Categories
Bhaskar's Corner

The Riverine Journey of Bibhuti Patnaik

By Bhaskar Parichha

Bibhuti Patnaik (born: 1937). Photo provided by Bhaskar Parichha

Bibhuti Patnaik’s literary career unfolds like a long river—steady, persistent, and quietly transformative—running through the landscape of Odia literature for more than six decades. From the late 1950s onward, he wrote with a rare combination of emotional honesty and narrative discipline, giving voice to the evolving inner lives of middle-class Odias.

His writing emerged at a time when Odia literature was searching for a new expression after Independence, trying to reconcile classical traditions with modern psychological sensibilities. Into this space stepped a young writer who was not concerned with ideology or grand social systems, but with the stirrings of the human heart.

A defining feature of Pattanaik’s oeuvre is his meticulous representation of the Odia middle class. His novels, whether Aswamedhara Ghoda (Horse of Aswamedha)Sesha Basanta (Last Spring), or Prathama Sakala (First Dawn), foreground the ethical tensions, emotional fragilities, and moral negotiations embedded in quotidian life.

What distinguished Patnaik from many of his contemporaries was his unwavering commitment to emotional realism—a faith that the complexities of human relationships, especially love and desire, could carry as much literary weight as any political or social theme.

In his earliest works, Patnaik revealed a sensitivity to the fragile moral dilemmas that shape everyday life. His characters were not heroic figures or tragic archetypes; they were ordinary men and women negotiating expectations, impulses, and the confines of middle-class respectability. His prose, clean and unadorned, immediately established a new relationship with the reader—intimate, direct, and unpretentious.

For Odia readers of the 1960s, accustomed to more stylized narrative forms, this was refreshing. Young readers in particular embraced his novels, drawn to a writer who articulated emotional experiences with clarity and sincerity. Even at this early stage, Patnaik showed a remarkable ability to create female characters with depth and interiority, granting them agency in a literary culture that often placed women on symbolic pedestals rather than treating them as independent subjects.

As Patnaik moved into the 1970s and 1980s, his literary world expanded. The emotional tensions that shaped his early novels did not disappear, but they began to encounter new social realities. Odisha was changing—economically, culturally, and morally—and Patnaik’s novels became sensitive mirrors to these shifts. Urbanisation, job insecurity, the erosion of joint families, and the anxieties of modern aspiration found their way into his fiction.

He continued to write about intimate relationships, but these relationships were now embedded in broader pressures: generational conflict, economic burdens, and shifting gender dynamics. His characters struggled not only with their feelings but also with the demands of a changing society. Through this evolution, Patnaik maintained a narrative clarity that made his writing accessible to a wide audience, allowing him to be both widely read and critically noticed.

The 1990s marked a turning point in his career. While he continued to produce fiction, Patnaik increasingly turned his attention toward literary criticism and self-reflection. His essays—fearlessly honest, sometimes provocative—revealed a writer deeply engaged with the ethical health of the literary world. He wrote about the politics of awards, the failures of institutions, the erosion of literary standards, and the compromises that authors often make.

These writings unsettled the comfortable spaces of Odia literary culture but also enriched the discourse by demanding accountability and sincerity. At a time when many writers preferred diplomatic silence, Patnaik chose frankness. This choice, while controversial, made him an indispensable voice in understanding the dynamics of Odia letters in the late twentieth century.

His memoirs and autobiographical writings in the 2000s and 2010s further broadened his contribution. They are not mere recollections of a long literary life but important historical documents that offer insight into the personalities, politics, and conflicts of Odisha’s literary circles. The candour with which he narrates his experiences—sometimes tender, sometimes critical—makes these works stand apart in Odia autobiographical literature.

They reveal a writer who, despite being celebrated, never hesitated to critique himself or the milieu in which he worked. The tone of these later writings is marked by a late-style simplicity: calm, distilled, and enriched by decades of observation. Unlike many of his generation who grew stylistically heavier with age, Patnaik’s prose became lighter, clearer, and emotionally more resonant.

