritarianism, economic inequality, censorship, or communalism.
Meanwhile, halfway across the world in Texas, a young boy named Wes Anderson—who would go on to become one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary cinema—found himself deeply influenced by Satyajit Ray. It wasn’t just Ray’s pioneering cinematic style that captivated him, but also his prolific work as a writer and illustrator, and his powerful engagement with public discourse. Through his films, Ray offered a radical and empathetic lens on Indian society, boldly confronting issues such as poverty, gender roles, the tension between tradition and modernity, and the human consequences of social change—perspectives that were remarkably ahead of their time and continue to resonate across cultures.
Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam was one of modern India’s most beloved and influential public intellectuals—a scientist, teacher, and former President who embodied the rare blend of deep technical knowledge and visionary humanism. Revered as the “Missile Man of India” for his pivotal role in advancing the country’s space and defence programs, Kalam also brought science into the public imagination with clarity, humility, and hope. His presidency (2002–2007) was marked by an earnest outreach to young people, whom he inspired to dream beyond the limitations of circumstance. Unlike many in power, Kalam believed in the democratisation of knowledge—he made complex ideas accessible, challenged youth to innovate, and constantly linked progress with ethics and spirituality. In doing so, he redefined what it meant to be a public intellectual in India: not someone cloistered in academia, but a leader who imagined a better future and invited the nation to build it with him.
Brains Behind Paywalls: How Intellectualism Lost Its Spotlight
There’s no shortage of brilliant minds today—but intellectualism requires both platform and patience. Neither is abundant. A YouTuber dissecting colonial legacy in Indian education may get a few thousand views; a beauty blogger with “chai latte skin” content racks up millions. But now, intellectuals are trapped producing work for journals and conferences rather than the public sphere. As a result, public-centred intellectualism has become rare. It’s not because intellectuals of that caliber no longer exist, but that the structures that once made their ideas visible have been buried under layers of institutional gatekeeping.
The decline of the public intellectual isn’t just the result of a shifting media landscape—it’s also tied to how our access to and expectations around knowledge have evolved. There was a time when intellectuals were celebrated as generalists, able to navigate literature, politics, science, and philosophy, and translate complex ideas for a broader audience. Think of Susan Sontag or Bertrand Russell—figures who didn’t confine themselves to narrow academic lanes but moved fluidly across disciplines to spark public thought and dialogue.
Today, intellectual life has become increasingly siloed. Hyper-specialization has turned academia into an insular world where scholars speak primarily to other scholars. Rather than bridging the gap between advanced knowledge and public discourse, modern academics are often locked within their own echo chambers. The public philosopher who once commented on culture and politics has given way to specialists producing work for a niche audience of peers.
Even when academics do attempt to reach beyond their field, they’re often met with suspicion. A historian writing on political theory or a physicist reflecting on metaphysics is likely to be dismissed for stepping outside their “expertise.” Intellectual authority today is rigidly policed, and interdisciplinarity—once a hallmark of great thinkers—is now treated with skepticism.
From Public Intellectuals to Public Aestheticism: How Influence Got a Makeover
Today’s cultural powerhouses operate on a very different wavelength than their predecessors. Where figures like Susan Sontag or James Baldwin once shaped public consciousness through sharp intellect and critical writing, today’s influencers—like Kim Kardashian—wield their power almost entirely through aesthetics. Kardashian doesn’t publish essays; she sets the tone for global beauty trends. With each new look—glazed donut skin, brownie lips, strawberry makeup, and the almost comically indulgent cinnamon cookie butter hair—the Kardashians and Jenners reshape beauty norms with a force that rivals traditional intellectuals.
In India, the landscape mirrors this shift. Influencers like Ananya Panday and Ranveer Allahbadia amass millions of views despite offering little in terms of originality or eloquence. Much of their content borrows from what’s already been done, often repackaged with no clear voice of their own. Unlike cultural figures such as Shabana Azmi or even Priyanka Chopra[2]—whose words once commanded attention and mattered—many of today’s digital celebrities struggle when pulled out of the comfort zone of scripted, bite-sized platforms. Their polished online personas crumble under the pressure of unscripted public discourse.
What we’re left with is a curated illusion, a constant performance of identity. And the troubling part? Young audiences are watching, emulating, and internalising these facades—until, inevitably, a scandal breaks the spell. In an era ruled by surface and spectacle, authenticity has become the rarest currency of all.
If Joan Didion or Arundhati Roy represented a time when public intellectualism had mass appeal, these influencers represent what has replaced it: public aestheticism. A philosopher might spend years constructing a critique on our society, but an influencer can change peoples’ worldviews with a single Instagram post. Influence now moves at the speed of an Instagram story. The philosopher builds theory; the influencer sells a mood. In this new aesthetic economy, they are the message, the medium, and the marketplace all at once. This is not an incidental shift, but a reflection of our broader cultural transformation.
Although, this is absolutely not a wholesale condemnation of influencers. Many use their platforms to raise awareness, fundraise, and spotlight important issues. But influence has become aestheticised. And when beauty, brevity, and branding become the dominant currencies of expression, difficult truths become harder to hear.
Even figures with a platform one would consider intellectual, like a podcast or blog, tend to operate within a different framework than the public intellectuals of the past. The most successful are the ones who know how to package their ideas into easily consumable formats. Their content may demand engagement, but not necessarily deeper thinking. The most successful cultural critics of our digital age are simply a different kind of influencer, one who may sell a worldview rather than a skincare routine, but are selling something nonetheless.
Amidst all of this, we have lost the expectation of being challenged by our cultural figures. We have lost the collective memory of what it means to gather around an idea rather than a trend. We have lost the stamina for long-form thinking. We now crave hot takes instead of deep dives, personality over principle, vibes over values. We’ve also stopped expecting our cultural figures to challenge us. We ask them to inspire us, to entertain us, to market their authenticity. We no longer crowd into halls for heated debates—we scroll.
When Influence Replaces Insight: The Rise of Apathy and the Fall of Public Thought
The culture hasn’t gone quiet though. Indian influencers—fashion bloggers, tech reviewers, lifestyle curators, “finance bros”, even comic creators—are the new cultural capital. They dominate conversations on what matters to people: from wedding aesthetics and productivity hacks to skincare routines and budget investments. The currency of their influence isn’t depth but relatability, not dissent but delight. Even in the realm of “education”, we find influencers gamifying complex financial or political ideas into simplified carousels or 60-second explainers. It’s not necessarily bad—but it is diluted.
It’s also understandable why many hesitate to enter intellectual spaces today—there’s a prevailing sense that everything worth saying has already been said. We live in an age where every thought seems pre-articulated, every argument countered, every counterpoint already dissected. The landscape isn’t lacking in intellectual potential; it’s that fewer people feel confident stepping into the role of a public intellectual, believing true originality is no longer possible.
This mindset breeds an intellectual echo chamber. Rather than contributing to the discourse, many settle into passive consumption, convinced that someone else has already voiced every worthwhile idea.
But the truth is, no conversation is ever truly finished. History shows us that ideas are living things—they shift, adapt, and deepen depending on who engages with them and when. The same philosophical questions that animated thinkers centuries ago continue to evolve, finding new relevance in each generation. Feminism as it was understood in the 1970s is not the feminism of today. Jean Baudrillard’s meditations on media and hyperreality in the 1980s feel hauntingly prescient in our digital age—but our reading of him is inevitably shaped by the world we now inhabit. Every era reinterprets the past, and every new voice brings a fresh lens. That’s what keeps the intellectual tradition alive.
