Cruel December and Kind People

While waiting for Lal Quilla Express, which was running late by five hours, at Patna Railway Station in biting cold, it dawned on me that December had been unkind to me most of the times when I made a travel in the month.
On December 17, we checked out of the hotel, visited a few historical places in Patna and came to the airport to catch our flight at 12.20 PM. But after one and half hours waiting in the airport, it was declared our flights had been cancelled.
With much difficulty we were fortunate enough to arrange two tickets in the ordinary sleeper class. Santosh Sinha, the officer of Bihar Commercial Tax Department arranged the tickets using his connections. The scheduled time of arrival of the train at Patna was 7.35 PM, but it reached the station at 12.45 AM i.e. exactly by 5 hours and 10 minutes late. The temperature at Patna on that day was below 6 degree Celsius. That day and also the day before, there was thick fog and the sun was not visible. We were not mentally and physically prepared to travel by second class sleeper. To protect myself from cold I purchased a khadi chadar. I had telephoned a friend of Kolkata to book tickets in Coromandal Express to come from Howarha to Cuttack. He booked two wait-listed tickets, which could not be confirmed.
Three stations behind Kolkata we found the way the train was running late we could not reach on time at Howarha to catch Coromandal, scheduled to depart at 2.50 PM. We got down and rushed to Howarha by a taxi and just reached a few minutes earlier to catch Coromandal. We travelled six hours sitting, sharing the seats with our noble co-passengers by their mercy and goodness.
I have caught cold, glands of my neck have inflamed and I am still suffering, not fully recovered till the time of writing this blog.

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In 1982, I was travelling in the month of December by Neelachal Express from Delhi to Bhubaneswar. I was a student. I had one blanket, one bed spread and, perhaps, the arrogance of youth to brave the winter.
My co-passengers were a Sikh family. They were eight, but they had six confirmed berths. They were going to Howarha to attend a marriage of a relation. The family included a grown up daughter, perhaps studying in a college. I had noticed her reading an English novel during the day sitting on the side seat.
In the evening they took their dinner they had brought with them, spread their bed on the floor of the compartment and two of them slept on the floor. Others slept on the berths. They prepared the bed in such a way as if they were at home, and in fact, they created a home like condition in the running train.
I slept on the side lower berth allotted to me.
In the night, at around 1 AM I woke up trembling. The train was running at its highest speed in Bihar region. The cold was unbearable, my teeth were clattering. The blanket and the bed spread were no help against the severe cold. Since I had the lower side berth, cold wind coming through the gap of the window was also hitting my body. I desperately wanted a cup of hot tea, but at that hour, it was just impossible to get. I thought I might collapse, die of cold.
The college going girl noticed my plight. She woke up an old man, perhaps her grandfather, travelling with them, and told something. The old sardarji lent me a quilt and told me to spread the blanket and the bed spread on the berth and sleep wrapping up the body with the quilt. I did as he instructed and could sleep a few hours in the night.

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In December, 2010, I had been to New Delhi for training on GST. Every day in the morning I used to take tea with Pradeep, who had also gone for the same training, in his room. The training was over on Friday. Our flight was on Saturday in the evening. We were in a relaxed mood. As usual on Saturday in the morning I took tea with him and stood up to come to my room. Suddenly I felt head reeling, everything looked black, and to save myself from falling down, I rested my right hand on the wall. But my hand hit the glass painting fixed to the wall. It broke, the glass pieces fell one by one on my hand. I had a deep cut on the back of my palm, which bled profusely. Pradeep took me immediately to Safdarjang Hospital and I had as many as thirteen stiches on my palm in that chilly December morning.
The wound took more than a month to heal, the scar remains.

