Tag: World Wars

Title: Janaki Ballav Patnaik: An Unfinished Memoir

Author: JB Patnaik

Translated into English from Odia by Bhaskar Parichha

Publisher : BK Classics

Chapter 17

A Journalist across Continents

My association with Prajatantra[1] also opened doors to experiences beyond the country. In 1959, the British Information Services invited four journalists from eastern India to visit England. From Odisha, I went as the editor of The Eastern Times. Along with me were representatives from The Statesman, Amrita Bazar Patrika, and Searchlight of Patna.

Our visit to England proved deeply enriching. We toured institutions such as University of Oxford and University of Cambridge, and also visited the British Parliament. At Bristol, we paid our respects at the tomb of Raja Ram Mohan Roy. We were taken to an atomic energy plant, a steel factory, and even a coal mine in Wales. On London’s Fleet Street, where most of the major newspapers were published, I had the chance to observe the workings of the Daily Telegraph office—its news gathering systems, teleprinter composition, and massive printing machines. We also engaged in discussions with British journalists about our experiences and about Indo-British relations.

We had arrived in England in June. One day, the temperature rose to ninety degrees Fahrenheit. By Indian standards, it was nothing remarkable, but in a country accustomed to cold weather, it was almost unbearable. News came of workers in several factories halting work due to the heat. We visited places like Buckingham Palace and the bridges over the Thames, taking in as much as we could of London’s historic landscape.

From London, I felt a strong desire to visit Germany. It was not uncommon for distinguished Indian journalists visiting London to be invited onward, so I approached the German Embassy and expressed my interest. To my pleasant surprise, they promptly invited me for a fifteen-day visit and granted me a visa.

I reached Frankfurt around ten in the morning. There, I was warmly received by Dr. Reikel, secretary of the Indo-German Association. With a smile, he informed me that the annual session of the German Indologists’ Association was being held that very day in Essen, and asked if I would like to attend. I readily agreed.

At the conference, nearly four hundred scholars of Indology had gathered—an impressive assembly devoted to the study of India’s past. After the session, during lunch, I was greeted by a former German Consul General who had once served in Calcutta. He asked me which city in India I came from. In an affected English accent, I replied, “Bhubaneshwar.” He smiled gently and said, “You must have just returned from England. The correct pronunciation is ‘Bhubaneswar.’”

I felt a moment of embarrassment. But he went on to say something that stayed with me. He told me that it was in Bhubaneswar, while visiting the Rajarani Temple, that he had first met his future wife. Then, with quiet warmth, he added that the German people held India in great affection. “You have seen it yourself,” he said, gesturing toward the gathering. “Hundreds of scholars here are devoted to studying ancient India. Wherever you go, you will find a spirit of friendship.”

And indeed, that is what I felt—a sense of India’s presence, respected and cherished, far beyond its own shores.

From there, we took our leave and travelled to Bonn, then the capital of West Germany. Bonn, I found, was much smaller than Berlin. In those days, Berlin stood divided—one part belonging to West Germany and the other to East Germany, which claimed it as its capital. Surrounded entirely by East German territory, West Berlin remained cut off, an island of a different world.

Dr. Reikel next took me to a refugee camp in West Germany. There, day after day, people fleeing from East Germany sought shelter. Pointing them out to me, he explained that East Germany was a communist state, almost a satellite of the Soviet Union. Life there, he said, had become so difficult that many risked everything to escape into Berlin and beyond.

We then visited West Berlin. I was struck by its prosperity. It was hard to imagine that this thriving city had once been reduced to rubble by bombing during the war. The transformation was astonishing—order, wealth, and vitality had returned. Except for one ruined church, left deliberately unrestored as a reminder of the World War II, there was little visible trace of destruction.

Curious to see the other side, we boarded a tourist bus to East Berlin. The bus carried visitors from many countries. As we entered, the conductor announced that we could now compare capitalist Berlin with communist Berlin. The contrast was stark. East Berlin appeared plain, almost austere, lacking the vibrancy of its western counterpart. Many buildings stood incomplete, as if time itself had slowed. One could immediately understand why people were fleeing from East to West.