Reclaiming Thought: Can Intellectualism Survive the Age of Spectacle?
So, can the intellectual space be reclaimed, or has it been permanently absorbed into digital spectacle? Long-form discussions found in podcasts, essays, and forums are a great starting point. Platforms of these media types allow for deeper exploration of ideas, where nuance and depth are greatly valued.
And it’s not that intellectuals have disappeared. They are still here, writing essays, protesting laws, mentoring students. But they’ve been pushed to the peripheries of public attention. Their audiences are shrinking, and their words are often drowned out by the louder, shinier pull of influencer content.
But intellectual spaces aren’t only limited to these traditional platforms. Niche online communities like internet book clubs on Fable or Instagram create new ways for people to connect with unique ideas. You can also incorporate intellectual conversation into your everyday life. Attend local events, art galleries, or even start casual discussions among friends to make these topics more accessible and relevant. The intellectual sphere may have shifted, but it isn’t gone. We simply have to work to reclaim these spaces with people who are willing to engage deeply with ideas.
Ultimately, the death of the public intellectual may not be as tragic as it seems, it may just mean that intellectualism is taking on new forms. But we have to ensure we’re not losing sight of what really matters—the depth, complexity, and refusal to settle for easy answers in the pursuit of something greater.
Culture Is Still Loud—It Just Doesn’t Want to Make You Uncomfortable Anymore
There’s another reality unique to India: the active suppression of dissent. To be an intellectual in India today, particularly one critical of the status quo, is to court danger. Writers have been jailed (Anand Teltumbde), journalists have been shot (Gauri Lankesh), and students have been arrested for protest slogans. In such an atmosphere, who would choose to be a public intellectual?
The public intellectual, by definition, is someone who speaks truth to power. In India, speaking truth to power comes at a high cost. And so, instead, we scroll. Meanwhile, the influencer class thrives because they are apolitical by design. Their influence is rooted in apathy, in not asking uncomfortable questions. This is not a coincidence. It is by systemic design. The less we think, the more we consume. The more aestheticised our discontent, the less threatening it becomes. Influencers now perform the soft work of culture—sedating, distracting, pacifying—while hard truths are hidden behind paywalls, FIRs, and broken institutions.
But if the public intellectual is to make a comeback, we as an audience must do our part. We have to choose depth over dopamine, discomfort over convenience. We must resist the temptation to aestheticise every idea until it’s just another lifestyle choice.
Because when thought leaders become brand ambassadors, and reflection becomes a trend, we risk forgetting that ideas—not images—are what truly shape society.
The public intellectual may be on life support, but the conversation isn’t over. It never is.
[1] SEO (Search Engine Optimisation) value refers to the estimated monetary worth of organic traffic generated by a website through search engine optimisation efforts.
Lopamudra Nayak is a poet, freelance writer, and biotechnologist with a passion for literature and storytelling. She writes poetry, book reviews, and reflections on pop culture on her blog, Substack and Instagram.
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Five Odia poems by Bipin Nayak have been translated by Snehaprava Das
WITHIN
An equestrian within me Mounts an unbridled horse And plays a violin. A boatman inside me Crosses an imaginary river Again, and again In a non-existent boat.
Within me, there is a wayfarer That refuses to Travel the trodden road And takes a turn.
A lake ripples in me, Waiting futilely To lose itself in the sea, And a waterfall Leaps noisily from above To wet the rocks.
A cloud floats within me, All of a sudden, Flashes a lightning smile And goes back to sleep.
In me, a cowherd Returns home in the twilight Painted in the colours of sunset And lights a kerosene lamp.
A camel inside me Sags under a sack-load of salt, But trudges across the sands Dreaming of a lush meadow.
A mother in me conceives words, Bleeds in labour, Nourishes the vulnerable words With love and care And watches them grow…
PAPER BIRD
My woes pull your neck longer. My beloved words become the air To stuff your insides. I forge your wings from The crumpled paper of my dreams, And mold your beak with my kisses, Paint you in the colour Of my solitary nights…. Trim you with All my fears and frustrations. Because I could not Make a paper-boat of you To sail in the muddy puddle, I lift you up To fly across The monsoon sky. When you climb a little higher Into the air And are drenched out of shape, I, a naked child, Stand here in the rain, look up and cry!
THE MAKING
I pick a few bones of my hardest grief, Scoop some blood Oozing red to create.
I fix a face of smoke or a patch of weepy cloud Mold a nose from the wafting breeze. I fix a pair of eyes, like day and night, There in the face. In one of them, I put a tornado, A bird in the other. With flowers of joy and grief, I shape the lips. The body I try to make Out of a river that hides under it, A fire and a perpetually vain desire To reach the sea or a desolate jungle. I design the limbs from a Lingering surge of green. All these efforts Are but only to replicate What has been made before. I set afloat Because it has been set to drift Much before… And because it has sprinkled A cosmic fervour across A secret sanctum inside me, To bring a god to life, I worship it! I keep trying to create and re-create inside me Because it has made me much before that!
A SKY AS I AM
I have set out to paint a sky of my own -- A sky that is exactly as I am! And for that I have picked up Some nomadic dreams, a sunset, I have collected the blood of flowers, The tune of a stream that has flown away, The chirping of orphan birds, The layers of moss spread over A decrepit piece of rock-writing. I have scooped up A handful of ash from the debris of Perished time, And a wild storm that had retreated After having blown me away. I took out the wet melody from a violin and the primeval music of the insect, throbbing inside the grass. From the reminisces stuck in the sinews I have gathered a few scattered sighs, And from the darkness, the mysteries of nights, I have got warmth from dreams, Sin from pollen grains. With these elements beside me And a canvas in shreds, I sit down to paint a sky of mine A sky that is exactly as I am!
LET THEM SING
Let them sing a song. I do not mind If my wound heals them, Or my tears make them glow, And my blood paints them crimson.
My quick breathing flits about, but I do not mind if someone plays a flute Blowing into the holes of my bones And sings through the lips Borrowed from me.
Let them sing, why must I mind it? The lips are not mine. Nor is the song!
Bipin Nayak
Bipin Nayak (1950), a bold and engaging voice in the literary scenario of modern Odisha, is a trend setter who explored new possibilities for Odia poetry. One of the most significant postmodernist and minimalist poet in Odia, Nayak is a believer in the artefact of words than the meaning and medium. For him poetry is an aesthetic exploration through the fragile, fluid words which could be liberated from its conventional canons and connotations. There is a distinct undertone of metaphysical too in his poetry that hovers over the slim divide between the real and the surreal. Bipin Nayak is a pioneer in Odia auto-fiction writing. His ‘Jatra ra Ketoti Pada’[1], an unprecedented experimental work, that challenges the conventional style through a blending of prose and poetry and does not conform to any traditional literary genre. Besides being the recipient of the prestigious Odisha Sahitya Akademi award the poet has received several accolades for his contribution to Odia literature. Significant amongst them are the Bishuba Jhankar Purashkar, Akhila Mohan Kabita Sammana, Sachivalaya Lekhaka Parishada Sammana and Sammana from Kalinga Sahitya Samaja. He has been widely published in Hindi, Bengali and also in English and has adorned the pages of Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati and other prestigious journals. His major works include Swarachitra (The Painted voice) that fetched him the Odisha Sahitya Akademi award, Nija Nija Barnabodha Apustaka, Sadaja, Bidagdha Bichara, Band Ghara ra Basna.