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In 2000, in the month of December I had been to Bangalore for training on VAT organised by NIPFP in collaboration with Karnatak Commercial Tax Department. I had booked tickets a fortnight in advance. I had confirmed tickets to go to Bangalore, but my tickets were wait-listed for my return journey from Chennai to Cuttack. I thought the tickets would be confirmed within twenty days by the time I would return after the training was over. I enjoyed the training with the officers of other states. In the afternoon every day we went for sight-seeing in a vehicle provided by the CTD, Karnatak.
My travails began when I started for my return journey. I sat on the seat allotted to me in Brundaban Express that came from Bangalore to Chennai. A person came and claimed that that seat was also allotted to him. He also produced the ticket issued to him bearing the same number of the seat . However, the Train Ticket Inspector (TTI) intervened and prevailed upon him not to insist for the seat I was occupying as it was a mistake committed by the Railway Authorities in allotting the same seat to two persons. He promised him that he would arrange another seat for him, but he failed as there was no vacancy. The other person was gentle enough not to demand the seat and travelled standing the whole six hours.
My wait-listed ticket booked from Chennai to Cuttack could not be confirmed. The journey from Chennai to Cuttack was more than thirty hours. I saw no way to get the ticket confirmed, and it was also too difficult to travel thirty hours in general compartment without a reserved berth. I got panicky. I approached a police officer sitting in a cabin in the platform with a board ‘May I help you?’ I said to him. “I am a government officer. Had come for a training. Have already stayed a week and my wallet is almost empty. I cannot stay a night at Chennai nor also do I have a certainty that I would get a confirmed ticket tomorrow. Could you help in any way?”
He looked at me, from my head to toes, thought for some moments, and indicating a person said, “Go and tell your problem to that person and say, I have sent you.”
I went to the person he indicated and told him what he had told me to tell. That person, indicating a compartment, said, “Go to that compartment, sit there and tell the TTI that I have sent you.”
I went to the compartment and sat on a seat. The train started and took speed. After about half an hour a TTI came. I told hm. He did not enquire, allotted me a berth. I heaved a sigh of relief.
I did not know their arrangement, how they passed on information . They also did not charge any extra fee (i.e. any bribe).

********.

I have similar experiences in the months of December of some other years. What is the moral? Should I avoid any travel in the month of December in future?
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Academy Award Farce

In the morning while having a glance at the newspaper I came across the news of Kalpana Kumari Devi getting this years’ academy award. I tried to dig my memory, but could not locate her. I have not read any of her books. I cannot remember to have come across also her name in any literary magazine during last fifteen-twenty years. I might have slipped. Since she has been awarded with the prestigious academy award, she must be a good writer; I concluded it was my ignorance not to know her.
When I logged in Facebook I came across Saroj Bal’s post: “Have you ever heard this name: Kalpana Kumari Devi???”
Then he adds, “She is eligible to get national Sahitya Academy Award for 2011 for her book ‘achinha baasbhumi’”

Saroj Bal is a writer, publisher and also an editor of a magazine. He is well informed about the writers/poets, and certainly better informed than me; but he had also not heard (or, it’s a sarcasm!) the name of Kalpana Kumari till she had been awarded and made news.

Let’s now see the reactions of some other eminent writers and persons associated with literature:
Rajendra Kishore Panda, Poet:I woke up with a surprise: Kalpanakumari Devi has been selected to receive this year's award of Sahitya Akademi (National Academy of Letters) for Odia. I confess, I have not read any of her books; it shows my ignorance. Of course, I had seen some of her short stories years back; they were lackluster; maybe, she grew in her dimensions later, about which I didn't know.

Ranjit Patnaik: Kalpanakumari is a less known name...award scenario is so faulty and corrupt that these Kalpanakumarees encroach very often and give shock to those who are disturbingly SADHANARATA !!!

Ratnabala Swain: I am surprised and shocked when I came to know that Kalpana Kumari Devi is awarded with Sahitya Akademi Award for Odia literature. As an editor of Odia literary magazine CHITRA, I know almost all Odia writers. But I don’t feel ashamed to confess here that I have not read any of her writings. Can anyone have an idea about the jury members? I feel it’s a great joke.

Soubhagyabanta Maharana, Poet: I was utterly surprised to hear such news. I have not yet gone through any of her book till now. I am totally in the dark about Kalpana Kumari Devi. Jaya Ho Sahitya Akademi.

Pradeep Biswal, Poet: Awards are seldom free from controversies. Sahitya Akademi is no exception. Not only the awards but also the activities of the Akademi in Odisha are far from satisfactory. It’s being used as the fiefdom of a few to appease their henchmen. It’s a sad spectacle. No right thinking person can appreciate it. Self- seeking in such a system is unfortunate.

Chittaranjan Misra: It was really a surprise. Of course I have not read any of her writings as yet.