One of the most enduring features of his work is his representation of women. Throughout his career, Patnaik returned again and again to the complexities of female experience—women torn between personal desire and social expectation, women who resist, women who compromise, and women who assert themselves. His empathy for his female characters is evident not in idealisation but in the dignity he grants to their doubts, choices, and vulnerabilities. In a literary tradition long dominated by male narratives, this alignment with women’s emotional truth marked a significant departure and set a model for subsequent writers.

What ties Patnaik’s diverse phases together—novels, essays, memoirs—is an ethical thread. At the heart of his writing lies an insistence on sincerity: sincerity in feeling, sincerity in storytelling, sincerity in literary practice. His criticism emerges from the same commitment that shaped his fiction—the belief that literature must remain close to life, uncorrupted by pretension or institutional manipulation. Even when he critiques, he does so with the conviction that honesty is necessary for a healthy literary culture.

Today, looking back at his multi-decade journey, it becomes clear that Bibhuti Patnaik’s importance extends far beyond his widespread readership. He shaped the emotional vocabulary of several generations of Odia readers. He penned some of the most psychologically astute portrayals of love and moral conflict in Odia fiction.

He exposed the fissures in literary institutions through his bold essays. And he preserved the history of Odia literary life through his memoirs. His evolution—from a young chronicler of quiet emotions to a mature critic of cultural politics—mirrors the transformations of post-Independence Odisha itself.

Bibhuti Patnaik’s legacy is defined by this continuity of purpose. Whether writing a tender love story or a sharp critical essay, he remained committed to the integrity of human experience. His work endures because it speaks, with remarkable clarity, to the fears, hopes, and contradictions that shape ordinary lives.

 In doing so, he carved a place for himself as one of the most authentic voices in modern Odia literature—unshakeable in sincerity, unafraid of truth, and unforgettable in the emotional clarity of his storytelling.

.

Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and ResilienceUnbiasedNo 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.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Satrughna Pandab’s Odia Poems

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

Satrughna Pandab
SUMMER JOURNEY

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

And the soothing monsoon showers?
Where lies the destination --
At what border, which estuary,
Which desolate island of wordlessness?
The journey perhaps itself decides
The appropriate hour.
You embark upon this journey alone --
Without friends, without kins,
Without allies without adversaries.

You yourself are the mendicant here.
You are the violin, you too are the ektara.
You are the alms too.
And what are the alms after all?
At that ultimate point,
When the end would wear the
Garb of blue ascetism,
The scorch of summer
Turns to
Sandalwood paste,
Besmears the breath that
Leaves you overwhelmed
With its exotic fragrance.

A SKETCH OF FAMINE

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

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

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

WAR (I)
(FROM KURUKSHETRA TO KUWAIT)

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

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

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

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

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


AUTUMN

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

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


A FAMILY MAN’S DAILY ROUTINE

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

A bare back, always
Rough hair, dry, windblown,
May be there is a hunch on his back,
Or, is it a load of some kind?
Heavy and sagging,
His toils do not show on his face.

He stands like a scarecrow,
Waving aimless, hollow hands
Warding off the emptiness
Around him, or the void within?

His face does not show it,
Or he does not have a face at all?
Just a headless body
Moves about here and there,
Brushing the dust off,
Mopping the sweat beads away.
The cracks on his palms and his heels
Could be seen, indistinct though.
There are, however, times, when
A face fixes itself to the headless torso,
When he comes to know
About the pregnancy of his unwed daughter,
Or, when he has to carry his dead son
Over his shagging shoulders,
The pair of eyes in that face look like marbles
Deadpan, stiff and blank.

How does a family man take it
When the harvest succumbs
To the tyranny of flood and famine,
When a dividing wall is raised
In the house or in the fields,
Does it matter to the family man?
May be,
A dagger rips his heart apart,
The pain does not show on the face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Bhaskar's Corner

‘Language… is a mirror of our moral imagination’

By Bhaskar Parichha

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and ResilienceUnbiasedNo 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.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

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

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

Rohini K.Mukherjee
AT THE MYSTICAL SANCHI 

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

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


THE EXECUTIONER

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

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

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


THE DEATH OF A HAPPY MAN

One day, the eyes lost sleep
And all the locusts flew away,

Not one spectator had guessed
That one day
The man will sprawl out on
On the sea beach sands
Washed away by the waves
From distant lands.