[1] Translates to ‘how many steps are there in a journey’
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
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
Brochure cover: Provided by Dolly NarangSatyajit Ray(1921-1992): From Public Domain
My trunk call from Delhi to Calcutta booked one day before finally materialised. This was way back in 1990 when trunk calls were the fastest mode of communication. In a coarse voice, the operator demanded a response from the deep, modulated voice on the other end. ‘Satyajit Ray hai[1]?’ she asked, her tone sharp with impatience.
I could hear the legendary filmmaker’s composed response to the operator’s gruff, abrupt tone. I winced at her brusqueness feeling helpless to intervene and apologise.
When she connected me, I introduced myself to Satyajit Ray and ventured to share my idea of an exhibition that would showcase a lesser-known yet equally fascinating facet of his oeuvre—his drawings, film sketches, graphic design and more. A visual archive that, though rarely seen by the public, was as significant as his cinematic legacy. He was initially apprehensive—modest about this body of work and uncertain about how it would be received
This initial conversation was followed by a series of follow-up exchanges over trunk calls, over several months. Each call felt like a step closer to realising the exhibition. I would book trunk calls in the urgent category request for PP (person to person) as they took less time to materialise. PP calls were specifically for the person whose name was specified. Still, patience was essential.
Ray, to my surprise and admiration, always answered the phone himself. No secretary, no assistant screening the calls. The simplicity and humility was endearing.
I had first shared the idea of the exhibition with Paritosh Sen one of India’s master painters and a friend of Ray’s of an exhibition of a lesser known yet fascinating facet of Ray’s genius: children illustrations, detailed film sketches, designs for book and magazine covers, typeface designs, his diverse portfolio of graphic work. Paritoshda, as I affectionately called him who mentored and guided me as I began my journey into the art world, not only approved of the idea but took it upon himself to speak to Ray, whom he knew personally. Following the introduction through Paritoshda, I pursued the idea with the legend.
During the first phone call, I briefly spoke about my concept— an exhibition that would focus on his rarely seen visual art. His immediate response was hesitant and guarded, “These are very small works on paper just a few inches in length and width.” he said. “They would be of no interest.” I ventured that this was a unique and a first time view into his visual legacy and the size would not take away from the impact. He further expressed his doubt about his graphic work having any resonance beyond Bengal, in North India. I further submitted that his artistic genius and versatility has an appeal beyond Bengal. This exhibition would give a rare insight into the work and thought process of not only the deeply respected and admired film maker that we all know but also of Satyajit Ray the illustrator, the graphic designer, along with revealing the meticulous and detailed planning into his films.
I hoped to bring this body of work — into public view for the first time. The idea was to get people to see another Ray — not the filmmaker behind the camera, but the artist behind the pen and brush.
I remember Ray had explained that he had a busy schedule and preoccupied with the editing of Ghare Baire. After several months of trunk calls and waiting, I booked another urgent, person to person call. Finally the breakthrough I was waiting for, “ Come next week,” he said. His doubts of an exhibition having been cleared through the intervention of Paritoshda and somewhat through my persuasion.
As I boarded the Indian Airlines flight to Calcutta the following week, a surge of excitement gripped me. I was given a morning time to meet him at his residence: 1/1 Bishop Lefroy Road. I arrived with some trepidation. Standing outside this tall imposing door, I rang the bell. Soon, I found myself face to face with the master who opened the door himself—his tall, commanding presence matched only by his deep, well-modulated baritone voice greeting me warmly. He led me into his much photographed studio/workplace. He was looking comfortable and relaxed in a white kurta pajama. In contrast to his majestic yet simple presence, I was nervous and hoping it was well masked.
Thereafter, began a series of visits to his flat. Each time the door was opened by the master himself. And I would be led into his study teeming with books lining the teak wood book shelves.
He would sit in a comfortable looking swivel chair with a brown rexine cover, the corners of which were slightly frayed. Opposite him and within a comfortable arms reach was a small work table with jars tightly packed with paint brushes, pen, pencils. Here is where he did his drawings to create his vast and varied visual legacy of set design, costume design, make up instructions, graphic design, children’s illustrations for the monthly children’s magazine, Sandesh, started by his grandfather, He also designed the covers for Sandesh, more books and magazine covers.
Making of the exhibition
Working alongside him to sort through his drawings was an enriching and memorable experience—one that offered rare insight into his creative mind. Each meeting felt like a step closer to the exhibition becoming a reality. I noticed his interest was slowly growing and he was participating in the selection with increasing enthusiasm and a discerning eye. He approved some while some he felt need not be exhibited. Our meetings would stretch till lunch time until he was gently summoned by his wife, Bijoyadi, to take his lunchbreak. He would extend the search and wrapped up a little beyond lunch time. I too was cautious not to overstep limits.
As he began to look in his study, he unearthed these miniature treasures on paper tucked between books or between their pages, resting on tall teakwood bookshelves. Some were found under sofa cushions. He remembered that many were with his cousin Lila Majumdar[2] and that he would have to ask her. As he delved deeper into his collection he remarked, “I had forgotten I have done all this work.”
During few initial meetings, I would address him as Mr. Ray, which was beginning to feel formal and somewhat awkward. So I asked if there was another way I could address him.
“Manik,” he asserted. “Everyone calls me Manik.”
From that moment on, I called him Manikda. These recollections return to me vividly as I write this piece.
We turned our attention to his iconic crimson books, neatly stacked in his study. These well-known volumes are a treasure of Ray’s meticulous preparatory work—filled with detailed sketches for his films, costume and set designs, makeup instructions for his makeup artist, architectural notes, and an astonishing range that gave glimpses into his thought and work process.
Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
We did not want to remove any drawings from these precious notebooks. He selected the drawings that he liked and decided he would ask Nemai Ghosh (1934-2020), his close associate and long-time photographer, to photograph them for the exhibition.
Several drawings, having come loose from the notebooks, were used in their original. We did not want to remove any drawings which were firmly in place in these volumes. Ray identified the drawings that appealed to him and Ghosh photographed them.
Part two of the exhibition was titled “Drawings and Sketches For Films’ and it comprised of both originals and the photographs by Nemai Ghosh of the drawings chosen by Ray.
I nudged him further and asked if there was anything else he might suggest from his visual repertoire.
He thought of his film posters. The ones readily available in his flat were posters of Nayak and Ghare Baire, which were loaned for the exhibition. He was particularly eager to include the poster of Devi, but after searching, he discovered he only had one copy and was reluctant to part with it.
Top: Hoarding of Ray’s film Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne (1969). Below:: Film posters of Nayak(Actor, 1966) and Ghore Baire (Home and the World, 1984). Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
We tried to include artworks which would represent the different aspects of his visual repertoire. It seemed there was no end — typefaces he had designed, advertising campaign when he worked for D.J.Keymer. While searching he realised he did not have the originals of the typefaces he had designed but fortunately they had been preserved in the photographs taken by Nemai Ghosh. Later Paritoshda told me that he was given an award for the typeface by an American foundry and named it after him, Ray Roman.
Provided by Dolly Narang
An album was discovered containing a silent film he had conceptualised on paper but never brought to life—a silent film on Ravi Shankar with his music in the background. The album, composed of monochromatic black watercolours, was photographed by Nemaida. It drew great interest, offering a first-ever glimpse into a project that was never realised.
Paritoshda advised that Ray had composed music for many of his films. A tape with his compositions was playing continuously and softly in the background at the exhibition.
The exhibition was presented in two parts each had a duration of three weeks. Part one was devoted to his Graphic design, drawing and part two was about his preparatory sketches for films.
