Being Odia

Being an Odia in Odisha whose fate is tied and tightly coupled with the whims and fancies of another Odia would speak of another Odisha which it never was or should be.

For centuries we have proved that we make very good servants, sincere, loyal, and honest; efficiency was not expected from the one who just has to guard the post to protect his master's interest. From being the Balasore Bearers to a Babu in the highest office and now as waiters and security guards in metros we have done every role because the lure of risk-free, easy, and secure life is hard to resist. It's time we resurrected that dormant gene that made some of us kings and emperors.

Though after seeing our current practice of servility and the way it gets rewarded, it fills me with doubt if the kings of the past were bred and raised here or were imported.

Let's stop stealing from our master's warehouse and treasury to build our riches and also stop managing his business well and wait indefinitely for him to give us the reward and certificate of good conduct; let's build it on our own. Both share the same easy path to a secure life, differentiated only by honesty. Stop behaving like a king with his power of attorney in your hand; because he can annul it anytime. Great servants never build great nations; they live off it.

Let's build the courage to do something new, hit the monolith with a disruptive thought and idea, design a different method, a product, break new grounds, shake the status quo at its base, and push our art, language, and endowments to the next level by creating things anew, be an employer and not just aspire to be a very civil servant as the symbol of our collective and ultimate aspiration if we want our state to regain its past glory.

Stop being delusional about our past when the present doesn't promise a glorious future. Let's help each other to do things that are different.

My Utkala Dibasa thought.

Bhubaneswar – The city which adopted this nomad.

Vividly remember that Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1974 when Baba drove us to a plot he had recently acquired.

After crossing the last human habitation with some rickety unimpressive houses at Acharya Vihar, we were on the highway towards Khurda. After about a kilometre plus he turned right to a barren geography with no shrub in sight. New roads were being demarcated with mounds of aggregates dotting the sides of stormwater drains. Our Jeep rattled on it and stopped at a point where the road ended and overlooked a valley. We were asked to get down and Baba proudly showed us his first material acquisition after struggling for a decade plus to raise his 4 children.

 

Maa, as a forest officer's wife was too used to living in mini estates and was least impressed with this postage stamp-sized plot. To her, plots are measured in acres, not square feet. She sarcastically suggested that ideally, he should have bought some land a bit ahead which would have been easier for us to take care of cultivation at our ancestral village near Chilka. With the ego of the man of the house punctured, the drive back can only be expected to be in uncomfortable silence.

 

That was IRC Village then. Can't tell about others, but a part of me stayed back at that exact spot constantly beaconing me to return.

 

Born into a nomadic life because of constant transfers of Baba, we were to hop from place to place every two, or three years, get attached to that setting and agree to a willful separation and strike root at an unknown place. This perhaps gave me a stronger heart to drop people and deal with future disappointments and breakups.

But while living that peripatetic life, my mind always wanted to come to that spot someday in the future and settle down.

 

Another chance transfer in 1986 made us denizens of this city which I had longed to be a part of since 74. This place has seen our family of 6 grow to 18 at its peak and with all the life's dramas - the birth of my children and the death of my father. Never thought of leaving it even once and I'm sure this place will witness my final journey.

 

At times I ask myself what drew me to this city. I came here with zero friends and no relatives to speak of and with no dreams or ambitions - I just wanted to be here. Was I running away from my past? No! Then?

 

The words of two people partially answer my question.

 

Baba used to say that it's in the soil. He jokingly attributed the color red to the blood of his ancestors who had valiantly fought off invaders and staged mutinies. And of Priyadarshy Dash Bhaina when he said, he agreed to a lesser pay package while opting for a shift to Bhubaneswar because he would get a few lakhs worth of free breeze every evening to make good. Its appeal and magnetism perhaps lie in its air and soil.

 

This city which has housed us and shaped our lives and nurtured our dreams has completed 75 years today and at 75, two things still look beautiful, the city you love and your mother.

 

It's on us how we together shape its future.