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

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

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

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


ANKLETS OF THE NIGHT

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

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

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

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

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


THEY DID NOT COME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Hrushikesh Mallick’s Poems

Five poems by Hrushikesh Mallick have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

AFTER THEY LEAVE     

After they leave,
The tree in the midst of a bare field
Stands forlorn.
Not a single bird,
Nor the sound of chirping anywhere
Not a leaf flutters in the breeze,
No one speaks a word
After they leave.

The world is a meaningless void
When they are not there.
Flowers bloom and wither aimlessly.
Festive seasons come and depart.
The privileged and the poor come and go
Without making an impact.
Silence reigns everywhere and around
When they are not there.

Living in a pattern,
Like, in every moth-hour
‘Chhatu bhai’ riding back
From the village market, ringing the bicycle bell,
Or, farmers sitting on a platform in the evenings
And deciding which patch of the land
Would be plowed next morning,
Like, the moon coming up routinely
At measured intervals,
And discussions centering around
How ‘Gaya-bhai’
Escaped the wrath of the village-goddess
Last night by a sheer miracle.
Routine life continues
Like rice cooking tender in the kitchen-hearth
While cow-dung cakes are put
To smoulder in the cowsheds.
The regular pattern of living
Is dull and cheerless
In their absence.
Who are they, then? Who indeed?
They are the fragrance of the paddy-buds
In the farmlands by the hillside,
They are the Siju bushes that
Grow under the eaves in the backyard,
They are the sound of the clearing of throat
That inspires courage in a fearful heart
On a dark pathway,
They are the drumbeats floating in
In gentle waves from the neighbouring village,
They are the pallbearers that twine ropes
To make a pyre;
And, after they leave life loses its meaning!

WHEN THERE IS NO GOD

Once you join your palms
sitting on the bed
while going to sleep
or, as you wake up,
worries stop disturbing
your calm.
You are assured of the presence
of someone called God
who might break your fall.
But these are the bleak days
of God’s absence,
these days the headless bodies
saunter down the streets of the night
whispering to one another.
The dogs howl in a chorus.
The sounds of sermons or devotional songs
do not float in from the mandapa,
the air throbs instead with the siren
of ambulances.
As such belief is that
the God that holds
the trident and the mace
is omnipotent.
Why does that God stand dull
and lifeless in the temple now?
Does an idol in any temple
have the power now
even to chase away the stray dogs?
Is there a God in any shrine
who can hold open
its closed doors and by some miracle
turn auspicious
all that is ominous?
In these dark days when
God is not there,
if we take a fall,
we have to get up on our own.
We have to lean on our own mettle
and our own merit
in the moments of death or survival.
In the absence of God,
we have to commit ourselves
to the service of the distressed,
to feed the hungry
and nurse the sick,
give shelter to the homeless.
It’s time we repented our indulgences
without religious extravaganza.
It’s time we stopped
pinning blind faith in
the figures of stone.

THE LONE GIRL

The lone girl has nowhere to go,
She sits alone lamenting her loss;
Once upon a time she had
a country like we all have,
it was called Syria.
Its lofty national flag
soared to the clouds.
It had a national anthem that
sparked the spirit of martyrdom
in its people!

In the evenings,
perched on the shoulders
of her babajaan,
she watched the moon
in the sky of her homeland;
heard stories from her mother
that set her eyes rolling in wonder;
that country, her homeland is now in ruins
a vast, barren expanse,
littered with severed limbs.
Its air is sick with the smell of
tons and tons of explosives
there lay piles of disfigured childhood
in pathetic abandon
to tell the tale of a country that was!

No one had ever warned the girl
that her tomorrows will be spent
in makeshift shelters under the tents,
nor did she know that
her palms would join to make begging bowl,
and there would be merchants
to trade on
the perfumed void in her.
No one predicted that she would grow up
believing in hatred instead of love!
And when she would learn to ask
the whereabouts of her parents
the whole civilized world will
keep mute.