I requested Paritoshda to write an article for the exhibition catalogue, to which he graciously agreed. He penned an insightful essay which was appreciated by Ray himself as well as by fellow artists, critics, and visitors who found his insights both illuminating and deeply engaging. When I asked him for his suggestion for a title for the exhibition, he thoughtfully suggested — “The Other Ray” — a title both fitting and meaningful.
With the socio-political upheavals around us in Delhi, it wasn’t easy—cataloguing, printing invitation cards, framing, arranging transport to distribute the invitations. Invitation cards from our mailing list of over one thousand had to be hand delivered.
I asked Manikda for names of his friends and associates who he would like invitations to be sent to. His list included names both in India and abroad.
About a week before the event, I visited AIFACS[3] to put up a poster for the exhibition. To my surprise and delight, sitting in one of the exhibition halls was none other than M.F.Husain himself. It felt like a godsend—an unexpected opportunity to personally invite him.
He was visibly excited upon hearing about the exhibition and expressed interest in seeing the artworks immediately wherever they were. I explained that the pieces were still at home and would be better appreciated once they were displayed on the gallery walls. But he was insistent—he wanted to see them right away. We got into my car and drove to my house. Husain viewed the works in thoughtful silence moving from work to work, looking at each with great interest. After perusing them keenly he settled at the dining table and began reminiscing about his association with Ray – a moment as historic as it was moving, etched forever in my memory.
I was not prepared with either a tape recorder or a camera to record this memorable encounter. Fortunately, The Illustrated Weekly, under editor Pritish Nandy, later published his reflections in an article spread over two pages with several illustrations of his graphic work.
Opening to the Public
When the exhibition finally opened at The Village Gallery in New Delhi’s quaint Hauz Khas Village it was received with great enthusiasm and acclaimed by both critics and the public
Visitors from all walks of life came to see the “ The Other Ray”. For many, it was a revelation. The same legendary filmmaker who had given the world The Apu Trilogy had also crafted whimsical illustrations for children, designed book jackets, created typefaces. It was exciting for them to get a peek into his creative process as a filmmaker through his detailed film sketches.
I made another trunk call to inform him that the article in the brochure by Paritosh Sen had been chosen for The India Magazine’s cover story. The next day, when I spoke to him again and offered to send him a copy of the magazine, he responded with excitement. He said he couldn’t wait and had already gone to the market to buy a copy for himself.
Once the exhibition—having stirred great excitement in the art world—came to an end, it was finally time to take it down. The last few days were deeply moving. Visitors lingered, often spending long hours in the gallery, reluctant to leave, as if trying to hold on to the experience a little longer. The space was filled with quiet reflection and enriched by heartfelt exchanges.
Looking back, organising this exhibition remains one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life. What I cherish is the memory of the many hours spent in his study carefully selecting the works for the exhibition. It was a collaborative process, he was open to my suggestions yet he became more and more involved as he delved deeper into his graphic work.
An idea, carefully nurtured, took shape as an exhibition. What was especially fulfilling about the exhibition was how it brought to light a lesser-known facet of Ray’s creative genius—his remarkable visual imagination, his penchant for details, his industriousness. Until this exhibition, only a few of his sketches had appeared in articles and books, leaving much of this work largely unseen. The display offered audiences a rare and intimate glimpse into his visual world as well as his work and thought process, making it especially significant.
The final step was to return the works. I personally placed each delicate sheet into thin plastic sleeves, compiled them into a portfolio, and flew to Calcutta to return them to the master. True to his dignified demeanour, he received the compilation with quiet pleasure. He expressed both satisfaction and a hint of surprise at the enthusiastic response the exhibition had received. I took the liberty of asking him if I could keep as a memento two works from each part of the exhibition. He readily agreed and asked me to choose. I selected one black white illustration for Sandesh and credit title from his film Sonar Kella (The Golden Fort, 1974) . One more request — Could he sign these please? To which he graciously agreed.
As I took my leave, I shared a thought—could we perhaps work on a sequel to The Other Ray? He received the idea warmly, but unfortunately, it never came to fruition. He soon became immersed in Agantuk (The Stranger, 1991), and not long after, his health began to decline.
As I write this, memories come rushing back, and I find myself tempted to echo Manikda’s words of my experience that “I had forgotten I had done all this work.”
Costume designed and sketched by Ray for Hirak Rajar Deshe (In the Country of the Diamond King, 1980) Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
Ray’s Note in the Brochure:
My grandfather was, among other things, a self-taught painter and illustrator of considerable skill and repute, and my father — also never trained as an artist — illustrated his inimitable nonsense rhymes in a way which can only be called inspired. It is, therefore, not surprising that I acquired the knack to draw at an early age.
Although I trained for three years as a student of Kalabhavan in Santiniketan under Nandalal Bose, I never became a painter. Instead, I decided to become a commercial artist and joined an advertising agency in 1943, the year of the great Bengal famine. Not content with only one pursuit, I also became involved in book designing and typography for an enterprising new publishing house.
In time I realised that since an advertising agency was subservient to the demands of its clients, an advertising artist seldom enjoyed complete freedom.
This led me to the profession of filmmaking where, in the 35 years that I’ve been practising it, I have given expression to my ideas in a completely untrammelled fashion.
As is my habit, along with filmmaking, I have indulged in other pursuits which afford me the freedom I hold so dear. Thus, I have been editing a children’s magazine for thirty years, writing stories for it and illustrating them, as well as illustrating stories by other writers.
While preparing a film, I’ve given vent to my graphic propensities by doing sketches for my shooting scripts, designing sets and costumes, and even designing posters for my own films.
Since I consider myself primarily to be a filmmaker and, secondarily, to be a writer of stories for young people, ·I have never taken my graphic work seriously, and I certainly never considered it worthy of being exposed to the public. It is entirely due to the tenacity and persuasiveness of Mrs. Narang that some samples of my graphic work are now being displayed. Needless to say, I’m thankful to Mrs. Narang; but, at the same time, I must insist that I do not make any large claims for them.
Ray’s signature: Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
SATYAJIT RAY
The Consummate Artist by Paritosh Sen (1918-2008)
(Republished from the brochure of “The Other Ray” exhibition)
It was the summer of 1945. I was holding my third one-man show and my first in Calcutta. On the third day of the exhibition, Prithwish Neogy (a brilliant scholar, now heading the Department of Asiatic Art at the Honolulu University) entered the exhibition hall accompanied by an extraordinarily tall and swarthy young man. I had known Prithwish earlier. The latter was introduced to me as Satyajit Ray. I was vaguely aware of him as the only son of the late Sukumar Ray, the creator of a unique body of nonsense rhymes and humorous prose remarkable for their originality of vision and an extremely sharp intellect and imaginative power. Satyajit was also known as the grandson of Upendra Kishore Ray, one of the inventors of half-tone block making, a pioneering creator of a sizeable body of children’s literature and the founder of the well-known children’s magazine, Sandesh, and a painter of no mean talent either.
Satyajit was then doing a course in painting in Santiniketan under the very able guidance of Benode Behari Mukherjee, a great artist and an equally great teacher. Besides, Ray had also the unique opportunity of coming in close contact with Nandalal Bose, the guru of both Benode Behari and Ram Kinkar, undoubtedly the foremost sculptor of contemporary India.
