Communal Violence in Bhadrak, Odisha

Pramodini Pradhan and Sailen Routray

Bhadrak railway station
Photo credit: commons.wikimedia.org/Shanti.lataa1

Bhadrak town in the district of the same name in Odisha has a sizeable Muslim population constituting 39.56% of the total population of 1,21,338. Centuries of living together have led to the development of a shared culture and its expressions in many ways and forms in the day-to-day life of the people. 

However, this harmony has been disturbed periodically. The town experienced two major communal clashes—one in 1946 and the other in 1991—with a more recent one taking place in April. What is common is that all three clashes occurred against the backdrop of communal tension in the larger political scenario in the country and were triggered by petty local events.

The 1946 violence took place against the backdrop of the Muslim League’s demand for a separate state. In 1991, the political atmosphere of the country was communally charged, centred as it was on the Ram Janmabhoomi–Babri Masjid issue. In that charged atmosphere, Ram Navami was celebrated for the first time in Bhadrak town, organised primarily by the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS).

On the very day of the celebration, the town plunged into a major clash between the Hindus and the Muslims which led to the loss of many lives. It also spread to the nearby town of Soro and other rural areas.

This time too, the communal clash took place two days after the Ram Navami celebrations. The following is a brief account of how it all started and the role played by communal forces.

Unprecedented celebrations 

From the time it was first introduced, the observance of Ram Navami in Bhadrak has always been organised and monitored by the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and its affiliate organisations. This year, the scale and grandeur of celebrations was unprecedented and continued for seven days, whereas earlier they lasted for three days. About one lakh people, nearly 10 times compared to the previous years, participated in the processions. Given that the population of the town is a little over a lakh, the participation of such huge numbers points to efforts to mobilise people from outside. Saffron flags were seen all over the town, including atop government office buildings throughout the week.

On the final day of the celebrations, about a hundred medhas (floats) participated, accompanied by about 80 music bands playing high decibel music. Processions which had earlier wound up by 12 pm, continued till 3 am. During the processions, religious chants such as Jai Sriram and politically-loaded slogans like Hindustan mein rehna hai to Ram naam kehna hai were also raised. 

In the words of the president of the Hindu Suraksha Samiti (HSS), “After the UP election results, our youth were very excited. Their enthusiasm was very high. And here in Odisha, we did well in the recently held panchayat elections. So this year’s celebration was a special one.”

No untoward incident took place on the day of the festival. The Muslim community even felicitated the leaders/medhas in the processions when these passed through their localities. But beneath the veneer of this normalcy, there was apprehension in the Muslim community that something untoward might happen. Volunteers engaged by the Chauda Mohalla Committee (an apex body of Muslim mohalla committees of Bhadrak) were carefully chosen—people who would not get provoked easily. Most shops owned by Muslims were closed on the day.

Added to the effects of aggressive celebrations during Ram Navami, tension was also simmering among a section of the Muslim youth for another reason. The Urs (death anniversary of a saint) celebrations of Nasim Sarkar, a spiritual leader revered by certain sections of the Muslim community, were planned for 16 April, and posters announcing this were put up in the town. 

During the period of the Ram Navami celebrations, some of these posters were found to be torn and defiled, allegedly by Hindu youth. Besides, around the same time, there were offensive postings on the social media about Islam, again, allegedly by some Hindu youth. But the matter was not brought to the notice of the police.

Trigger point

In such a tense atmosphere, on the day after Ram Navami, that is, on 5 April, certain remarks apparently insulting the Hindu deities Ram and Sita appeared on social media. It was alleged that a Hindu student had posted on his Facebook wall a picture of the Ram Navami celebrations with the accompanying text, “Jai Sriram” and some Muslims had posted derogatory comments on it. On 6 April, members of the Akhil Bharatiya Vidyarthi Parishad (ABVP), Bajrang Dal and Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) brought it to the notice of the police and demanded immediate arrest of the accused. 

Reportedly, two written complaints were lodged on the basis of which the police registered a first information report (FIR). One complainant, a Class 10 student, declared himself as an active member of the Bajrang Dal.

It was reported that the police took time to act upon the complaint since the matter involved a cybercrime but the complainants insisted on the immediate arrest of the accused. Moreover, an impression was created that the police were reluctant to take any action at the behest of the local member of legislative assembly (MLA) and his son, as one of the accused was the son of a ruling Biju Janata Dal (BJD) leader. 

By the time the FIR was registered, alongwith the students, the activists of the Bajrang Dal, VHP and HSS were also agitating outside the police station demanding action. Soon after the FIR was registered, a section of the agitating crowd went on to block the National Highway 45. This was followed by attacks on Muslim-owned shops near Bant Chhak. After this, the police declared Section 144 (the Code of Criminal Procedure) in the town and detained some of the rioters.

The next day, the district administration convened a meeting of the peace committee at the collectorate where the local MLA, chairperson of the Bhadrak municipality, the inspector general of police (IGP) and superintendent of police (SP) Bhadrak, additional district magistrate (ADM) and some community leaders were present. It was officially announced that 23 shops had been burnt down, and that the municipality would be arranging a vending zone for the affected shop owners.

By some accounts, many persons who were not members of the peace committee had entered the meeting hall and occupied the seats as a result of which, there was no room for some genuine members. While the “chaotic” peace committee meeting was held inside the meeting hall, many young men had gathered outside despite the prohibitory order. Some were onlookers while nearly 150 Muslim youth had also gathered to know whether their grievance regarding the defiling of the posters of Sarkar Baba was being addressed by their community leaders. When they came to know that this matter was not raised in the meeting, the young men got agitated and proceeded towards the Madina Maidan, located in the Puruna Bazaar (the place where community decisions are often taken) on their motorbikes, shouting slogans like “Bulu Pattnaik zindabad” (Pattnaik is a BJD youth leader and son of Jugal Kishore Pattnaik, the sitting MLA (BJD) of Bhadrak) and “Islam zindabad” and, by some accounts, “Pakistan zindabad, Hindustan murdabad.” 

It is important to note that all this happened when the local political leaders as well as the top brass of the police and district administration were present in the town. While the administration was conducting the peace meeting, leaders of the BJP and its affiliates were mobilising Hindu youth, through social media and mobile phones and to which the police failed to pay attention. Hindu youth began gathering on the streets shouting “jor se bolo Jay Shri Ram.” As on the previous day, the activists of the Bajrang Dal and VHP were also part of the demonstration.

Most of the shops owned by Muslims were already shut due to the Friday afternoon prayers. Around 5 pm, the crowd began attacking Muslim shops in the Kacheri Bazaar area. As this message reached the Muslim majority areas, groups of young men, many of whom were already on the streets, began attacking Hindu shops in Chandan Bazaar and nearby areas.

Thus, began a chain of looting and arson. The main affected areas were Kacheri Bazaar, Bant Chhak area, Chandan Bazaar, Laha Pati and Charampa/Station Bazaar where mostly roadside shops were attacked. The looting and arson did not spread to the residential areas. One mosque was attacked and partially damaged in Station Bazaar, and a temple was affected in Laha Pati though no human life was lost.

Response of the government

The local police and the district administration did not respond with the required seriousness, until the evening of 7 April. However, the state government swung into action once it became clear that the situation was going out of control. The same evening, the home secretary and the director general of police (DGP) rushed to Bhadrak and mobilised additional forces for the town. Curfew was imposed the same night. Order was issued for the immediate posting of a new district collector to take charge of the situation. 

It must be noted that the district administration was headless during the riot, since the collector had retired from service since 31 March, and no replacement had been posted. The SP and the inspector in charge of the Town Police Station and the ADM, who were on duty when the riot took place, were transferred.