EYES

Just as I believed that all poems
which could have been written on ‘eyes’
are already written
your ‘eyes’ flashed before me
and what an amazing lot of trees
laden with fruits and flowers
and birds, they held!
I wondered where did you flick
your deep, boundless glance
from the corridors of the hospital
like a handful of floral offerings.
The anguish that glance held
was like the lost look in the eyes of a kid
who was rudely denied a father’s lap,
like a fresh bloom shying away
from the eyes of a honeybee
or, a streak of lightning flashing
in the overcast noon-sky
like a poor man’s last hope.
Your eyes are like the lines of a poem
that unfold a new meaning
at every other reading.
Your eyes,
like a strange horizon captures
the crimson of the dawn
and the gleam of a red silk sari
in a perfect balance!
Your eyes could transform a waste land
to a paddy field in luxuriant green,
at times they are moist with muffled sobs,
or, like a spear smeared in blood, at others!
What is more beautiful --
the bright loquacity in your eyes
or the rain-washed sunshine,
the mysterious mutter in your eyes
or a village enveloped in a wispy darkness?

THE HONEYBEE DOES NOT KNOW

The son writes poems.
His mother does not know.
‘You are rotting yourself through writing,’
She complains,
‘Did you write them?’
A girl-friend, looks at him in wonder,
‘Can you swear to that?’ she asks.
The boy writes poems
The street where he lives does not know it,
Nor does the village!
His young face does not sport a beard,
Nor have the creases appeared on his forehead.
There was not that distant look
Like the faraway stars in the eyes,
How could then he be a poet?
Who would believe that?
A man who picks up a quarrel with the fisherwoman
Could recite the brajabuli,
Or, the fellow weaving clothes at the loom
Can sing lines from Tapaswini

A poet is not supposed to have a home.
He sits under the trees
Amidst the anthills.
A poet hacks off the branch he sits on.
He does not have that worldly intelligence.
A poet is not pragmatic.
He begins a line at the wrong point
And ends it at a wrong one too.
A good poet forgets the right way of chanting
The mantra that would protect him from dangers
While actually facing them.

The mother does not know that
Her son is a poet; nor does the father.
The owner of the hut where the poet takes shelter
Does not know his tenant to be a poet.
The poet’s voice does not know
It belongs to a poet.
The reflection has no idea it is the poet’s image.
The lizard exploring the shelves
Does not know the ‘Award of Padmashree’
Carefully preserved there,
Was won by the poet.
The honeybee that circles the graves
Does not know that
The lines engraved on the tomb
Were the epitaph for the poet.

Glossary:
Mandapa is a pavilion.
Brajabuli is a dialect based on Maithali that was popularised for poetry by the medieval poet Vidyapati.
Tapaswini: A famous long poem by the 19th century Odia poet Gangadhar Meher.

.

Dr Hrushikesh Mallick is a reputed Odia poet and writer. He has 13 Poetry collections. His first book in 1987 heralded a new era in Odia poetry. He has received Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award (1988), Sarala Award (2016) and Central Sahitya Akademi Award (2021).He is also an eminent literary critic and fiction writer. He served as President of Odisha Sahitya Akademi (2021-2024). He has been a professor of Odia language and literature from 2012.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Ashwini Mishra’s poems

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

Ashwini Mishra
RIDING THE EARTH: THE LAST DAY

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

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

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

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

SWORD


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

THE CLAY LAMP

A clay lamp can always guess
How long the ghee and
The wick in it will last.
It is a living thing
How brief might its lifespan be.
It can, like all living beings,
Battle the wind and the darkness
In its struggle to survive
In an unenclosed space
That is vulnerable to
The assault of hooves of animals
Or the misty spray of the dew.
It knows that
The moment the curtain rises,
Revealing the stage
All set for the entry of light,
The first act of the play will end
And Its role will be over
Even before the makeup is
Rubbed off the face or the artificial tint
On the hair fades.
The hand that had lit it
May turn impassive, too!