Earlier he had also received the blessings and affection of Rabindranath Tagore. Although he did not complete the art course in Santiniketan, the experience of being surrounded by these great artists and the unique rural setting of the Santhal Parganas, as portrayed by these artists and the poet, enabled Ray to appreciate nature in all its diverse and glorious manifestations and opened his eyes to the mysteries of creation. This single unprecedented and cherished experience helped him to formulate his ideas about the visual world and to unlock doors of visual perceptions. Added to this was his study and understanding of the classical and folk art, dance and music of our country. The magnificent collection of books in the Santiniketan library of world art and literature also helped him to widen his horizon. It was here that he read whatever books were available on the art of cinema. The seeds of a future design artist and a filmmaker were simultaneously sown here.
Having lost his father early in life, the need for earning a livelihood assumed enough importance to make him leave Santiniketan prematurely and look for a job in the field of advertising art or, as it is better known in modern parlance, graphic design. A latent talent is bound to make its presence felt sooner or later, whatever be the chosen field. As Tagore said in one of his early verses, “Flowers in bloom may remain hidden by leaves but can they hide their fragrance?” Satyajit Ray was appointed by the then D.J. Keymer (now known, as Clarion Advertising Services Ltd.) as a visualiser-cum-designer, often executing the finished design or an entire campaign himself.
Together with two of his contemporaries, O.C. Ganguli and Annada Munshi, Ray was trying to evolve certain concepts not only in illustrations but also in typography which would give their design an overall Indian look. One recalls those highly distinctive newspaper and magazine ads, the magnificent calendars, posters, cinema slides and what not of the late ’40s and ’50s not without a certain nostalgia. If my memory does not fail, I think some of the works of these three artists were even published in Penrose Annual and elsewhere. Here it may be worthwhile to bear in mind that the style evolved by these three artists made a welcome departure from the dull academicism and the stereotypes being practised by most of the advertising agencies of those times. The freshness and vigour displayed in their approach was readily appreciated both by their employers and their clients. Ray was particularly strong in the difficult area of figure drawing, an area in which many graphic designers were found singularly wanting.
Although he was soon to move away from commercial art to embrace his new-found love of filmmaking, he would continue to remain an illustrator of the first order as would be evident from his emergence as a story-teller in the two popular genres of detective and science fiction. (Not many outside Bengal know that Ray’s literary output is in no way less than that of his cinema and that most of his books have already run into thirty to thirty-five editions). He has not only been illustrating his own stories, but over the years he has been designing the covers of his grandfather’s once defunct children’s magazine Sandesh, revived by him nearly two decades ago, which also carried many illustrations by him. But in my opinion his most cherished field is calligraphy, whether that be of the pen or brush variety.
Illustrations from Sandesh: Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
This art he imbibed from his guru Benode Behari Mukherjee. Over the years he had also been studying the art of typography with the scrutinising eye of a highly creative calligrapher. The result has been a series of innovations in both Bengali and English lettering evolved for posters, banners and book covers. These very original works gave a tremendous fillip to graphic design in general and book, magazine and record covers in particular, especially in Bengal. The books Ray designed for the now defunct Signet Press of Calcutta way back in the early ’50s set new trends and were considered as models for book production both in terms of page layout, typography and jacket design, the last being his chosen field where, as I said earlier, his innovations have known no bounds. The covers of the well-known literary magazine Ekshan, which he has been designing for many years, to give only one instance, bear ample testimony to his apparently playful but significant experiments with the forms of three Bengali letters which constitute the name of the magazine. The wide variety of his inventiveness is one of his great achievements in the field of cover design.
Cover designs for Ekshan. Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
Then there are the posters, banners and slides he designed for his own films. These too were eye openers and instant trend setters. Who can ever forget the huge banners and billboards of the Apu trilogy put up at important street junctions of Calcutta! Their freshness of ideas, design concepts and calligraphy were not to be missed even by men and women in the street. Simultaneously with his creative outburst in the art of cinema, his creativity in graphic design reached new heights. What was remarkable was the fact that Ray imminently succeeded in investing all these works with a highly distinctive Indian flavour derived from his awareness of our folk traditions (especially 19th century Bengali book illustrations and woodcut prints of decorative lettering) both in their linear vigour and simplicity as well as in ornamentation.
One of the most outstanding examples of this approach was the publicity material he designed for Devi. The underlying theme of the title expresses itself forcefully both in the highly imaginative design of the lettering and the image. Their fusion is perfect. Not many graphic designers have been as type conscious as Ray. He personifies the printing designer’s gospel “type can talk”. That a letter or a printing type is not only a sign but an image by itself, and if appropriately employed can have immense communicative power and is capable of expressing a whole range of human emotions was known to Ray from the very beginning of his career.
In the enormous range of Roman printing types there are many in the humanist tradition in their simple aesthetic charm, warmth of feeling as well as in their highly elegant but delicate anatomical details. There are also those which are severe, powerful and cold but nonetheless are highly attractive in their own ways.
It is often overlooked by most readers that a letter’s structure and anatomy can be reminiscent of things in the visible world, both natural and man-made. Some can have the gentle rhythm of the rise and fall of a female form, others may have the majestic look of a well-designed edifice-just to give only two similes. Ray not only bore all these considerations in mind but used his calligraphic knowledge, skill and innovative power to their full advantage when he designed the three printing types called Ray Roman, Daphnis and Bizarre for an American type foundry nearly two decades ago.
Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
Not many of us know the infinite patience, rigours, discipline and the endless process of trial and error involved in designing a whole series of a printing type. That, in spite of his other demanding preoccupations, he found enough time to design three complete sets of types bears ample proof of his diligence and perseverance and his passionate love for the world of types. Those of us who have known him over the past decades are profoundly admiring of the fact that he is a workaholic in the best sense of the term. His diverse creative output is staggering and would put many a man half his age to shame.
In the ’40s, I met Satyajit periodically as I worked as an art master in Indore. One of the high points of my visits to Calcutta during the long summer or the short winter holidays was to frequent his ground-floor apartment in South Calcutta. It was at his place I first listened to TS Eliot’s recital in the poet’s own voice of TheWaste Land which was just brought out by HMV (now known as EMI). It was on such visits I would also have an opportunity to listen to his latest collection of records of European classical music. And it was also on one of such occasions I first heard him toying with the idea of making a film based on Rabindranath Tagore’s novel, Home and the World, a project which was abandoned soon after and was finally realised nearly four decades later.
It was not before1 returned home in 1954 after a five years’ stint in Paris that I came to know of his intense involvement with the making of Pather Panchali[4]. I vividly remember to this day the excitement with which he described it to me and invited me to a screening of the rushes. He brought out all the sketches and doodles he made along with side notes in Bengali not only of the dress, props and characters in the script but also very quick but masterly sketches of frames of each of the sequences, camera movements, etc. I remember asking him why he thought it necessary to make such careful preparations before shooting. To which his quick but significant reply, “One of the foremost but very difficult things in filmmaking is to determine the placement of the camera.” He was equally quick to point out that this is only the first part of shooting a movie and not stills.
Those of us who watched him in action know only too well that although there is always a professional cameraman present in his unit, in reality he becomes the cameraman himself. The visual richness of a film is as important to him as a story well told — the one being inseparable from the other. This is the most distinctive feature of his artistic achievements in all his films.
Ray is a lyricist of the highest order. From his first film Pather Panchali to his latest ShakhaPrashakha[5], this lyrical bend binds all his films together in the form of an oeuvre and finds full fruition in his most recent work.
Some of the imperceptibly slow camera movements in this film are sheer poetry. Although not yet released, I had the opportunity of seeing it twice, and apart from anything else, I as a painter was bowled over by its visual richness and its consummate technical finesse. I have reasons to say this. Whenever I see a movie, I try to see it through the lens of the camera and having witnessed many film shootings of some of Ray’s films, it has become a habit with me to follow the movements with great fascination. Thus, it helps me greatly to enjoy watching a film from the aesthetic and technical viewpoint.
