Saturday, May 29, 2021
Thursday, May 27, 2021
J. P. Das: A Life in Literature
Sailen Routray
fraught with problems these days, with the shrinking space available for book reviews in most
periodicals. But this is especially true if one is reviewing the work of someone like J. P. Das in the form of an omnibus.
There are very few areas of modern Odia literature that Das has not contributed to, and there are very few genres that he has not experimented with. He is one of the most critically acclaimed poets of his generation, and his output is prodigious. His collected poems (in two volumes and titled 'Purbapara', published in 1995 and 1996) run to more than eight hundred pages.
He has written plays and non-sense verse for children; he authored one of the most well-regarded 'novels' in the language –– Desa Kala Patra (DKP). He continues to translate Odia texts into English on a regular basis, and is one of the most accomplished historians of Orissan art.
One finds a strange (on second thoughts, perhaps not so strange) resonance of this process in the stories by Das. A large number of his short stories, including the few included in the omnibus, are about home; the lack of one, the journeys involved in the attempts at finding one, and the ultimate ambiguities of arrival at a place that one thought was home and yet does not turn out to be even the obverse of a home – not even an exile.
But stories by Das are about the inverse of inevitability. In many ways his stories remind one of the stories in the volume 'Dubliners' by James Joyce. One feels that one is led by one's nose towards some climax as in an O. Henry story. But there is no climax towards the end; in fact there is no anti-climax either.
Derek in the story titled 'Renunciation' goes back to his home in some American small town after a series of disappointments and a very inconsequential accident in small town India. In 'The Pukka Sahib' Tripathy Sahib slowly slips into dementia and incorrigible rural habits after a lifetime of self-enforced Anglophilic sophistication. The story 'Our Daughter's Happiness' ends with Amaresh's sleeplessness, after his daughter finally leaves for the US to join her husband after marriage. But considering all the anxieties prior to the event, this departure and the sleeplessness are non-events.
Nothing much happens in the stories; but in their slightly awry descriptions of our muddled lives, these narratives end up functioning as a cartographic exercise of our everyday existence. These stories are, therefore, about the contingent nature of the human exercises of home-making, and the disappointments that are inherent in such fabrications.
This volume is an important addition to the growing, albeit slowly, volume of Odia literature available in English translations. Paul St-Pierre must be congratulated for editing a comprehensive volume. As must be evident by now, my chief and perhaps the only problem with this book is its size. It should have been at least twice its present length.
soul,/to circle it round and round/now and for ever./” (page 49).
Sunday, May 23, 2021
ଭଜନ – 'ଗଣ୍ଠି ତ ଫିଟିଲା'
ଭଜନକାର -ଶୈଲେନ ରାଉତରାୟ
ଗଣ୍ଠି ତ ଫିଟିଲା, ଫିଟି ଫିଟି ମଲା,
ଦେଖ ଆରେ ମନ ବାଇ ।
କେବେ ଯା’ ନଥିଲା, ଆଉ ନ ରହିଲା,
କହିବୁ କାହାକୁ ଯାଇ ।୦।
ବେନି ପକ୍ଷୀ ଏକ ଡାଳେ
ବସି ଇଚ୍ଛାମତେ ଦେଖ ତୁ ନିରତେ
ମାତିଚନ୍ତି ଲୀଳାଖେଳେ ।୧।
ଦେଖୁଥାଇ ତା'କୁ ବସି ।
ଦେଖେ ଯେ ଚଢ଼େଇ ମୁଁକାର ଅଟଇ
ବୃକ୍ଷ ଜଞ୍ଜାଳେ ନ ଫସି ।୨।
ଶିଖା ଭଜିବାକୁ ନାମ ।
ଶିଖି ନ ପାରିଲେ ଶୁଣ ବାବୁ ତୁହି
ହେବ ତୋ' କରମ ବାମ ।୩।
ଆସ୍ୱାଦନ କଲେ ଥରେ
ବିଷୟା ବିଷୟ ଫଳ ଯେ କଷାୟ
ଆଉ ନ ଇଚ୍ଛିବ ବାରେ ।୪।
ବସିଛି ତାଟକା ହୋଇ
ତାହାଠୁ ଯାଇଣ ବାରତା ଗୋ ଆଣ
କୁଳ ଗ୍ରାମ ତା’ର ତୁହି ।୫।
ମିଶିଯିବ ତରୁ ଡାଳେ ।
ଦ୍ୱିତୀୟଟି ଭାଇ ନିଜ ରୂପ ଧ୍ୟାଇ
ଉଡ଼ିଯିବ ଶୂନ୍ୟଠୁଳେ ।୬।
କସି ଧରିଥିଲେ ଥଣ୍ଟ,
ଚାଲିଗଲେ ଯେବେ, ସିଲୁ ରାଉତର
ଆଉ କି ରହିବ ଆଣ୍ଟ ।୭।
Friday, May 21, 2021
The Black Sheep
Bharat Majhi
Translated by Sailen Routray
Photo Credit - Wikimedia Commons |
Agreed, that everything was just my dream.