From Berlin, we flew to Hamburg, the principal port of West Germany and a city rich in history and beauty. Its City Hall, harbour, and music halls left a lasting impression on me. Later, I also visited Wildbad.

At a hotel there, I noticed the Indian national flag fluttering. For a moment, I wondered if some distinguished visitor from India had arrived. Dr. Reikel smiled and told me that there was no one else—it had been hoisted in honour of me, their guest. Not long before, he added, another Indian guest had stayed there—Narayan Dutt Tiwari, who too had been invited by the Friendship Society.

While I was still in Bonn, an incident occurred that touched me deeply. A professor of philosophy had come to my hotel and left behind a card for me. On it, he had written a simple yet profound message: that he had come to pay his respects to my country—the land of Mahatma Gandhi and of the Upanishads.

It was a quiet gesture, but one that reminded me how India lived in the imagination of distant lands—not merely as a nation, but as a civilisation.

Everywhere I went in Germany, I felt a genuine warmth—an unmistakable atmosphere of friendliness. Even in an ordinary park, if one happened to meet a passerby, he would acknowledge you with a gentle nod of greeting. It was a small gesture, yet it spoke volumes about the people.

From Hamburg, I travelled to Munich by train. From there, I was to take a flight onward to Paris. The margin between the train’s arrival and the flight’s departure was barely half an hour. I asked Dr. Reikel, half in doubt, what would happen if the train were delayed. He replied with quiet confidence that it would not be late even by a second. And indeed, it arrived precisely on time.

I took leave of him there. For fifteen days, he had been my constant companion, guiding me through the principal cities of West Germany with a warmth that felt almost familial. He was a widower, deeply patriotic, critical of Adolf Hitler, yet appreciative of the discipline and courage of the German army of that era. The German people, I observed, were extraordinarily industrious. Whether worker or employer, all seemed united by a culture of hard work. Strikes were rare, almost unheard of.

At the time of my visit, Konrad Adenauer was the Chancellor of Germany. There was a popular saying that captured the spirit of the nation’s recovery—that the Chancellor had asked every worker to add just one extra hour of labour to their day, and that this collective effort had helped rebuild Germany. Whether apocryphal or not, the sentiment reflected the ethics of the people.

From Germany, I travelled to Paris—a city steeped in history, as ancient in its own way as London. Paris had witnessed the rise and fall of monarchies, the turbulence of revolutions, and the flowering of culture. In terms of civilisation, it was often regarded as the cultural capital of Europe; in matters of diplomacy, some even called it the capital of the world. And when one spoke of fashion, Paris stood unrivalled.

Above all, Paris carried the legacy of the French Revolution—an event that became a beacon for oppressed people everywhere. From that revolution emerged the enduring ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity—principles that have guided countless movements across generations. The revolution of eighteenth-century France remains one of the most profound and unforgettable turning points in human history.

I stayed in Paris for three days, in a modest yet elegant little hotel. By then, I was no longer an official guest of any government, as I had been in England or Germany. I was simply a traveller, left to discover the city on my own. And for that, the first necessity was a map. With it in hand, I resolved to begin from the city’s most prominent landmarks.

The most striking modern monument of Paris was, of course, the Eiffel Tower, followed by the imposing Arc de Triomphe. Guided by my map, I made my way from the hotel to the Arc de Triomphe, that grand arch built to commemorate the victories of Napoleon Bonaparte. Not far from there stood the Élysée Palace, the residence of the French President.

Paris, as I observed, bore the imprint of careful planning. During the time of Napoleon III, the city had been redesigned with remarkable foresight. From central points like the Arc de Triomphe, avenues radiated outward in all directions. Standing atop the monument, one could see twelve grand avenues stretching out with striking symmetry—a vision of urban elegance.

Near the lane where I stayed stood a well-known theatre, the Folies Bergère, famous for its ballet performances. The area around the Arc, however, was a ceaseless whirl of motion. With twelve avenues converging, traffic flowed endlessly from all directions, leaving hardly a moment for a pedestrian to cross.

