Let them fly!

People close to me know that I own a parrot. Not many know it’s origins though. We never bought it. It came by itself – flying and got trapped in the loft on our terrace – there was an occupant present, a guy who lived there then – who took the bird, bought a cage and kept it in that. In the evening when he presented the parrot to us, we were on the verge of freeing it, but my little sister who had taken a fancy to it; and quite a small child at that time, couldn’t be shushed – so stay with us, it did. My sister grew up and over the years her fascination with the slowly aging bird diminished. I am quite fond of the bird as well, even though it has bitten me several times in trying to befriend it; but keeping a bird trapped in a cage hurt my conscience – so, after considerable thought, I decided to set the bird free. I have this evening ritual, where I go up to the terrace, sit on the ledge, watch the sunset and contemplate. What I did was take my parrot alongwith me, as well. I would rest the cage on a surface and open it’s door and walkaway, continuing with my business, hoping that it would fly out. To my disappointment, it didn’t. This went on for days. I tried calling it out; luring with mine and his favorite Marie gold biscuits, but it won’t budge. One fine day, it even came up to the gate, and slammed it shut on my extremely astonished face. I gave up! It had got used to it’s bondage. It deeply saddened me.

When I think of Indian women, the ones occupying the nitty gritty of the country – I see a woman who has got used to the bondage. The pattern of behavior and character mould set by years and years of patriarchy. These are not the women twisting the definitions of feminism to suit their demands for a twisted lifestyle. These are the ones deprived of equality. These are ones who do not question why the entire load of household falls on them. Why they are made to feel an outsider in the home they were married to, made their own but didn’t own them in return. These are the ones who are not allowed to enter kitchens and touch items during menstruation. These are the ones who are silently molested, raped, burnt, violated every single day in some or the other part of the country with no hopes of justice. These are the ones not allowed to love; flogged, tortured, killed or made to succumb to demands of family honour. These are the ones who bow their heads while someone decides how their life should be lived. These are the ones who are handed out a sentence of marriage; while their careers are considered unimportant. These are the ones struggling for basic human rights to live while their urban sisters ignore and raise a hue and cry over extramarital affairs, polygamy, ‘free the nipple’, and other shit. These are the ones who are trapped in a cage, and will soon forget how to fly.

Let’s free them, before it’s too late; before they forget how to fly. Let’s free them and watch them soar – equal with men, or even higher – they can decide the altitude of their flight; but first, let them fly!

A WAKE-UP CALL FOR ODIAS

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

 

 

THE YEAR IT WAS FT. FINDING MYSELF

Hours to go.

Hours to go for 2016 to end.

Hours to go for a fresh start, or so they have us believing.

I don’t believe in fresh starts anymore. I don’t believe in life changing lines, days, moments or speeches; and I don’t believe in the people who preach that. Life doesn’t hinge on a one specific mind blowing moment, that one girl who responded to your ‘palat, palat, palat’ or the guy who said the right things or one soul searching trip with your friends. Life is much, much more. Life is too long to fall into place because of a single event. It’s a long process, and 2016 was the beginning of this process for me for which I am so grateful for.

People have been cursing 2016 for the fiascos that had been happening in the sociopolitical world, but since I measure a year by my self growth I would say 2016 has been a pretty wonderful year for me, a personal best.

2016 has helped me connect to myself and I think that’s the best thing that can happen to you. I think we have got it so wrong – life in general. We have laid our priorities on superficial things forgetting our roots. What people say, what they think, what they perceive – once in a while we should let it go and try to pay attention to our needs. People lay too much stress on relationships and forget to nurture the biggest and the longlasting one – with self. There’s something about this relationship with the self that makes most of us guilty to indulge in, but can be extremely satisfying in the required amounts.

A lot had been happening in life before that, a lot of downs, so 2016 made me get over that and accept the life the way it is and most importantly love it no matter what.

I have this habit of clicking random things while my mother wants me to capture the interesting lion. Some zoo at Shimla.

I gave up accumulating regrets. I did or at least made an effort to do everything that I wanted to do and the things that I couldn’t I learnt to let it go. I picked up the gifted guitar gathering dust in the corner and tried learning to play it. When the chord F effed up my patience, I strummed it randomly pretending to be the best guitarist ever and creating a ruckus in the house. But hey, at least I tried?

On the professional or college front – God, fourth year has been so awesome – community medicine postings, hospital duties, interacting with patients, learning and absorbing it all. From being the camera shy person ( still am) to enjoying the occasional selfie with my buddies. From being the bathroom dancer ( I sing publicly) to dancing to my heart’s content in parties and concerts. From letting events slip by to participating. Letting the world see what I write *shivers* and knowing that even though a few, people look forward to reading me. From being tensed about every exam to realising that grades really don’t define you in the long run. Building up an awesome set of friends cum support system who love me, got my back and are my loudest cheerleaders. You tell me I am great when I know I am not. Thank you. Love you. You guys. *melts into a puddle of tears*

Batch picnic at Pradhanpat Falls. My friend & I roamed every corner of it with me trying to get the perfect shot of the beautiful place. 