Ajit Kumar Behera: Not only you sir, I am damn sure, 99% of literature lovers haven't heard this name

A reader normally tempts to buy a book, if the author of the book or the book itself gets an award. Sale of the books of the award winning author goes up. If a reader buys a book as the book is awarded or buys a book of an award winning author and finds the book is substandard, will it not be a fraud on innocent buyers?
There is a complaint that readership of literature in Odisha is decreasing. This is not true. Books written in English sell, but books of Odia literature do not. If a person, a book lover reads literature in English why shall not he read books of Odia literature? The reasons are many. I know some Odia readers who have learnt Hindi and Bengli to read literature in those languages. Because, the original lustre of a creation is lost in translation. One of the reasons is good Odia books, for some reason or other; do not reach the Odia readers. Parents now prefer English medium schools to send their children for study. All students of any medium school- English or Odia- cannot be book lovers. There are many book lovers who have studied in English medium school. But, somehow or other, an impression is created among them that good books are not being written in Odia. Our writers-selectors selecting unworthy books/ writers for awards contribute to this kind of impression and further distancing the readers from Odia literature.

No writer writing in Odia ever thinks of making a living on his writing. It is the appreciation/affection of the reading public that encourages the writers keep on writing. Any award is recognition of that appreciation. The ‘Jury’- the middleman between the recognition and the readers’ appreciation- selecting an unworthy person instead of a deserving one for an award certainly discourages a true writer and does a disservice to the literature at large like bad money driving out the good.

Academy Award winning novels/books are translated into other languages. When such a book is translated into other language and the people of the other language happen to read it, how will they rate Odia literature? This is for anyone to guess.

This is nothing short of a crime, though there is no provision under the law of the land for punishment of such crime. To conclude, I quote from the post of Sabir Ali in the Facebook, “It is the lack-of-integrity of the writers-selectors themselves that is the root-cause of all questionable decisions. It is pitiable when some of them stoop to the lowest level shamelessly. As I find from the comment-posts, most of the persons have not read even a single work of Ms Devi. How could she turn 'eminent and award-worthy' overnight? Obviously the writers-selectors have stooped to the lowest level shamelessly. Who are they? If the Sahitya Akademi doesn't --- on its own --- reveal the names of members of the 'Preliminary Panel' (with the names of the books each of them recommended) and the 'Jury', the data can be accessed through RTI Act. That may expose the nexus.”
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PATNA Diary

December 15,11:The flight, despite fog and chilly weather, reached the Jayprakash Narayan Airport, Patna on time at 8.35 PM. S K Sinha, an officer of the Bihar Commercial Tax Department, had come to the airport to receive us. I noticed a red light fixed at the top of the vehicle that was to carry us to the hotel, and thought, perhaps, the officers of Bihar Commercial Tax Department used vehicle with red light. There are restrictions in use of red light. The Odisha High Court has a ruling to the effect who can use the red light and who cannot. A Parliamentary Committee has recommended that the MPs should use vehicle with red light. If they are allowed to use, their counterparts of the State Assemblies would also demand the same. To me, red light of the vehicle is a symbol of power and authority. I asked Mr Sinha, “Do your officers use vehicles with red light?”
He replied, “No, it’s for you. You are our guests… guests of the State.”
I felt flattered.

*******

December 16, 11: The workshop on e-Governance in VAT administration began half an hours later than the scheduled time as Sushil Modi, the Deputy Chief Minister who was to inaugurate the workshop reached late. Officers of Gujrat, Keral, Odisha and Maharastra gave their power point presentations on e-services they had implemented in their respective states. Each presentation followed a session of questions answered by the presenter. The discussions and sharing of experience were lively and enlightening. In summing up, the Deputy CM said, it was the most educative day for him in the last six years he was in office as a Minister.
The Deputy CM might have told it to please the organisers and the participants, but we believed he was honest in his remark. He sat all through the meeting from the beginning to the end. He asked questions, took notes and also clapped to appreciate a point made by a presenter. It was amazing considering his busy schedule being the Deputy CM. Bespectacled, dhoti-kurta clad, Mr Modi who is also the Chairman of the Empowered Committee of States’ Finance Ministers, gives the impression of a strict Head Master. He seems sincere and serious. As he is the Chairman of the Empowered Committee he is conscious of the onerous responsibility of implementing GST. He appears not only serious for implementing GST, but also for improving conditions in Bihar. He minced no words in his address for the officers of Bihar to work to a plan fixing deadlines for different e-services.

