Contemporary Odia Short Stories: A Black Eagle Books Anthology

By BLACK EAGLE BOOKS

Fakir Mohan Senapati laid the foundation of Odia short stories with the publication of 'Rebati' in 1898, about a hundred and twenty two years ago. Ever since, the genre has evolved much. He wrote about twenty short stories between 1898 and 1916. Critics have accepted this phase as the first phase of Odia story writing. The period between

• Language: English
• Publisher: BLACK EAGLE BOOKS
• Release date: Apr 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645600749

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Tale Of An Ominous Son

Achyutananda Pati

Translated by Supriya Kar

That day, the owl fledgling opened his eyes for the first time. In the deep hollow of the tree trunk, he saw thick darkness around him. His mother sat covering him with her wings. He dreamt of many things; his soft limbs lay on the pricking bed of twigs.

He could hear some noise from above. His mother’s wings fluttered slightly. She puffed up her feathers for a while and then drew him close to her body. He felt cozy. He chirped merrily. His mother rubbed her beak on his tiny beak and whispered to him to be quiet and still. He did not understand why his mother said this. But he grew quiet. The creases of his skin slowly unfurled absorbing warmth from the soft feathers of his mother. He felt buoyant. He thought of standing up. He stretched his limbs in that bed of twigs. His mother too moved a little away from him. She pecked his tiny limbs and straightened them. The fledgling looked up. The darkness seemed less thick. He closed his eyes. Again, he looked at his mother and then looked up. Mother understood his mind. She placed her stub nose on his and said smilingly, Darling! How soon have you become so sensible? All right, wait for some more time; let feathers grow fully on your wings. I’ll teach you how to fly. I’ll tell you how to flap your wings. You’ll travel across the sky and see new things for yourself. Here you lie in darkness, but when you go out, it will no more be dark out there. The sky will be filled with bright moonbeams. Little stars will fondly wink at you. I’ll introduce you to new things when I take you out on a walk. Grow up soon. Let your limbs strengthen.

His mother shoved a bit of guava into his tiny beak, picking it out of the cavity. He swallowed it slowly. Ah, how sweet! He imagined seeing the world for himself. The world must be very sweet.

Some creatures ran under the tree making the familiar hukeho noise. The fledgling felt drowsy lying under the warm feathers of his mother. He dreamt of many things. He dreamt of the world. All around, sweet guavas spread in pieces on the ground. The round moon was descending from heaven. There was no trace of darkness. His beak opened with a smile. The noise from the ground woke him up. There was darkness all around. The fledgling felt upset. He had just seen a light in his dream. His mother ruffled her feathers sitting on the edge of the hollow. He cried out, ‘Ma, I’ll go to see the world today. I’ll go out to play with the moon."

His mother came and drew him beneath her wings. He slipped out of his mother’s wings. He did not like darkness at all. His mother told him tenderly, You’ve come into this world. Who would prevent you from going about it? You must go out into the world when you’re grown up and strong, or else you will be cheated. Have a little patience. It’s just a matter of a few more days. I’ll take you out myself. Sleep here for a while. You must be hungry. I’ll be back soon with new food for you. Don’t make any noise.

His mother left him with a fond peck on his beak. The fledgling went into a reverie. With eyes closed, he dreamt of light spread everywhere. The world of light tempted him with a guava. His eyes were heavy with sleep. He found that his wings had now grown thicker than that of his mother. He was flying happily, his wings brushing against the moon. His leg had grown stronger. He was able to stand up on his own. Feathers thickened on his wings. He grew crazy thinking of the world. In his imagination, the world got filled with moonlight and guavas. He grew restless. He pestered his mother. He was grown up now and he must go out to see the world.

That day, the mother-owl brought her son to the edge of the hollow for the first time. She pointed at the moon with her beak. His eyes dazzled. Ah, how lovely! He lay in such a dark hollow. The fledgling tried to fly accompanied by his mother. He hopped from one branch to the other. His wings grew tired. He flew to the topmost branch of the tree at once. He sat there, gazing at the moon. The pain in his wings gradually lessened. The moon sprinkled light. He felt like gulping down drops of moonlight. His mother arrived at that moment. She took him back into the hollow after much persuasion.