I am sure that in order to achieve maximum artistic quality Ray finds the preliminary exercises made primarily in pen and ink very useful. These small and simple sketches, evidently done in quick succession, have all the spontaneity and vigour of something impeccably visualised and bear the unmistakable stamp of a born lyricist. Their linear treatment, unorthodox positioning on paper and an apparent insouciance, at any rate, in my eyes, are the products of a highly creative mind and are designed to meet the needs of a fastidious aesthete.
Among the sketches, one comes across portraits of many of the characters in his films in various moods and postures. These could easily be rated as some of his best works in this group. Only someone with consummate skill can bring out the full characterisation in a postage-stamp format with utmost economy and clarity. The lines which define the contours and other details of the figures are free flowing, sure and firm, the result of years of practice both with the pen and the brush.
One of the most interesting exhibits in the present collection is the album containing one of his earliest essays in visualisation of a film project — the documentary he once wanted to make on Ravi Shankar playing the sitar and on the tabla accompaniment. Ray showed it to me as early as 1954. It is possible that the inspiration came from his viewing Uday Shankar’s ballet film, Kalpana (Imagination) -– a film which he studied frame by frame by taking scores of stills in the dark theatre where the film was released. He showed me the entire series one by one and pointed out among other things the unusual camera angles, the dramatic lighting, the magic of black and white, especially in the close-ups of both the dancers and the tabla playing. Although the Ravi Shankar film was never released, I think Ray thoroughly enjoyed the exercise and learnt a lot from it.
Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
This, along with numerous sketches and doodles related to his films, will ever be regarded as something unique in the history of filmmaking in our country.’ Only a few’ and they can be counted on one’s fingers, in world cinema have been such gifted artists too like Eisenstein, Kurosawa, Fellini and a few others. The Village Gallery should be congratulated for presenting to us “The Other Ray – the Consummate Artist.”
Dolly Narang, a gallerist, has conceptualised innovative pathbreaking exhibitions. A recent student of sculpture, she has the satisfaction of experiencing both personal and spiritual evolution as a Pranic healer and as a grandmother.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
If you were a lamp, I would not become the night— Nor a moth, Nor a window, Nor an eye. If you were a lamp, I too would be a lamp.
(2)
Whether you dwell afar or near, To me, you are everywhere. Be it dawn or dusk, You bloom—verdant, evergreen. With famished lamps, I wander, seeking you. I crumble, collapse. With my tired soul, I sow and grow whispers. You are my pasture.
Munir Momin is a contemporary Balochi poet widely cherished for his sublime art of poetry. Meticulously crafted images, linguistic finesse and profound aesthetic sense have earned him a distinguished place in Balochi literature. His poetry speaks through images, more than words. Momin’s poetry flows far beyond the reach of any ideology or socio-political movement. Nevertheless, he is not ignorant of the stark realities of life. The immenseness of his imagination and his mastery over the language rescues his poetry from becoming the part of any mundane narrative. So far Munir has published seven collections of his poetry and an anthology of short stories. His poetry has been translated into Urdu, English and Persian. He also edits a literary journal called Gidár. This poem originally titled as Pajjar (Identity) is taken from Munir Momin’s poetry collection YakBechelley Aazman (A Span Long Sky) published by Gidar Publications in 2014.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.Fazal Baloch has the translation rights to Munir Momin’s works.
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A few weeks ago, my daughter invited me to go on an outing with her and her helper. My daughter, who is deaf and uses a wheelchair, lives in a group home in Osaka. She is becoming more and more independent, but she does have kind people around her to give her support, including a helper who is also deaf and uses Japanese Sign Language.
Actually, my daughter invited our entire family to accompany her and her helper on a weekend to Happy Village, a recreational facility in Kobe especially for persons with disabilities. We had visited the onsite stables years ago, and our twins had ridden around a ring on ponies. Having such pleasant memories of the place, I looked forward to visiting again.
My husband declined due to a golf tournament, and my son, who had just entered college as a graduate student, was concerned that he would have too much homework. My daughter informed me that her brother would meet us for a meal.
Although I was looking forward to seeing my daughter and getting to know her helper, I did have a few concerns. For one, I don’t have the confidence to drive in the megapolises of Japan. Kobe, for example, is a confusing city with many ramps, overpasses, and one-way streets, not to mention the traffic. I knew that Happy Village was on the outskirts, however, and I thought that maybe I could get myself there by car. I could have gone by bus or train, but it would have taken me two or three times as long to get there.
In addition, I was a bit worried about communication. I can converse with my daughter, more or less, in Japanese Sign Language, but my signing is not perfect. Since leaving home, my daughter’s vocabulary has expanded, and her signing has sped up. When among fluent JSL users, I can’t always follow the flurry of their fingers. Nevertheless, I know that my daughter often struggles to keep up with what hearing people are saying, and I thought it would be a valuable experience.
A couple days before, my daughter sent me a Google Maps link to the restaurant where we would meet. We would have a meal and then proceed to Happy Village. On the day of, I packed a bag, filled my car with gas, and set out. I had no idea what we would be doing. On trips with my husband, every hour was pre-planned. I thought it would be nice to just go with the flow. I was looking forward to seeing my two kids.
I managed to arrive at the restaurant with ten minutes to spare. I staked out a table and sat down to wait. While perusing my phone, I came across a link that I thought would interest my son. I sent it to him. He replied with a laughing emoji, followed by “Are you coming to Kobe tomorrow?”
A cold sweat broke out over me. “Tomorrow? I thought it was today.”
“She told me tomorrow,” he texted back.
“Oh, no.” I quickly scrolled through our communications and confirmed that we were indeed meeting him the following day. It was now ten minutes after the time I had agreed to rendezvous with my daughter at this restaurant. Or so I thought. Was I supposed to meet her tomorrow? Would I have to find a hotel for the night?
Panicking, I sent my daughter a text and a photo of the restaurant. “I’m here!”
She texted back that they would be a little late, and that there would be six of them.
Six! I had thought that there would only be the three of us. Now I was feeling really intimidated. I am an introvert, and I know my limits. The more people there are around me, the more I retreat into myself. Plus, there was the issue of communication.
Finally, my daughter and her entourage arrived. I met her helper, the helper’s husband, the helper’s twin sister, an older woman with cropped hair and rainbow socks, and a young man about my daughter’s age. We got down to the business of ordering food via the tablet on the table, and sorting our basic facts, such as my age, and that we would be meeting my son the following day at Sannomiya Station.
Sannomiya Station! That was in a busy district in the heart of Kobe. I hadn’t known that we were actually going into the city. I managed to sign that I was scared of driving in such an unfamiliar place. I was beginning to realise that I should have pried more details about this trip out of my daughter beforehand.
Three hours later, I followed the others in my car to Happy Village. My daughter and I were in one room, the others in their own rooms. By this time, my social battery was waning. I was ready to take a bath and curl up in bed with a book. My daughter, who is an extrovert, went down the hall for a couple more hours of JSL conversation and cake with her friends.
The next morning, we checked out of the hotel and stopped by the stables. Just as before, children rode ponies around the ring. My daughter zoomed around in her wheelchair, and the rest of us tried to keep up.
Next, we dropped by the helper’s apartment. I was invited to leave my car in the parking garage, and ride in the car with the others, for which I was very grateful. As we headed toward Kobe, I noted how quiet it was inside the car. No one tried to talk or sign. It would have been dangerous for the driver to take his hands off the wheel to form words, or to look away from the road for too long.