Perplexed, I approached a policeman and asked—in English—how one might reach the monument without traffic lights. He offered no reply. Whether he chose not to understand or simply did not wish to respond, I could not tell. The French, I soon realised, take immense pride in their language; even if they understand English, they are often reluctant to use it.

Finding no answer, I half-humorously tried speaking in my own mother tongue, Odia. The policeman looked at me, puzzled, and remained silent. That, too, was an answer of sorts.

Over those three days, I explored the notable sights of Paris on foot. Along the way, I was joined by two fellow Indians—students from London studying accountancy. Together, we wandered through the city until one day we encountered a gentleman from Malaysia. At first glance, he might easily have been mistaken for an Indian; such was the resemblance. He turned out to be a senior official in his country’s archaeology department. From the next day onward, he became our companion.

One afternoon, as we strolled along the banks of the Seine River, he pointed out that the famed Louvre Museum was nearby. There, he said, we could see the celebrated painting of Leonardo da Vinci—the Mona Lisa.

We entered the gallery and stood before it. The painting’s fame, I realised, lay not merely in its artistry but in that enigmatic smile—so subtle, so elusive. Wherever one stood, it seemed as though her gaze followed. It is often said that no other portrait in the world carries such a delicate curve of expression.

At that moment, a line from the Odia poet, Jadumani Mahapatra, came to my mind, describing a smile of pure, almost celestial beauty—untouched by earthly colour or artifice. It felt as though that poetic vision had, in some distant way, come alive before my eyes in that quiet hall of the Louvre.

As I stood before the world-renowned Louvre Museum, gazing at Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci, I found myself drawn not merely to the painting, but to the mystery of her smile—subtle, elusive, and impossibly pure.

It was then that a line from the witty Odia poet Jadumani Mohapatra surfaced gently in my mind:

“Chandi nishi dhaba dhabale mishichi adhavala jyoti kuranga
Kshira sagara udara adarichi naba mudira jyoti sanga
Bishuddha hase ramara
Nilimaara nahi sanchara
Emanta kirti jara shuddha kara ehi kala bichara.”

(A tint of blue, a trace of blemish, haunts all that exists—
the moon carries its stain; upon Shiva’s stainless form lingers the azure of his throat; and in the Ocean of Milk, Vishnu shines in a cloud-hued grace.
Yet, in the smile of a beauteous maiden, no shadow ever falls—
it remains the purest radiance of all.
Only those whose hearts mirror such unsullied purity
are truly worthy to partake of this poem.)

The essence of these lines struck me with renewed clarity in that moment. The poet reflects on how, in this world, even the most luminous and sacred entities bear a trace of imperfection—
the moon carries its blemish.

In that quiet gallery in Paris, an Odia poet’s verse and a Renaissance masterpiece met—across centuries—and spoke the same silent truth.

Paris seemed to carry its beauty with a quiet, unmistakable pride. The graceful flow of the Seine River, the wide and elegant boulevards, the triumphal monuments raised in memory of Napoleon Bonaparte, and the countless churches—along with the place where Napoleon himself lies buried—all stood as living testimony to the city’s grandeur.

One day, we found ourselves standing by the roadside, not far from the magnificent Notre-Dame Cathedral. As we lingered there, a few American women tourists approached us. They seemed a little lost and asked, in English, where Notre-Dame was. We simply raised our hands and pointed—it was right there, almost within sight.

They thanked us warmly, but then, with a hint of amusement and mild irritation, remarked that the French were rather peculiar. “We ask them in English,” they said, “but no one answers.” English, they insisted, was the most important language in the world—surely the French must know it. Yet, perhaps out of pride, they pretended otherwise, choosing silence over response. Still, in hotels, we noticed, the staff spoke English quite comfortably—practicality, it seemed, softened pride.

Three days later, my journey carried me to Zurich in Switzerland. The country’s two principal cities, Zurich and Geneva, each held their own significance. Geneva, in particular, stood as an international hub, housing several offices of the United Nations and serving as the headquarters of the International Labour Organization. Every year, representatives—labour ministers and worker delegates—from across the world gathered there for its annual conference.