One day, the mother-owl had dozed off. The owl fledgling slowly ventured out of the hollow.

Oh, how bright it was outside! The moon looked bigger and shone brighter than on the previous occasion. He kept staring at it. His eyes started burning. My goodness, such blazing light!

Two myna fledglings were hopping on tree branches. They were singing with their mother. The owl fledgling felt sad— perhaps his mother was not as good. She never taught him to sing under such a big moon. He went near the myna fledglings, singing. They were frightened and started yelling. Their mother came and pecked him hard. A cawing crow advanced towards him, hearing his voice. The mother-owl was jolted out of her slumber. She came rushing and hurriedly took her child away into the hollow. The fledgling was very angry with his mother. She had spoilt everything. In a fit of anger, he bit his mother. He tried to go out once again. He screamed at his mother. Why had she not shown him the big moon earlier? While comforting him, his mother told him mournfully, Keep quiet, my son. That isn’t the moon, my love. It’s the sun. In our world, there’s no sun. We must live in darkness. Otherwise, we’ll perish.

The fledgling was annoyed at his mother’s words. Why wouldn’t he go to the world of the sun? Why would not he stroll in the kingdom of light? Who had made such laws to trouble them? He marched forward angrily. His mother dragged him beneath her wings. He plucked out a few feathers from his mother’s abdomen in frustration. His mother simply cried. Outside, a gang of crows cawed endlessly. His mother regretted that she had unnecessarily told her son about the sun.

We live in the dark. We belong to the ominous species. We’re a curse on the world. If we seek light, we’ll die. In the realm of light, the children of light hang around to hunt us. His mother broke down saying this.

Have a little patience, ma. He tried to comfort his mother, Let me grow up. I’ll surely take you to the kingdom of light. I’ll destroy all our enemies.

That day, both the owl-mother and her son perched on a mango branch. There was no moon in the sky. The owl fledgling felt bored. Suddenly, a flicker of light came through a chink of the house nearby. The owl fledgling was thrilled. He opened his beak and sang a song. Someone from the house shouted abusively, Fly away, you wretch! I’ll parch your back with a hot frying stick, do you hear me? Get lost, may you succumb to diarrhoea! The mother-owl kissed her son and asked him to keep quiet. The fledgling felt enraged. How unfair! They would use light as though it was their own property. We would be told off if we rejoiced upon seeing a glimmer of light! No, that wasn’t done. He wanted to enter through the window and snatch the light away from them. His mother howled and brought him back home.

After sunset, the fledgling examined his wings carefully before setting out of his hollow. All the feathers had grown on his wings. He stretched his legs and strutted around twice. His limbs felt strong. He struck his beak on the tree trunk. It was quite hard now. He flew away. He would not return home. He would roam freely in the kingdom of the sun. He would conquer light. He would confront his enemies face-to-face.

The dawn broke. From below the horizon emerged a spring of red light. The owl-fledgling had never witnessed the entry of light in the kingdom of the sun. He saw this spectacle of light with his eyes wide open, oblivious of himself. Hundreds of birds flew away singing and flapping their wings to the beat. All these birds would roam around freely in light, savoring the taste of life, and he would rot in the dark and die? No. He felt determined. Slowly, the sun rose up in the sky. The daylight grew intense. In such a big and beautiful world of light, was there not even a little space for him? No, he would make merry to his heart’s content today. He would let the world know that he was a son of light, too. He also had a claim on this kingdom.

The fledgling started moving around freely. He looked at everything carefully. Suddenly, he was attacked from the back. He turned around. His mother had marked them as enemy-birds that day. These birds had snatched the light from the cursed owls. He struck the crow back with his beak. While defending itself, the crow cawed loudly for help. Flights of crows came rushing, cawing aggressively. He realized that he was too weak to defend himself against such a large army of foes. He flew swiftly towards the tall building near him, flapping his wings. He slipped into the house through a small hole on the wall. Outside, the crows continued to screech. He sat quietly for some time. His chance would come. His enemies would disperse and he would take his revenge. He would reclaim his due from the kingdom of light. He was not a curse of darkness. He was a child of light. Today, he would enjoy light to his heart’s content.