We finally connected with my son, and went to a restaurant. Because there were so many of us, we split up. My kids and I sat at one table, and the others sat at another. I brought my son up in English, and it remains our lingua franca. After my son and daughter exchanged a few words in sign language, my son and I talked a bit about the recent political situation in the United States. Although my daughter was curious, I couldn’t quite explain to her what we were talking about in JSL. I encouraged her to write notes to her brother. They communicated by pen and paper for a while.
After lunch, my son went back to his apartment to prepare a PowerPoint for his class the next day. The rest of us wandered around the city, window-shopping, until it was time for me to leave. My daughter wasn’t ready to go home, so the helper’s husband offered to give me a ride back to my car.
On the way, he said, “When you were talking to your son, your daughter didn’t understand.”
“That’s true,” I conceded. “We were speaking in English.” Although I had wanted to bring up my daughter in English, circumstances made it too difficult. Yet, my son was the only one in our family that I could freely communicate with in my native language.
“I felt sorry for her,” the helper’s husband continued.
I nodded. I had an idea of how my daughter felt. Although I had lived in Japan for many years, I often didn’t fully understand what people were saying around me.
He activated an app on his smartphone, which was affixed to the dashboard, which rendered spoken words into text. He suggested that my daughter could use such an app. I tried to explain that she already knew how to use the app, but for some reason she hadn’t tried to employ it in the restaurant.
I guess I could have been offended by his words, but instead I was moved. I was happy that my daughter was surrounded by people who cared so much about her, who were looking out for her best interests. How wonderful that she had finally found her tribe.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
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Offerings during Qing Ming Jie, a festival honouring ancestorsSongkran(Thai New Year) CelebrationsFestivals in April: From Public Domain
April is a month full of celebrations around the world. Asia hosts a spray of New Year festivities. Then there are festivals like Qing Ming Jie, Good Friday and Easter. All these are in a way reminders of our past. And yet, we critique things as old fashioned! So, where does tradition end and ‘outdated’ or ‘outmoded’ start? Meanwhile we continue to celebrate these festivals with joy but what happens to those who have lost their home, family and their living due to war or climate disasters? Can they too join in with the joie de vivre? Can we take our celebrations to them to give solace in some way?
In our April issue, we have stories from climate and conflict-ridden parts of the world. From Bangkok, Amy Sawitta Lefevre gives an eyewitness account of the March 28th Earthquake that originated in Myanmar. While in her city, the disaster was managed, she writes: “I’m also thinking of all the children in Myanmar who are sleeping in the open, who lost loved ones, who are feeling scared and alone, with no one to reassure them.” As news reels tell us, in Myanmar there have been thousands of casualties from the earthquake as well as shootings by the army.
From another troubled region, Pakistan, Zeeshan Nasir gives a heartrending narrative about climate change, which also dwells on the human suffering, including increase in underage marriages.
Human suffering can be generated by rituals and customs too. For instance, if festivals dwell on exclusivity, they can hurt those who are left out of the celebrations. Odbayar Dorje muses along those lines on Mongolian traditions and calls for inclusivity and the need to change norms. On the other hand, Devraj Singh Kalsi hums with humour as he reflects on social norms and niceties and hints at the need for change in a light-hearted manner. Farouk Gulsara makes us laugh with the antics of his spoilt pet cat. And Suzanne Kamata dwells on her animal sightings in Kruger National Park with her words and camera while Meredith Stephens takes us sailing on stormy seas… that too at night.
Art is brought into focus by Ratnottama Sengupta who introduces artist Haren Thakur with his adaptation of tribal styles that has been compared to that of Paul Klee (1879-1940). She also converses with filmmaker Leslie Carvalho, known for his film The Outhouse, and his new novel, Smoke on the Backwaters. Both of these have a focus on the Anglo-Indian community in India. Also writing on Indian film trends of the 1970s is Tamara Raza. Bhaskar Parichha pays tribute to the late Ramakanta Rath (1934-2025), whose powerful and touching poetry, translated from Odia by the poet himself, can be found in our translations section.
We have an excerpt from Professor Fakrul Alam’s unpublished translation of Tagore’sRed Oleanders. It’s a long play and truly relevant for our times. Somdatta Mandal shares with us her translation of Tagore’s essay called ‘The Classification in Society’, an essay where the writer dwells on the need for change in mindsets of individuals that make up a community to move forward. A transcreation of a poem by Tagore for his birthday in 1935 reflects the darkness he overcame in his own life. Two poems expressive of longings by Jibananada Das have been translated from Bengali by Professor Alam aswell. From Balochistan, we have an excerpt from the first Balochi novel, Nazuk, written by the late Syad Zahoor Shah Hashmi and rendered into English by Fazal Baloch. Among contemporaries, we have a short story by Bitan Chakraborty translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta, a poignant story that reflects on gaps in our society. And a Korean poem by Ihlwha Choi rendered to English by the poet himself.
This issue has been made possible because of support from all of you. Huge thanks to the team, all our contributors and readers. Thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Do pause by our contents page as all the content could not be covered here.
Perhaps, world events leave a sense of pensiveness in all of us and an aura of insecurity. But, as Scarlett O’ Hara of Gone with the Wind[2] fame says, “After all, tomorrow is another day.”
Looking forward to a new day with hope, let’s dream of happier times filled with sunshine and change.
This essay was first published in Tattwabodhini Patrika, Ashwin issue, 1319 B.S.(September-October, 1912) and reprinted in Pather Sanchoy (Gleanings of the Road). It has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal.
Tagore at Paris, 1921. From Public Domain
When we travel to Vilayet[1], then it is not simply going from one country to another; for us it is like entering a new household. The external differences of lifestyle are not that important. It is expected that there will be a difference between us and the foreigners in our dress, ornaments, eating and pleasure habits and so that doesn’t bother us too much. But not only in lifestyle, there is a deeper dissimilarity in our evaluation of life and to find a sense of direction there suddenly becomes a very difficult task.
We start feeling this from the moment we board the ship. We understand that we will have to abide by the rules of another different household. This sudden change is not to the liking of man. This is why we do not try to understand it very clearly; we somehow try to follow it or feel disgusted and then utter to ourselves—their manner and behaviour is too artificial.
The truth is that what is important is the difference we have with them regarding our social position. Our society has come and stopped within the limits of our family and village. Within those limits we have evolved certain fixed rules about how to behave with one another. Keeping those limits in mind it has been decided what we should do and what we should not. Some of those rules are superficial whereas others are quite normal.
But the society which is the target of these rules being framed is not very big in size and it is a society of relatives. So, our habits are quite domesticated. You cannot smoke tobacco in front of your father, you are supposed to pay obeisance to the guru and pay him some money, the sister- in- law must cover up her face in the presence of the elder brother-in-law and close proximity to your uncle- in- law is totally prohibited. Those rules that are outside the family or village society are based on caste(varna) differences.
It can be said that the thread of caste difference has tied our village society and families like a chain or necklace. We have reached a conclusion. India has resolved its societal problems once and for all and she feels that if this system can be permanently retained then there is nothing to worry about. That is why modern India is trying to strengthen in all manner this family and social bonding laws woven through the thread of varnashram[2].