*******

December 17, 11: We had only 3-4 hours with us, provided if we could wake up early and get ready finishing our breakfast to see important sites of Patna as we had flight at 12.20 PM.
Patna’s ancient name was Pataliputra, the capital of Magadha. Ashoka, the emperor of Magadha had invaded and defeated Kilinga in the war at Dhauli in 261 BC. It is said, the war changed a Chandashoka to Dharmashoka and Ashoka not only renounced war but also any kind of violence by accepting Budhism after witnessing the horrors of Kalinga War. Later, Kharvela, the emperor of Kalinga had taken revenge by defeating the king of Magadha in the second century BC.
Historically, the relation between Magadha and Kalinga was not friendly, but the names Ashoka and Pataliputra evoke a soft feeling in the hearts. We wanted to see the places associated with Ashoka and other sites, whatever possible within the short period. Mr Sinha was willing to play host and a guide for us. He reached the hotel at 7.30 AM and by that time, we were ready. We checked out of the hotel as we decided to spend as much time as possible seeing the places without wasting our time coming back to the hotel for check out. We had decided to go straight to the airport.

We saw Kumrahar, the remains of ancient city of Pataliputra, now a beautiful park. People were seen doing morning walk braving the biting cold and thick fog. We saw the archaeological remains of Arogya Vihar, said to have been headed by Dhanvantari and a tank, believed to have existed during the days of Ashoka. From Kumrahar, we went to Agam Kuan or unfathomable well. The well is 105 feet deep, it’s circular and brick encased. It is believed, Ashoka had dug the well, used it for torturing the people; he had thrown the bodies of his ninety-nine brothers in the well after killing them. The well is in the precincts of Shitala Devi temple. People believe Maa shitala Devi cures smallpox and chickenpox. We visited Gurudwar Patna Sahib, the birth place of the tenth Guru Guru Govind Singh.

On our way from Agam Kuan to Gurudwar Patna sahib we went to the bank of river Ganga. Some constructions were going on. I saw a person sitting on a wooden cot reading a religious scripture in front of a statue of Mahavir and a Bull. It was 10 AM. He was immersed in his reading. Another person was doing some rituals in front of a human skull. A woman, perhaps his wife, was with him.
I asked Mr Sinha,“What is he doing?”
He said, “Perhaps some tantric practices.”

This kind of people always fascinates me. I become curious to know more about them. But I never get time or opportunity to fathom their beliefs and decode the mysticism.

*******

We said good bye to Santosh Sinha and entered into the airport at around 11.30 AM. It was displayed on the board that our flight was delayed by one hour. But some other flights were cancelled due to thick fog. The temperature in Patna was below 6 degree Celsius. We waited in the airport. But after one and half hours, the airport authority declared our flight cancelled because of thick fog and poor visibility.

We called Mr Sinha. He came immediately. He tried with his friends, connections and telephoned the commissioner to help arrange two tickets for us in any train to come to Howrha or Kolkatta. From Howrha / Kolkatta we could come to Bhubaneswar. He succeeded in arranging two confirmed tickets in Lal Quilla Express from Patna to Kolkatta. The train originating from Delhi was running late by two and half hours. The scheduled time of departure of the train at Patna was 7.35 PM.

At 8.30 PM we went to a hotel near to the railway station to eat something. My co-traveller Mr P K Patra, offering a hundred rupee note to the hotel boy, asked to bring a bottle of water. The boy, in a high-pitched voice, said, “Are you blind? Don’t you see I am baking bread?”
His manners were rough and insulting. At that time, I was attending to a call in my cell phone and speaking in Odia. A young man who was sitting on our side seat shouted back at the boy, and was about to beat him. He said to his employer, “They have come from outside. If your boys behaved in such a rude manner, what impression they would take on Bihar back to their states?”
His employer did not say anything, but the boy went himself to the nearby shop and brought one bottle of water. We paid the price of water along with the food bill after we had finished our eating.

