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Review

Lives that Mattered

Book Review by Prof Satya Narayan Misra

Title: Icons of Odisha – Lives that Shaped a State

Author: Bhaskar Parichha

Publisher: BK Publications Private Limited

Odisha had been in the past been under the hammer for its grinding poverty and wide spread starvation deaths, despite its rich mineral resources. Beneath the markers of its civilisation – its magnificent temples, hoary history of maritime trade and its resuscitation as a distinct linguistic state in 1936, lurks the story of individuals whose ideas, actions and creative energies have shaped the heartbeats of the land. Bhaskar Parichha, a writer and critic of repute, without being hagiographic has tried to capture the life, ideas and contributions of 30 such individuals from the 19th Century to the present day, with the fond hope that they brush the imagination of the world.

Odisha has a very proud literary pedigree. Starting with Sarala Das in the 15th Century, who is called Adi Kabi (first poet), and Upendra Bhanja in the 18th century, who is called Kabi Samrat (emperor of poets) the father of modern Odia literature has to be Fakir Mohan Senapati.

Senapati was, as Parichha writes “to Odia literature what Prem Chand was to Hindi and Tagore to Bengali – the conscience keeper of his people.” He was a literary polymath, who explored almost every genre — poetry, translation, satire and fiction. He is best remembered as pioneer of modern Odia fiction. With his eye for realism and flair for humour, he created characters who were products of their times but universal in their emotion. His short story Rebati (1898), translated in to thirty languages all over the world, is a subtle commentary on gender, education and superstition, themes that resonate even today. Senapati’s contribution to the novel is monumental. Of his four masterpieces Cha Mana Atha Guntha (Six Acres and a Third, 1902), is widely recognised as India’s first novel on peasant exploitation. Preceding even Prem Chand’s Godan ( Gift of a Cow,1936), it was written long before Marxian ideas took roots in India, it’s a searing account of ruthless oppression of landless peasants in India. The other  writer  of eminence is  Gopinath Mohanty. His empathetic portrayal of tribal life in Odisha in  his landmark novel Paraja ( Citizens,1945)  won him the Jnanpith award in 1974. Manoj Das, the bilingual master story teller completes the troika, whose stories Graham Greene considers have “the same quality as RK Narayan’s Malgudi Days, with perhaps an added mystery”.

Revered as the principal architect of modern Odissi dance, Kelucharan Mohapatra ensured that Odissi emerged not merely as a revived dance style but as a sophisticated, codified and spiritually grounded classical tradition. Among his celebrated choreographies are adaptations of Jayadeva’s Gita Govinda. His greatest legacy are his disciples like Sanjukta Panigrahi whose luminous performances and deep emotional expressiveness brought Odissi to national and international prominence.

In the field of music, Balakrishna Das is celebrated as Odissi musicologist, vocalist and renowned music guru. His proximity to Ghulam Ali and mastery of Hindustani music inspired him to make Odia traditional music more beguiling and effective. In the field of cinema, Jharna Das was a trail blazer. By bridging literature and cinema, classical arts and modern media, performance and public service, she helped lay the foundations of Odia cinema and broadcasting. Dinanath Pathy would be fondly remembered as a visionary Odia painter, art historian, scholar, curator and writer whose life was devoted to the preservation, documentation and global promotion of Odisha’s artistic heritage. Akshya Mohanty captures the popular genre of musicians who sang romantic ballads with equal felicity as devotional songs.

Rama Devi, Sarala Devi, Kuntala Kumari and Nandini Sathpathy are some of the women figures highlighted in the essays. Rama Devi is a beacon of women’s liberation, a distinguished freedom fighter and social reformer. Kuntala Kumari was a trail blazing Odia poet, physician, editor, and social reformer from colonial Odisha. Sarala Devi belonged to that first generation of Indian women who claimed a decisive role in public life. Nandini Sathpathy as the only female Chief Minister of Odisha earned the sobriquet of the “Iron Lady of Odisha”. She is also remembered for her literary achievements and showcasing of the cultures within the state.

Of all the politicians, Parichha has upheld Naba Krushna Chowdhury(1901-1984) who left behind a legacy of simple life and moral integrity he displayed as the Chief Minister of Odisha. He showed steadfast commitment to the underprivileged and implemented significant reforms and progressive policies. The politician, Mehtab, brought in to journalism rare integrity. Biju Patnaik, a politician whose biography had been authored earlier by Parichha, believed that industrialisation flows from the fountain of political power and he brought to politics a rare flash of colour, dynamism and was the tallest politician Odisha.

Madhusudan Das, remains the ultimate talisman of intellect, courage, compassion, whom Gandhi adored. Gandhi visited Odisha eight times, beginning with 1921, and in August 1925 when he came at the invite of Madhusudan Das to see his Utkal Tannery. Along with Madhu Babu, Pandit Gopabandhu Das wears the pride of place as the tallest Gandhian, who embraced his ideas of Khadi and Swadeshi and promoted cottage industries as a means for economic independence. His life stands as a luminous example of self-less service, incredible sacrifice and humanism that encompassed every aspect of Odisha’s journey – social, educational and cultural. Quite justifiably both Madhu Babu and Gopabandhu Das carry the epithet of Utkal Gaurav and Utkal Mani.  

Parichha is highly respected for his clarity, sense of balance and insight. His choice of icons is both eclectic and discerning. Ideally, he could have included Sunanda Patnaik, who represented the best of classical music or Kanta Kabi Laxmikant Mohapatra who wrote an iconic patriotic song. All the same, his careful research brings out rare nuggets, which are both delicious and nostalgic. Hopefully, the secular culture that Odisha prides itself on will continue to thrive as will independent spirits like writer Fakir Mohan, visionaries like Madhusudan and Gandhians like Naba Krushna. The Icons of Odisha is an invaluable addition to any literary tapestry.   

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Satya Narayan Misra is a Professor Emeritus and Author of seven books, the latest, Against the Binary, was published in December 2024. He is a regular columnist and reviewer of books for several leading newspapers in Odisha and national news digital platforms like Scroll.in and The Wire.

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Excerpt

Stories of Individuals who Shaped History

Title: Icons of Odisha – Lives that Shaped a State

Author: Bhaskar Parichha

Publisher: BK Publications Private Limited

Introduction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About the Book

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

About the Author

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

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Essay

A Prince Who Opted for Poetry over a Crown

By Charudutta Panigrahi

Upendra Bhanja. From Public Domain

There are poets who are born, poets who are made, and then there is the rare being who is handed a crown and quietly sets it down to pick up a stylus instead. Upendra Bhanja (c. 1670–1740) belongs to that almost mythic third category. Born into the ruling Bhanja house of Ghumsar — a princely state in the hills of southern Odisha, near the town that today bears the dynasty’s name, Bhanjanagar — he was a prince by blood and an emperor by acclamation. But the empire he chose to rule was not made of land, revenue, or armies. It was made of language. Posterity remembered the choice by giving him a title no battlefield could confer: Kabi Samrata, the Emperor of Poets.

The Bhanjas of Ghumsar were not strangers to the muse. Upendra’s grandfather, King Dhananjaya Bhanja, was himself a poet of distinction who composed a Raghunatha Bilasa[1] and the romance Ratna Manjari[2], leaving the boy a literary inheritance as real as any treasury. Yet where Dhananjaya wore both crowns — ruler and writer — Upendra made a decision that defines him. Born into a royal family, he never reached for the throne. He gave his entire life to poetry rather than to governing a kingdom.

Read that again, because it is the hinge on which his greatness turns. In an age when kingship was the highest ambition a man could hold, when wars were waged for a few miles of forest, a prince looked at the apparatus of power and found it smaller than a perfectly turned verse. This is not eccentricity. It is a radical reordering of values — a man declaring that the imagination outranks the sceptre. He even signed his early work not as a king but as Birabara, “the brave one”, the courage in question being aesthetic rather than military. The maverick was visible from the first line he ever wrote.