Daytime curfew was in force for a few days, but nighttime curfew was in place for over a month following the violence and during this period, about 275 people were arrested including the state secretary of the Bajrang Dal, the district unit secretary of the BJP Yuva Morcha and a BJD councillor. There were allegations that many innocent people were also arrested. Apart from the anger felt by the concerned communities and family members of these innocents, the economic hardships faced by the families, particularly those of the poor, are a matter of serious concern.

Five days after the violence, on 12 April, Chief Minister Naveen Patnaik visited the town and declared that the damage due to the riots would be assessed and adequate compensation would be provided. The compensation amount, it was announced, would range between a minimum of Rs. 20,000 and a maximum of Rs. 2,00,000 and was greeted with discontentment among all sections of the victims.

Dynamics of the riot

A noticeable feature of the riot this time was the active participation of the youth, including students, in the looting and arson. The general perception among both the communities is that the hold of traditional leadership has been breaking down and there is no alternative in place for the youth. There is also increasing unemployment. As a result, vote-seeking political parties are luring them with money to work as their foot soldiers.

The recent communal clash was also partly due to the local dynamics of electoral politics—intra- and inter-party rivalries. There are reportedly two factions in the local BJD, one led by Prafulla Samal and the other by Jugal Kishore Pattnaik. It is said that Samal is trying to contest the next election from Bhadrak while Pattnaik is trying to consolidate his Muslim vote bank. Each is trying to outsmart the other. 

Similarly, within the BJP, there are a number of aspirants for the Bhadrak assembly seat who are trying to get the voters on their side by whatever means that are available. Rumour-mongering played a part too. In Charampa area, a rumour that Muslims had destroyed three temples in the Puruna Bazaar area was deliberately fl oated by Hindu youth, while attacking a mosque and Muslim shops. It must be noted that no Hindus had been attacked in this area. In the Kacheri Bazaar vicinity, when Hindus began destroying Muslim shops, people talked about Pakistani bombs being deposited in the Puruna Bazaar area!

However, many ordinary citizens from both communities came forward to prevent the violence in their areas. The role of the residents of Puruna Bazaar, a Muslim-dominated area, in preventing violence was appreciated even by the president of the HSS. 

In his own words, “It is an admitted fact that the Muslim dominated Puruna Bazaar remained peaceful because Muslims took the lead and protected the area from unruly youth. Some Muslims actually threatened to beat up their own youth if they indulged in damaging the Hindu houses and shops of their locality. That is the bhaichara (brotherhood) of Bhadrak town.”

Conclusions

Unlike the riot of 1991, this time the violence did not spread throughout the town and could thus be curbed soon. This underlines the fact that the common people did not participate in it. Nevertheless, there are worrying trends as well. One is the use of students and unemployed youth as cannon fodder to further gains in electoral politics by cynically creating and manipulating communal sentiments. This will have dangerous consequences.

There are also signs that households living in areas dominated by the other community no longer feel safe and some families are thinking of shifting out. This will lead to ghettoisation that will damage the town’s social fabric. Moreover, as Hindutva and majoritarian politics deepen and expand nationally, one cannot rule out the danger to the locally rooted syncretic culture of the town.

Note: This essay was first published on July 15, 2017 in Economic and Political Weekly 52(28)  as a 'Comment' piece. It is is based on a report by People’s Union for Civil Liberties (PUCL), Odisha, titled Weeping Salandi (June 2017).

ଚିତ୍ତ ବର୍ଗ ୯-୧୧

ପାଲି 'ଧର୍ମପଦ'ର ଓଡ଼ିଆ ପଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦ

ଅନୁବାଦକ - ଶୈଲେନ ରାଉତରାୟ

ଫଟୋ କ୍ରେଡ଼ିଟ୍ - ୱିକିମିଡିଆ କମନ୍ସ୍

ଓଡ଼ିଆ ପଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦ

ଚେତାଶୂନ୍ୟ, କ୍ଷୁବ୍ଧ ହୋଇ ଧରାରେ ଏ ପିଣ୍ଡ 
ପଡ଼ିବ ଯେହ୍ନେ ନିରର୍ଥକ ସେ କାଷ୍ଟଖଣ୍ଡ ।୯।

ବଇରୀ ଶତୃର କରେ ଯେପରି ଅନିଷ୍ଟ 

ମିଥ୍ୟା ପ୍ରଣିହିତ ହୋଇ ସେହିପରି ଚିତ୍ତ ।।

ମନୁଷ୍ୟମାନଙ୍କୁ ତାହା ପିଡ଼ଇ ସେପରି

ଅଧିକୁଁ ଅଧିକ ତାଙ୍କୁ ପାପୀୟାନ କରି ।୧୦। 

ମାତା ପିତା ତଥା ଛନ୍ତି ଆଉ ଯେତେ ଜ୍ଞାତି ।

ଯେତେ ଭାବେ ସେମାନେ ମଙ୍ଗଳ ନ କରନ୍ତି ।। 

ସମ୍ୟକ ପ୍ରଣିହିତ ଅଟଇ ଯେହୁ ଚିତ୍ତ ।

ତାହା ଦ୍ୱାରା ହୁଏ ବେଶି ମଙ୍ଗଳ ସାଧିତ ।୧୧।

ମୂଳ ପାଲି ପଦ

ଅଚିରଂ ବତ'ୟଂ କାୟୋ ପଠବିଂ ଅଧିସେସ୍ସତି ।
ଛୁଦ୍ଧୋ ଅପେତବିଞ୍ଣାଣୋ ନିରତ୍ଥଂ ବ କଳିଙ୍ଗରଂ ।୯।

ଦିସୋ ଦିସଂ ଯଂ ତଂ କୟିରା ବେରୀ ବା ପନ ବେରିନଂ ।
ମିଚ୍ଛାପଣିହିତଂ ଚିତ୍ତଂ ପାପିୟୋ ନଂ ତତୋ କରେ ।୧୦।

ନ ତଂ ମାତା ପିତା କାୟିରୋ ଅଞ୍ଣେ ବାପି ଚ ଜ୍ଞାତକା ।

ସମ୍ମାପଣିହିତଂ ଚିତ୍ତଂ ସେୟ୍ୟସୋ'ନଂ ତତୋ କରେ ।୧୧।

ଅନୁବାଦକୀୟ ଟୀକା: ଏହି ଅଧମ ଅନୁବାଦକକୁ ପାଲି ଜଣା ନାହିଁ । ଏଣୁ ଏହି ପଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦଟି ପାଇଁ ତାହାର ମୂଳ ସହାୟ ହେଲା  ପ୍ରଫେସର ପ୍ରହ୍ଲାଦ ପ୍ରଧାନଙ୍କ ଦ୍ୱାରା ସମ୍ପାଦିତ 'ପାଲି ଧର୍ମପଦ' ଗ୍ରନ୍ଥଟି, ଯେଉଁଥିରେ ସେ ସଂସ୍କୃତ ରୂପାନ୍ତର ସହ ଓଡ଼ିଆ ଗଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦ କରିଯାଇଛନ୍ତି । ଗ୍ରନ୍ଥଟିର ପ୍ରଥମ ସଂସ୍କରଣ ୧୯୭୮ ମସିହାରେ ପ୍ରକାଶିତ । କିନ୍ତୁ ଏହି ଅନୁବାଦକ ୧୯୯୪ ମସିହାରେ କଟକସ୍ଥ ପ୍ରକାଶନ ସଂସ୍ଥା ଫ୍ରେଣ୍ଡ୍‌ସ୍‌ ପବ୍ଲିଶର୍ସ ଛାପିଥିବା ଦ୍ୱିତୀୟ ସଂସ୍କରଣଟି ବ୍ୟବହାର କରିଛି । ଏହା ଛଡ଼ା ଏହି ପଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦ କରିବା ପାଇଁ 'ଦି ସେକ୍ରେଡ଼୍ ବୁକ୍ସ୍ ଅଫ୍ ଦି ଇଷ୍ଟ୍' ସିରିଜ୍‌ରେ ମାକ୍ସ୍ ମ୍ୟୁଲର୍‌ଙ୍କ ଦ୍ୱାରା ସମ୍ପାଦିତ 'ଦି ଧମ୍ମପଦ' ଇଂରାଜି ଗ୍ରନ୍ଥଟିର ୨୦୧୩ ମସିହାରେ ରୁଟ୍‌ଲେଜ୍ ଛାପିଥିବା ସଂସ୍କରଣଟିର ମଧ୍ୟ ବ୍ୟବହାର କରାଯାଇଛି ।