Zurich, however, captivated in a different way. Adorned with serene lakes and set against a tranquil landscape, it was a city of quiet beauty. Its streets were lined with shops displaying exquisite timepieces—especially wristwatches—for which Switzerland is renowned. The country’s reputation also extended to its health resorts, places of rest and recovery nestled in pristine surroundings. Remarkably, during both the World Wars, Switzerland had declared itself neutral, and the storms of war had left it largely untouched.

I stayed in Zurich for just a day before setting out again—this time toward Rome.

Rome, the capital of Italy, seemed to breathe history at every step. Its past stretched deep into antiquity. There was a time when the Roman Empire stood as one of the greatest powers the world had known, extending from Britain across the Mediterranean to the edges of West Asia.

Rome is counted among the most ancient cities on earth. It is said to have been founded in 753 BCE, and with its origins comes a legend—one both strange and enduring. Two twin brothers, Romulus and Remus, were, according to lore, nurtured by a she-wolf who fed them with her own milk. In time, a quarrel arose between the brothers, and Romulus killed Remus. The city he founded thereafter came to bear his name—Rome.

The history of Rome unfolded in many forms: it began as a monarchy, transformed into a republic, later came under the rule of the Popes, returned again to monarchy, and eventually became a republic once more. Its story, like the city itself, is layered, dramatic, and endlessly fascinating.

From the first century, Christianity found its way into Rome. Saint Peter, one of the foremost disciples of Jesus Christ, is regarded as among the earliest preachers of the faith, and tradition holds that he too was martyred. After him, through the passage of centuries, a succession of Popes carried forward the leadership of the Roman Catholic Church.

Within Rome itself lies a distinct and remarkable entity—the Vatican City. It is the residence of the Pope and the spiritual centre of Roman Catholicism. Though enclosed within Rome, it stands as an independent state, and like Switzerland, it maintained neutrality during both World Wars. During my visit to Rome, I made it a point to see this sacred enclave.

The most imposing structure there was St. Peter’s Basilica—a vast and awe-inspiring church that seemed to embody centuries of faith and devotion. Equally captivating was the Sistine Chapel, whose ceiling is adorned with masterpieces by the great artist Michelangelo. Standing beneath those paintings, I felt a quiet sense of wonder, as though art and divinity had merged into one.

In the history of the world, two names stand out as champions of freedom and republican ideals—Giuseppe Mazzini and Giuseppe Garibaldi. They were inspirations not only for Italy but also for many Indian freedom fighters. Though the republic they envisioned did not endure for long, their efforts eventually led to the end of papal rule and the unification of Italy under a monarchy, which lasted until 1922. Thereafter came the era of Benito Mussolini and fascist rule; and after the Second World War, Italy finally emerged as a republic—a system that continues to this day.

Rome is also famed for its fountains—countless works of art in flowing water, built over nearly two thousand years. Wherever one walks in the city, one encounters these graceful structures. The city is equally rich in historical monuments: the ancient Colosseum, the timeless Pantheon, the broad Spanish Steps, and the many sculptures and paintings associated with masters like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. The Vatican Museums, too, draw countless visitors from across the world.

Rome has long been called the “Eternal City”—a name that feels less like a title and more like a quiet acknowledgment of time itself. Through cycles of rise and fall, glory and ruin, the city has endured, carrying its past within its present. In that sense, I could not help but think of Varanasi—or Kashi in India—another ancient soul that has survived the ages with an unbroken continuity.

In its earliest days, Rome was ruled by a succession of seven kings, one after another. Then came the birth of the Republic, and governance passed into the hands of a Senate—an institution whose echo we still hear in modern democracies. The very word “Senate” travelled across time and continents, finding place in systems like that of the United States Congress, composed of the Senate and the House of Representatives, as well as in the parliamentary traditions of United Kingdom and India, with their respective upper and lower houses.

In Rome, however, the Senate was once the singular centre of authority, and from its ranks emerged powerful dictators—figures entrusted with absolute authority in times of crisis. Among them, Julius Caesar stands preeminent. His life and death were immortalized by William Shakespeare in the play Julius Caesar, and later revisited by George Bernard Shaw in Caesar and Cleopatra.