In that building, on a thick mattress, lay the wealthy Dhirumalla. He was having fever and fits of delirium. He groaned in pain and shouted now and then agitatedly.

"Make sure that the mustard oil is eighty percent adulterated. Remember to file a suit against Madana Barik. That scoundrel’s sister, Chandrama shows off as a chaste woman. I fondly placed my hands on her, that bitch almost hit me! Can you hear me? Send around twenty goons and harvest the rice crop from Priya Mishra’s land. Money won’t be a problem. He doesn’t care to greet me just because he is a little educated! Come here and listen to me carefully— that Bengali from Calcutta has promised to provide me hundred bharis of smuggled opium. Keep an eye on him."

So these were the so-called elite of the kingdom of light! It is for them that the sun offers light every day. The fledgling observed everything with his eyes wide open. All of a sudden, someone sitting near Dhirumalla’s bed, a sincere and true servant of the kingdom of light, saw this owl-fledgling.

Ominous! Inauspicious! Sign of death! An owl has entered the room. Master is ill The servant cried out impatiently. A long bamboo staff was brought; the fledgling was poked and driven away. Both his wings were injured. He somehow managed to fly to the top of the building and sat there, writhing in pain. Some crows from the nearby tree rushed to attack him again. Annoyed with these noisy crows, a servant came to the terrace and landed a hard blow on the owl-fledgling, the cause of the trouble. The fledgling tumbled down. They burnt a bunch of straw on the terrace and snuffed out the flame with turmeric water. The evil omen would no longer have any effect.

The army of crows pounced on the injured fledgling. Blood streamed down his wings in heavy spurts. He looked skyward. High up in the sky, the sun was still pouring down light. In great pain, he rose and turned homeward. He fell down at the bottom of the tree that was his home. His mother was waiting anxiously for her son. What could she do? How will her son take refuge in this broad daylight? The mother’s heart was oppressed by all sorts of anxieties. Hearing her son’s call, she rushed to the bottom of the tree. She was speechless at the sight of his blood-soaked body. The fledgling looked up for a moment. The mynas were singing boisterously among the branches.

The sun continued sending beams of light from the sky. The owl-fledgling said with his head resting on his mother’s lap, Don’t weep, ma. Tell my siblings, if they’re born, that their elder brother became a martyr fighting valiantly to win the kingdom of light.

The owl-fledgling closed his eyes forever. The sun still poured down light in abundance on the earth.

Original Odia: Ashubha Putrara Kahani

■

The Living God

Santanu Kumar Acharya

Translated by Supriya Kar

What kind of a house is this, daddy? The five-year-old Miskun asked his daddy. This isn’t a house, my boy, but a place of worship. God dwells here. We Hindus call it a temple. This temple was built in the seventh century AD—very ancient.

How strange, how very novel this information seemed to Miskun. Though he was only five, his information base was quite strong. He was born at Glastonbury in Connecticut, America. Mark Twain’s house-museum was a shout away from his home. He had visited Mark Twain’s place a number of times with his daddy and mommy. He intimately knew Mark Twain’s character, Huckleberry Finn. Miskun also knew Henry Thoreau, Emerson, and other writers. Their house-museums were all around Boston. However, visiting a temple was altogether a new experience for Miskun. He was amazed to see such a structure. Who knew what thoughts crossed his mind while witnessing that peculiar kind of a house called ‘temple’ from inside the car while his soft, tiny hands clasped his daddy’s stretched hands that reached for him from the backseat?

Seema and Bijan Senapati, Miskun’s parents, sat in the backseat of the car. Miskun sat in the front seat. His maternal uncle, Sidharth, a high-ranked officer in the Indian Civil Service, drove the car.