A writer and a public intellectual

A review of "The Essential U. R. Ananthamurthy"

Sailen Routray

In Ananthamurthy’s ancestral village in Karnataka, where he spent a significant part of his childhood and adolescence, the house had a front yard. It was essentially a raised platform under a roof made up of the kind of country tiles that were known locally as Mangalore tiles. It was a space occupied by his father and other men. The conversations here dealt with affairs of the world. It was a place suffused with his father’s authority, which drew from his self-taught competence in Kannada, Sanskrit and English. 

The backyard, in contrast, was the preserve of the women of the house, where high languages like English and Sanskrit were absent. It was a space of a promiscuous intermingling of women from all castes, reciprocal exchanges of food, and of gossip and stories, sometimes of a sexual nature. 

In an essay titled ‘Towards the concept of a new nationhood: languages and literatures in India,’ Ananthamurthy extends and generalises this experience to say that ‘Indian literatures in the bhashas have a front yard and a backyard…” The front yard interfaces with other languages, mainly lingua francas, that work as windows and conduits to the larger world, and engages with power and authority. The backyard is the space where the dialects and the local, marginalized tongues flourish, opening up channels to intermingle with the local environment and the realm of the affects. 

Ananthamurthy saw the literature produced in languages like Kannada as a creative tightrope walk between these two spaces of the backyard and the front yard. This is quite evident in his own creative practice as well. His writings work out a renewal of the older structures, of both literary forms and modes of feeling, through a process of dialogic labour in which even the epics work as ‘languages.’ For example, the novel ‘Samskara’ can be read both as an existential novel, and as the critique by a critical insider, of the dehumanizing effects of oppressor castes’ traditions.

However, Ananthamurthy is no naïve social realist. In stories such as ‘Stallion of the sun’ and ‘Akkayaa,’ which come across as autobiographical, the modern self is contrasted with simple, childlike figures, who effortlessly work themselves out of the contradictions in their social context through a radical affirmations of their own vulnerabilities as embodied beings. 

In ‘Ghatashraddha,’ written in the voice (and showing the point of view) of a child who inhabits much the same social milieu that Ananthamurthy himself would have occupied in his early years, the narrator till the end preserves his innocence in the face of much that happens to disabuse him of it. The child lives and studies in a Brahmin household with a young widowed woman and her father, who has taken charge of his education. He sees the brutality that is unleashed on her when it is learnt that she might be pregnant. The child, till the end, identifies with the victim. The overall tone of the narrative, as described by him, is that of disbelief at the unfairness of it all.

In fact, this is perhaps the defining tone of most of his work. It is the stance of a critical insider, who refuses to accept existing social mores of inequality, yet does not accept the trite, standard, borrowed recipes for doing so. This calls for acts of continuous negotiation and struggle. This was true not only of Ananthamurthy’s work, but of his life as well. He got married to a Christian girl, Esther, several years his junior, because they were apparently in love. 

However, the dissimilarities between them became apparent after sometime. These ranged from dietary habits (Ananthamurthy continued to remain a vegetarian, even after marriage) to attitudes towards the extended family. In his autobiography ‘Suragi,’ (ably translated from Kannada into English by S. R. Ramakrishna, and published by Oxford University Press in 2017/18) though, he lovingly describes how his marital relationship evolved over time, to create the space in which both he and Esther could imagine the lives they wanted to lead.   

In both his life and work, U. R. Ananthamurthy contributed to the creation of post-independence literary modernity in India. The ways in which we talk about our experiences of literature in the country, both about its production and consumption, has been indelibly framed by his creative work and critical commentary. One of these relates to the idea of the bhashas. 

When we talk about Indian languages, the colonial trend that continued for some time even after independence, was to refer to them as the vernaculars. This obviously ran into a political problem, as one meaning of ‘vernacular’ is that of the language of home-born slaves. 

Some people also referred to the many languages of India as ‘Indian’ languages. This is of course logical, but it does not work. Is English not an Indian language, or for that matter Persian? Both of these were languages of the ruling, imperial elites, later adopted by significant sections of the local population. But their origins lie outside the geographical boundaries of what we consider as India. The coinage of ‘bhasha literature’ (to refer to literatures produced in languages of Indian origins) that Ananthamurthy used, and was instrumental in popularizing, was one way of addressing this dilemma. 

Ananthamurthy’s work has also been critical in our country in reimagining the role of the writer as a public intellectual. This is despite the fact that he never saw his life’s work as that of a straightforward modernizer. In essays like ‘Why not worship in the nude,’ he argues for the rights of people to worship the mother goddess in the nude, in Chandragutti, a village in Karnataka. At the same time, he has also been a vocal and consistent critique of Hindutva. Between these two positions, he never saw any contradiction.

He saw himself as a Gandhian socialist and sought to rework Gandhian ideas in the idiom of Ram Manohar Lohia’s strand of Indian socialism. This has become an increasingly unpopular position to occupy in the India of the twenty first century. Till the end of his life in 2014, he continued to oppose Hindutva, not from the position of a Nehruvian modernizer, but that of a creative genius heeding the call of his conscience.

His creativity is something that he brought to all his work as a public intellectual. In his review of ‘Suragi,’ published on May 12, 2018, in Scroll.in Souradeep Roy describes how when Ananthamurthy was the president of the Kendriya Sahitya Akademi, he was instrumental in publishing an anthology of Pakistani literature in Urdu. The occasion was the fiftieth anniversary of independence. This volume carried selections of original works in Urdu and of translated works from Pakistan’s other languages such as Sindhi and Punjabi. Soon, it came to be seen as a seminal intervention in Pakistan, as there existed no other comparable volume in Urdu in the country at that point of time, which provided a national view of Pakistan’s literary field carrying representation from all its bhasha literatures. This book went on to become a textbook. 

Today such an intervention by the Kendriya Sahitya Akademi seems almost unthinkable. Therefore, it is all the more reason why the editors N. Manu Chakravarthy and Chandan Gowda are to be congratulated for producing this much required reader. It comprises of extracts from four of his novels, Samskara, Bharathipura, Avasthe and Bhava. Additionally, it carries five of his poems, six short stories, nine essays and speeches, and two fragments from his memoirs. Some of the speeches and essays seem to have been delivered and written first in English, although this has not been clearly specified by the editors. Overall, this is a meticulously edited and well-produced reader and deserves to be widely read and discussed. 

However, I wish some additional representation of his other types of work, for example, more of his original writings in English could have been included by the editors. This would have provided readers with a window into the ways in which Ananthamurthy’s mind worked in English. It would have also made the volume more comprehensive, if a few more of his critical works and essays in Kannada would have been included. 

