Orissa Images

There are places embedded in the deep recesses on my memories; places not known except in myths associated with first awakenings of early childhood. Orissa is part of my earliest memories and for years I have resisted stepping into dream haunts.

I remember vividly a long corridor and walking to a doorway to stand in front of glass jars - one of them contains raisins. A big person in orange reaches out and hands me these raisins. My parents tell me I was just 2 years then and what I recount is in Ramakrisha Muth in Puri where they stayed when I was little. And, yes, I was very taken with raisins that I was fed by a 'sant' in the ashram. This person predicted that I would become a judge, when I grew up - very far from truth actually, except that I have often been advised not to judge people or events too harshly.

Then there are a whole lot of imagined memories from stories of 'Bhaskar' - a man servant who worked in the joint-family when I was very young. He was from Orissa and his stories revolved around his fields, his family, his woman left behind in order to earn a better living in Kolkatta. Here Orissa was in water-color greens, earthern browns of the land, brown people in brown homes. These images were permeated with his sorrow, his awaiting his next trip home.

And finally Orissa was painted with sounds of a flute. He was young. I forget his name. I was older - and I thought he was beautiful. Again a man servant in the family home, who got to use the area of the coal storage(we called it a 'khancha') for his space. It was barely two and a half feet wide, about 10 feet deep, and at the end there was an area for coal. He got to use the passage as his home. Late in the afternoon, when all the work was done, he bathed, got into clean clothes, ate the leftovers set aside for his meal and then he propped himself 3 feet off ground, between the walls of his tubular home and played his 'bansuri'. I was usually in my room, after college, reading. Sometimes I would go and stand, watching him play. He merely smiled and continued playing. He painted Orissa in undeciphered longing with slow, long notes, dark brilliant eyes. I remember asking him, only once, whether he would marry. He laughed and said, yes. His folks were looking for a match for him. Would he still work in the city. Again, another Yes - someone had to send money home.
I recall his face clearly as I type - yet a name escapes me.

Orissa has since played a recent havoc in my life. Its part of what I am, and what I think needs to be done. POSCO, Vedanta, mining rights, forceful evictions, police firing, and strings of promises from MoEF - undelivered.Orissa has also been on my wish list as an avid traveller - I wished to witness the annual migration of Olive Rideleys to Orissa coastline, the birds on Chilka lake, the ancient temples, and cave monasteries. I left my conscience behind when I visited Orissa, avoided those - whose rights occupy my days. I went as a spectator, a foot loose traveler with my daughter and a friend to wander its coast, lakes, temples, caves, watch weavers create masterpieces and dancers seduce Gods...I saw all this and experienced much much more...and found all of it worth fighting for.