The Roman Republic itself took shape around 510 BCE. Interestingly, around the time of Gautama Buddha, India too had republican states—Vaishali being one of the most notable, governed by the Licchavis.

Then, in 27 BCE, power took another decisive turn. Augustus—also known as Octavian—rose to authority through the Senate and declared Rome an empire. Under him, the vast dominion of Rome expanded and, in time, came to be divided into the Eastern and Western Roman Empires. The eastern capital, Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul), would go on to become one of the great cities of history in its own right.

During the reign of Augustus, the Roman Empire reached extraordinary heights, stretching across much of Western Europe. He was not merely a ruler but a patron of culture—supporting art, sculpture, and music. His court was adorned by great minds, among them the poet Virgil, whose Latin works continue to be celebrated.

Latin itself, like Sanskrit in India, is an ancient and foundational language. From it have flowed many modern tongues—English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and others—each carrying faint echoes of that old Roman voice.

Before arriving in Rome, I had heard a caution—one must be careful, or one might easily be deceived. I had my own small lesson in this.

One afternoon, I stepped into a restaurant and ordered a thick vegetable soup. It was hearty and satisfying. Like in Paris, many restaurants in Rome spill out onto the streets, with tables and chairs arranged outside. I sat there, quietly enjoying my meal, when an Indian lady approached. She was from Bombay—a Parsi—and, noticing me, paused as if recognizing a familiar presence in a foreign land.

Watching me eat, she remarked gently, “You may be overcharged.”

And indeed, I was. The restaurant billed me five pounds for the soup—an amount far beyond its worth in those days, when even one or one-and-a-half pounds would have been reasonable. It was a small deception, yet it stayed with me.

Later that evening, in another restaurant, I encountered something entirely different. The owner, upon learning that I was from India, asked with a certain warmth, “You come from the land of Mahatma Gandhi?”

He spoke of Gandhi with deep reverence. “When my father died, I did not cry,” he said, “but when Gandhi died, I wept.”

I was struck by the contrast—here, in a distant Roman eatery, stood a man whose life had never touched India, yet whose heart had been moved by Gandhi. It reminded me how far the influence of a great soul can travel—beyond borders, beyond language, into the quiet corners of human feeling. When Gandhi passed, it seemed, the world itself had paused in grief.

Rome, in its own way, continues to remain connected to the wider world. It serves as the headquarters of the Food and Agriculture Organization, just as Geneva houses the International Labour Organization, and Paris hosts institutions like UNICEF. In these cities, history and modern purpose seem to meet—quietly shaping the world, even today.

I stayed in Rome for three days, and each day I walked nearly twenty to twenty-five kilometres, exploring these places on foot. I did not use any vehicle, for I have always believed that a city reveals itself best to those who walk through it.

A curious incident from those days often returns to my mind. When I was a Member of Parliament, Jagjivan Ram was serving as the Union Minister for Food and Agriculture. He had travelled to Rome to attend an international conference related to his department.

After his return, the matter came up in Parliament. From the benches of the Utkal Congress, Surendra Mohanty, the Lok Sabha member from Kendrapara, raised a calling-attention motion and began criticising the visit. Jagjivan Babu, with a touch of wit, replied, “I am not quite sure whether the honourable member is speaking about Rome or rum.”

The remark drew laughter, for Surendra Babu—celebrated writer though he was—was also widely known for his fondness for drink. During the Kendrapara elections, a popular slogan had even circulated: “Surendra, Surendra in Kendrapara—one a socialist, one for hire.”

In the 1971 Lok Sabha elections, the contest in Kendrapara had been particularly close. Surendra Nath Dwivedy of the Praja Socialist Party and Surendra Mohanty of the Utkal Congress stood against each other. In the end, Mohanty won—by the narrowest of margins, a single vote. Such was the drama of democracy.