A woman, her heart and hands
Focused on the act,
Keeps lighting up the clay lamps,
Not knowing for sure
How long their light would last
Or when the flames would die.
The idol of the goddess
That glittered in the light of
The lamps she lights
Never steps down to help her
When the flames char her body.
There is not a soul in sight
When her flame dies,
Except a few burnt insects.

GAZA
You neither have a chest
Nor arms now
To embrace those who once saw
You as their own
Like you did before.
The natives and the foreigners,
Who trod your soil,
Now take a turn either to your left
Or to your right and move on.
No longer the chirrups of birds
Come sprinkling down
Either from your sky, or your trees.
There are vultures everywhere
Scavenging on the tender human flesh
Getting fat and heavy.
The sun, the moon and the stars
In your sky are
Blown away into thousand pieces now.
You may dig up some of them
Graved under your ground.
The Death in your sea breeze
And in your explosive garb
Haunts living humans
To turn them to corpses.
Like a farmland ladened with crops,
Skeletons are heaped in your streets.
Houses and buildings where life dwelt
Are mounds of shattered concrete.
Wreckage of kitchenware,
And of home appliances
Lie on the desolate roads
In pathetic scatters.
A book satchel slings from the
Severed hand of a dead child.
The thirst for war is not quelled yet,
New strategies are deliberated upon
To pursue newer missions of death.
New weapons must be hoarded
In the arsenal
To launch an attack on the netherworld
After this world is razed to ruins.

WHIP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Bhaskar's Corner Tribute

Bidyut Prabha Devi – The First Feminist Odia Poet

By Bhaskar Parichha

Bidyut Prabha Devi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1] Odia Literature

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

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

.

Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and ResilienceUnbiasedNo 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.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Sangram Jena’s Poetry

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

Sangram Jena
 RETURN

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


ROCK*

What did he stumble on?
The unobtrusive block of stone
that lay on his way,
the sacred scriptures, the hearsay
all carried the story that
the sinning Ahalya was redeemed
at the touch of his holy feet;
When Indra had touched her that day,
what was that touch?
Was it a pretence? A betrayal?

It matters little whose touch is it
if there is trust in love!
A pretense of love is sometimes
More intimate than a relationship
that has no life in it!
What promises of redemption the world
That labels love a sin, held out for her?
She was neither a wife nor a beloved
after she was transformed
from a rock to a woman;
Hadn’t it been better
to have remained a rock
and lived the rest of the life
holding on to the memory
of a handful of those ecstatic moments!

*Refers to the story of Ahalya in Ramayana

IT IS NOT THERE WHERE YOU LOOK

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

SEARCH

There is no point in searching.

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

and a moon comes up while
you chase the dark.

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

Ther is no point in a search.

Life fritters away quietly
As you keep browsing.

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

Life does not flow
the way you expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Soubhagyabanta Maharana’s Poetry

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

SUNSET: A SYMBOL 

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

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

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

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

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

SILENCE BETWEEN WORDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

A VILLAGE THAT WAS: SKETCHING NOSTALGIA

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

The day when I left the village,
A fleeting cloud played hide and seek
In my book-satchel.
The fragrance of the lotus in the village-pond
That wished to caress fondly
The vibrance of childhood on my face
Missed me.
The name of that village lives in me.
A village crowded with forests of Mahula
And throbbing with the song of Adivasis
Dancing in the shadows of the Sal --
The village where rings the rhythm of my birth-cries
in a straw-thatched hut --
the name of that village, has melted into my breath.

A deep sadness pricks me though
That just as I understood the village
I lost my way to it,
Before I could trace the lotus-pond
And inhale its fragrance.
The smoke the factories emitted
Choked me midway,
As I went on narrating the nostalgia
I was left with just myself.
Alone.
While I searched for dreams
Painted in rural shades,
I lost my own self in the pale horizon
Of a smoky, grey sky.

DECLARATION

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

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

In every corner of my body that is caged,
In the prison of the elements,
Love sojourns.
And the intimate voice of my shadow-self
Has reached up to the planets and beyond.

The primeval tale of my century-old wait
Has sheltered in the feeble gaze of my eyes
May be, I am designed to stand as
The enemy of Time.
It was perhaps designed so,
That my victory march, with the bugle blowing
Will be declared a glorious success
Against a different backdrop.