Although the larger Indian reading public knows Ananthamurthy primarily as a novelist, short story writer, public intellectual and critic, the editors have included some of his poems in the volume. Poems such as ‘Love and duty’ and ‘Gandhi and Henry VIII’ alert us to the frank openness of his poetic universe that can make history and myth inhabit the same photographic frame. I wish the editors could have shared more of his poems with us. I leave you with the full text of his poem titled ‘Gandhi’s chappals’ (1992) which is all of two stanzas, eight lines – 

          As the chappals that
          Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi
          a spinner by occupation, had made and walked in
          began to wear off, 
          the mighty British empire also wore off.

          The chappals that the miser wore on his last day,
          yet to wear out,
          are still there. 

Bibliographic details: N. Manu Chakravarthy and Chandan Gowda (Editors). 2023. The essential U. R. Ananthamurthy. New Delhi: Aleph Book Company. 298 +xiv Pages. Rs. 899. [Cover photograph by Sreedhara Murthy]. 

Note: A slightly different version of this review was first published in "The Book Review" [47 (9); pp 26-27] in 2023. 

ଗରିବୀର ମୂଳମଞ୍ଜି

ଶୈଲେନ ରାଉତରାୟ

ଓଡ଼ିଶାର ଦକ୍ଷିଣ-ପଶ୍ଚିମାଞ୍ଚଳ, ଯାହାକି ବର୍ତ୍ତମାନ କେବିକେ କ୍ଷେତ୍ର ଭାବରେ ପ୍ରସିଦ୍ଧ, ଅଧୁନା ବିକାଶର ତୀର୍ଥକ୍ଷେତ୍ର ଭାବରେ ଲୋକପ୍ରିୟତା ହାସଲ କରିଛି । ସମାଜଶାସ୍ତ୍ରର ଗବେଷକ ଭାବରେ ହାତ ସଳଖ କରିବା ପାଇଁ ହେଉ କିମ୍ବା ଡେଭେଲପ୍‌ମେଣ୍ଟ୍ ଜର୍ନାଲିଜିମ୍ କ୍ଷେତ୍ରରେ ନିଜର ପତାକା ପୋତିବା ପାଇଁ ହେଉ, ଏସବୁ ନିମନ୍ତେ ଓଡ଼ିଶାର ଦକ୍ଷିଣ-ପଶ୍ଚିମାଞ୍ଚଳ, ବିଶେଷତଃ ଅବିଭକ୍ତ କଳାହାଣ୍ଡି ଜିଲ୍ଲା, ଏକ ପ୍ରଶସ୍ତ ଭୂମି । 

ବିଶେଷତଃ ଇଂରାଜୀ ଭାଷାରେ ହେଉଥିବା ସାମ୍ବାଦିକତା ଓ ଗବେଷଣାତ୍ମକ ଲେଖାରେ କଳାହାଣ୍ଡିର ପରିଚିତି ହେଲା ଭୋକ ଓ ଅନାହାରର ଭୂମି ଭାବରେ । ଏହି ପ୍ରକାରର ଅଧିକାଂଶ ଲେଖାଲେଖି କଳାହାଣ୍ଡି ଓ କେବିକେ କ୍ଷେତ୍ରରେ ଜନଜୀବନ ଓ ଜନସଂସ୍କୃତିର ବିବିଧତା ଓ ବୈଚିତ୍ର୍ୟକୁ ଏଡେ଼ଇ ଯାଆନ୍ତି । ବର୍ତ୍ତମାନର ଅଣ-ବିକାଶର ଚେର ଖୋଜିଯାଇ ଏହି ଆଲୋଚନାମାନ ବିଭିନ୍ନ ସରକାରୀ କାର୍ଯ୍ୟକ୍ରମ ତଥା ଭାରତୀୟ ରାଷ୍ଟ୍ର ବ୍ୟବସ୍ଥାର ବିଫଳତା ପାଖରେ ହିଁ ଅଟକି ଯାଆନ୍ତି ।

ଏହି ପରିପ୍ରେକ୍ଷୀରେ ଶ୍ରୀଯୁକ୍ତ ଫଣିନ୍ଦମ୍ ଦେଓଙ୍କର ବହି ‘ରୁଟସ୍ ଅଫ୍ ପଭର୍ଟି’ ଏକ ଉପାଦେୟ ଅବଦାନ । ଲେଖକ କଳାହାଣ୍ଡି ଓ ଓଡ଼ିଶାର ଦକ୍ଷିଣ-ପଶ୍ଚିମାଞ୍ଚଳର ବର୍ତ୍ତମାନର ସାମାଜିକ ଅବସ୍ଥା ଓ ବ୍ୟବସ୍ଥାକୁ ଏକ ସାମାଜିକ ପରିପ୍ରେକ୍ଷୀରେ ଦେଖିବାକୁ ଚେଷ୍ଟା କରନ୍ତି । ଓଡ଼ିଶାର ଏହି ଅଞ୍ଚଳର ଜିଲ୍ଲାଗୁଡ଼ିକ ଆଦିବାସୀ ବହୁଳ । ତେଣୁକରି ସେ ଏହି ଅଞ୍ଚଳର ସାମାଜିକ ସୂତ୍ରରେ ଆଦିବାସୀ ସମାଜର ବାହ୍ୟ ସମାଜ ସହିତ ସମ୍ପର୍କ, ବାହ୍ୟ ସମାଜ ବ୍ୟବସ୍ଥାର ଆଦିବାସୀ ସମାଜ ମଧ୍ୟରେ ଅନୁପ୍ରବେଶ ତଥା ବିଭିନ୍ନ ଆଦିବାସୀ ଗୋଷ୍ଠୀର ଏହି ଅନୁପ୍ରବେଶ ପ୍ରତି ଭିନ୍ନ ଭିନ୍ନ ପ୍ରକ୍ରିୟାର ପ୍ରତିକ୍ରିୟାରେ ଦେଖନ୍ତି ଏବଂ ଏହି ଜଟିଳ ପ୍ରକ୍ରିୟାର ଏକ ମାନଚିତ୍ର ଆମ ପାଇଁ ଆଙ୍କନ୍ତି ।

ଲେଖକଙ୍କ ମତ ଅନୁସାରେ ଏହି ଅଞ୍ଚଳ, ବ୍ରିଟିଶ ଔପନିବେଶବାଦର ଅନୁପ୍ରବେଶ ପର୍ଯ୍ୟନ୍ତ ଆଦିବାସୀ ବହୁଳ ଥିଲା । ଏହି ଆଦିବାସୀ ସମାଜମାନଙ୍କର ସମାଜବ୍ୟବସ୍ଥା ସାଧାରଣଭାବରେ ଦେଖିବାକୁ ଗଲେ ଲୋକଧର୍ମୀ ଥିଲା । ମାତ୍ର ଖ୍ରୀଷ୍ଟାବ୍ଦ ଏକାଦଶ ଶତାବ୍ଦୀ ବେଳକୁ ଏହି ଅଞ୍ଚଳରେ ରାଷ୍ଟ୍ର ନିର୍ମାଣର ପ୍ରକ୍ରିୟା ଆରମ୍ଭ ହୋଇଯାଇଥିଲା । ଆଞ୍ଚଳିକ ସ୍ତରରେ ଭଞ୍ଜ, ନାଗ, ଚୋଡ଼, କାଳଚୁରୀ, ସୋମବଂଶୀ ଇତ୍ୟାଦି ବଂଶର ରାଜାମାନେ ଶାସନ କରୁଥିଲେ ହେଁ ସ୍ଥାନୀୟ ସ୍ତରରେ ଆଦିବାସୀ ବର୍ଚ୍ଚସ୍ୱ ଅକ୍ଷୁର୍ଣ୍ଣ ଥିଲା । ଉପକୂଳବର୍ତ୍ତୀ ଓଡ଼ିଶା ଆଫଗାନ୍ ଶାସନାଧିନ ହେବାଠାରୁ ଦକ୍ଷିଣ-ପଶ୍ଚିମ ଓଡ଼ିଶାର ସ୍ଥାନୀୟ ଶାସକମାନେ ସ୍ୱାଧୀନ ହେବାର ଚେଷ୍ଟା କରିବାକୁ ଲାଗିଲେ ଏବଂ କେତେକାଂଶରେ ସଫଳ ମଧ୍ୟ ହେଲେ । 