From Rome, my journey next took me to Cairo, then the capital of the United Arab Republic (Egypt). At that time, the country was led by Gamal Abdel Nasser—a towering figure in the Arab world, regarded by many as a liberator and a voice of dignity for his people.

Nasser was also a close friend of Jawaharlal Nehru. Along with Josip Broz Tito, the three of them stood at the forefront of the Non-Aligned Movement, guiding newly independent nations through the uncertain currents of the Cold War.

What struck me most about Nasser was not merely his stature, but his simplicity. Despite being President, he lived in a modest two-storeyed house, leading the life of an ordinary, disciplined, and devout man.

I had long been drawn to Cairo—not only because of Nasser and his revolution, but also because of the ancient pyramids. As fate would have it, the day before my visit, the anniversary of the Egyptian Revolution was being celebrated—a reminder of the country’s transition from monarchy to republic.

I stayed in Cairo for two days, determined to see the pyramids. When I asked the hotel manager how best to get there, he arranged a guide for me, advising that we settle the charges beforehand. A camel was hired, and I set out—riding across the sands—toward one of the world’s most enduring wonders.

Soon, I stood before the Giza Pyramid Complex—those immense triangular structures rising out of the desert like frozen time itself. Among them, the Great Pyramid of Giza remains the most renowned, a monument not just of architecture but of human ambition.

Egypt’s history stretches back into a past so distant that it almost feels mythical—thousands upon thousands of years before Christ. The Pharaohs, anticipating death, built these pyramids as their tombs. Within them, their bodies were preserved with remarkable care—wrapped in layers of cloth and treated with substances that allowed them to endure across millennia.

Many such tombs have since been excavated, revealing mummified remains still intact, silent witnesses to a vanished age. Yet, alongside history, there lingers legend: it is said that those who disturb these resting places invite misfortune—even untimely death. And, strangely enough, there have been occasions when such stories seemed to find unsettling echoes in reality.

Standing there, before those ancient stones, I felt both awe and unease—as if I had stepped, briefly, into the deep and watchful memory of civilization itself.

Returning from the pyramids of Giza, I stood by the window of my hotel and let my eyes rest upon the quiet, flowing beauty of the Nile. It struck me then how often the English, in their time, had altered the names of cities and rivers across the world. The Nile, for instance, they had called “Nile”, while its truer name, as my guide gently corrected me, was simply Neel—the blue river.

When I mentioned the “Nile,” my guide smiled and asked why I used that word at all. “That is an English distortion,” he said. “Its real name is Neel.” And indeed, as I looked at its waters, they seemed clear and faintly blue—much like the Ganga appears in Varanasi during the autumn months. Even the Ganga, he reminded me, had been turned into “Ganges” by the English.

The thought stayed with me. Names like Munger becoming “Monghyr,” Cuttack remaining “Cuttack,” Bhubaneswar once pronounced differently, Calcutta instead of Kolkata, Bombay instead of Mumbai—these were all echoes of a time when language itself had been reshaped by foreign tongues. Some places, like Kolkata and Mumbai, had since reclaimed their original identity, though others still lingered in their altered forms.

My guide frequently used a word—sabr—urging patience, asking me to wait. It was an Arabic word, one that had found its way into Urdu as well. There is a saying built around it: “Sabr ka phal meetha hota hai”—the fruit of patience is always sweet. In that distant land, the familiarity of such words felt strangely comforting.

My stay in Egypt lasted only two days, but within that short time, I visited another remarkable place—the old museum of Cairo. There, the grandeur of ancient Egyptian civilization unfolded before my eyes. Golden statues of the Pharaohs, intricate ornaments, and objects of daily use—all fashioned in gold—spoke of a culture both opulent and enduring.

Among the other notable places were the grand mosque of Muhammad Ali, with its vast domes and imposing structure, and Al-Azhar University, one of the greatest centres of Islamic learning in the world. It was here, I was told, that Maulana Abul Kalam Azad had once studied.

At one point, my guide led me through a narrow lane, famous for Egyptian attar—perfumed oils known for their rich fragrance. “One must buy some attar when visiting Cairo,” he insisted. I obliged, though it seemed to me that, like many guides, he was not entirely free from a touch of commerce.

