The chariot shall roll today. Devotees shall throng the streets. Hands will rise with fervent cries of “Jay Jagannath” and fall down only to catch the rope to pull the chariots from the Jagannath Temple to Mausi-maa Mandira. Odias outside Puri will get hooked to their television for the live telecast from Puri bada-daanda. When the chariots in Puri will have rolled, people will run out to gather in their own streets waiting with bated breath for the chariots of their locality to come along. Messages shall be sent out wishing each other on this auspicious occasion. Odias of my generation will be Odias for a day – to celebrate that one vestige of their Odia identity that they have been shedding bit by bit over the years. The slow decay my mother tongue has fallen to. The shame that creeps in the tongues of my fellow Odias when they shy away from it and switch to Hindi. That joke of not acknowledging one’s history, one’s motherland, one’s birthplace. . . yet harping on the laurels of “Odisha origin” people making it big abroad. The disgrace they’ve brought upon the language which our forefathers shed blood and sweat to keep intact from attempts to wash it off by our very own neighbours. “Rath Yatra”? “Rajo”? “Shubhokamna”? Seriously!?
Ratha Jatra : The dramatic spectacle. That takes place yearly on the the streets when the mighty lords, the teeni thaakura – Jagannath, Balabhadra and Subhadra takeover the streets of Odisha; and several places in India and abroad. The world gathers to see them in come out of their abode once in a year. The world bows down to them.
Kalinga // Utkala : Our history. The mighty kingdom that resisted invasions from several rulers and even when it did succumb, it fought till death – the greatest war in history – when blood seeped into the Earth and the heart of mighty Ashoka – who gave up his ways of life and adopted the path of peace – Buddhism; vowing to never take a life again.
Namr : Humble – our people.Wherever they go they have left behind a trail of their humility and friendliness, accepted everywhere. Humble and content with their simple ways of life. Content with their bowl of pakhala after a day’s work. Content with the backwardness that first their usurpers gave and now their political rulers. Never complaining. Never questioning. Dragging on and down.
Aatm- trupti : Peace that fills your soul – with the pristine beaches, mighty waterfalls, green hills and countrysides. . the raw, natural beauty Odisha offers. Yet, we go around spending thousands on fancy holidays elsewhere – in over-hyped places that were promoted by their state governments cleverly – while our own home state lies there not promoted, unwanted and ignored. The tourism industry in shambles.
Sahitya : Literature. The rich literature our Odias have produced. The magic they have woven with every word, in every couplet, the rhythm and words. From Sarala Das who wrote Odia Mahabharata to Atibada Jagannath Das who wrote Odia Bhagabata. Kabi Smarat Upendra Bhanja, Kabisurjya Baladev Rath, Fakir Mohan Senapati, Gangadhar Meher, Kabibara Radhanath Ray, Pratibha Ray, Madhusudan Rao. . . . the list is endless, yet how many could you name before this? How many have you read?
Nrutyakala : Dance. The culture of our state. The world famous Odissi. Gotipua, Chhau, Dalkhai, Karma Naacha, Baagha Naacha, Ghumura, Mahari. . . dance forms that can take you to ecstasy or serenity; wanton playfulness or wonder. My Odisha has it. Yet, the rot that fills our film industry which has only gone down in scripts from the illustrious days of Matira manisa to some crap they sell with Hindi and English words thrown in the titles and the songs. Where did we lose it?
Parba parbaani : Festivals. Ratha Jatra, Rajja, Kumar Purnima, Manabasa Gurubaara, Kartik Purnima. . . baar maasa re tey-ra parba // Thirteen festivals in twelve months. Festivals that recognize womanhood. Festivals that celebrate life. Festivals that are celebrated with pomp and show – with pithas and mithas. Yet, we have stopped celebrating half of them or converted them into mere occasions where we buy new clothes and go out to have fun. Where’s the alata on the feet of the girls on Rajja? Where is the steaming haladi patra pitha served on Prathamashtami?
Janani : Mother. The mother land and the mother tongue we have been watching silently, sinking to depths. Anglicizing our accent, forgetting our history, we have moved on to a point where the glorious Odia culture and language will die in near future out of no interest in the new generations for it. Changing Odia spellings to make it seem more North Indian, what ridiculousness is that? Disgracing the very culture our forefathers shed blood and sweat to protect when our neighbors said, “Oda ektu bhasa noi”
Odia : My language.
Odisha : My heritage. My identity.
It’s time we all woke up and embraced our identity before it’s too late. Before it’s pilfered and destroyed beyond recognition. Before we lose it to our mindless march of modernity. For “Matrubhoomi matrubhasha ra mamata jaa hrude janami nahin, taku jadi gyani ganare ganiba agyana rahibe kahin!”.
Jay Jagannath!
© Parnini
PS : Leaving interested guys with one of my favorite Odia poems –
UTKALA SANTANA
Tu para bolau Utkal Santan ?
Tebe kimpa tuhi bhiru !
Tohar Janani Rodan karile
Kahibaku kimpa daru ?
To’ purbapurushe Bira paniare
Labhithile kete khyati
Hakima nikate Dukha kahibaku
Kimpa thare tora chhati ?
To purbapurushe Jaya karithile
Ganga tharu Godavari,
Tankari aurase Janma hoi tuhi
Keun gune tanku sari ?
Tu mane bhabuchhu toshamada kari
Badhaibu Jatimana
Toshamadiara Kukura prakruti
Aintha patare dhyan.
Jatira unnati hebakire bhai
Swarthaku Jagat mani ?
Godar godare maunsa lagile
Deharaki subha gani ?
Jatira unnati se kahun kariba
Swarthe jar byasta mana
Shaguna bilua Chikitschak hele
Shaba ki paiba prana ?
– Utkal Gouraba Madhusudan Das
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