RELATIONSHIP: ANOTHER HORIZON

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

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

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

*December- January
Soubhagyabanta Maharana

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

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

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Bhaskar's Corner

Can Odia Literature Connect Traditional Narratives with Contemporary Ones?

By Bhaskar Parichha

Odia literature is characterised by a profound tradition of classic narratives, with notable examples such as Fakir Mohan Senapati’s timeless Chha Mana Atha Guntha[1].  This literary corpus is further enhanced by an array of mythological and folk narratives that hold significant importance in the cultural legacy of Odisha.

These narratives persist through time because they reflect universal human experiences, encompassing themes such as land, power, family, and morality, all while being intricately linked to the historical context and cultural identity of the region. They serve not only as stories but also as reflections of society, having been shaped and refined over the years.

Readers are consistently attracted to these literary works for reasons similar to those that draw us to the writings of Shakespeare or the epic narrative of the Mahabharata: their themes are enduring, and the insights they provide remain pertinent. Similarly, publishers and curators, even at the national level, often revisit these classic tales, a trend that is entirely justifiable.

However, it is the transition to contemporary matters that strikes a significant chord. Odia literature has been progressing, albeit perhaps not as prominently or visibly as certain other Indian literary landscapes. Modern voices are addressing current issues—urban isolation, the influence of technology, caste relations, and environmental deterioration. The change is evident, yet it remains less pronounced than it has the potential to be.

What accounts for this? There may be multiple reasons.

The literary tradition of Odisha is profoundly embedded in its heritage. Classic literature is not only revered and taught but frequently eclipses modern works. Both publishers and readers exhibit a conservative inclination, preferring established texts. This trend is not unique to Odia literature; for example, Tolstoy remains a central figure in Russian literary discourse. As a result, this inclination obstructs the acknowledgment of new authors.

Modern Odia literature faces considerable challenges in its distribution. In contrast to Bengali or Tamil literature, which benefits from larger urban readerships and established translation networks, Odia books often struggle to reach broader audiences.

While digital platforms are making significant strides in this domain, the overall development is still sluggish. Without a strong market, numerous authors may opt to concentrate on more conventional themes that are viewed as more commercially viable.

The demographic composition of Odisha is primarily rural, where numerous readers find a stronger connection with stories that delve into village life or ethical dilemmas, as opposed to genres like cyberpunk or themes focused on existential angst. Although there are urban Odia authors, their readership is frequently limited in range. As a result, contemporary themes may seem alien to those who maintain a deep bond with traditional cultural settings.

The literary language of Odia typically possesses a formal tone, significantly influenced by its classical roots. This can lead to a conflict with modern terminology and global themes, posing challenges for writers who wish to innovate without jeopardising their connection to the audience. In contrast, languages such as Hindi and Malayalam readily incorporate colloquial expressions, which thrive in contemporary literature.

Nonetheless, modern Odia literature is dynamic and progressing. Short story writers are exploring a variety of topics including religion, science fiction, feminism, leftist ideologies, and climate change. Prominent authors such as Sarojini Sahu, Satya Mishra, Rabi Swain, Sadananda Tripathy, Jyoti Nanda, Bhima Prusty, Janaki Ballabh Mohapatra, Ajaya Swain, Biraja Mohapatra, Sujata Mohapatra and young writers like Debabrata Das  are actively investigating these contemporary themes. Publications like Kadambini, Rebati, and Katha are offering platforms for these creative narratives.

Despite this, the main obstacle remains the need to improve visibility. Social media and over-the-top (OTT) platforms have the potential to revolutionise this landscape—just picture an Odia adaptation of Black Mirror[2]!

There is an immediate need for greater investment in Odia storytelling to effectively bridge the gap between traditional and modern narratives.

.

[1] Six acres and a Third, a novel by Fakir Mohan Senapati(1843-1918) published in 1902

[2]Black Mirror is a British dystopian science fiction television anthology series that started in 2011 and is still on the run.

.

Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and ResilienceUnbiasedNo 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.

.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International