It has to be admitted that India had been able to find a solution to the problems it was facing at one point of time. She has somehow reconciled the differences between diverse castes, she has pacified the struggle between diverse classes; by classifying professions she has managed to contain competition and disputes and has staved off the vanity created by differences of wealth and capacity through the fence of caste differences. Though, on the one hand, India has maintained through all means the independence of Brahmins who are at the helm of society to the people belonging to other castes, at the same time, she has also spread out small and big processes through which all facilities and education could be disseminated among the others. This is why what the rich person enjoys in India is also partly distributed among the ordinary people on various pretexts and in this way, by giving shelter to the ordinary and appeasing them, the powerful retains his power. In our country, there is no reason to go into a major clash between the rich and the poor and the necessity has not arisen by which the incapable person has to be protected by legal means.
The Western society is not family oriented; it is an open and large society which is much more widespread than ours. It is more on the outside than on the inside. The concept of family that is there in our country is absent in Europe and that is why the people of Europe are spread everywhere.
The nature of this spread-out society is such that on the one hand it is loosely assimilated and on the other it is more diverse and stronger. It is like composing a prose piece. Poetry is restricted within its rhymes and that is why its binding is simpler. But the prose spreads out. That is why on the one hand it is independent and on the other its steps are bound through logic and reason, through diverse rules on ideas about the development of the mind in a greater way.
Because the English society is so spread out and because all its activities are externally motivated, it must be always prepared for different social rituals. It hardly has time to wear casual domestic clothes. It must remain dressed up because its social area is not that of relatives. Relatives pardon you, tolerate you, but you cannot expect such tolerance on the part of outsiders. Everyone must do each and every work in due time, otherwise one will encroach upon another. If the rail line is in my area or is under the control of a few of my friends and relatives, then we can run the train as we wish and can even halt each other’s train as and when we desire. But if we try to detain a train for five minutes in the ordinary train route where lots of trains move up and down, then there will be lots of problems and that will be difficult to tolerate. Because our society is extremely domesticated or maybe because we are habituated with domestic practices, we behave with each other very loosely—we spread ourselves as much as possible, waste time and criticise formal behaviour as lacking in fraternal feelings. This is the first thing that prevents us from feeling at home in English society—there one cannot act in a carefree manner and then expect that people will pardon us. They have created different rules that will on an average benefit the maximum number of people. They have set up fixed rules for meeting each other, for invitation formalities, for dressing up, for entertaining guests. If we try and impose the laxity that we display with relatives in a place that is not actually a society of relatives, then everything turns out to be horrible and life becomes impossible.
Till now this wide European society has not come up with any solutions. It has made an effort through certain rules and regulations in external rituals and behaviour to retain self-restraint and gracefulness but is unable to make arrangements by which the internal strife at a personal level can be resolved. Europe is only going through experimentation, change and revolution. There is a constant rivalry cropping up between men and women, between religious society and professional society, between the power of the ruler and the ruled, between businessmen and worker groups. It has not pacified itself like the halo round the moon. Even now it is ready like a volcano waiting to erupt.
But how can we say that we have solved all our problems, have finalised our social structure, and are resting as peacefully as dead bodies? Even though time has elapsed, we can retain the system for some time, but we cannot keep the situation in chains. We are facing the entire world, now we cannot do with our domesticated society; these people are not merely our fathers, grandfathers or uncles, they are outsiders. They belong to different countries and so we should be extremely alert while interacting with them. If we are absent-minded and behave in a loose manner, then one day we will be totally unfit to act.
We are proud of our tradition, but it is not at all true that the society of India has not evolved through history. In different situations even India had to go through newer revolutions—there is no doubt about that—and history is replete with instances. But I don’t want to even utter that it is the end of all treading for her and from now on till eternity she will just be there and hold on to her traditionality. Society gets fatigued after each large revolution; during that time, it shuts its doors, switches off all lights and prepares to go to sleep. After the Buddhist revolution India had gone off to sleep latching her doors and windows with the hook of strict laws. She was sleepy. But to boast about this as eternal sleep will become a laughable though pitiable thing. Sleep is good only during the night, when there are no crowds of people outside, and when all the big shops and markets are shut down. But in the morning when everyone is awake and there is activity all around, if you go on quietly lying down and close all the old doors and windows, then you will be the loser.
The rules of the night are very simple. Its arrangements are sparse, and its requirements are very little. That is why we can complete all our tasks and go to sleep in an unperturbed manner. Then things go on lying where they were kept because there is no one to move them. The arrangements during the day are not so simple and completing the job once and for all in the early morning does not mean that one can relax and smoke tobacco the rest of the day. Work keeps pouring down our necks. We must keep attempting new things and if we cannot adjust ourselves to the flow of the outside world, then everything else falls out of place.
For some time, India has spent her nights in a system of strict and fixed set of rules. That does not mean that that situation will permanently remain very comfortable. Getting a beating is most painful and difficult, especially when it falls upon a sleeping body. Daytime is the period to receive such blows. That is why it is most comfortable to remain awake during the daytime.
It is time for us to wake up whether we wish it or not, whether we are full of laziness or not. We are constantly being hurt both internally and externally in society and so we are sad. We are suffering from poverty and famine. The society is breaking down; the joint family system is being split into bits and pieces. And the role of the Brahmins in society has become so demeaning that with the aid of ‘Brahmin societies’ and such other things, they keep on shouting loudly to prove their existence and thus only attest to their weakness. The panchayat[3] system worn in the neck by the government’s chaprasi[4] has committed suicide and its ghost is dominating the village. The food in the country is incapable of satiating the small village schools. Due to famine, they are now relying on the charity of government dole. The rich people of the country have doused the light in their birthplaces and are roaming around in Calcutta in motor cars, and people of noble descent are ready to sacrifice their entire wealth and their daughters at the feet of a graduate groom. There is no point in blaming the Kaliyuga[5], or the foreign king or the native English-speaking people for this misfortune. The truth is that our lord has sent his assistant during the daytime, and he will not stop till such time he can drag us out of our traditional bedrooms. So, we cannot forcibly close our eyes and try to create the night at odd hours. The world that has come to our threshold has to be welcomed inside our house. If we don’t give it a cordial welcome, then it will break open our doors and gain entry. Hasn’t the door not yet been broken now?
So once again, we must think about resolving our problems. It cannot be done by imitating Europe, but we must learn from her. Learning and imitating are not the same thing. Actually, if we learn in the correct way, we will be relieved from the art of imitating. If we cannot know the other truly, then we cannot understand the truth ourselves.
But I was saying that we cannot adjust ourselves in the European society with our loose domestic habits. We can never prepare ourselves in any way. It seems that everyone is pushing us aside, no one is waiting for us for a moment. We are pampered human beings; we feel out of place without our relatives in society. After coming here, I have noticed that since our students are not used to entering other people’s houses, most of them come here and learn things by heart but they do not keep any contact with the society here. The society here is large and so it has more responsibilities. Only if we undertake those responsibilities, can we find a sort of connection with the people of this society. If we cannot connect then we shall be deprived of the greatest learning prevalent here. This is because society is the greatest truth here. The greatest strength, the greatest sublimity is in the society here and not in the battlefield. Sacrifice and self-respect suitable for a broad-minded society are being expressed at every step. They are nurtured here and are preparing themselves in different ways to sacrifice their lives for the welfare of man. In modern India, the educated class of people still consider school education to be the true education. They are deprived of the education of greater society. Even after coming here and entering the school factory, if they come out simply as mechanical things and do not enter the birthplace of humanity visible here then they will be deprived even after coming to a foreign country.
[5] The current age in Hindu mythology which ends when the Kalki avatar comes to rescue humanity from darkness.
Somdatta Mandal is a critic and translator and a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.An earlier version of this essay was published in Gleanings of the Road (Niyogi Books, pg 20).
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Borderless 