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
Friday, November 18, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
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.”
xxxxx
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.”
xxxxx
Thursday, November 3, 2011
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.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
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.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Friday, October 21, 2011
Anna, Corruption and Government Servants
My daughter does not like Anna. She knows that Anna fights against corruption, he is committed to cleansing the society of the ills, and he has dedicated his life for the betterment of the people. Still she does not like him for the cap he wears. To her Gandhi cap is synonymous with hypocrisy and corruption.
Things were different during my childhood. I was born twelve years after India had attained her independence. Freedom fighters were seen moving with Gandhi caps on their heads, and living with their Ganhian principles. The persons in Gandhi caps were respected. Teachers in the class spoke of Gandhism and preached that the man should live for others, do something for improving the society. They cited the examples of the dedicated leaders, freedom fighters who had sacrificed their comforts for the nation, neglected their family and children for the country and its people.
They wore Gandhi caps.
Mahendra, my friend once said, “When first time I came to Bhubaneswar, after I got down from the bus, I took a pinch of Bhubaneswar dust and smeared on my forehead. Because, the great persons-MLAs and Ministers- has walked over the earth of Bhubaneswar. Then, most of the MLAs and Ministers were former freedom fighters. I had heard from my teacher, a minister was going to the Assembly and to the Secretariat riding a bicycle. A former Chief Minister after demitting office was seen riding a bicycle. The earth of Bhubaneswar I considered as sacred as Gangajal.”
Mahendra was disillusioned soon after he entered into government service in the later part of eighties of the last century. He joined forest service and found there nexus between timber mafia and the forest people. The forest mafia thrived with active support of the politicians. Being a man of principle, he could not tolerate the loot of the jungle and tried to enforce law. He did not get cooperation from his own people and on the other hand, he was threatened by the mafia. He only created enemies. At one time, he perceived the danger to his life and saw he could no longer work there. He approached the forest minister. The minister had learned about him from his own sources and said, “I shall transfer you from that place. But I cannot help you always. You have to amend your ways. You are an honest officer. It is okay; but that does not mean you should try to prevent others from becoming dishonest. That’s as simple as that. You will be always in trouble, if you enforce your principles and honesty on others. Don’t try to become a second Gandhi. Gandhi was killed when he was old, you would be killed young.”
He was transferred as Assistant Conservator of Forest coincidentally to the place where I was working as Treasury Officer. We were happy to be reunited after our university days. We would engage ourselves hours together in small talks over cups of tea; go with our families on picnic at least once in a month. But he looked most of the times depressed and absentminded. He would often say, ‘I should not be in this job.” But he also could not do anything else, considering his family background, he could never risk for anything else at that point in his life. At that time also his wife was expecting their first child.
When we met he told me about his office matters. The forest range officer, subordinate to him, had unofficial and informal relation with the DFO, his senior. He had scant regard for him. The Range officer was also on intimate relation with the local MLA. The local MLA, formerly a jungle mafia, earned his wealth by timber-smuggling. One day Mahendra seized a vehicle carrying smuggled logs. The MLA intervened, but he did not listen. The DFO ordered him to release the vehicle without booking a case. The DFO told that the Chief Conservator had telephoned him to tell him in this matter. He had to release the vehicle.
After this incident, one day the MLA called Mahendra to meet him at the PWD bungalow. When he reached, the MLA told him to sit in front of him. Without saying anything more, he opened his briefcase, took out a revolver, checked the bullets, cleaned the revolver with his handkerchief and put it back in the briefcase. Then he said, “Mahendra Babu, you know, our paths are different. You were a brilliant student, otherwise you would not have qualified PSC exam to become an officer. But I was a school dropout. We have different backgrounds, we play with different toys. You have just seen the toy I play with. Your toys must be different. If we play with our respective toys, I need not explain, you know what would be the consequence….”
Later, Mahendra described before me the way the MLA spoke and laughed. He remarked, “The MLA must be an action movie buff.”
But after some months, he went mad. He thought everybody who went to him was conspiring to kill him. He sat with a loaded rifle, supplied to the forest department by the government, and threatened to kill if anyone would dare go near him. The psychiatrist diagnosed him to be suffering from one kind of paranoid psychosis.
Another sad incident happened during that period when I was the Treasury Officer. A BDO committed suicide. He was honest, hardworking and a committed officer. For his uncompromising nature, the chairman of the Panchayat Samiti harassed him; the Collector did not support him, and the Minister who was on a visit to the area humiliated him in public. It was also rumoured that his wife had betrayed him. I was shocked. I wrote a story on the incident of the BDO’s suicide. The story was published in Katha under the caption Chakravyuha. In the story, a character says, “In the present system, an honest officer will either go mad or commit suicide.”