In the morning we were discussing on the change in Bihar after Nitish Kumar had taken over the reins of power six years back.
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On the occasion of a book release…

My 10th book, a collection of twelve stories, ‘Gabhira Nidrare Iswar’ (God is in deep sleep) is released. All the stories of this book were published earlier in Odia literary magazines. Release of a new book always gives pleasure and I am happy.

No writer writing in Odia ever thinks even in his dreams to live on his writing. The person who publishes a literary magazine in Odia buys paper, pays to the printing press, hires one painter to design the cover and pays him. He gives a discount to the seller/hawker, pays for everything to publish and circulate the magazine. But he does not pay to the writer, though the magazine is sold only for the writings a magazine contains.

A publisher of Odia books behaves as if he would be showing a ‘favour’ to a writer to publish his book. His complaint is that Odia literature does not sell. They say they used to print one thousand copies of a book thirty years back. But now they print five hundred copies. If Government (Raja Ram Mohan Foundation) does not select the book to purchase, they do not know how many years it would take for the five hundred copies to be sold. Sometimes a writer feels humiliated to approach a publisher to publish his book.

Despite all these factors, the question arises, why I should write. Often this question is asked by an interviewer interviewing a writer for a magazine. Sometimes I also ask myself this question. In fact, I do not know exactly the answer to this question. But I know what happens to me if I do not write. If I cannot write for a fortnight or a month I feel restless and become irritable. Only writing calms me down and I become normal. I feel I may go mad if I cannot write.

Reaction over a story overwhelms me. I got a good many phone calls for a few months after the story Gabhira Nidrare Iswar was published in a magazine (Jhankar). The story was photocopied and distributed among the officers of the Department I worked for. My senior officer, when we met, asked me, “Whether your God is awake or He is still in sleep?” A woman after she had read my story ‘Pua’(Son) was so moved that she made phone calls to three-four persons to get my phone number, and telephoned me at about eleven in the night to say that the story had brought tears to her eyes. Many writers must have similar experiences. Perhaps, this is one of the factors that keep encouraging a writer to keep on his writing.

Twenty years back when I was working as a Treasury Office in a small town an engineer met me in my office and told that he had read one of my stories published in the literary page of a newspaper (Sambad). I had only published seven-eight stories by then. He said, “The story is good. I liked it. But it’s not great to write a good story, it’s great if one continues with writing good stories.” In course of discussion I came to know he read literature in four languages: Odia, English, Bengli and Hindi. He learnt Bengli and Hindi to enjoy reading books in those languages. He could be termed as a ‘voracious’ reader. To a budding writer like me he advised. “A writer should not take a reader for granted, should not write whatever he likes. A writer should remember a reader might have read Henry and Chekov, Maupassant and Maugham, Manoj Das and Surendra Mohanty. Why should he read you unless you write something new and different? Why a reader should buy your book and read wasting his money and time unless it interests him? Books of great authors are always available in the market and the reader has a choice. A writer should keep the reader in mind.”

I don’t know where the engineer is now. But I remember him before I despatch a story to a magazine for publication.
xxxxx

Apathy towards one’s literary tradition

Last Saturday I had to conduct viva on Odia language for the officers of the Odisha Subordinate Finance Service (OSFS). The officers of OSFC are selected through a competitive exam conducted by Odisha Staff Selection Commission. The competition is tough. They were all good students. Otherwise, they would not have qualified the test and been selected for the jobs. In the written test they have to translate a passage from Odia into English, and retranslate a passage from English into Odia.

In the viva on the language, I asked the names of the authors of some popular Odia books such as Nilasaila, Amadabata, Matiramanisha, Kaa, Sasthi, Narakinnar, Danapani, Paraja, etc or asked to name any three stories of Phakir Mohan Senapati. Amadabata, Matiramanisha, Kaa, Sasthi have been made into successful films. To my utter surprise, most of the candidates could not name the authors. To be precise, only two out of 60-65 candidates I asked could name the author of Nilasaila, (Nilasaila had won Kendra Sahitya Academy award for the author), and only one could tell the name of the author of Amadabata. No one of 70-75 candidates I asked knew the authors of Matiramanisha (Matiramanisha was made into a film by none other than the great film director, Mrinal Sen), Kaa, Sasthi or Narakinnar. Only two out of 70-75 candidates could tell three of the stories of Phakir Mohan Senapati.

Are the young people not supposed to have some knowledge on their rich literary tradition? Should they be so oblivious to their culture and tradition?