That the letters of mothers be auctioned
for millions of dollars;
that flowers be completely careless
about either the storms or the rains;
that famines be tolerable;
like the legendary tolerability
may hills be worshipped
agreed, that everything was
just my dream.
Whose dying harvest could I have salvaged?
For whom could I have set
With all my useless ineptitude,
the science of flying away with the net?
that no one has the guts
Because I am the black sheep
Note: The poet Bharat Majhi (born in 1972 in Kalahandi) works in an Odia media house in Bhubaneswar. He has published nine volumes of poems in a poetic career spanning more than three decades. Amongst other recognition, he has won the Bhubaneswar Book Fair Award in 2008 and the Sanskriti Award in 2004.
Sunday, May 16, 2021
Baba's Sunday Mutton Curry
Sailen Routray
Photo Credit - Wikimedia Commons
Like most Odia families, for us Sundays meant mutton. For my sisters and me, it also meant having our father at home for the whole day; dedicated government servant that he was, we hardly saw him on other days of the week. And for Ma, it gave a short respite from the kitchen. Before we woke up, Baba would have come back from the market with the mutton, and Ma would have started grumbling about its quality. It was very easy for vendors to dupe him; he would often be saddled with stale fish, rotting vegetables and undesirable cuts of meat.
While grinding the masala, the hard masculinity of his habitual presence would be gone; his wrists would have the grace of an Odissi dancer. He would again seem to me an affectionate man, who used to laugh like a baby when as a child I would stop pretending to sleep and jump on his back, when he would come to our bed to set the mosquito net late in the evenings.
But while cooking, his face would be grim with concentration; most answers to questions would be in the form of grunts. After cleaning potatoes with water, he would cut each one into evenly sized pieces with the skin on. Then in a wok, he would heat some mustard oil on a medium flame, add the potato pieces, sprinkle some salt and cook these till half-done.
Baba would hedge his bets regarding the quality of the mutton he had bought, by chopping the cuts into evenly sized chunks around three centimetres long. He would put these pieces in a big wok with a litre of hot water, salt, ground pepper and turmeric powder and stew for around ninety minutes on a slow flame with a lid covering the vessel. When the mutton was tender, he would scoop the pieces out and keep the stock with the melted fat aside. We children would then be called to sample ‘khaasi sijhaa’ — boiled mutton — in three separate small bowls. Each would contain three to four bits, with the younger ones getting the juicier, easy to chew portions.
Then Baba would heat mustard oil in a big wok. When the oil started smoking, he would throw in some sugar. It would soon caramelise, with the oil turning the colour of molten sunsets. Into this river the colour of diluted blood, Baba would then add a couple of bay leaves, followed by a pinch of cumin seeds. And then he would start adding and frying the wet masala in an order reminiscent of a military march past. First, the onion paste would go in, followed by the ground turmeric and red chilies; then the ginger-garlic would be thrown in, succeeded by cumin paste, and ground coriander and poppy seeds. He would sauté each paste for 4-5 minutes and then add the next one in sequence; no shortcuts for him. By this time, he would be sweating profusely and the masala would have the colour of the Amazon in full spate and smell like a tropical paradise.
To this sautéd masala, he would add the fried potatoes and cook on a low flame. By now we children would be hungry and pester him to finish soon. But he would braise the potatoes in the spices with intermittent stirring for about a quarter of an hour, sprinkling water every minute or so, to ensure that the masala did not burn or stick to the bottom of the wok. When the potatoes were almost done, he would add the boiled mutton and continue to simmer while slowly smattering the wok with the mutton stock. With all the stock gone, he would add half a litre of hot water and boil the tarakari for a few minutes to get a very thin and watery gravy.