Sidharth was very fond of his nephew, Miskun. His only sister, Seema was always dear to him. Sidharth knew Bijan long before he married his sister. Bijan was a brilliant student during his time, but he had a rather naïve worldly point of view. In those days, a number of students chose to study arts after the intermediate level, but Bijan preferred science. He had topped the examination and graduated in physics. Again, instead of going for a Master’s degree in physics, he enrolled himself in a bachelor’s degree in engineering. In the meantime, Sidharth had completed his Master ’s degree and sat for the Indian Civil Service examination. His first attempt was a failure, but he got through the second time. Bijan joined as a Junior Engineer at a government office on completing engineering.

The same year, he got married to Seema. Before finalizing the marriage, Sidharth’s father had sought his son’s opinion: What do you think of this young man, Sidhu?

He’s very brilliant, but, on the whole, a dolt. Sidharth had offered his certificate.

A dolt? Sidharth’s father looked at his son, rather puzzled.

What else is he if he isn’t sharp enough to guess which direction the winds blew in? He should have realized by pursuing a second bachelor ’s degree, he would lag behind his contemporaries. Take my case—by the time he became an Executive Engineer with all his brilliance, I’d already been in a superior position of Commissioner-cum-Secretary in his department. Sidharth had laughed.

But, he has been first-class-first throughout his career— a gold medalist in Engineering from the Indian Institute of Technology! Sidharth’s father, Sankar sir, a retired high school headmaster, did not commend his son’s vanity. He was rather adamant on forming this matrimonial alliance, so Seema’s wedding was fixed with Bijan. Sidharth had no option but to accept it. Though he loved his sister dearly, he looked down upon Bijan. Whenever he met Bijan, he had the same feeling of disdain. Ah, poor Bijan!

However, life changed for Bijan Senapati in no time—he went to America for higher studies. He completed his doctoral degree at the world-renowned Massachusetts Institute of Technology and joined General Motors. That was the year Miskun was born. And this was the first time in five years Seema and Bijan had come to visit India with Miskun. It was Sidharth’s responsibility to take them to Puri and Konark on a trip. He had set a travel plan to send them to far-off places with the driver and car provided by his office but chose to drive them to nearby tourist spots in the town first. While taking the car out of his garage, Sidharth asked his sister, Where would you like to go? Have you ever visited our famous Odisha State Archaeological Museum, here in the capital city of Bhubaneswar?

In fact, neither Seema nor Bijan ever had an opportunity to visit any of the famous sites of Bhubaneswar, the capital city of their native state Odisha. They knew the city was dotted with marvelous, ancient temples, which were declared as world heritage sites. They often came across a description of these temples in coffee table books on art.

They got into the car and took their seats. Sidharth drove the car out into the street.

Brother, are there really a hundred thousand temples here in Bhubaneswar? Seema asked on the way to Old Town, where most of the ancient and famous temples were situated—this part of the city always witnessed a flow of tourists from all over the world round the year.

Don’t you know this is known as the city of temples? Sidharth laughed. Come, let me show you the oldest temple in the city.

They passed by the museum and drove towards Kedar Gouri road, which led to a cluster of temples. Sidharth halted the car near Parsurameswar temple: Look, there, he pointed at the beautifully preserved ancient shrine of Shiva, built in the famed archaeological style of Odisha, and declared, The glory of Odisha! The Parsurameswar temple—it was built in the seventh century A.D.

At that time, the little boy who was sitting by his uncle’s side in the front seat was heard asking his dad, "What kind of a house is this, daddy?

When Miskun heard ‘seventh century A.D.’ from his daddy’s mouth, a similar expression came to his mind: Mark Twain was born in nineteenth-century A.D., wasn’t he, daddy?

‘Yes, yes, Mark Twain was born a hundred years ago. You’re right, my boy! But do you know how old this temple is! Thirteen hundred years old, one thousand and three hundred years! Just imagine…!"

Ho, ho, ho—Sidharth laughed out loud—he did not quite like the idea of asking a five-year-old to imagine thirteen hundred years. He wanted to change the discussion.