ନାନା ପ୍ରକାରର ବଂଶାବଳୀ ତଥା ଅନ୍ୟ ପ୍ରକାରର ପୋଥିମାନଙ୍କରୁ ଆହୂତ ତଥ୍ୟର ଭିତ୍ତିରେ ଶ୍ରୀ ଦେଓ ଯୁକ୍ତି କରନ୍ତି ଯେ ଏହି ରାଜବଂଶମାନେ ନିଜକୁ ଚୌହାନ ଓ ନାଗବଂଶଜ ଇତ୍ୟାଦି ଦାବୀ କରୁଥିଲେ ମଧ୍ୟ ଏମାନଙ୍କର ଉତ୍ପତ୍ତି ମୂଳତଃ ସ୍ଥାନୀୟ । ମାତ୍ର ସପ୍ତଦଶ ଶତାବ୍ଦୀରେ ଯେତେବେଳେ ଏହି ରାଜ ପରିବାରମାନେ ନିଜର କ୍ଷମତାବୃଦ୍ଧି ପାଇଁ ଯୋଡ଼ତୋଡ଼ ଆରମ୍ଭ କଲେ, ସେତେବେଳେ ସେମାନେ ନିଜର ଶାସନକୁ ତତ୍କାଳୀନ ବ୍ୟବସ୍ଥା ଅନୁସାରେ ନ୍ୟାୟସଙ୍ଗତ କରିବା ପାଇଁ ବ୍ରାହ୍ମଣ ଆବାହନ ଓ ବ୍ରାହ୍ମଣ ପୋଷଣର କାର୍ଯ୍ୟକ୍ରମ ଆରମ୍ଭ କଲେ । ଏହା ସହିତ ଶାସନ କାର୍ଯ୍ୟରେ ସହଯୋଗ କରିବାପାଇଁ କରଣ ଜାତିର ଲୋକେ, ପୁଲିସ ପ୍ରଶାସନର ସାହାଯ୍ୟ କରିବା ପାଇଁ ମୁସଲମାନ, ଉନ୍ନତ ଚାଷ କରିବାପାଇଁ କୁଲଥା ଇତ୍ୟାଦି ଜାତିର ଲୋକମାନଙ୍କର ଆମଦାନୀ ମଧ୍ୟ ରାଜାମାନେ କରିବାକୁ ଲାଗିଲେ । 

ଊନବିଂଶ ଶତାବ୍ଦୀରେ ଏହି ରାଜାମାନେ ବ୍ରିଟିଶସାମ୍ରାଜ୍ୟର ସାର୍ବଭୌମତା ଅଧିନରେ ଆସିବା ପର୍ଯ୍ୟନ୍ତ ଏହି ପ୍ରକ୍ରିୟା ବିଶେଷ ଜୋର ଧରିନଥିଲା । ମାତ୍ର ଏହି ରାଜାମାନଙ୍କ ଉପରେ ଥରେ ବ୍ରିଟିଶ ସାର୍ବଭୌମତ୍ୱ ପ୍ରତିଷ୍ଠା ହେଲା ପରେ ପରିସ୍ଥିତି ସମ୍ପୂର୍ଣ୍ଣ ବଦଳିଗଲା । ଏହି ସମୟ ପର୍ଯ୍ୟନ୍ତ ରାଜାମାନଙ୍କର ରାଜନୈତିକ କ୍ଷମତା ବହୁଳାଂଶରେ ସ୍ଥାନୀୟ ଆଦିବାସୀସମାଜର ରାଜନୈତିକ ଓ ସାମାଜିକ ଢାଞ୍ଚା ଉପରେ ଆଧାରିତ ଥିଲା । ତେଣୁ ଆଦିବାସୀମାନଙ୍କର ଅଧିକାର ଓ ଦାବୀ ପ୍ରତି ବୋଧହୁଏ ସ୍ଥାନୀୟ ରାଜାମାନଙ୍କୁ ଧ୍ୟାନ ଦେବାକୁ ପଡ଼ୁଥିଲା । 

ମାତ୍ର ଭାରତରେ ବ୍ରିଟିଶ ସାର୍ବଭୌମତ୍ୱ ପ୍ରତିଷ୍ଠିତ ହେଲା ପରେ ରାଜାମାନଙ୍କୁ କ୍ଷମତାର ଆଉ ଏକ ଅସରନ୍ତି ଉତ୍ସ ମିଳିଗଲା, ତାହା ହେଲେ ବ୍ରିଟିଶ ବନ୍ଧୁକ ଓ ତୋପ । ତେଣୁକରି ରାଜାମାନଙ୍କର ସ୍ୱେଚ୍ଛାଚାର ଓ ଅଞ୍ଚଳ ବାହାରର ଜାତିମାନଙ୍କର ବହୁସଙ୍ଖ୍ୟାରେ ଆଗମନ ଓ ଆଦିବାସୀ ସମାଜ ଉପରେ ତାହାର ଚାପ ବଢ଼ିବାରେ ଲାଗିଲା । ୧୮୮୨ ମସିହାର କନ୍ଧ ମେଳିକୁ ଆମେ ଏହି ପ୍ରକ୍ରିୟା ବିରୁଦ୍ଧରେ ଏକ ପ୍ରତିକ୍ରିୟା ଭାବରେ ନେଇପାରିବା । କନ୍ଧମାନଙ୍କ ଛଡ଼ା ଗଣ୍ଡ ଓ ବିନ୍‌ଝାର ମାନେ ମଧ୍ୟ ଠାଆକୁ ଠାଆ ଏହି ସମୟରେ ମେଳି ବାନ୍ଧିଲେ । ମାତ୍ର ସଙ୍ଖ୍ୟାରେ କମ୍ ହୋଇଥିବାରୁ ଭୁଞ୍ଜିଆ ଓ ପହରିଆମାନେ ଧିରେ ଧିରେ ବାହ୍ୟ ସମାଜଠାରୁ ଦୂରେଇ ଯାଇ ନିଜର ସମାଜ ଓ ଜୀବନଶୈଳୀକୁ ରକ୍ଷା କରିବା ପାଇଁ ଚେଷ୍ଟା କଲେ । 