What separates a fine poet from a phenomenon is not feeling alone — feeling is the common inheritance of all poets. What separates Upendra Bhanja is the sheer, audacious engineering of his art. He belonged to the Riti Yuga, the ornate age of Odia literature, but he did not merely participate in it; he became its summit, so completely that the period is sometimes simply called the Bhanja Juga, the Age of Bhanja.

Consider his masterpiece, the Baidehisha Bilasa, his retelling of the Ramayana. The entire epic is composed under a self-imposed law of staggering difficulty: every single line begins with the syllable “ba.” The work is divided into fifty-two cantos, and even the verse-counts of those cantos are chosen so they carry the “ba” sound — bais (twenty-two), batisi (thirty-two), and so on. An entire sacred epic, hundreds upon hundreds of lines, marching to a single phonetic drumbeat without once stumbling into nonsense or losing its emotional fire.

And this was not a one-time stunt. He did it again, and again, as if the impossible were merely a daily exercise. Subhadra Parinaya takes “sa” for its governing initial. Kala Koutuka takes “ka.” Damayanti Bilasa runs on “da,” Padmabati Parinaya on “pa,” Satisha Bilasa on “sa.” He treated the most punishing constraints in world literature the way a master musician treats a difficult raga — not as a cage but as the very source of beauty. This is lateral thinking in its purest poetic form: the discovery that limitation, deliberately embraced, can generate freedom and surprise rather than smother them. The French Oulipo movement of the twentieth century — Georges Perec, Raymond Queneau and others — built an entire celebrated avant-garde around exactly this principle of “constrained writing.” Upendra Bhanja had been doing it, at epic scale and with devotional grandeur, three hundred years earlier, in a hill kingdom of eastern India.

If the syllabic constraints reveal his discipline, his Chitra Kavya[3] reveals his outright wizardry. Upendra Bhanja composed an entire treatise on it, the Chitra Kavya Bandhodaya, and laced examples through his other works. In this form — bandha, meaning “binding” or “design” — the poet arranges the letters of his verse so that, written out, they form a recognizable picture: a tree, a mace, a chariot, a serpent, a sheaf of arrows, a wheel. The astonishing part is the double burden the poet accepts. The letters must form the shape, and the same letters, read in their proper sequence, must form a poem that carries genuine meaning. Word and image are forced to be true to each other at once.

This is concrete poetry, pattern poetry, visual literature — the very thing that Western modernists would later treat as a daring twentieth-century experiment — accomplished in Odia centuries before, and not as decoration but as a recognised branch of high art. To do it once is clever. To codify it into a system and deploy serpents, chariots and wheels of living verse is the work of a mind operating on a plane the rest of us can only squint at.

His verbal play did not stop at shape. He was a master of shlesha, the art of double meaning, building lines and even whole passages capable of yielding more than one interpretation depending on how the syllables are parsed — a single string of sound concealing two stories. He commanded all nine rasas of classical aesthetic theory, weaving the erotic, the heroic, the compassionate and the serene through narratives like Lavanyabati and Koti Brahmanda Sundari, romances of princes and princesses whose love is rendered with a sensuous, jewelled intensity. And as if poetry were not enough, he is credited with compiling the Gita Abhidhana, regarded as the first dictionary in the Odia language — the poet doubling as the first systematic guardian of his tongue’s vocabulary. Tradition celebrates him for feats so extreme they sound like legend: epics shaped as palindromes, retellings managed under near-unthinkable phonetic restrictions. Whatever one accepts of the more dramatic claims, the documented body of work alone places him among the most technically dazzling poets in any language on earth.

The kind of mind that can run an epic on a single syllable, that can make letters stand up as chariots and still sing, that can fold two meanings into one breath of sound — that is a contribution to the universal record of human creativity. He sits naturally beside the most inventive formal artists the world has produced. For roughly two centuries his style was the gold standard against which elite Odia poetry measured itself, and his songs travelled into the very grammar of Odissi music. A labourer on a village road and a dancer in a royal courtyard could both carry his lines — a reach across class and circumstance that is the surest sign of a true national treasure.

He is revered, finally, not only for what he made but for what he refused. He refused the easier glory of the throne. He refused the lazy path of plain narration when the labyrinthine one was available. He insisted that the Odia language could do anything Sanskrit could, and then proved it. That insistence is an act of cultural self-respect that belongs to the whole country’s story of finding its voice.


Folio depicting scene from Lavanyavati by Upendra Bhanja by an unknown artist from the early 19th century in, now in Chazen Museum of Art, Madison. From Public Domain

A word, then, on the soil that produced this phenomenon. Ghumsar, the seat of the Bhanja kings, lay in the wooded uplands near present-day Bhanjanagar in Ganjam district. It is a place worth knowing for more than one reason — for it was also the site of one of the earliest and most stubborn armed resistances to British colonialism.

The story of “the first war of independence” is told in textbooks as beginning in 1857. Yet the hills of Ghumsar were already aflame against the East India Company a full century earlier. When the British asserted control over the region from the 1760s, they demanded heavy tribute from the Bhanja rulers, and the rulers — backed by the formidable Kondh tribal Paiks who regarded the Bhanja Rajas as their protectors — refused to be tamed. The resulting struggle was not a single revolt but a chain of uprisings sustained, by documented accounts, from the mid-eighteenth century into the 1860s. The most decisive flare-up, the “Goomsur Campaign” of 1835–36, saw the Madras Native Infantry deployed against the Kondhs and their chiefs before the state was finally annexed. Resistance did not die even then: leaders such as Dora Bissoi and, after him, Chakra Bissoi kept the cause of the Bhanja line alive against the colonial administration for decades more

To call it, without qualification, the first mutiny in all of India would overstate a contested record; rebellions flared in Bengal, Bihar, Banaras and the tribal Jungle Mahals across the same long century. But to say that Ghumsar was among the very earliest theatres of organised, sustained armed defiance of the Company is simple, documented fact. The land that gave India its Emperor of Poets also gave it some of its earliest rebels. There is a fitting symmetry in that: the same soil bred both the courage to resist an empire and the genius to build one out of nothing but words.

[1] Odiya retelling of Ramayana written in the seventeenth century

[2] One of the first Odiya romances

[3] Picture poetry

Charudutta Panigrahi writes on culture, history, and the quiet connections that books forget to mention.

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Essay

One Soul, Two Seas

By Charudutta Panigrahi

Goa
Odisha
From Public Domain

There is a cartographic trick that India plays on the careless observer. Place a finger on Goa, cradled in the lap of the Western Ghats where the Mandovi meets the Arabian Sea. Now drag that finger clean across the peninsula — past the Deccan plateau, past the red laterite and the black cotton soil — until it arrives at Odisha, where the Mahanadi fans into the Bay of Bengal. The distance is vast. The terrain changes several times over. And yet, when you finally arrive, you feel, inexplicably, that you have not travelled at all. You have merely walked from one room of the same house into another.

Goa and Odisha are India’s fraternal twins, stationed like sentinels on opposite coasts, facing outward toward different oceans but turning inward toward an almost identical soul. They share no border, no common neighbour, no obvious historical corridor. And yet their resemblances are so startling, so layered, that they make a quiet mockery of the assumption that east and west shall never meet. In this country, at least, they have been meeting all along.

The Plate That Speaks First

Begin where all honest cultural inquiry must begin — at the table. In both Goa and Odisha, the grammar of a meal is written in two words: rice and fish. The xitt-kodi of a Goan Catholic household — rice with fish curry — is a mirror image of the bhata-machha that anchors every Odia thali. The curry leaves may change, the tamarind may yield to kokum, but the fundamental covenant between grain and sea remains unbroken.

Both states worship the coconut with equal fervour. It thickens their gravies, sweetens their desserts, oils their hair, and thatches their roofs. And in both places, the humble samosa — that deep-fried triangle of spiced potato — enjoys a curious and disproportionate celebrity, sold at every bus stand, every temple gate, every rain-drenched evening stall, as if it were the official snack of the coastline itself.