I do not dislike Anna for the Gandhi cap he wears. But I do not expect much from the movement he leads. Will Anna’s Jan Lokpal protect honest and committed government servants against an MLA with a revolver and the kind of DFO and Co and allow him to work for the people?
xxxxxx
Things were different during my childhood. I was born twelve years after India had attained her independence. Freedom fighters were seen moving with Gandhi caps on their heads, and living with their Ganhian principles. The persons in Gandhi caps were respected. Teachers in the class spoke of Gandhism and preached that the man should live for others, do something for improving the society. They cited the examples of the dedicated leaders, freedom fighters who had sacrificed their comforts for the nation, neglected their family and children for the country and its people.
They wore Gandhi caps.
Mahendra, my friend once said, “When first time I came to Bhubaneswar, after I got down from the bus, I took a pinch of Bhubaneswar dust and smeared on my forehead. Because, the great persons-MLAs and Ministers- has walked over the earth of Bhubaneswar. Then, most of the MLAs and Ministers were former freedom fighters. I had heard from my teacher, a minister was going to the Assembly and to the Secretariat riding a bicycle. A former Chief Minister after demitting office was seen riding a bicycle. The earth of Bhubaneswar I considered as sacred as Gangajal.”
Mahendra was disillusioned soon after he entered into government service in the later part of eighties of the last century. He joined forest service and found there nexus between timber mafia and the forest people. The forest mafia thrived with active support of the politicians. Being a man of principle, he could not tolerate the loot of the jungle and tried to enforce law. He did not get cooperation from his own people and on the other hand, he was threatened by the mafia. He only created enemies. At one time, he perceived the danger to his life and saw he could no longer work there. He approached the forest minister. The minister had learned about him from his own sources and said, “I shall transfer you from that place. But I cannot help you always. You have to amend your ways. You are an honest officer. It is okay; but that does not mean you should try to prevent others from becoming dishonest. That’s as simple as that. You will be always in trouble, if you enforce your principles and honesty on others. Don’t try to become a second Gandhi. Gandhi was killed when he was old, you would be killed young.”
He was transferred as Assistant Conservator of Forest coincidentally to the place where I was working as Treasury Officer. We were happy to be reunited after our university days. We would engage ourselves hours together in small talks over cups of tea; go with our families on picnic at least once in a month. But he looked most of the times depressed and absentminded. He would often say, ‘I should not be in this job.” But he also could not do anything else, considering his family background, he could never risk for anything else at that point in his life. At that time also his wife was expecting their first child.
When we met he told me about his office matters. The forest range officer, subordinate to him, had unofficial and informal relation with the DFO, his senior. He had scant regard for him. The Range officer was also on intimate relation with the local MLA. The local MLA, formerly a jungle mafia, earned his wealth by timber-smuggling. One day Mahendra seized a vehicle carrying smuggled logs. The MLA intervened, but he did not listen. The DFO ordered him to release the vehicle without booking a case. The DFO told that the Chief Conservator had telephoned him to tell him in this matter. He had to release the vehicle.
After this incident, one day the MLA called Mahendra to meet him at the PWD bungalow. When he reached, the MLA told him to sit in front of him. Without saying anything more, he opened his briefcase, took out a revolver, checked the bullets, cleaned the revolver with his handkerchief and put it back in the briefcase. Then he said, “Mahendra Babu, you know, our paths are different. You were a brilliant student, otherwise you would not have qualified PSC exam to become an officer. But I was a school dropout. We have different backgrounds, we play with different toys. You have just seen the toy I play with. Your toys must be different. If we play with our respective toys, I need not explain, you know what would be the consequence….”
Later, Mahendra described before me the way the MLA spoke and laughed. He remarked, “The MLA must be an action movie buff.”
But after some months, he went mad. He thought everybody who went to him was conspiring to kill him. He sat with a loaded rifle, supplied to the forest department by the government, and threatened to kill if anyone would dare go near him. The psychiatrist diagnosed him to be suffering from one kind of paranoid psychosis.
Another sad incident happened during that period when I was the Treasury Officer. A BDO committed suicide. He was honest, hardworking and a committed officer. For his uncompromising nature, the chairman of the Panchayat Samiti harassed him; the Collector did not support him, and the Minister who was on a visit to the area humiliated him in public. It was also rumoured that his wife had betrayed him. I was shocked. I wrote a story on the incident of the BDO’s suicide. The story was published in Katha under the caption Chakravyuha. In the story, a character says, “In the present system, an honest officer will either go mad or commit suicide.”