ତେଣୁକରି ଶ୍ରୀ ଦେଓ ଏହି ଅଞ୍ଚଳର ଦାରିଦ୍ର୍ୟକୁ ଆଦିବାସୀ ସମାଜ, ସଂସ୍କୃତି ତଥା ରାଜନୈତିକ ବ୍ୟବସ୍ଥାର ବଞ୍ଚିତକରଣକୁ ହିଁ ଦାରିଦ୍ର୍ୟର ଚେର ବୋଲି ଦେଖନ୍ତି । ଶିକ୍ଷା, ଜଳସେଚନ ଇତ୍ୟାଦି କିଛି ମାତ୍ରାରେ ସାହାଯ୍ୟ କରିପାରେ, ମାତ୍ର ଏହି ବହିର ଲେଖକଙ୍କ ମତରେ ଏସବୁ ବ୍ୟାଣ୍ଡ୍ଏଡ଼୍ ମାତ୍ର । ସମସ୍ୟାର ଅସଲ ଓ ଢାଞ୍ଚାଗତ ଚେର ଯାଇ ଇତିହାସର ସାମାଜିକ ଓ ରାଜନୈତିକ ପ୍ରକ୍ରିୟାଗୁଡ଼ିକରେ ।  ଓଡ଼ିଶାର ଦକ୍ଷିଣ-ପଶ୍ଚିମାଞ୍ଚଳରେ ଦାରିଦ୍ର୍ୟ ଓ କ୍ଷୁଧାକୁ ନେଇ ହେଉଥିବା ଆଲୋଚନାରେ ଏହି ବହିଟି ଏକ ଆବଶ୍ୟକୀୟ ଐତିହାସିକ ଆଙ୍ଗିକ ଯୋଡ଼ିଦିଏ । ଏଥିଲାଗି ଶ୍ରୀଯୁକ୍ତ ଦେଓ ଆମର ଧନ୍ୟବାଦର ପାତ୍ର । 

ବହି ବିଷୟରେ ସୂଚନା: ଫଣିନ୍ଦମ ଦେଓ । ୨୦୦୯ । ରୁଟ୍ସ୍ ଅଫ୍ ପଭର୍ଟି: ଏ ସୋସିଆଲ୍ ହିଷ୍ଟ୍ରି । ଭୁବନେଶ୍ୱର: ଆମାଦିଉସ୍ ପ୍ରେସ୍ ।

ଟୀକା: ଏହି ସମୀକ୍ଷାଟି ପ୍ରଥମେ ଏକ ସାମାନ୍ୟ ଭ‌ିନ୍ନ ରୂପରେ ପାକ୍ଷିକ ପତ୍ରିକା 'ସମଦୃଷ୍ଟି'ରେ ପ୍ରକାଶିତ ହୋଇଥିଲା ।

Jayanta Mahapatra 

A master litterateur who created a language uniquely his own

Sailen Routray

Jayanta Mahapatra (1928-2023)
https://commons.wikimedia.org/Suman Pokhrel

Poet Jayanta Mahapatra was cremated at the Khannagar crematorium of Cuttack, Odisha, on August 28. This in spite of him being a third-generation Christian, his grandfather having converted during the Orissa famine of 1866. The cremation was according to his own wishes, as recorded in his will, which also bequeathed a part of the ancestral property that he had inhabited for most of his adult life, to the family of Sarojini, his long-time caretaker.

Both these gestures are perhaps typical of the man who always occupied a tenuous space between the mainstream and the margins of literary circles in India and Odisha. Although a much-awarded poet, widespread recognition of his work came pretty late in his life. He was awarded the Padma Shri in 2009, when he was already 81 years old. Perhaps the most significant honour he received was in 2019 when he became a Fellow of the Sahitya Akademi. He was 91 then.

In his autobiography, Pahini Rati (The Night is Not Yet Over), Mahapatra mentions his studied marginalisation by the Odia literary establishment, where bureaucrats and professors of Odia and English literature have always found it easy to construct identities. Here he also discusses his experience of being a “mere teacher of physics” who starts writing poetry when posted in B.J.B. College in Bhubaneswar, apparently late, at the age of 38. 

He writes consistently from then on in terms of quality and quantity, managing to publish his poems in reputed literary periodicals across the world, such as The Times Literary Supplement, Critical Quarterly, Poetry—Chicago, and The Sewanee Review. He also publishes four volumes of poems within a decade of starting his writing practice.

Fleeting shadows

This was a late budding, but what an efflorescence it was. However, his poetic diction, which waywardly combines maps of his affective territories, personal snapshots of regional history, fleeting shadows of Odia language, and philosophical musings, was at odds with the canon of Indian English poetry that was being fashioned in Bombay in the first two decades after Independence.

The “Bombay School” (comprising the reigning tastemakers of Indian English literature at that time) was not a great fan of Mahapatra’s work. Nissim Ezekiel, in particular, was not excited by the first two of his poetry volumes when they came out in 1971. Ezekiel had published one of Mahapatra’s early poems, “Girl by the window”, in The Illustrated Weekly of India, which Ezekiel edited along with others. However, he wrote a review in the Weekly of Mahapatra’s collections, Close the Sky, Ten by Ten (Dialogue Publications, Kolkata), and Svayamvara and Other Poems (Writers Workshop, Kolkata), that was critical and expressed bafflement.

However, the acceptance of Mahapatra’s work across the globe by established journals meant that he had no reason to look back. He continued to write and publish regularly, not only poems but also translations of poetical works from Odia. His careers as a poet and as a translator fed into each other. 

The number of his poetry collections in English (apart from selections and edited/collected volumes) is more or less the same as that of his translations of Odia poetry into English. He also translated the Bengali poems of Sakti Chattopadhyay (his original award-winning collection, Jete Pari, Kintu Keno Jabo) into English in a volume published by Sahitya Akademi titled I Can, But Why Should I Go.

Translation is indeed a key trope through which we can engage with Jayanta Mahapatra’s poetry. If there is one poet who always reminds me of Mahapatra, it is Agha Shahid Ali. When you read Shahid Ali and are stuck at a line or a stanza, you just have to translate it into Urdu/Hindustani in your mind for it to bloom into light. Similar is the case with Jayanta Mahapatra. When you are troubled by the movement of his lines or by some peculiar image, you render the lines into Odia and they make perfect sense.

Standing with the marginalised

So, for some time I used to think that Jayanta Mahapatra is that cliché, an Odia poet writing in English. But then I started engaging with his Odia poetry four years ago, before doing a longish interview with him, and my idea of Jayanta Mahapatra changed.

Although he is not a part of the Odia poetry canon and his contribution to Odia literature is yet to be seriously assessed (his autobiography Pahini Rati creates the texture of affective interiority in first-person narration in Odia for the first time, and reads more like a long prose poem), his Odia poems are remarkable. 

The forms of the lines are almost premodern, terse, and short. And yet the sensibility is high-modernist—socially engaged, politically conscious, resolutely standing with common people, the oppressed, the marginalised, long before it became fashionable in Odia poetry to do so. Here he is an English poet writing in Odia, English in tone, pitch, and the affective register, yet very Odia in the cadence and flow of the lines.

Perhaps this is the sign of a great poet, as opposed to a merely competent one? Jayanta Mahapatra wrote in English, he wrote in Odia, he also wrote from Odia into English through his translations. However, like all great poets, what he actually wrote in was perhaps a language completely of his own making (which sometimes sounded like Odia and sometimes like English), made up of the perceived absence of love from his mother, the ghosts of the trees that have disappeared from his beloved city of Cuttack, fragments of texts as diverse as Walden (by Henry David Thoreau), Rubaiyat (by Omar Khayyam) and Rudra Sudhanidhi (by Narayanananda Abadhuta Swami), and the play between darkness and light through which all of us who dabble with words, try to make sense.

That language, Jayanta Mahapatra’s language, will not die. 

Note: A slightly different version of this article was published in The Frontline magazine in 2023 as a tribute to the poet. 