I asked one candidate, “Where do you belong to?”
He said, “Khurda”
“Have you heard the name of Sachi Routray?”
I asked this question to him because Sachi Routray, the great poet, Jnanapeeth award winner, regarded as trend setter in Odia poetry was born in Gurujang, a village very near to Khurda.
He replied, “Yes, perhaps, he is in politics.”
I asked, “Was he an MLA or MP or a Sarapanh of your gram panchayat? What…?”
He kept mum.
I said, “Get out.”

I remember a young man I met in 1999.

I was a Sales Tax Officer working in a circle office at Cuttack. A young man, V. George by mane appeared before me for a firm owned by a person of Keral. The firm had a branch at Cuttack and George was the accountant of the Cuttack branch. I examined the books of accounts of the firm, and to record his statement I asked him his name, age, his father’s name, his village, etc. He told his village Alleppey. I remarked, “Alleppey is a familiar place. I don’t remember exactly, but recently it was in news.”
George said, “Alleppey is the place where Thakazhi Sivasankar Pillai lived. He died recently; perhaps, you have come across the news of his death and read his obituary in the newspaper.”
I looked at him. There was a tinge of pride in his voice. He added, “I belong to the place where the great writer lived.”
George was at 23. He told his age when I had asked for the purpose of the statement I was recording. I became curious. A young man identified a place with a writer and took pride in saying he belonged to the place where a writer lived! If you ask a person of Cuttack about the city, he would say the place famous for its filigree work, it was the ancient capital of Odisha, the city boasted of the first college of Odisha, or anything; but no one would say this is the city where Sachi Routray lived or Jayant Mohapatra resides. The young man of Khurda even did not know who Sachi Routray was, though the great poet’s native is hardly two kms away from Khurda.
I asked George, “Have you read his books?”
He looked surprised. I could read from his look what he had in his mind. Perhaps, he thought the question was irrelevant, rather meaningless. Being an inhabitant of Keral he was supposed to have read the book and such silly question should not have been asked. I added, “I have read his Chemmeen, in English translation. I had enjoyed the novel. Of course, that is the only novel of the writer I have read.”
I clarified. He briefly told the story to convey that he had actually read the book and asked me what other books of Malayalam literature I had read. We discussed for some time on Malayalam literature, the books of other writers I had read. My knowledge on Malayalam literature was limited; I had read maximum one or two books of some of the writers, especially those available in English translation.
The advocate, an Odia gentleman who represented the firm and accompanied him, listened to our discussion and admitted that he had not even read five per cent of Odia literature to George’s reading of his language literature.
A few days later George came with two books of M T Vasudevan Nair. In course of discussion he knew the books of Malayalam literature I had read and what I had not. The books were in English translation. I said, “I had not told you to buy books for me?”
He said, “Sir, you are a lover of literature, please accept the books as gifts. You have read only a few stories of MT from magazines; you can better appreciate him and Malayalam literature if you read his novels.”
I saw the books. The cost of the two books was more than Rs 350. I said, “I would receive it, but you have to accept price of the books.”
His salary, I guessed, would be meagre. I know the amount the private firms like the one he represents pay their employees. Spending Rs 350, no doubt, was too much an expense for him for some sort of meaningless and sentimental reasons. But he was reluctant to accept payment. He said, “How can you say it a gift if you pay for the books. If you insist, I have to receive; but it will hurt me.”
I had to receive the valued gifts with much reluctance not to hurt his sentiments.
xxxxxxx

What’s in a name?

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell sweet”
-Shakespeare
In simple words, my teacher used to say, what‘s in a name, in any other name the rose smells the same. The great poet and playwright by this means and what we understand is what matters is what something is, not what it is called. There is much discussion on the subject and the two lines are much quoted. But I have not come across a discussion on what happens when two persons bear the same name. It definitely matters to the person bearing the name of another person, known and powerful. A very few persons might have the bitter/sweet experience as I have.