I do not dislike Anna for the Gandhi cap he wears. But I do not expect much from the movement he leads. Will Anna’s Jan Lokpal protect honest and committed government servants against an MLA with a revolver and the kind of DFO and Co and allow him to work for the people?
xxxxxx
Friday, October 14, 2011
A Love Story Retold
Mr P is my friend. Every day we meet during our morning walk. He retired from government service in 2006 after rendering 34 years of service. He admires my stories and reads whatever I write whenever he chances upon it. A few months back while doing our ‘brisk morning walk’ he suggested, “Why doesn’t you write a story on me?”
“On you?” I could not get him.
“Yes, on me. I had a love affair, just after I had completed my Matriculation. It had lasted exactly four years and three months. But we were intensely in love with each other. “
Everybody loves to read a love story. The story may be Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina or Chetan Bhagat’s 2 State Story of my Marriage. Irrespective of nation, language, region, age or time, a love story always interests a person.
I said, “You have to tell me.”
And he told me his love story. He took the whole one hour we did our morning walk to describe his story with all the tit bits. He must have replayed his story many times in his mind during the last 40 years; otherwise he could not have made the story so interesting. In fact, I enjoyed the hour listening him without any feeling of fatigue for the ‘brisk walking’.
It was just a usual love affair in the sixties between two young persons who belonged to two different castes. Since their castes were different and also social standing of their parents in the village, the affair could not be translated into marriage. They had to succumb to social pressure, and part their ways.
I wrote a story based on his affair. The story is published under the caption ‘seshachithi’ (the last letter) in the anniversary special issue of SAMBAD, 2011.
I got a phone call at 10.30 in the night. I do not entertain any call after eight. But it was Mr P, my morning walker friend. He said, “Sorry to disturb you. I know you don’t like to be disturbed after eight, but I could not wait till the morning. I just finished your story. It’s really excellent…. the way you have ended the story… I don’ find words to describe it. It’s one of the four or five best stories of Odia literature I would always remember …”
Of course, I was pleased. But I felt he was over rating the story, it might not be as good as he described. I said, “It’s your story, that’s why it interests you. Others may not appreciate it…”
He stopped, took pause. Perhaps, he could not believe me. He said, “Maybe, that’s a point. But I think it’s really a good story. You will get good response from others… definitely… I am sure...”
I did not want to discuss on the subject more in the night. I said, “Okay, we shall meet tomorrow.”
I switched off the cell phone.
The next day in the morning we met. He again eulogised me and the story. He said, “I gave you a skeleton, but you injected life and put the soul. You have added something which I had not told you. But those were my real feelings at that point in time and in that kind of situations…. It’s really amazing... how could you imagine other’s feelings exactly …”
To change the discussion I said, “But I committed a mistake. I have changed the names of the characters. But I forgot to substitute some names for Manas and Manasi.”
Manas and Manasi were the code names they were addressing each other in their letters though Mr P and his lady love’s names were different. I had substituted some other names for Mr P and his lady love in the story, but forgot about Manas and Manasi. Of course, besides Mr P and his lover, the code names were only known to two of his closest friend and his wife. Yes, his wife knew the affair. He had burnt all of her letters except one. Somehow one letter out of a trunk full he had received during their affair of four years and three months had escaped the destruction. And that letter reached the hand of his wife who could discover the real Manas of Manasi with little investigation.
He said, “No, rather you have done the right thing in not changing the code names. She may chance upon the story. After all, Smbad’s anniversary magazine is widely circulated, she may get to read it and….”
In the story Mr P has met his lover after a gap of thirty three years, but in real life they have not met till now after they had parted their ways forty years back.
I looked at him. He stopped and did not complete the sentence.
Mr P is now at 63. His wife would be at 60.
“And…” I asked.
He smiled. I understood.
xxxxx
“On you?” I could not get him.
“Yes, on me. I had a love affair, just after I had completed my Matriculation. It had lasted exactly four years and three months. But we were intensely in love with each other. “
Everybody loves to read a love story. The story may be Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina or Chetan Bhagat’s 2 State Story of my Marriage. Irrespective of nation, language, region, age or time, a love story always interests a person.
I said, “You have to tell me.”