ଚିତ୍ତ ବର୍ଗ ୭-୮

ପାଲି 'ଧର୍ମପଦ'ର ଓଡ଼ିଆ ପଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦ

ଅନୁବାଦକ - ଶୈଲେନ ରାଉତରାୟ

ଫଟୋ କ୍ରେଡ଼ିଟ୍ - ୱିକିମିଡିଆ କମନ୍ସ୍

ଓଡ଼ିଆ ପଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦ

ବିବିରବିହୀନ ଅଟଇ ଯାହାର ଚିତ୍ତ

ହୁଅଇ ପୁଣି ତା' ଯଦି ଆସ୍ରବ ରହିତ ।।

ପାପ-ପୂଣ୍ୟ ତ୍ୟାଗ କରି ଜାଗରଣଶୀଳ

ତେବେ ନାହିଁ କଉଣସି ଆତଙ୍କ ତାହାର  ।୭।

କୁମ୍ଭ ସମ କାୟକୁ ନଶ୍ୱର କରି ଜ୍ଞାନ 

ଚିତ୍ତକୁ ନଗର ପରି କରିଣ ସ୍ଥାପନ ।।

ପ୍ରଜ୍ଞାର ଆୟୁଧେ କରି ମାର ସଙ୍ଗେ ଯୁଦ୍ଧ

ଜିତିବ, ରକ୍ଷା କରିବ, ହୋଇ ଅନାସକ୍ତ  ।୮।

ମୂଳ ପାଲି ପଦ

ଅନବସ୍ସୂୂତଚିତ୍ତସ ଅନନ୍ୱାହତଚେତସୋ

ପୁଞ୍ଣପାପପହୀନସ୍ୱ ନତ୍-ଥି ଜାଗରତୋ ଭୟଂ ।୭।

କୁମ୍ଭୂପମଂ କାୟମିମଂ ବିଦିତ୍ୱା ନଗରୂପମଂ ଚିତ୍ତମିଦଂ ଠପେତ୍ୱା ।

ଯୋଧେଥ ମାରଂ ପଞ୍ଣାବୁଧେନ ଜିତଂ ଚ ରକ୍ଖେ ଅନିବେସନୋ ସିୟା ।୮।

ଅନୁବାଦକୀୟ ଟୀକା: ଏହି ଅଧମ ଅନୁବାଦକକୁ ପାଲି ଜଣା ନାହିଁ । ଏଣୁ ଏହି ପଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦଟି ପାଇଁ ତାହାର ମୂଳ ସହାୟ ହେଲା  ପ୍ରଫେସର ପ୍ରହ୍ଲାଦ ପ୍ରଧାନଙ୍କ ଦ୍ୱାରା ସମ୍ପାଦିତ 'ପାଲି ଧର୍ମପଦ' ଗ୍ରନ୍ଥଟି, ଯେଉଁଥିରେ ସେ ସଂସ୍କୃତ ରୂପାନ୍ତର ସହ ଓଡ଼ିଆ ଗଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦ କରିଯାଇଛନ୍ତି । ଗ୍ରନ୍ଥଟିର ପ୍ରଥମ ସଂସ୍କରଣ ୧୯୭୮ ମସିହାରେ ପ୍ରକାଶିତ । କିନ୍ତୁ ଏହି ଅନୁବାଦକ ୧୯୯୪ ମସିହାରେ କଟକସ୍ଥ ପ୍ରକାଶନ ସଂସ୍ଥା ଫ୍ରେଣ୍ଡ୍‌ସ୍‌ ପବ୍ଲିଶର୍ସ ଛାପିଥିବା ଦ୍ୱିତୀୟ ସଂସ୍କରଣଟି ବ୍ୟବହାର କରିଛି । ଏହା ଛଡ଼ା ଏହି ପଦ୍ୟାନୁବାଦ କରିବା ପାଇଁ 'ଦି ସେକ୍ରେଡ଼୍ ବୁକ୍ସ୍ ଅଫ୍ ଦି ଇଷ୍ଟ୍' ସିରିଜ୍‌ରେ ମାକ୍ସ୍ ମ୍ୟୁଲର୍‌ଙ୍କ ଦ୍ୱାରା ସମ୍ପାଦିତ 'ଦି ଧମ୍ମପଦ' ଇଂରାଜି ଗ୍ରନ୍ଥଟିର ୨୦୧୩ ମସିହାରେ ରୁଟ୍‌ଲେଜ୍ ଛାପିଥିବା ସଂସ୍କରଣଟିର ମଧ୍ୟ ବ୍ୟବହାର କରାଯାଇଛି ।

Smell and the city: Bhubaneswar

Sailen Routray

"Sense of Smell" (1635; oil on panel)
Painted by Adriaen van Ostade (1610–1685)
Photo credit: commons.wikimedia.org/Hermitage Museum 

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

A fart.

Farts produced by overeating fermented rice

have a de-hangovering smell,

like that of stale mint leaves.

The sound of a suppressed fart

borne by eating moong dal khichdi late in the night

has the consistency of claps induced by ghazals sung by Iqbal Bano.

Those brought into existence by eating lahmacun

have the flavour of tender onion shoots

marinated in wild honey for three days and four nights

during the waning gibbous moon.

When my childhood floated on the appliqué works of Pipili,

ghosts of farts populated the evening conversation.

Now Baba wants me to say ‘Excuse me’ when I fart.

Excuse me. There is someone clapping.

—Letter III, Room Number 5, Student’s Hostel, NIAS, Bangalore

~

Baba died in the room he shared at home with Ma in Bhubaneswar in 2014, when the year’s January had already shed its pretensions of coolness. The room in which he lay smelled slightly of bed sores, the water bed and the weight of words that he could no longer speak because of the malignant growth pressing against his vocal cords, the windows of the room shutting out the smell of areca nut blossoms flowering just behind, shutting out the world and giving the room a strong artificial smell—the stench of death.

When I try and remember Baba now, seven years after his death, I recall two smells immediately. One, of egg bhurji, of which he was an undisputed master in our extended family, and when he took to the kitchen for cooking it, the house smelled of complex, mixed odours of curry leaves, onions, mustard oil, a myriad ground spices and beaten eggs. And, two, of him dry roasting and then sautéing dried shrimps for his signature chingudi suhkhua chura. Both these dishes I do not eat now, although I was once addicted to them, having turned into a vegetarian culinary apostate in my traditionally non-vegetarian family.

But this is strange. I do not have a strong sense of smell. I suffered from tonsillitis grievously as a child, and it must have affected my nasal cavities. I also suffered from asthma in my childhood, and it came back with a bang in 2011 after beating a retreat in 1997. Any exposure to a strong smell is enough to start at least a minor attack; not having a good enough smelling apparatus offers no protection. Such is life.

But it is not as if all strong smells affect me equally. I am especially susceptible to room fresheners and strong deodorants and perfumes. Spending extended afternoons in the early 1990s bunking school and collecting jamuns in Janpath in Bhubaneswar did not affect me, despite the strong turpentine smell of the jamun blossoms, nor did the night-flowering jasmine peeking into the balcony at home.

Smell is often discussed as the sense organ par excellence, as it reputedly brings forth memories buried deep inside the psyche. Having a bad sense of smell has meant having a memory like a sieve with large holes, which keeps back nothing apart from the biggest recollections, and often loses even them. The most bizarre manifestation of this process is when I can consciously remember something visually and know that there is some smell associated with that ocular memory, but for the life of me cannot recall the exact smell.

Senses are supposed to be our windows to the world, but they often also have shutters, especially the sense of smell. One of my most persistent olfactory memories is about an absent one. I remember walking as a child on an evening in a narrow lane in Bhubaneswar’s Old Town. It was not summer, that much I am sure about, as it was cool. There was a roadside food stall frying stuff, under a huge peepul tree. I passed it. After a few seconds, a strange, strong smell hit my nostrils. It smelled like something fried in sesame oil. But as far as I know, there are no popular Odia snacks that are fried in this particular oil. I could have gone back to check. I did not. That smell still haunts me. I do not know till now what the smell was.