Bijan! You have got elections this year in the USA? Who do you think will win? Will Bush come to power? How good are the chances of the Republicans?

No, no, no, Miskun protested immediately, Dukakis, Michael Dukakis will win. The Republicans have got a poor chance.

Sidharth was left astounded—he looked at his five-year-old nephew from top to bottom, smiled and turned to his sister.

Seema returned a smile in the manner of the Americans. She looked very charming. She had not looked so attractive when she was in India. Those days, she hardly knew how to smile . The daughter of a high-school teacher, she was not as bright as her brother, Sidharth. Somehow, she plodded through till graduation. Then she got married to Bijan, who hailed from a poor family. He was in a less lucrative job than her brother. At times, Seema would feel upset about it. She would ask her brother in private, Seriously, brother? How could father decide to tie me with such a blockhead? Tears streamed down her cheeks. Sidharth would comfort his sister, You don’t know, dear! Bijan was considered a prodigy in our time. We could hardly hold a candle to him. Had he opted for political science, he would have topped the civil service list. Never mind. He’s so brilliant.

Bullshit! Seema had twisted her face away in anger when this alliance was finalized by her father. Her face usually wore a dry, melancholic look. That was then. Now a smile played at the corner of her lips. She had picked up the typical manner in which the Americans smiled with their thirty-two teeth out on display. It was another matter of surprise for Sidharth that Seema’s personality could develop so much in a matter of just a few years.

Unraveling her personae a little more, Seema remarked, Brother, children are born smart in America. Miskun can operate a computer if you get him one now.

Sidharth was elated to learn about his nephew’s talent. After hanging around temples such as Kedar Gouri, Mukteswar, Rajarani and finally the Lingaraj temple, they set out to visit Odisha State Archaeological Museum. While his uncle turned his car towards the huge iron gates of the Museum, Miskun asked, ‘Uncle, is it a science museum? In Boston,we have a number of such museums…"

No, no, my boy! His dad quipped, This is an archaeological museum. Old sculptures thousands of years old are preserved here. Come, we’ll see.

Yeah, you’ll see very old images of gods and goddesses here in this huge mansion! But alas! All of them have died long back! said Sidharth, laughing heartily.

Dead gods!—Miskun was taken aback as though he had seen a ghost. He simply could not believe what his maternal uncle said. The gods have died? He asked in Odia heavy with an American accent, Is this a cemetery for gods, uncle?

Sidharth laughed indulgently. Bijan explained to Sidharth in good humor, In America, being an atheist has connotations with being a Communist. The boy might be shocked suspecting his uncle was a Communist!

Yes, yes, I’m a confirmed Communist. If you remember, I was a member of A.I.S.F during college days. You might have seen me then. I ran in the college union presidency election. I still believe in socialism, Sidharth grew serious on this note.

The museum tour took quite some time. They inspected most of the important archaeological sections where galleries of images of Hindu, Buddhist and Jain deities from classical to Baroque periods were put on display. All along, while introducing the deities to his sister and brother-in-law, Sidharth would remark—Do you know the real worth of these dead gods in international markets? Billions, if not trillions, in American dollar!

Their museum visit was coming to an end. Miskun lingered on and continued to ask all sorts of questions—Daddy, which god was this? Uncle, was this god a very cruel god? How terrible he looks! Mommy, that’s a god or a goddess? Were they all alive indeed? Miskun was given appropriate answers as far as possible. His daddy would say, This god is known as Abalokiteswar— he’s Padmapani—they belonged to the tenth century.

Look, look here, this god is called Mahakala. He’s a ferocious god. He killed and devoured everyone. Oh, how terrifying he looks! His uncle added.

While gazing at the image of goddess Tara, Miskun’s mother mulled over something and remarked: Ah, how beautiful! Brother, do you know how much such an image would cost? None of these would be less than ten thousand dollars. If you sold this entire museum, say, to Americans, they would pay billions and billions of dollars and lift these images, even all your ancient temples and restore all of them in America.