And he told me his love story. He took the whole one hour we did our morning walk to describe his story with all the tit bits. He must have replayed his story many times in his mind during the last 40 years; otherwise he could not have made the story so interesting. In fact, I enjoyed the hour listening him without any feeling of fatigue for the ‘brisk walking’.
It was just a usual love affair in the sixties between two young persons who belonged to two different castes. Since their castes were different and also social standing of their parents in the village, the affair could not be translated into marriage. They had to succumb to social pressure, and part their ways.
I wrote a story based on his affair. The story is published under the caption ‘seshachithi’ (the last letter) in the anniversary special issue of SAMBAD, 2011.
I got a phone call at 10.30 in the night. I do not entertain any call after eight. But it was Mr P, my morning walker friend. He said, “Sorry to disturb you. I know you don’t like to be disturbed after eight, but I could not wait till the morning. I just finished your story. It’s really excellent…. the way you have ended the story… I don’ find words to describe it. It’s one of the four or five best stories of Odia literature I would always remember …”
Of course, I was pleased. But I felt he was over rating the story, it might not be as good as he described. I said, “It’s your story, that’s why it interests you. Others may not appreciate it…”
He stopped, took pause. Perhaps, he could not believe me. He said, “Maybe, that’s a point. But I think it’s really a good story. You will get good response from others… definitely… I am sure...”
I did not want to discuss on the subject more in the night. I said, “Okay, we shall meet tomorrow.”
I switched off the cell phone.
The next day in the morning we met. He again eulogised me and the story. He said, “I gave you a skeleton, but you injected life and put the soul. You have added something which I had not told you. But those were my real feelings at that point in time and in that kind of situations…. It’s really amazing... how could you imagine other’s feelings exactly …”
To change the discussion I said, “But I committed a mistake. I have changed the names of the characters. But I forgot to substitute some names for Manas and Manasi.”
Manas and Manasi were the code names they were addressing each other in their letters though Mr P and his lady love’s names were different. I had substituted some other names for Mr P and his lady love in the story, but forgot about Manas and Manasi. Of course, besides Mr P and his lover, the code names were only known to two of his closest friend and his wife. Yes, his wife knew the affair. He had burnt all of her letters except one. Somehow one letter out of a trunk full he had received during their affair of four years and three months had escaped the destruction. And that letter reached the hand of his wife who could discover the real Manas of Manasi with little investigation.
He said, “No, rather you have done the right thing in not changing the code names. She may chance upon the story. After all, Smbad’s anniversary magazine is widely circulated, she may get to read it and….”
In the story Mr P has met his lover after a gap of thirty three years, but in real life they have not met till now after they had parted their ways forty years back.
I looked at him. He stopped and did not complete the sentence.
Mr P is now at 63. His wife would be at 60.
“And…” I asked.
He smiled. I understood.
xxxxx
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Odia Puja magazines
In the seventies and early eighties of the last century when I was a student in the School and later in the College I was eagerly waiting for the Durga puja holidays. Durga puja was a great festival of Orissa. The Government employees got the longest holidays during this time. But it was not observed in our village with the fanfare as it was observed in Cuttack or in some other towns. I was not a devotee of the Goddess either. I was eagerly waiting for the Puja as Odia literary magazines brought out their special issues on this occasion. When I was in the school – our school was in a remote village- I would come to Cuttack to buy the magazines. Jhankar was a must and besides, I used to buy Asantakali, Nabarabi and some other magazines. The magazines were thicker with more stories, and some of those also published complete novels. After the School/College reopened, I would have enough material for a few days’ enjoyment. I enjoyed most reading a good story or a novel.
My waiting for the Puja has been a habit with me since those days. Asantakali stopped its publication. Nabarabi was also stopped; but after some years, it is published again. Jhankar continues its publication being the oldest surviving odia literary magazine. Now the number of odia magazines published during the Puja has increased.
With development in printing technology, the get up/lay out of the magazines has improved. It now looks nicer and more attractive. Exact figure is not available with me, but the number of odia literary magazines hitting the stands during the Puja is around a hundred. Of course, ninety-five per cent of the magazines published during the Puja disappear from the market, and are not seen whole of the year.
There is always complaint that the readership of odia literature has greatly reduced and most of the odia people have no longer any interest in odia literature. On being asked, the writers writing in odia cite the example of the Puja magazines. They say, almost all the magazines published during the Puja are sold out. Sambad, the odia daily, publishes its annual anniversary issue and it claims to printing more than one hundred thousand copies. There are some monthly magazines like Kadambinini, Katha which print more than twenty thousand copies. On a rough estimate, the total number of copies of all the magazines would be around two lakh. But it does not imply that two lakh persons buy odia literary magazines. For example, each year I usually buy around ten Puja special issues. The person who has interest in literature cannot be satisfied with one magazine, and usually he, on an average, buys more than two-three magazines.