What is it about the olfactory sense that seems to hint at absences as much as presences? Why does one recollect so many peripheral details about ‘that particular smell’ but not quite the odour itself? Perhaps smell forms the base, the foundation, for our sensory memories, sending out tentacles into visions, hearings, giving them nourishment, yet ultimately laying hidden, subterranean. It is only when, for some reason, one does not use a particular sense organ that one gains faculties related to the others. This seems especially true for the sense of smell.

~

Shabdādibhih panchabhireva pancha

panchatvamāpuh svagunena badhdhāh |

kurangamātangapatangameena

bhringā narah panchabhiranchitah kim ||

The deer, the elephant, the moth, the fish and the black bee—these five have died, being entangled with one or other of the five senses. What then of humans who are attached to all the five?

—Verse 76, Vivekachudamani, Shankaracharya

Can the sense of smell be a source of knowledge? This question begs a larger one: can sensory perception provide us with valid knowledge? A large part of Western philosophical traditions constitutes various ways of answering this question. Certain Eastern traditions suggest that such a way of thinking about sense perception might be erroneous. According to Advaita Vedanta, for example, the path of knowledge for cognizing absolute reality lies through a mastery of the senses and turning them inwards.

What does such a view of the world and its relationship with the sensory apparatus tell us about the city that is not only seen but also heard, tasted, touched and smelled? What is the association of a specific sense of smell with a place, for instance, a street? When we prepare a map of a street or take its photograph, we are aware of the individual ocular elements that strike us. But at the same time, we also have a sense of how the street looks like a street, as different from being merely the sum of its elements. But of the same streetscape, if we were to recreate the olfactory experiences that it produces for us in its entirety, how do we go about doing it? How does the street as a whole smell when specific parts and nooks of it give out very different odours?

Even in a tradition like Vedanta, based on some idea of ‘total cognition’, why are sensory metaphors used to describe the errors of our perception, such as ‘seeing’ snakes in ropes? Why are these mistakes, as well as  their correction—to cognize the individual human soul as a reflection of the ultimate reality, in the manner of the moon being reflected in a multitude of water pots simultaneously—so overwhelmingly visual in nature?         

~

As a child, one of the strongest smells that I remember was a stink. A few years after a brief, ill-fated fling with schooling as a child, I rejoined the third standard of an Odia-medium municipality school when my family shifted to Bhubaneswar. The school was located near the southern walls of the Lingaraj Temple complex in Old Town. On many a summer day in March and April, we would have to close our windows in the classroom to avoid the stink that was blown from Bindu Sagar, a sacred tank located near the northern walls of the temple complex.

The terrain around the Lingaraj Temple complex has changed. Bindu Sagar itself is almost unrecognizable—it has smooth laterite stone banks now, with steps going in till the water, and a picture postcard garden of medicinal plants flanking its western side. From the locals to the tourists, many seem to like the demolitions that have happened around the Lingaraj Temple complex, especially on its northern side, that have been premised upon clearing a view of the spire of Lingaraj from the northern banks of Bindu Sagar.

Even when some of us nostalgia-minded folk remember the good old times and rue the wanton destruction of many heritage structures around the temple complex, including an eighteenth-century Maratha-era police outpost, what is missing in these accounts (mostly oral) is any mention of how the place actually smelled.

And the smell around the temple complex was not just about the stink from Bindu Sagar. What I miss from the malodourous past of Old Town also includes the smells of rotting vegetables in and around the Lingaraj haat; the rotting flowers and bel leaves near the temple, left behind by the pandas and the devotees; and the smell of mosquito fogging carried out by the then municipality (the city has a corporation now). Old Town had a distinct character in the way it smelled.

If someone were to restore the environs of Old Town to how it was in the late 1960s and early 1970s, there are visual references to aid in such an effort. A large number of them are ethnographic in nature, for example, the photographic documentation by the anthropologist James M. Freeman of the surroundings of the Kapileswar and Lingaraj temples. With the aid of photographs, one can perhaps attempt to undertake an act of ‘restoration’. But how would one recreate the smells of Old Town, especially those around its temples? What aids would we have for such an act of restoration? 

~

How do we recreate the visual? We paint, make a map, sketch, take a photograph or make a video. How do we recreate a soundscape? If it is musical in nature, then there is already a grammar of notes and their arrangements that helps in its recreation. If it is an ordinary human voice one wants to recreate, then one may try and capture it through mimicry or recording. How do we recreate a particular touch? We try and evoke a concoction of specific texture, temperature or adhesiveness by using material that mimics the desirable characteristics of the original surface. How do we reproduce certain tastes? By thinking about and finding out a specific set of ingredients that can then be made to react with each other through fixed chemical processes to produce that specific taste that we desire.

Experiences of sensory cognition through the sense of smell are perhaps not reproducible in the same way as objects of other senses are. But at the same time, scent artists like Sissel Tolaas are now using chemistry to explore and recreate specific smells through processes that are as much high science as the art of curating experiences. Smells can perhaps be recreated by putting together the things themselves, but the way things smell (or for that matter taste or feel) is always related to the immediate context of time, place and people.

~

Smell is the sense organ par excellence because it is the sense that is intimately tied to things in themselves and has a deep resistance to being reduced to a technological artefact. Because human sciences research primarily takes the shape of an explanation or a critique, perhaps it has found it difficult to deal with it as an object of study.

In anthropology, for example, the focus has largely been on the ‘visual’; therefore, the idea of ‘visual anthropology’ is a bit of misnomer, because as a discipline anthropology relies so much on ‘observing’. But this begs the question, does something akin to pure observation really exist? To ask in a similar vein, is there anything like ‘pure taste’ or ‘pure touch’ and, most dominantly, ‘pure vision’ possible that is unalloyed and uninfluenced by other senses such as that of smell?

~

After I shifted back to Bhubaneswar, soon after Baba’s death, I started working as a part of a collective of researchers and performers. As a part of our work, I started visiting a tribal hamlet of migrants from north Odisha in a village called Gadakana, which now forms part of the city. When I visited this basti for the first time, my first sensory impression of the place was the stench that pervaded everywhere. It came from a recently created garbage dump yard, one of the largest in the state. I found out later that this was a new feature of the geography of the place.

The people of the hamlet had fought hard to shift its location, after they had figured out the plans of the Bhubaneswar Municipal Corporation to have this garbage dump in their backyard. They lobbied hard, held protest marches and even ended up having a pitched battle with the police forces, but all to no avail. By the time I started visiting the basti, the dump was up and running for good. The stench from the yard was like a blanket that enveloped me while I would be there. I could not imagine living in the locality because of the smell, but of course people lived their lives there, despite the foul odour that seeped into their bodies, houses and dreams persistently.

The process of deodorization of Bhubaneswar’s Old Town started soon after Gadakana got its garbage dump. What we smell and whether we have a choice in the matter then is linked to who we are—whether we are first-generation Santhali migrants living in a marginal urban hillock or a third-generation Gujarati entrepreneur with a heritage property on the banks of Bindu Sagar. But is the interface between the city and smells and smelling completely reducible to one’s social position, or is it possible to fashion ways of knowing the city through smell that creatively link the personal and the social, and the sensory and the rational?  

Note: This piece was first published in the blog Chiragh Dilli with the title "Smell and the City III" on April 28, 2021.