Two days later, I left Cairo and returned to India via Mumbai, carrying with me memories of an ancient land where history seemed to breathe through every stone and street.

The following year, another journey beckoned. An invitation arrived from the Ford Foundation, under the auspices of the United States government—a two-month visit to America.

About the Book:

From the Translator’s Note

An Unfinished Memoir (Asamapta Atmalipi) by Janaki Ballav Patnaik is more than the recollections of a public figure. It is also a record of the political, social and cultural changes that shaped Odisha and, in many ways, modern India. The memoir takes us through different stages of his life—from childhood and education to journalism, public life and politics. Along the way, we meet the people who influenced him and encounter events that left their mark on the Odisha of his time. The book is valuable not only for its account of public events but also for its glimpses of everyday life. Patnaik writes about teachers, friends, colleagues, political associates and ordinary people, often beginning with a small personal memory and moving towards a larger reflection. This movement between the personal and the public gives the memoir much of its character.

My primary aim in translating the memoir from Odia into English has been to remain faithful to the original while preserving the author’s voice. A translation should convey

more than the literal meaning of words. It should also carry the tone, mood and character of the original. I have therefore tried to retain the simple and reflective quality of Patnaik’s writing, particularly in passages dealing with people, places and memories from his younger years.

Translating a work rooted in Odisha’s language and culture presents its own challenges. Many Odia expressions, idioms and references do not have exact equivalents in English. This is especially true of words associated with local customs, festivals, social practices and everyday life. Where a literal translation seemed inadequate, I have tried to convey the sense and spirit of the original. Certain words, names and cultural references have been retained because translating them would have diminished their flavour or meaning.

I have also tried to preserve the historical character of the memoir. Some political terms, institutional references and descriptions belong to an earlier period of Indian public life. Rather than unnecessarily modernising the language, I have sought to make these passages clear while retaining their original context.

The title Asamapta Atmalipi itself is significant. It suggests a record of the self that remains unfinished. The memoir was left incomplete, and that incompleteness is part of its character. It does not present a neatly concluded life story. Instead, it offers fragments of a long journey—memories, encounters, experiences and reflections that together provide a picture of both the man and his times.

For readers familiar with Janaki Ballav Patnaik, the memoir may bring back memories of an important period in Odisha’s public life. For younger readers, it offers an opportunity to see that period through the eyes of someone who lived through and participated in many of its developments. For readers outside Odisha, it provides an introduction to a political and cultural world that deserves wider attention. No translation can reproduce every shade of another language. There will always be expressions, associations and rhythms that resist being carried across. My effort has simply been to build a bridge between the Odia original and the English reader, without coming between the author and his readers. I hope this translation will allow a wider readership to discover Janaki Ballav Patnaik not only as a political leader, but also as a journalist, observer, traveller and chronicler of his times—and to encounter, through his unfinished memoir, a part of Odisha’s own journey.

About the Author

Janaki Ballav Patnaik (1927-2015) lived in many worlds at once—politics, literature, journalism, and public life. For more than five decades, he remained close to some of the defining events and personalities of post-Independence Odisha, while pursuing a parallel life of books, ideas, and language. ‘An Unfinished Memoir’ is an attempt to look back on that journey. From his childhood and student years to his early political awakening and long career in public life, the memoir brings together people, places and encounters that shaped him.

Unlike a conventional autobiography, this is a personal narrative—insightful, candid and observant of the world around him. It offers glimpses of the making of a public figure while revealing the writer, scholar and observer behind the politician. It is at once a record of a remarkable life and a window into an important period in the history of Odisha and India.

Part memoir, part history and part reflection, the memoir is a cherished account of a life lived in public.

 About the Translator

Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author based in Bhubaneswar, with a professional career spanning over three decades. He writes in both English and Odia on politics, society, people, and culture. His work reflects sustained engagement with Odisha’s heritage and its contemporary transformations. An incisive observer of public life, he has authored nine books. Through his journalism and writing, he continues to chronicle the evolving story of Odisha and its place within a rapidly changing India.

[1] Democracy