The officers of Orissa Finance Service have to pass Marwari language test. Since the business community in Odisha comprises a large chunk of Marwaris, the officers are required to know the language to study their books of accounts they maintain in their language. An officer of Orissa Administrative Service, then working as ADM in Sundargarh, had come to take the viva test. When I entered into the room, he offered me a seat and then, asked his first question, “Do you know any other person by the name Sahadev Sahoo?”
“Yes, there are three in Odisha… I know.” I replied.
“Three?” He looked surprised.
“Yes, sir. One Prof Sahadev Sahoo, the professor of SCB Medical College, who recently died of car accident. Second, Sahadev Sahoo I A S.” I said
“The third one?” He asked.
“Myself, I mean, the person sitting before you.” I replied
He could not control his laugh. Laughingly he said, “Write your name and the post held by the second Sahadev Sahoo.”
Sahadev Sahoo, IAS was then Secretary to Government, Information and Public Relations Department. I wrote on a piece of paper in Marwari. My interview was over. He had awarded me the pass mark.

When I was a student in college/university I wanted to be a feature writer/columnist, to write on current affairs, comment on socio-political events. But destiny had some other things in store for me. I entered into government service and I learnt I could not write anything critical of the government policy. I could write only articles of academic nature. I gave up my ambition of writing features/articles on current events, and switched over to writing stories.
My stories got attention of the reading public. I received letters of appreciation from the readers, which encouraged me to continue with writing. Sometimes I received letters like this. “Sir, I read your story published in … magazine. I liked it. I have read your articles on daka tickatru jnana( knowledge from the postage stamps). But I did not know, you also write stories which are so beautiful….”
Sahadev Sahoo, IAS is a philatelist. He was former Chief Secretary to Govt of Odisha and also former Vice Chancellor, Odisha University of Agriculture and Technology (OUAT). He writes essays, features on varied things. He has also written a few stories, but he is not known as a story writer. He wrote in the Samaj, one of the most popular and widely circulated Odia daily, a regular column titled daka tickatru jnana( knowledge from the postage stamps) for quite a long time. The above letter writers mistook my stories as his as he was famous and a popular person.
To the above letter-writers I wrote back just to dispel their misgivings, “Thanks for the letter, glad to know you liked the story. But I am not Sahadev Sahoo IAS, the philatelist, though I have written this story.”
I did not get back any letter after I clarified them, which created doubts in my mind whether the story I wrote was really good! Was the letter addressed to me was neither for me nor for the story, but for the former Chief Secretary and Vice Chancellor?

In the year 1999, my first collection of short stories was published. An eminent writer was invited to the book release function held at Puri. The function was organised by my friend, Pradeep Biswal, the poet. The eminent writer told me,“Honestly speaking, I had not read your story till I got invited to the function. I was under the impression that the IAS Sahadev Sahoo was writing the stories. He is an essayist, a feature writer, but not a good story writer. I did not want to waste my time on reading his stories. Recently, after I got invited, I chanced upon your story in nabalipi. Of course, your photograph was also published. I have read only one story of yours. That was good.”

A few years back SAMBAD had published in every month the dates of births of the Odia writers/poets. My date of birth, as recorded in my certificate, is 10th January. In the month of January of that year SAMBAD had mentioned my name against 10th January, but had published the photograph of Sahadev Sahoo IAS. His date of birth is, perhaps, not 10th January.

Gobind Chand, a journalist cum writer has published his research work on contribution of Jhankar to Odia literature. All the stories published in the name of Sahadev Sahoo in Jhankar by the time the book was published, both mine as well as his, have been mentioned against Sahadev Sahoo. Credit of all the stories goes to one person, and definitely it would go to the IAS.

There are many similar incidents occurring since last twenty/twenty-five years.

A few months back, Neelkain, an Odia literary magazine honoured me as a story writer in a function organised at Bhubaneswar. I was given two minutes to speak my reactions. I spoke about the confusion being created bearing the same name with a known and familiar person, an IAS officer. My daughter was in the audience. She told me later that a person sitting beside her was saying to his friend, “I also believe the same. Sahadev Sahoo, IAS writes the stories. Who is this fellow? First time I am hearing there is another person by the name Sahadev Sahoo.”
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Living in Two Worlds