Weavers of Light

If food is the first language, cloth is the second. Odisha’s handloom tradition is among the most sophisticated in the world. The Sambalpuri ikat, with its geometric precision born of a tie-and-dye technique older than memory, is a textile that calculates like mathematics and sings like poetry. The Bomkai of Ganjam, the Kotpad of Koraput — each weave carries a district’s autobiography in its warp and weft.

Goa’s handloom heritage is no less poignant. The Kunbi saree, woven by the indigenous Kunbi community in checks of red and maroon, is a garment of earthy defiance — a refusal to vanish beneath the weight of colonial and commercial textile culture. In both states, the handloom is not an industry. It is an act of inheritance.

The handicraft traditions run parallel with uncanny symmetry. Odisha’s Pattachitra — those luminous scroll paintings rendered on cloth with pigments drawn from stone, earth, and lamp-black — find a philosophical cousin in Goa’s azulejos-inspired tile art and the painted terracotta work of its hinterlands. Odisha’s silver filigree from Cuttack, those impossibly intricate webs of metal that seem to have been spun by patient spiders, speak the same aesthetic dialect as the filigree and brass work of Goan artisans.

Temples, Tides, and the Slow Pulse

Both states are drenched in divinity. Odisha shelters the Jagannath Temple of Puri, whose Rath Yatra rolls through the world’s imagination every year, and the Konark Sun Temple, a stone chariot frozen mid-gallop toward the dawn. The Lingaraj Temple of Bhubaneswar presides over a city that was once a forest of a thousand shrines. Goa, often misread as merely a beach destination, guards some of the oldest Hindu temples in western India — the Mangeshi Temple, the Shanta Durga Temple, the Mahalasa Narayani, the Tambdi Surla — alongside the Basilica of Bom Jesus, where the remains of St. Francis Xavier lie in baroque silence. In both states, the sacred is not a Sunday affair. It is the air.

And then there is the pace. Both Goa and Odisha move at a tempo that the hyperventilating metros of India find baffling. The Goan susegad — that philosophy of contented ease — is a first cousin of the unhurried dignity with which Odisha conducts its daily life. Long before the global “slow living” movement became a wellness-industry buzzword, these two states had been practising it for centuries, not as aspiration but as instinct.

Songs in Different Scales

The musical traditions reveal yet another layer of kinship. Odisha gave the world Odissi — both the dance and the music — a classical tradition of astonishing fluidity, shaped by poets like Jayadeva, whose Gita Govinda remains one of the supreme lyric achievements in any language. The folk traditions — Dalkhai, Gotipua, the tribal Dhemsa — pulse with a rhythmic vitality that no concert hall can contain.

Goa’s musical soul lives in the Mando, a slow, swaying ballad of love and longing born from the encounter between Konkani sensibility and Portuguese fado. The Dulpod, faster and more festive, is its playful sibling. And beneath the tourist-facing trance and EDM, Goa’s folk traditions — Fugdi, Dhalo, Dekhni — carry the same rooted, communal energy that Odisha’s village squares have known for generations.

Goa’s Tiatr and Odisha’s Jatra are born of the same impulse — raucous, deeply local theatre traditions that turn village squares into stages, blend music with social satire, and have for generations served as the people’s newspaper, courtroom, and concert hall rolled into one.

The Literary Mirror

The literary parallels are quietly profound. Fakir Mohan Senapati, the father of modern Odia literature, wrote Chha Mana Atha Guntha — a searing, ironic novella about land, power, and peasant dispossession — in the 1890s. Across the map, Goa’s literary tradition in Konkani, shaped by figures like Bakibab Borkar (the poet-laureate of Konkani verse), Ravindra Kelekar, and Damodar Mauzo, has grappled with similar themes of identity, colonial memory, and the tension between tradition and modernity. Odisha’s Pratibha Ray and Goa’s Mauzo — both Jnanpith laureates — wrote in languages the literary mainstream often overlooks, yet carved from Odia and Konkani respectively a body of work so luminous that the nation’s highest literary honour had no choice but to find its way to their doors. Both literatures are enormous in depth and criminally under-read outside their states.

Even the economies rhyme. Both states sit on vast mineral wealth — iron ore in Goa, iron ore, bauxite and coal in Odisha — and both have built significant chapters of their economic story on extraction. Mining has been, for decades, a genuine engine of revenue and employment. But prosperity extracted from the earth exacts its own price. Both states have watched hills reshaped and rivers thickened with slurry, and both have grappled with the same difficult question that every resource-rich society must eventually face: where does sustainable use end and irreversible damage begin? The Dongria Kondh resistance in Odisha’s Niyamgiri hills and Goa’s prolonged civic movement against unregulated mining are stories of communities recognising that the wealth beneath their feet should not come at the cost of the world above it. In both states, the mandate is the same: to mine responsibly, restore what can be restored, and find an economic imagination that honours both the ledger and the landscape.

Stone, Laterite, and the Architecture of Belonging

The buildings of Goa and Odisha could not, at first glance, look more different. Odisha’s architectural glory resides in the Kalinga style of temple building — a tradition that flowered between the sixth and thirteenth centuries and produced some of the most breathtaking sacred structures on the subcontinent. The Rekha Deula, with its curvilinear tower soaring heavenward, the Pidha Deula, with its stepped pyramid, and the barrel-vaulted Khakhara Deula — each is a masterclass in proportion, carved from sandstone and laterite without a drop of mortar, held together by iron dowels and the sheer precision of stone cut to stone. The Lingaraj Temple rises a hundred and eighty feet; the Sun Temple at Konark was conceived as a stone chariot for Surya himself.

Goa’s architectural signature, meanwhile, is the Indo-Portuguese house — the balcão-fronted villa with its oyster-shell windows, its Baroque churches, its colour-washed facades in ochre and cerulean and terracotta. Where Odisha built upward in devotion, Goa built outward in conviviality.

And yet the kinship runs deeper than surface style. Both traditions are rooted in laterite — that rust-red, iron-rich stone quarried from the earth itself — and in an instinctive dialogue between structure and climate. Goan houses, whether Hindu or Catholic, were designed around the monsoon: thick laterite walls to absorb the heat, sloping roofs of Mangalore tile to shed the deluge, courtyards to channel light and air. The traditional Hindu house in Goa, with its rajangan (courtyard) and its Tulasi Vrindavan (holy basil) at its centre, is an inward-looking sanctuary not unlike the courtyard homes of rural Odisha, where domestic life orbits an open-air heart and thatched or tiled roofs slope against the same seasonal fury. In both states, the house is not merely shelter. It is a cosmology — oriented by Vastu[1], shaped by rain, and built from the very ground on which it stands.

The Sacred as Daily Bread

Spirituality in Goa and Odisha is not a compartment of life; it is the wallpaper. In Odisha, they say Bara Masa re Tera Parba — thirteen festivals in twelve months — and this is not hyperbole but arithmetic. From Rath Yatra to Raja Parba, from Nuakhai to Kumar Purnima, the Odia calendar is a procession of devotion, agriculture, and communal joy so tightly woven that one cannot tell where worship ends and daily life begins. The festivals are tied to the rice cycle — seeding, sowing, harvesting — so that the act of farming itself becomes a prayer. Odisha is a land where Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism have coexisted and cross-pollinated for millennia, leaving behind the cave monasteries of Udayagiri and Khandagiri, the Buddhist stupas of Ratnagiri and Lalitgiri, and the Shakti temples that dot the landscape like exclamation marks of feminine divinity.

Goa answers with its own brand of sacred pluralism. Here, Hindus light candles at the Basilica of Bom Jesus, and Catholics offer prayers at the Shantadurga temple at Fatorpa. The feast of Our Lady of Miracles gathers both communities under the same roof, exchanging oil and candles between church and temple as naturally as neighbours exchange sugar. The Zagor celebrations and the Shigmo festival are not Hindu events attended by Christians out of politeness; they are Goan events, full stop. In both states, religion is not a doctrine to be debated but a rhythm to be lived — embedded in the morning’s first lamp, the evening’s last bell, and every meal served between.