 

My streak of travelling continued into 2016 for which I am so grateful. I visited 9 places this year and carried a bagful of memories back. Travelling has changed me but most importantly I have changed towards travelling.

My last trip of 2016 was to Puri. The people, the chaos – for the first time the cacophony in the Puri Jagannath temple welcomed me, and I embraced it. The hustle bustle of the Ananda Bazaar inside ( That’s a huge, huge exclusive marketplace inside the temple compound where they sell prasaada of different kinds, those brahmins offering tankapani at nominal rate, khajjas – oh my god – I wish they allowed us to click pictures), striking up a conversation with the vendors and knowing that all the prasada  was sourced from the common kitchen having 752 cooking areas ( W-H-A-T?).

The beaches, oh my, Puri and the adjoining areas have the most pristine beaches – they are absolutely soul food. I got over my fear of water and played with the sea – which was a huge deal for me – cause that’s a first in, hold your breath, 22 years. So, if you have been following me on Instagram that explains all the me with the sea videos. Watching dolphins in Satpada was the highpoint of trip; I wish I could have captured the slithery, elusive cute-to-bits animal. To go off the designated route to wander off into the uncharted areas (do that with care guys) has brought in a new perspective. I have been to Puri before, but the change in me reflected in the way I perceived it.

I want to write more about each place I visited but I’m afraid it would turn into a long travelogue. So, down with that.

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Letting go of criticism has been a hard but a necessary thing that I’ve done. From the day we are born we are made to listen and obey – sometimes things like this seep into our conscious and we forget our individuality relying on what others perceive of us.

I had been to an alumni meet recently where the people had gathered after 30 years or so from the days of being college mates to now occasional how have you beens. I observed how they narrated their children’s achievements and snubbed the ones that were not UpTo the mark or in some field that wasn’t engineering or medical by going on and on about this foreign university, that IIT and some IIM. I couldn’t help but muse, here they are – people who have led successful lives, wanting to live through the their children again by imposing their desires. 

Where does the want end? Where do we find the satisfaction? Where do we be content with who we are than how we look on the paper and on a virtual profile? 

I have faced enough unjustified criticism in my life; people who wanted me to be a certain way, dress up in a way, talk in a certain way, do what they want and be someone who I am not. To all these people I gave my indifference and continued to work hard at doing what I love. The day you stop trying to please everyone and living for the limelight is the day you become a contented person.

I am halfway there but I am trying to be more content by – not looking forward to a milestone but the moment. To love someone not for what they can become but who they are. To breathe in life. To exhale positivity. To complimenting people than putting them down for petty reasons. To grow above superficialty.  To making a difference in other’s lives be it an animal or humans.

I have been doing more, learning more and changing more; all the while trying to keep the essence of my soul alive. I have embraced life, and the ice on its heart has started thawing.
2016 has been such an amazing year, and believe it or not, I had no hopes or wishes from it. So, here’s a repeat telecast of wishes for 2017 – not hoping much but just expecting peace and good vibes – internally hoping it turns out as awesome as 2016 or even better. And as for 2016,

Thank you for giving me, Me.

I’ll miss you.

I want to write more but I got to go and live some more.

Love,

Parnini.

Clicked it at Satpada at the mid-way stop – an island where we had lunch and then walked over from these waters of Chilika to the other side to be greeted by the sea.

INDEPENDENT AGAIN

At the stroke of midnight, they aspired to set it right;

what a bunch of invaders had undone.

White, white men, from the land of Big Ben,

humbly fled left and right.

 

But what was to befall the golden bird,

none could anticipate;

for the freedom was new – orange, white, green and blue,

the colours were proudly etched.

 

Seventy years gone,

the light of freedom burning cold,

yet the bearers of the torch won’t feed it’s flame.

Hands in other’s pocket, blind to own affairs;

rusted mettle of honest men.

 

For to ignore the corrupted, is to partake of their sins;

and to fear them otherwise, is to be willingly killed.

Though who would change it all?

for most of the men have their souls sold,

and freedom is just another golden cage.

 

Rat-tat-tat!

the knock on our sleeping hearts – that’s what we need.

To lift the shroud on our diminishing conscience,

to rehabilitate our blind eye to worsening things.

 

To feel the pain of the Indian girl,

being preyed upon in our unprotected streets;

to hold her hand to the light,

than chain her to moralistic whims.

Mother, sister, daughter-sacrificial lamb, whatever;

let’s start teaching her, first to be her’s.

 

To want change, and to be the changemakers;

than to comment brashly at digital screens.

To stand for deserved than reserved,

and bring back merit fleeing overseas.

For the freedom is brought, but the struggle forgot;

birthing callous ways of country beings.

 

What do we do? 

Just begin to do.

Start recruiting flickering Indian hearts,

for its time to channel flickers to flame,

and warm the freedom torch into a raging fire –

Be Independent again!

 

Jai Hind,

Parnini 🙂

© P.G.

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