During my student days, some of my favourite writers were Manoj Das, Santanu Acharya, Mahapatra Nilamani Sahoo, Rabi Pattanaik, Bibhuti Pattanaik, Jagannath Prasad Das, Chandrasekhar Rath, Pratibha Ray, Ramachandra Behara, Padmaj Pal, Kanheilal Das, Jagdish Mihanty, etc. Some of them have passed away, and some of them have stopped writing. Some talented writers have come to the odia literary scene. New writers are coming to the literary field every year. Some of the old writers have been deleted and some new ones have taken their places in the list of my favourites. Comparing the present writing with that of the past there is not only change in theme and content, but also in style and presentation. But my interest in literature remains the same; I still wait for the Puja for the Puja special odia magazines.
xxxx
My waiting for the Puja has been a habit with me since those days. Asantakali stopped its publication. Nabarabi was also stopped; but after some years, it is published again. Jhankar continues its publication being the oldest surviving odia literary magazine. Now the number of odia magazines published during the Puja has increased.
With development in printing technology, the get up/lay out of the magazines has improved. It now looks nicer and more attractive. Exact figure is not available with me, but the number of odia literary magazines hitting the stands during the Puja is around a hundred. Of course, ninety-five per cent of the magazines published during the Puja disappear from the market, and are not seen whole of the year.
There is always complaint that the readership of odia literature has greatly reduced and most of the odia people have no longer any interest in odia literature. On being asked, the writers writing in odia cite the example of the Puja magazines. They say, almost all the magazines published during the Puja are sold out. Sambad, the odia daily, publishes its annual anniversary issue and it claims to printing more than one hundred thousand copies. There are some monthly magazines like Kadambinini, Katha which print more than twenty thousand copies. On a rough estimate, the total number of copies of all the magazines would be around two lakh. But it does not imply that two lakh persons buy odia literary magazines. For example, each year I usually buy around ten Puja special issues. The person who has interest in literature cannot be satisfied with one magazine, and usually he, on an average, buys more than two-three magazines.
During my student days, some of my favourite writers were Manoj Das, Santanu Acharya, Mahapatra Nilamani Sahoo, Rabi Pattanaik, Bibhuti Pattanaik, Jagannath Prasad Das, Chandrasekhar Rath, Pratibha Ray, Ramachandra Behara, Padmaj Pal, Kanheilal Das, Jagdish Mihanty, etc. Some of them have passed away, and some of them have stopped writing. Some talented writers have come to the odia literary scene. New writers are coming to the literary field every year. Some of the old writers have been deleted and some new ones have taken their places in the list of my favourites. Comparing the present writing with that of the past there is not only change in theme and content, but also in style and presentation. But my interest in literature remains the same; I still wait for the Puja for the Puja special odia magazines.
xxxx
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Living in dream
Images intrude into the mind
Clash with the worries
Broken into pieces
Like reflections on a broken mirror
Picture of a bride suddenly changes
Sindoor is wiped off her forehead
Bangles of her hand broken
Bereft of color, she turns into white
In search of the nest
One has already traveled
Two-third of the way
The nest is not to be seen
It’s still far away
Commanding look of the boss
Dejected face of the self
Savage apparitions of the wishes
Unusual thick humid stagnant autumn air
Keep sleep at a distance
In the wee hours of the morning
Mind refuses to think
Eyes rebel
I slide into a dream
Birds chirp
Bell rings in the temple
Waves play on the beach
Cool wind blows from the south
As she appears
Emanating peace and tranquility
I refuse to come out of the dream
*******
Clash with the worries
Broken into pieces
Like reflections on a broken mirror
Picture of a bride suddenly changes
Sindoor is wiped off her forehead
Bangles of her hand broken
Bereft of color, she turns into white
In search of the nest
One has already traveled
Two-third of the way
The nest is not to be seen
It’s still far away
Commanding look of the boss
Dejected face of the self
Savage apparitions of the wishes
Unusual thick humid stagnant autumn air
Keep sleep at a distance
In the wee hours of the morning
Mind refuses to think
Eyes rebel
I slide into a dream
Birds chirp
Bell rings in the temple
Waves play on the beach
Cool wind blows from the south
As she appears
Emanating peace and tranquility
I refuse to come out of the dream
*******
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