The Farmer and the Monsoon

Rice is not merely the staple food of Goa and Odisha; it is the organising principle of their rural civilisations. In Odisha, paddy covers nearly seventy per cent of cultivated land, and the entire social calendar revolves around its seasons — Akshaya Tritiya marks the seeding, Raja Sankranti the completion of sowing, Nuakhai the first tasting of the new harvest. The traditional beushening method — broadcasting seed and then tilling post-emergence — speaks of a farming intelligence shaped by centuries of reading the monsoon, the soil, and the floodplain.

In Goa, the ingenuity takes another form: the Khazan system, an ancient network of bunds and sluice gates that reclaim low-lying coastal land from the tides, allowing farmers to cultivate salt-tolerant rice varieties and rear fish and prawns in the same fields. It is an act of ecological engineering so elegant that modern agronomists study it as a model of sustainable land use.

Both states grow coconut, cashew, and areca nut alongside their paddy. Both rely overwhelmingly on the monsoon — Odisha’s irrigation covers barely a third of its cultivable land, and much of Goa’s paddy is rainfed. Both are lands of small and marginal farmers, where the average holding is modest and the relationship between cultivator and earth is intimate, personal, and unmediated by large-scale mechanisation. And in both states, a quiet revolution is underway: Odisha’s Millets Mission and Goa’s growing organic farming movement are attempts to reclaim indigenous crop diversity from the grip of high-yield monoculture — to remember that the land, like the people, thrives best when it is allowed its full vocabulary.

The Playing Field

In a nation drunk on cricket, Goa and Odisha are the two states that have had the audacity to fall in love with other sports. Goa is India’s football heartland. The game arrived with an Irish priest in 1883 and never left. Clubs like Salgaocar, Dempo, and Churchill Brothers have won national titles; six Goans have captained the Indian football team. During the FIFA World Cup, Goan streets erupt into a carnival of flags and giant screens, and the village tournament — barefoot boys on a laterite pitch — remains as sacred as Sunday Mass. Football in Goa is not a sport. It is an identity.

Odisha’s sporting soul beats to a different drum — the hockey stick. The state has produced legends like Dilip Tirkey, Amit Rohidas, Sunita Lakra, and Deep Grace Ekka, and became the first state government in India to sponsor the national hockey team. The Birsa Munda International Hockey Stadium in Rourkela, which hosted the 2023 World Cup, is a monument to Odisha’s commitment. But what unites both states is not the particular sport but the underlying defiance: a refusal to accept cricket’s monopoly on the Indian sporting imagination.

Both states also share a love for traditional and community games — Kho Kho and Kabaddi [2] are played at village festivals in both, and both have ISL football franchises (FC Goa and Odisha FC) that draw passionate, roaring crowds. The playing field, it turns out, is yet another room in the same house.

Rivers, Mangroves, and the Shared Ecology

The ecological parallels between these two states are no less striking. Both are coastal, riverine, and monsoon-fed. Both shelter significant mangrove ecosystems — the Khazan mangroves along Goa’s estuaries and the Bhitarkanika mangrove forests of Odisha, one of the largest in India. Both are biodiversity hotspots: Goa’s Western Ghats forests are a UNESCO heritage site, while Odisha’s Simlipal and Satkosia reserves harbour tiger, elephant, and crocodile populations of national importance. The Olive Ridley sea turtles that nest on Odisha’s Gahirmatha beach have cousins that occasionally visit Goa’s Morjim. Both states understand, in their bones, that the sea is not merely a border but a livelihood, a deity, and a defining force — and that the mangrove, the estuary, and the fishing village are not the periphery of civilisation but its very foundation.

And then there is the matter of diaspora. Both Goa and Odisha are states whose people have scattered across the world yet remain fiercely tethered to home. The Goan communities of Bombay, the Gulf, the UK and Lisbon mirror the Odia communities of US, Europe, Surat, Hyderabad, and beyond. In both cases, the expatriate carries the cuisine, the festival calendar, and the mother tongue like a portable homeland — and returns, without fail, for the annual feast or the harvest celebration, as though the umbilical cord to the village were made not of flesh but of something altogether more durable.

Goa and Odisha do not need a bridge between them. They already are the bridge — two ends of a single cultural arc that bends across the Indian landmass, proving that civilisational kinship does not require geographical proximity. They are proof that identity in India is not merely a function of latitude and longitude but of something deeper: a shared covenant with the sea, with rice, with the loom, with the slow and sacred act of living.

If India is a house with many rooms, these two states are the twin balconies — one facing the sunset, the other the sunrise — built from the same stone, painted in the same light, listening to the same tide.

East and West do not merely meet here. They embrace.

[1] science of architecture in alignment with natural forces

[2] Local community games which involve teams

Charudutta Panigrahi writes on culture, geography, and the quiet connections that maps forget to draw.

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Categories
Review

Between Turmoil and Continuity

Book Review by Rabindra Kumar Nayak

Title: Odisha — 500 Years of Turmoil, Mayhem, and Subjugation

Author: Bhaskar Parichha

Publisher: Pen In Books

Bhaskar Parichha, a veteran journalist and chronicler of Odisha’s socio-political life, brings his characteristic blend of reportage and reflective commentary into his new book, Odisha — 500 Years of Turmoil, Mayhem and Subjugation. The book aspires to narrate a long and complex history, tracing Odisha’s journey from the sixteenth century, marked by the fall of indigenous rule to the emergence of a modern regional identity.

Yet, beneath this ambitious sweep lies a narrative that is as interpretative as it is descriptive, raising important questions about how history itself is framed and understood. The work begins with the defeat of Mukunda Deva in 1568 and the subsequent Afghan, Mughal, and British domination. Parichha presents this prolonged period as one of continuous ‘turmoil’, treating history not as a sequence of isolated events but as a sustained condition shaping both political structures and collective consciousness. This approach is compelling in that it foregrounds Odisha’s endurance amid repeated disruptions and external pressures, offering a unifying thread across centuries of change.

However, the emphasis on ‘turmoil’ also tends to compress the complexity of the past into a single unifying metaphor. Odisha’s history is not solely a chronicle of suffering and subjugation; it is equally a story of resilience, adaptation, and cultural vitality. Movements such as the Bhakti tradition, the inclusive ethos of the Jagannath cult, and the flourishing of Odia literature from Sarala Das to Fakir Mohan Senapati offer strong countercurrents of continuity and renewal. By privileging a single interpretative perspective, the book tends to underplay these parallel trajectories that sustained the region’s cultural and social life.

One of the book’s notable strengths lies in its accessibility. He writes with clarity and ease, avoiding dense academic terminology while presenting a broad historical panorama. His narrative remains engaging without being overloaded with excessive detail, making the work approachable for general readers. In this respect, the book successfully bridges the gap between scholarship and public discourse, a hallmark of the author’s journalistic sensibility.

Yet, this accessibility also introduces certain limitations. The narrative relies more on synthesis and interpretation than on original archival research, and at times reads more like reflective commentary than rigorous historiography. Some crucial areas, particularly colonial economic policies and their long-term effects on agrarian structures and livelihoods, would have benefited from deeper engagement with primary sources and established historical scholarship. A more balanced analysis of these aspects could have strengthened the analytical depth of the work.

The question of identity forms a central concern throughout the book. Parichha underscores the importance of cultural consciousness in shaping regional development and portrays centuries of political domination as persistent threats to Odisha’s selfhood. While this argument is persuasive in its broad outline, it occasionally leans toward a somewhat essentialist view of identity. Odisha’s internal diversity, regional, linguistic, and social, receives limited attention, and the narrative at times presents the region as a unified entity rather than a complex and evolving mosaic.

The book is most engaging when it attempts to connect past and present. It suggests that contemporary challenges, such as underdevelopment and governance issues, are rooted in historical patterns of marginalisation and neglect. While this linkage is insightful, it can appear somewhat deterministic, underestimating the role of present-day current capacity for action, policy interventions, and recent progress in reshaping Odisha’s trajectory.