Sidharth gave a smile. That would be wonderful! Poverty would get eradicated from India in a day. You do one thing—start an antique business, Seema! I believe the eradication of poverty would remain a dream until these dead gods are not removed from this country. Such foolishness! Millions and millions of rupees lie in the form of stone sculptors, and yet we’re poor! He shared his observation.

Miskun listened to everything attentively.

The museum tour now over, they were supposed to head to the hotel Kalinga Ashok for lunch. They had been roaming around for a long time and were tired. It was slightly past lunch time. All of them sat in the car. Miskun took his seat as before in the front, but he was no longer his talkative self. Perhaps, he was hungry. He looked drowsy.

The car stopped at the hotel’s portico. They got down the car and entered the lounge. Sidharth was a known face at the hotel. The manager received them warmly. A few of Sidharth’s acquaintances and friends were present too. In the lobby, Sidharth, Bijan, and Seema sat amidst the gathering of friends. All of them seemed to forgot about Miskun for a while.

As a waiter came and informed Sidharth that the food was ready to be served, everyone rose to their feet. They realized that Miskun was nowhere in sight.

Seema grew restless. Bijan got alarmed and ran around the hotel to check if there was any swimming pool or water body inside its premise. Miskun always ran to the swimming pool whenever they went to a hotel in America. Filled with anxiety, Sidharth shouted at the hotel staff—Find the boy! I’ll get you sacked, all of you…

A frantic search ensued. The boy was here a moment ago— how did he disappear suddenly? Was it a case of kidnapping? Could this be possible at such a renowned hotel?

Bijan was struck by a memory. He told Seema, If you recall, a similar incident had happened earlier. While roaming around Mark Twain’s house-museum, the boy had gone missing, hadn’t he?

Seema felt flabbergasted. In a choked voice she said—Yeah, I’m at a loss. Could he, by any chance, go back to the museum? Let’s rush there!

Bijan and Sidharth followed Seema. Only a wide road lay between the premises of Hotel Kalinga Ashok and the museum. Before Seema and Bijan could rush into the museum through the gate, Sidharth’s people had jumped off its boundary wall to get inside. They searched desperately all over the museum premises, inside and outside, but there was no sign of Miskun.

Seema could no longer keep herself in check. She started crying loudly like a rustic woman. Last time, events had turned out in a similar manner at Mark Twain’s house-museum. The police were informed when Miskun went missing—the police thoroughly searched the three-storeyed building of the Mark Twain museum, but in vain. Helpless in the wake of such a crisis, Seema could no longer control herself and had let out a loud cry which seemed to have shaken the huge mansion of Mark Twain. She had howled uncontrollably—Oh my God! Mark Twain, please give my child back!

Strangely, this invocation to Mark Twain seemed to have worked. After a while, the police discovered Miskun at what seemed an improbable place inside the museum. Apparently, the child had fallen asleep on one of the couches inside Mark Twain’s library, a book in hand—Tom Sawyer. Perhaps, he had dozed off while reading and the book covered his face. What was astonishing was someone had covered him with an overcoat, perhaps fearing the boy might catch a cold. That overcoat belonged to none other than Mark Twain; that very overcoat, which visitors saw hanging as a museum piece in his wardrobe in another room.

Bijan and Seema had felt overwhelmed discovering Miskun in that state. The police had expressed surprise, too. They had not been able to solve that mystery. How could the overcoat be taken from the wardrobe in another room and placed on the child sleeping peacefully in the library? Was it the job of Mark Twain’s ghost?

They had harboured such a suspicion, but no one had asked that unpleasant question directly to the boy.

However, today, in this outlandish environment of an archaeological museum, where the halls were packed with sculptures of gods and goddesses, Seema could take it no more. She began wailing out the names of all gods and goddesses like a village woman beseeching their favor to return her child wherever they might have hidden him. She approached a huge sculpture of Lord Buddha. The information provided underneath said ‘Abalokiteswar.’ She kneeled herself down before the huge granite sculpture and prayed aloud— "Oh Lord Abalokiteswar! Please give me my child back. Otherwise, I’ll end my life here in front of you...Miskun, my