It would be well after 1 p.m. by the time he was done; the regional film might have started on Doordarshan by the time Baba finished decocting his mutton curry. When he finally came back from his post-cooking bath, we children and Ma would be almost halfway through our lunch of usuna (parboiled) rice and khaasi maangsa tarakari, sitting in a half circle in front of our black-and-white Konark TV; the finesse of his hands finally getting the better of the gaucherie of his eyes.
Eight hundred grams of mutton that must include some portion of the legs and the ribs, a few pieces of the liver for the smaller children and some much maligned fat. Two medium sized potatoes, ten table spoons of mustard oil, three medium sized onions, a 2-inch long piece of fresh raw turmeric, 15 cloves of garlic, four big red chilies, 2 ½ inches’ piece of ginger, 10 black peppers dry roasted and then ground into a fine powder, two dried bay leaves, a tea spoonful of sugar, one table spoon of turmeric powder, three table spoons of cumin seeds, two table spoons of split coriander seeds, two table spoons of poppy seeds, salt according to taste.
Method
Grind all the masalas separately. Stir-fry evenly diced potatoes in two tablespoons of oil with salt till half-done. Boil the mutton with salt, a teaspoon each of pepper and turmeric powder, in a pot with a litre of water, for 80-90 minutes on a low flame, with the lid partially covered.
Heat eight tablespoons of oil in a wok. Add sugar to the hot oil. After it caramelises, decrease the flame and add bay leaves followed by a pinch of cumin seeds. Add the ground paste/wet masalas, in the specific order provided, frying each spice/mix for 4-5 minutes: onion; turmeric; red chillies; ginger-garlic; cumin; coriander; and, poppy seeds.
After the masala is done, add the fried potatoes, mix evenly and stir, sprinkling a couple of spoons of water intermittently, for 10-15 minutes. Add the boiled mutton pieces and mix. Add the stock slowly in half-cup measures over 15 minutes. After the masala is dry, add half a litre of hot water to the vessel, and let it simmer for 5-7 minutes.
Sunday, May 9, 2021
ଏହି ଗଳ୍ପରେ ମୋହ ଛଡ଼ା ସମସ୍ତେ ମୁଖର
(କବି ଜ୍ୟୋତି ନନ୍ଦଙ୍କ ପାଇଁ)
ଲେଖକ - ଡେନିସ୍ ନର୍କ୍ସେ
ଅନୁବାଦ – ଶୈଲେନ ରାଉତରାୟ
ଆଫ୍ରିକା ଓ ମଧ୍ୟପ୍ରାଚ୍ୟର ପଶୁ 'କନି' ଏହି ପ୍ରାଣୀଟି ଅନ୍ୟ ଅନେକ ନାମ ସହ 'ରକ୍ ରାବିଟ୍' ନାଁରେ ଜଣାଶୁଣା ଦେଢ଼ ଫୁଟ ଲମ୍ବା ଏହି ପଶୁଟି ହାତୀର ନିକଟତମ ଜ୍ଞାତି ଫଟୋ କ୍ରେଡ଼ିଟ୍ - ୱିକିମିଡିଆ କମନ୍ସ୍ |
ଏପରିକି ଶବ୍ଦ । ସ୍ୱରସଙ୍ଘାତ । ନୀରବତା ।
Saturday, May 1, 2021
ଗାର
ଲେଖକ - ତାରିକ ଛତାରି
ଅନୁବାଦକ – ଶୈଲେନ ରାଉତରାୟ
ମହାଭାରତର ମୋଗଲକାଳୀନ ଫାର୍ସୀ ଅନୁବାଦ 'ରଜ୍ମନାମା'ର ପ୍ରତିର ଏକ ଫର୍ଦ୍ଦ ସମୟକାଳ - ୧୬୧୬ ମସିହା: କଳାକାର ଅଜ୍ଞାତ ମୂଳ ଅନୁବାଦର ସମୟ - ୧୫୮୨ ମସିହା ଫଟୋ କ୍ରେଡ଼ିଟ୍ - ୱିକିମିଡିଆ କମନ୍ସ୍ |
The world Ramakanta Samantaray Translated by Sailen Routray Photo credit: A. R. Vasavi I have cut you into tiny pieces with the sharp sword ...
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