Odisha — 500 Years of Turmoil, Mayhem and Subjugation is best read as a reflective interpretation rather than a definitive historical account. Its value lies in its readability and its capacity to provoke critical reflection on questions of identity, continuity, and historical memory. Despite its limitations, the book succeeds in opening a meaningful conversation about how Odisha’s past is narrated, remembered, and reimagined in the present.

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Rabindra Kumar Nayak is a former Reader in English. He has translated The Maharani’s Son, which is the English version of the original Odia novel, Maharani Putra, authored by the esteemed Odia writer Pratibha Ray. This work has been published by Sahitya Akademi.

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Categories
Editorial

Sense and Nonsense: Atonal, Imperfect, Incomplete

Incomplete statues of Michelangelo in Accademia Gallery, Florence

In the Accademia Gallery, Florence, are housed incomplete statues by Michelangelo that were supposed to accompany his sculpture of Moses on the grand tomb of Pope Julius II. The sculptures despite being unfinished, incomplete and therefore imperfect, evoke a sense of power. They seem to be wresting forcefully with the uncarved marble to free their own forms — much like humanity struggling to lead their own lives. Life now is comparable to atonal notes of modern compositions that refuse to fall in line with more formal, conventional melodies. The new year continues with residues of unending wars, violence, hate and chaos. Yet amidst all this darkness, we still live, laugh and enjoy small successes. The smaller things in our imperfect existence bring us hope, the necessary ingredient that helps us survive under all circumstances.

Imperfections, like Michelangelo’s Non-finito statues in Florence, or modern atonal notes, go on to create vibrant, relatable art. There is also a belief that when suffering is greatest, arts flourish. Beauty and hope are born of pain. Will great art or literature rise out of the chaos we are living in now?  One wonders if ancient art too was born of humanity’s struggle to survive in a comparatively younger world where they did not understand natural forces and whose history we try to piece together with objects from posterity. Starting on a journey of bringing ancient art from her part of the world, Ratnottama Sengupta shares a new column with us from this January.

Drenched in struggles of the past is also Showkat Ali’s The Struggle: A Novel, translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir. It has been reviewed by Somdatta Mandal who sees it a socio-economic presentation of the times. We also carry an excerpt from the book as we do for Anuradha Marwah’s The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta. Marwha’s novel has been reviewed by Meenakshi Malhotra who sees it as a bildungsroman and a daring book. Bhaskar Parichha has brought to us a discussion on colonial history about Rakesh Dwivedi’s Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India: A Saga of Monstrous British Barbarianism around the Globe. Udita Banerjee has also delved into history with her exploration of Angshuman Kar’s The Lost Pendant, a collection of poems written by poets who lived through the horrors of Partition and translated from Bengali by multiple poets. One of the translators, Rajorshi Patranabis, has also discussed his own book of supernatural encounters, Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible. A Wiccan by choice, Patranbis claims to have met with residual energies or what we in common parlance call ghosts and spoken to many of them. He not only clicked these ethereal beings — and has kindly shared his photos in this feature — but also has written a whole book about his encounters, including with the malevolent spirits of India’s most haunted monument, the Bhangarh Fort.

Bringing us an essay on a book that had spooky encounters is Farouk Gulsara, showing how Dickens’ A Christmas Carol revived a festival that might have got written off. We have a narrative revoking the past from Larry Su, who writes of his childhood in the China of the 1970s and beyond. He dwells on resilience — one of the themes we love in Borderless Journal. Karen Beatty also invokes ghosts from her past while sharing her memoir. Rick Bailey brings in a feeling of mortality in his musing while Keith Lyons, writes in quest of his friend who mysteriously went missing in Bali. Let’s hope he finds out more about him.

Charudutta Panigrahi writes a lighthearted piece on barbers of yore, some of whom can still be found plying their trade under trees in India. Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia dwells on her favourite place which continues to rejuvenate and excite while Prithvijeet Sinha writes about haunts he is passionate about, the ancient monuments of Lucknow. Gulsara has woven contemporary lores into his satirical piece, involving Messi, the footballer. Bringing compassionate humour with his animal interactions is Devraj Singh Kalsi, who is visited daily by not just a bovine visitor, but cats, monkeys, birds and more — and he feeds them all. Suzanne Kamata takes us to Kishi, brought to us by both her narrative and pictures, including one of a feline stationmaster!

Rhys Hughes has discussed prose poems and shared a few of his own along with three separate tongue-in-cheek verses on meteorological romances. In poetry, we have a vibrant selection from across the globe with poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Ron Pickett, Snehaprava Das, Stephen Druce, Phil Wood, Akintoye Akinsola, Michael Lauchlan, Pritika Rao, SR Inciardi, Jim Murdoch, Pramod Rastogi, Joy Anne O’Donnell, Andrew Leggett, Ananya Sarkar and Annette Gagliardi. Rich Murphy has poignant poems about refugees while Dmitry Bliznik of Ukraine, has written a first-hand account of how he fared in his war-torn world in his poignant poem, ‘A Poet in Exile’, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov —

We've run away from the simmering house
like milk that is boiling over. Now I'm single again.
The sun hangs behind a ruffled up shed,
like a bloody yolk on a cold frying pan
until the nightfall dumps it in the garbage…

('A Poet in Exile', by Dmitry Blizniuk, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov)

In translations, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s rendition of Nazrul’s mellifluous lyrics from Bengali. Isa Kamari has shared four more of his Malay poems in English bringing us flavours of his culture. Snehaparava Das has similarly given us flavours of Odisha with her translation of Pravasini Mahakuda’s Odia poetry. A taste of Balochistan comes to us from Fazal Baloch’s rendition of Sayad Hashumi’s Balochi quatrains in English. Tagore’s poem ‘Kalponik’ (Imagined) has been rendered in English. This was a poem that was set to music by his niece, Sarala Devi.

After a long hiatus, we are delighted to finally revive Pandies Corner with a story by Sumona translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. Her story highlights the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms. Sumana has assumed a pen name as her story is true and could be a security risk for her. She is eager to narrate her story — do pause by and take a look.

In fiction, we have a poignant narrative about befriending a tramp by Ross Salvage, and macabre and dark one by Mary Ellen Campagna, written with a light touch. It almost makes one think of Eugene Ionesco. Jonathan B. Ferrini shares a heartfelt story about used Steinway pianos and growing up in Latino Los Angeles. Rajendra Kumar Roul weaves a narrative around compassion and expectations. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a beautiful fable around roses and bees.

With that, we come to the end of a bumper issue with more than fifty peices. Huge thanks to all our fabulous contributors, some of whom have not just written but shared photographs to illustrate the content. Do pause by our contents page and take a look. My heartfelt thanks to our fabulous team for their output and support, especially Sohana Manzoor who does our cover art. And most of all huge thanks to readers whose numbers keep growing, making it worth our while to offer our fare. Thank you all.

Here’s wishing all of you better prospects for the newborn year and may we move towards peace and sanity in a world that seems to have gone amuck!

Happy Reading!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE JANUARY 2026 ISSUE.

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Categories
Stories

Hold on to What You Let Go

By Rajendra Kumar Roul

After nearly twenty years, perhaps more, I bumped into Sadhu Kaka[1] again.

That meeting—sudden, strange—pulled me back. Back to a time before Google was born. When the world still moved at its own unhurried pace, unshackled by the glow of mobile screens; when days stretched longer; when people were simply, quietly human.

That morning, I sat at the bus stop with my wife and daughter. The air was still; the sunlight tender. We were on our way back to Bhubaneswar when he saw me—came running, shouting my name, and clasped my hands tightly. I felt the roughness of his palms, the faint tremor of age in his grip. A smile lingered on his lips—gentle, unguarded, like the soft fragrance of fresh jasmine. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to smile. Something within me had gone still, as if time itself had forgotten to move.