Last Sunday, I got a phone call when I was preparing to go to Bhubaneswar, to the site to see my house under construction. It was a woman’s voice. She introduced herself, “I am one of the readers of your stories.”
I was in a different mood, so I could not get at her. I did not react immediately. She understood and explained, “I just finished your story published in SAMBAD’s annual special issue and I wanted to talk to you.”
She was telling about the story seshachithi (the last letter) I had referred to in my blog ‘A Love Story Retold’.
I asked, “Where did you get my phone number?”
I do not usually publish my phone number along with the story in any magazine like other writers do. I cannot always attend to the call if it comes. Normally, I keep my cell phone in silent mode if I am with my boss or in a meeting. If the phone is not in silent mode and I am in a meeting or with the boss discussing something I immediately switch off when it starts ringing. The caller would certainly feel offended and mistake me as haughty and arrogant.
She said, “In fact I had read the story yesterday. I was so moved by the story that I wanted to talk to you. I got your phone number from SAMBAD office. Today I reread the story and just finished it.”
A writer desires his/her writing should be appreciated; he certainly likes to be praised. Her phone call, no doubt, gladdened my heart.
She asked, “Is it from your own life? I mean… an affair of your school…college days?”
I said, “No Ma’am. The main character of the story is an aged person; he is on the verge of retirement or has already retired. But I am not as old as the character in the story. That is a story, a work of fiction, certainly not my story.”
She said, “The story is excellent, especially the way you have ended. It appears as if it’s yours, a real love story. The language is very simple; I have already read it twice.”
Her eloquence in praising made me shy. To change the topic I asked about her. I learnt she was a teacher, working in Charampa, Bhadrak. I thanked her and switched off the cell phone.
I went to Bhubaneswar, argued with the contractor, got irritated for the slow progress of the construction, paid to him his weekly payment, fretted over the increasing cost of construction materials. I returned home hungry, ate a late lunch and slept. A day passed. I forgot the woman caller’s name. I had not also saved her phone number.

Ten years back. My third book, a collection of short stories (Nija batare nije i.e. all are in their own ways) was just published.
I had finished my eating and was about to go to the office when my land phone started ringing. (Then mobile phone was not commonly used and I did not have one). It was also a woman’s voice. She introduced herself in the same way, “I am one of the readers of your stories. I just finished your book.”
“May I know your name?” I asked.
I was pleased to hear a woman’s voice, an admirer of my stories. I wanted to know more about her. But instead of answering my question, she asked, “Do you know the names of all of your readers? Certainly not. So, why should you want to know my name?”
“It’s true; I don’t know all of my readers. I don’t know if I have at all any readers. But all don’t call up me. It is not unusual to be curious to know the person who gives me a ring.”
She laughed, I was amused.
She said, “You need not be curious about me, I shall not tell my name. But I assure, you have a good readership, your stories are liked by many. We, I mean, me and my friends have really enjoyed your book. In fact, we were discussing…”
I said, “Are you a student, staying in a hostel?”
“Don’t be smart… I shall not give any hints…”
“You have already given me hints without being conscious of it.’
“No, you are wrong. Even you assume me a student, staying in a hostel; you don’t know my name, the college or the hostel. Leave it. Please answer my question. Are you the character of your stories? The stories are so lively and beautiful, it seems, the writer is writing his own experience. We thoroughly enjoyed the stories…”
The book, nija batare nije contains fifteen stories. The main character of all the stories is one. His name is Manas. The character is the same in all the stories, but situations and events are different. Different event and situation make a different story with Manas as the protagonist. I asked, “There are two kinds of stories in that book. Some stories give the picture of an organisation, its ugly face and hypocrisy of the persons working for it. The other stories depict the escapades of the main character, Manas; his affairs with women other than his wife, even with married women. Which kind of stories of the book you like?”
She giggled, then took a pause, thought for a few seconds and said, “That’s the beauty of the stories. Your protagonist is an honest, upright and a committed person, but at the same time, he does not bear a moral character in traditional sense of the tern. Very pragmatic, not an ideal type, a true lover, any woman will like.”
I was really tempted to say the character is no one but me. But I said, “I am getting late. Please leave with me your phone number, I shall call you back.”
She said, “No, thank you. I know you are a sincere officer, very punctual and also dedicated to your duty. But I shall not give you my phone number. I shall call you again.”
She hung up the phone.
I went to the office. I was late. My boss had already enquired about me. When I met him he started reprimanding me for a draft. He said, “Is it the way a proposal should be drafted? Sometimes you do without application of mind…. “
The woman caller evaporated from my mind. I am yet to receive her promised second call.
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