I looked at my wife, bewildered and uncertain. My guess had been right. By then, her face had set like stone, her eyes dulled by silence. She looked at me once, then at him, and turned away. A grimace flickered across her lips, carrying the sting of quiet satire. She stepped aside and stood there wordlessly, her gaze fixed on the road. Cars passed in a slow rhythm, their noise distant and unreal, as though the world around me had quietly lowered its volume.

I wasn’t surprised by my wife’s reaction. She had always flinched whenever I surrendered to the weakness of my heart. I knew my failing well, and what rose in me was not anger but a slow, lingering guilt. Men like Sadhu Kaka have long taken advantage of the tenderness in me, and each time, it was my family that carried the scar. Once, in a moment of misguided affection—or perhaps a surge of foolish tenderness—I had pushed my daughter into danger for his sake, and now, it was my turn to bleed before the world—this time, for the same fragile sentiment that refused to die, the one I still hold for my childhood friend, Jagabandhu.

There was a time when Jagabandhu and I sat side by side in class—sharing the same bench, the same cracked slate, the same fragile dreams that fluttered like paper kites in the dusty afternoon air.

Then one day, poverty came and sat beside him—silent, patient, and unyielding. From that day on, his place in the classroom remained empty. He began walking to the fields with his father instead, turning the soil where once he had turned the pages. The spade and the hoe became his prayer, the sun his only witness.

I went on, class after class, until the village felt too small for my growing dreams. I left, but he stayed behind, as though the earth itself had claimed him, unwilling to set him free.

The words came unbidden as I walked to the bus stop. Without intending to, I turned down the narrow lane that led to Jagabandhu’s house.

He was sitting beneath the guava tree in his courtyard, the same spot where I had seen him years ago. The tree had grown denser, its shadow trembling on the cracked earth. A brown cow stood nearby, chewing its cud in slow, unhurried rhythm.

When I saw Jagabandhu, I hesitated. It took a moment to recognise him. His face had grown thinner, his eyes sunken, as if time had quietly worked its way through him. His life, I thought, could have belonged to one of those tragic stories that never make it to paper.

The years had pressed heavily on him. The weight of poverty had bent his frame. Life, for him, had withered into a cruel jest of fate—an endless hum from some tired, indifferent machine. His wife lay ill inside the house. Last year, his eldest daughter had died. The papers called it suicide, but Jagabandhu whispered that her in-laws had murdered her. Three unmarried daughters still lived with him, and he carried their future like a stone in his chest. At night, he said, a dull pain rose from his stomach and stayed there until morning.

My eyes welled with tears the moment I heard of Jagabandhu’s plight. I have always been an emotional soul; sorrow, whether on screen or stage, seeps into me until I lose sense of where the story ends and my own ache begins. But this was no performance. This was the truth of a man’s suffering, and I was only a witness, powerless to soften his suffering.

A heaviness gathered in my chest. I laid my hand upon Jagabandhu’s shoulder. A long, tremulous sigh slipped out of me, as though my heart itself had grown tired of carrying sorrow.

“Give me five thousand rupees,” I said to my wife.

Startled, she looked up. Her eyes widened—half fear, half disbelief. I ignored her and pressed on, my voice firm. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

For a moment, a spark of rebellion flared in her eyes, but she held it back. Wordlessly, she opened her purse. Her fingers trembled. She drew out a bundle of hundred-rupee notes and placed it in my hand as though it weighed a mountain.

I passed the money to Jagabandhu and whispered a silent prayer to Lord Jagannath. Not for fortune, but for mercy. Then I turned away and walked toward the bus stop, leaving him behind with his burden of sorrow.

The road stretched empty; my footsteps sounded hollow. It felt as if every sound within me had fallen still—as though the earth itself had grown quieter than it should be. I seemed to sink into a darkness so deep that I had not known it existed within me.

How does Jagabandhu live beneath such sorrow? How does he bear a life so heavy? Is what he endures truly a life—or a curse disguised in the clothes of living?

If I were in his place…

No. My body trembled. I tried to imagine it, but I could not. It was not merely difficult—it was impossible, like trying to build a ladder that reaches heaven.

Just as I was making a futile attempt to step into Jagabandhu’s shoes, and failing all the same, my wife’s voice drifted through the silence.

“You gave the last note to charity. Do you have money for the bus fare?”

I snapped out of my thoughts and asked, “Why? What about the money I gave you the day we came to the village?”

As though she had already anticipated my question, she quietly handed me a notebook where every expense was recorded, down to the last coin.

“The money you gave your friend was the last you ever gave me,” she said. “Now you’ll have to take care of the bus fare yourself.”

It was as if a cold hand had struck me awake. I stepped out of my daze into the harsh glare of truth: I was penniless. I didn’t even have enough to buy the bus tickets.

What madness drove me to Jagabandhu’s house? Why had I stopped there on my way to the bus stop?

He is my friend, yes—but that doesn’t mean I must lose my head every time I think of him. More than anything, why had that sudden tide of emotion risen in me the moment I saw him?

It would have been different if I’d been alone. But I wasn’t. My wife and daughter were there, silent witnesses to my grand stupidity. How could I tell the bus conductor, without shame, “Brother, I have not a paisa left. Take us to Bhubaneswar for nothing”?

My mind went blank. Darkness pressed close, thick and suffocating. I wished I could slap myself. And if anyone asked why, I’d tell them plainly: because I earned it.

Sadhu Kaka broke my trance. “Are you disturbed?” he asked gently. “Your wife doesn’t seem well. Has there been some disagreement between the two of you?”

I forced a smile. A thin, artificial smile.

I wanted to tell him, Life isn’t as simple as you think, Sadhu Kaka. You, who have stepped away from the world, can never truly understand it.

I studied, loved, built a home, became a father—and soon, I’ll be the one giving my daughter’s hand away. And yet, I still wonder if I’ve ever truly grasped the delicate mathematics of living.

If I had, would I, once again ensnared by emotion, have placed my last bit of money in Jagabandhu’s hands today—just as I did twenty years ago, when my daughter burned with fever and I gave you the money meant for her medicine?

I still remember it clearly: my daughter’s asthma had flared again after days of fever. The doctor had ordered an urgent injection, and I set out in haste to buy it.

Sadhu Kaka caught me in the traffic. He ran to me, gasping, and gripped my arm.

“Jayant, disaster has struck. I must leave for the village right now, but my bag is gone. Lend me some money. I’ll send you a money order the moment I reach home.”

I opened my wallet, not even sure why. There were three thousand rupees inside. The instant his eyes fell on them, he said, “That will do. Don’t worry, I’ll return it as soon as I reach the village.”

Before I could protest, he tore the notes from my hand and disappeared onto a bus.

I went back home with nothing. No medicine, no words to explain. My daughter’s condition worsened that night, and by morning she was in the ICU.

That morning never left me. Even now, the sound of an ambulance makes my chest tighten.

Twenty years have gone by since then.

And now, Sadhu Kaka again, after twenty long years.

I wanted to cry out, to shout until my voice broke. I wanted to grab Sadhu Kaka by the shoulders and plead:

“I desperately need that money today, Sadhu Kaka. Otherwise, the bus conductor will humiliate me in front of my wife and daughter. If only you could return what I gave you twenty years ago, it would save me now.”

But I said nothing. His vacant eyes, his frail face, left no space for words.

Long ago, he had loved someone. She betrayed him, and he never recovered. He lived only as long as duty required—until his parents were gone. Then he simply let the world slip past.

People say he has no place to call his own. No one knows what he does or where he lives. How could I expect anything from a man who has already abandoned everything, even himself?

The bus pulled in at the stop. My wife caught our daughter by the hand and climbed aboard. I loosened my grip on Sadhu Kaka’s hand and turned to follow them. But before I could reach the door, he ran after me. With trembling fingers, he straightened my collar and smoothed the stray hair from my forehead. Perhaps he wished to speak, but no words came.

For an instant, I faltered, my mind adrift. His face glowed before me like that of the Lord Buddha at the Peace Pagoda in Dhauli—calm, compassionate. Then I turned away in revulsion. I’ve always been vulnerable to such people. Who would help me now? Sadhu Kaka, or Jagabandhu?

My face hardened in defiance. I pushed him aside, climbed into the bus, and sank onto the three-seater beside my wife. My eyes closed. Inside me, it felt as though the cyclone of ninety-nine was still raging.

Ah, why does this keep happening to me? Why do I remain a slave to my own emotions? Even after stumbling into trouble time and again, why can’t I understand that charity is good—but never at the cost of losing yourself?

I don’t know when I drifted into sleep. A soft touch pulled me back. I opened my eyes. The bus conductor stood before me.

Oh my God!

Startled, I cried out silently. Sweat broke across my skin; the ground seemed to give way beneath my feet. My blood turned cold. I saw my wife and daughter staring at me, their faces pale with fear.

“Mr. Jayant, right?” the bus conductor said, smiling. “Here—your ticket to Bhubaneswar. And three thousand rupees.”

I looked up, uncertain I had heard him correctly.

A ticket… money… what was all this?

The bus conductor’s smile lingered.

“Sadhu Kaka bought the tickets for you,” he said. “He told me to give you the money as well. He was afraid you might refuse if he tried to hand it to you himself.”

So, this time in the crowded market place, both my wife and I smiled and looked with contrition at him. Before we could speak, he smiled and said, “Stay well!” Then he disappeared.

[1] Kaka means “uncle” and is often used in Odia as a respectful form of address for an elderly man. Thus, Sadhu Kaka may be understood as “Uncle Sadhu.”

Rajendra Kumar Roul is an acclaimed bilingual fiction writer. A professional feature journalist, he has written more than a hundred short stories, over a thousand feature articles for Odia daily newspapers, two novels and several plays for the stage.

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

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Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Pravasini Mahakuda’s Odia Poems

Five poems by Pravasini Mahakuda have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Pravasini Mahakuda
YOUR POETRY 

You do not get liberated by arguments. 
Liberation isn’t on your mind,
Neither is it in your fortitude or your courage,
Nor in the tricky manoeuvring of your steps.
Liberation is in the challenges
Your soul ceaselessly confronts.
Salvation is in each line of the poem you write.
Do you know or do you not?
That even after you quit this beautiful earth,
Your poetry will live.
Readers of poetry will continue to be. 
Your poetry will live forever because
You hold a timeless lover inside you,
And because of your love,
Which is liberation itself.
Your poetry will thrive as a green permanence,
Even on a blazing summer noon.
You and your poetry are one,  
And have never existed apart.
 You yourself are poetry --  
Only poetry, and nothing else.
Because like you, Poetry, too, is a woman>
And you, like poetry itself
Are the eternal Truth.   

 THE REST OF THEM 

Let the rest of them 
Write about revolutions 
And resistances,
About rights and responsibilities.
I write about life.
I write about love,
And things that happen around me.
I write about the changing seasons,
About the prices of goods,     
Of the soreness hidden in the heart.
I write about the hopes and fears that
The heart incessantly wavers between,
Of an unseen wound that never stops to hurt.
I write about the eye that cannot see
The tears trickle down the other one,
Or the drenched pillow and the sari-end.
I write about a hand 
That does not care to share 
The ache in the other one.
I write about the song the dead river 
That flowed once between us had sung.
Let others write about 
What they won and lost.
I will write about the pain emanating from 
An aspired for void.
Let others write about spite and disdain, 
I will sing of life and love.
 
SHRAVANA* 

For which Shravana must the woman
Write a poem now?
What kind of a poem of Shravana  
Must she write to sprinkle life
Into the desert dying inside her
To cheer herself up?
Do you think it is easy to write poetry?
You do not know perhaps,
Only a drop of rain comes down
Against millions of palmfuls of tears.
In that lone drop of rain,
 Rings a primeval tune
That perhaps lay buried under
A century old rock.
You had never been in that song 
In any phase of life,
Not as friend, a husband or a neighbour
Neither as a reader, nor a critic.
The agony is because 
You were never a part of that song.
The Shravana is because 
You were never a part of that song.
And the rain is because of that,
And the poem too!  
It’s half-hour past eight. 
On this evening of a Shravana Sunday
The Shravana pours generously.
Do you believe a woman somewhere   
Still sits waiting for you on this evening,
Watching her own silent tears
Mingle in the Shravana rains outside?

*Month of July-August in the Indian calendar, normally monsoons in India.

GODDESS 

She is not a goddess --
The one you invoked while 
Immersing, 
Or immersed while
Invoking.
She is a woman.  
Perhaps you have not cared to see
The tears in the eyes of that goddess.
During those performances,
You have time and again played games
With her body and her tears.
Every night,
On the freshly made beds 
And in freshly written verses too.
You always know that the 
Finale of the game
Will be under your control 
And by your choice.
Because you have ensured the result
Would be in your favour,
You have taken the game for granted. 
    
        
SAREE 

The pain and pangs I have lived through 
Are as many 
As the threads woven 
In my saree. 
The end of the saree fails to hold
the profusion of 
All honour and dishonour,
All joys and sorrows,
Interest and indifference, 
The ache of losing things 
I had won,
The ecstasy of loving 
And the agony of no response.
As I set out on a journey,
The sorrow-flowers bloom in a row
Along the border of the saree,
Spring into life. 
As innocent symbols of that agony, 
A scene floats past my mind in a flash
Where I find the whole of my being
Standing by the loom.
I marvel at the intimate emotion
Of a beautiful loving mind
Employed at the act of weaving
Such a saree of choice.
The threads in this saree 
I am clad in are as many as 
The sorrows and sufferings, 
Joys and elations that roll
Inside me like the gentle undulations of 
The middle notes of a song.

Pravasini Mahakuda is a distinguished Odia poet and translator with 18 original books and 8 books in translation from Hindi to Odia. She has received the Odisha Sahitya Akademi award, Jhankar Award and Junior and  Senior Fellowships from the Ministry of Culture, Govt. of India. Her international engagements include participation in poetry festivals in Germany presenting her work in Berlin, Munich, Hamburg, Leipzig and Frankfurt. She regularly contributes poems in national magazines and attends seminars and poetry festivals across India. 

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

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

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Categories
Celebrating Humanity

Can Old Acquaintances be Forgot…

Our January 2025 Cover: Art by Sohana Manzoor

It has been a strange year for all of us. Amidst the chaos, bloodshed and climate disasters, Borderless Journal seems to be finding a footing in an orphaned world, connecting with writers who transcend borders and readers who delight in a universe knit with the variety and vibrancy of humanity. Like colours of a rainbow, the differences harmonise into an aubade, dawning a world with the most endearing of human traits, hope.

A short round up of this year starts with another new area of focus — a section with writings on environment and climate. Also, we are delighted to add we now host writers from more than forty countries. In October, we were surprised to see Borderless Journal listed on Duotrope and we have had a number of republications with acknowledgement — the last request was signed off this week for a republication of Ihlwha Choi’s poem in an anthology by Hatchette US. We have had many republications with due acknowledgment in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and UK too among other places. Our team has been active too not just with words and art but also with more publications from Borderless. Rhys Hughes, who had a play performed to a full house in Wales recently, brought out a whole book of his photo-poems from Borderless. Bhaskar Parichha has started an initiative towards another new anthology from our content — Odia poets translated by Snehaprava Das. We are privileged to have all of you — contributors and readers — on board. And now, we invite you to savour some of our fare published in Borderless from January 2025 to December 2025. These are pieces that embody the spirit of a world beyond borders… 

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Arshi, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snehaprava Das, Ron Pickett, Nziku Ann, Onkar Sharma, Harry Ricketts, Ashok Suri, Heath Brougher, Momina Raza, George Freek, Snigdha Agrawal, Stuart Macfarlane, Gazala Khan , Lizzie Packer, Rakhi Dalal, Jenny Middleton, Afsar Mohammad, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Rhys Hughes

Translated Poetry

The Lost Mantras, Malay poems written and translated by Isa Kamari

The Dragonfly, a Korean poem written and translated by Ihlwha Choi

Ramakanta Rath’s Sri Radha, translated from Odiya by the late poet himself.

Identity by Munir Momin, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

Found in Translation: Bipin Nayak’s Poetry, translated from Odiya by Snehaprava Das.

For Sanjay Kumar: To Sir — with Love by Tanvir , written for the late founder of pandies’ theatre, and translated from Hindustani by Lourdes M Surpiya.

Therefore: A Poem by Sukanta Bhattacharya, translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta.

Poetry of Jibanananda Das, translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam.

Tagore’s Pochishe Boisakh Cholechhe (The twenty fifth of Boisakh draws close…) translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. 

Fiction

An excerpt from Tagore’s long play, Roktokorobi or Red Oleanders, has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Ajit Cour’s short story, Nandu, has been translated from Punjabi by C Christine Fair. Click here to read.

A Lump Stuck in the Throat, a short story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Night in Karnataka: Rhys Hughes shares his play. Click here to read.

The Wise Words of the Sun: Naramsetti Umamaheswararao relates a fable involving elements of nature. Click here to read.

Looking for Evans: Rashida Murphy writes a light-hearted story about a faux pas. Click here to read.

Exorcising Mother: Fiona Sinclair narrates a story bordering on spooky. Click here to read.

The Fog of Forgotten Gardens: Erin Jamieson writes from a caregivers perspective. Click here to read.

Jai Ho Chai: Snigdha Agrawal narrates a funny narrative about sadhus and AI. Click here to read.

The Sixth Man: C. J. Anderson-Wu tells a story around disappearances during Taiwan’s White Terror. Click here to read.

Sleeper on the Bench: Paul Mirabile sets his strange story in London. Click here to read.

I Am Not My Mother: Gigi Baldovino Gosnell gives a story of child abuse set in Philippines where the victim towers with resilience. Click here to read.

Persona: Sohana Manzoor wanders into a glamorous world of expats. Click here to read.

In American Wife, Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.

Sandy Cannot Write: Devraj Singh Kalsi takes us into the world of advertising and glamour. Click here to read.

Non Fiction

Classifications in Society by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.

The Day of Annihilation, an essay on climate change by Kazi Nazrul Islam, translated from Bengali by Radha Chakravarty. Click here to read.

The Bauls of Bengal: Aruna Chakravarti writes of wandering minstrels called bauls and the impact they had on Tagore. Click here to read.

The Literary Club of 18th Century London: Professor Fakrul Alam writes on literary club traditions of Dhaka, Kolkata and an old one from London. Click here to read.

Roquiah Sakhawat Hossein: How Significant Is She Today?: Niaz Zaman reflects on the relevance of one of the earliest feminists in Bengal. Click here to read.

Anadi: A Continuum in Art: Ratnottama Sengupta writes of an exhibition curated by her. Click here to read.

Reminiscences from a Gallery: The Other Ray: 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. Click here to read.

250 Years of Jane Austen: A Tribute: Meenakshi Malhotra pays a tribute to the writer. Click here to read.

Menaced by a Marine Heatwave: Meredith Stephens writes of how global warming is impacting marine life in South Australia. Click here to read.

Linen at Midnight: Pijus Ash relates a real-life spooky encounter in Holland. Click here to read.

Two Lives – A Writer and A Businessman: Chetan Datta Poduri explores two lives from the past and what remains of their heritage. Click here to read

‘Verify You Are Human’: Farouk Gulsara ponders over the ‘intelligence’ of AI and humans. Click here to read.

Where Should We Go After the Last Frontiers?: Ahamad Rayees writes from a village in Kashmir which homed refugees and still faced bombing. Click here to read.

The Jetty Chihuahuas: Vela Noble takes us for a stroll to the seaside at Adelaide. Click here to read.

The Word I Could Never Say: Odbayar Dorj muses on her own life in Mongolia and Japan. Click here to read.

On Safari in South Africa by Suzanne Kamata takes us to a photographic and narrative treat of the Kruger National Park. Click here to read.

The Day the Earth Quaked: Amy Sawitta Lefevre gives an eyewitness account of the March 28th earthquake from Bangkok. Clickhere to read.

From Madagascar to Japan: An Adventure or a Dream: Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia writes of her journey from Africa to Japan with a personal touch. Clickhere to read.

How Two Worlds Intersect: Mohul Bhowmick muses on the diversity and syncretism in Bombay or Mumbai. Click here to read.

Can Odia Literature Connect Traditional Narratives with Contemporary Ones: Bhaskar Parichha discusses the said issue. Click here to read.

A discussion on managing cyclones, managing the aftermath and resilience with Bhaksar Parichha, author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage, and Resilience. Click here to read.

A discussion of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal, with an online interview with the translator. Click here to read.

A conversation with the author in Anuradha Kumar’s Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India . Click here to read.

Keith Lyons in conversation with Harry Ricketts, mentor, poet, essayist and more. Click here to read.

Categories
Contents

Borderless, December 2025

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

‘I wondered should I go or should I stay…’ …Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s Shoore O Baneer Mala Diye (With a Garland of Tunes and Lyrics) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Four of his own Malay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.

Five poems by Satrughna Pandab have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das. Click here to read.

A Lump Stuck in the Throat, a short story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Tagore’s Jatri (Passenger) has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Conversation

Keith Lyons in conversation with Harry Ricketts, mentor, poet, essayist and more. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Harry Ricketts, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Laila Brahmbhatt, John Grey, Saba Zahoor, Diane Webster, Gautham Pradeep, Daniel Gene Barlekamp, Annwesa Abhipsa Pani, Cal Freeman, Smitha Vishwanath,John Swain, Nziku Ann, Anne Whitehouse, Tulip Chowdhury, Ryan Quinn Flangan, Ramzi Albert Rihani, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Said the Spook, Rhys Hughes gives a strange tale around Christmas. Click here to read.

Musings/ Slices from Life

Your call is important to us?

Farouk Gulsara writes of how AI has replaced human interactions in customer service. Click here to read.

Honeymoon Homecoming

Meredith Stephens visits her old haunts in Japan. Click here to read.

Cracking Exams

Gower Bhat discusses the advent of coaching schools in Kashmir for competitive exams for University exams, which seem to be replacing real schools. Click here to read.

The Rule of Maximum Tolerance?

Jun A. Alindogan writes of Filipino norms. Click here to read.

How Two Worlds Intersect

Mohul Bhowmick muses on the diversity and syncretism in Bombay or Mumbai. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In The Monitoring Spirit, Devraj Singh Kalsi writes of spooky encounters. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In One Thousand Year Story in the Middle of Shikoku, Suzanne Kamata takes us on a train ride through Japan. Click here to read.

Essays

250 Years of Jane Austen: A Tribute

Meenakshi Malhotra pays a tribute to the writer. Click here to read.

Anadi: A Continuum in Art

Ratnottama Sengupta writes of an exhibition curated by her. Click here to read.

Sangam Literature: Timeless Chronicles of an Ancient Civilisation

Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan explores the rich literary heritage of Tamil Nadu. Click here to read.

Bhaskar’s Corner

In The Riverine Journey of Bibhuti Patnaik, Bhaskar Parichha pays a tribute to the octegenarian writer. Click here to read.

Stories

Evergreen

Sayan Sarkar gives a climate friendly and fun narrative. Click here to read.

The Crying Man

Marc Rosenberg weaves a narrative around childhood. Click here to read.

How Madhu was Cured of Laziness

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a fable set in Southern India. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

Excerpt from Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments by Eric Chopra. Click here to read.

Excerpt from Leonie’e Leap by Marzia Pasini. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Rakhi Dalal reviews Anuradha Kumar’s Love and Crime in the Time of Plague. Click here to read.

Andreas Giesbert reviews Ariel Slick’s The Devil Take the Blues: A Southern Gothic Novel. Click here to read.

Gazala Khan reviews Ranu Uniyal’s This Could Be a Love Poem for You. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Indira Das’s Last Song before Home, translated from Bengali by Bina Biswas. Click here to read.

.

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