On being an Oriya

Some time back in the “Identity and Subjectivity” class with a bunch of pupils at NID, a particularly garrulous one among them steered me into a discussion. We discussed the formation of worldviews and how one’s identity and one’s world views are inextricably linked up with each other in many complex ways; reacting on and influencing each other. The dialogue ended when the student posed a simple question, “Do you know who you are?”

That night, I found myself sitting on the swing in the balcony, a strong hot coffee in hand replaying the classroom scene. The student’s question had flummoxed me, and had me trip over my own words because I had never felt a need to rationalize the issue consciously. Who ever sits and cogitates on “Who am I?” The whole enterprise, in today’s express paced times-- where we, mouse potatoes, measure out our lives with coffee mugs over bits and bytes sounds absurd. Only philosophers engage in such reflections. And, where on earth is the time? So, there I was: As Atlas carrying a tremendous burden and unable to shrug it off. The tedious question of insidious intent kept clawing at my head. So, I did what we usually do when faced with stubbornly sticky questions—toss them away.

One of the binary opposites jostling amongst many in my head was whether I am a non-resident Oriya or an honorary Gujarati. How does it matter was the immediate afterthought and I chucked the thought away again. Anyway, here I am now, pounding away on the keyboard like a maniac and chewing on the cud.

So, what has it been to be an Oriya? Feeling elated every year on my annual trips to Orissa—to Karanjia, Bhubaneshwar, Cuttack, and earlier Koraput, Rourkela and Birmitrapur, when gazing upon all that natural beauty—the lush greenery, the ripe fields, the lotuses and lilies in the myriad pools all over the place, the many banana, papaya, jackfruit and coconut trees even in the humblest of homes? What was it about the old-world antiquated charm and feel of the place as though you were in another world? Stone temples with their beauty and simplicity somehow stirred the hidden atheist in you and made you feel spiritual, if not religious.

Even as the Howrah Express snaked its way into the state in all those train journeys of my childhood, we would be looking out through the windows glued to the verdant beauty of the paddy fields, the streams and rivulets, the dense forests, and the humble homes and villages we passed. Papa would sometimes start singing some Oriya songs he had heard in his childhood (clearly etched in my memory even today)—Tulasichaura mule, Rangani gachha tale, sanja batti libhi libhi jaye, jaye lo/ sanja batti libhi libhi jaye… and look happily entranced at “going home.”

What has it been to be an Oriya? Feeling excited every time a textbook in school mentioned Orissa—whether it was the geography textbook talking about iron ore mines in Orissa, or a mention of Jagannath Puri and Rathyatra somewhere else, or even upset when a story in the class 6 Gujarati textbook referred to Orissa as a very poor state (garibdi) and the inhabitants as raankdi. Feeling exasperated when people often asked, Orissa-- e wali kyaan che?” (Orissa—where on earth is it? ) A neighbour once asked, “Kya who Pakistan ke paas hai?” Another college going girl asked me whether Gujarati was taught in schools in Orissa, and when I roared a “NO”, asked why not. Gritting my teeth at her complete lack of awareness about another state in her own country, trying to patiently point out that Orissa is a state in eastern India, I retorted, “Do they teach Oriya in schools here?” She looked at me as though I were daft, threw me a sympathetic look and sidled away.

Since childhood, Papa inculcated in us sisters, a love for the handicrafts of Orissa. He was so much taken by their simplicity of form, aesthetic sense, use of natural raw materials abundantly available in Orissa, beautiful colour palettes, typical and traditional motifs, and range, that it was only natural, that in course of time, we grew to love them too. Whether it is the lacquer work-cane boxes of Navarangpur, dhokra (lost wax process) artifacts, figurines chiseled from buffalo-horn, tribal terracotta ware, pattachitra paintings, tribal bell metal jewelry, Pipli appliqué work wall hangings, wooden toys, —all found a pride of place both at my parents’ home and later, when I got married, in mine. There is something about this rich repository of our crafts that tugs at the heart strings, and moves, especially when watching craftspersons making them. It is a love that found fruition in NID, Inshallah, when I got involved with craft documentation as a course. Does all this qualify to make me an Oriya?

How can one forget the handlooms of Orissa, especially ikat or tie and dye fabrics, known as bandhas? Handlooms reflect the essence of the traditional way of life; the loom is an intrinsic part of the state’s folklore. These handwoven textiles have such an amazing depth and range, vim and vigour that have evolved over generations. I grew up observing the ladies of the Oriya families settled in Ahmedabad drape these saris on get togethers or other functions of the association. Mummy's own collection of exquisite bomkais, sambalpuris and saktapar saris were always the envy of the neighbourhood and a matter of pride for us girls. There’s nothing like wearing kurtas made of Sambalpuri cloth in summers—very conducive for the skin and they are my staple office-wear in summer.

Pithas are another unforgettable relic in childhood memories. Some of my friends were amazed with the chunchipatra pitha, haldipatra pitha, and podopitha mummy made. But, my personal favourite is the arisapitha, particularly the sugar variety because both Ayee and Mama were experts at making them and it was like a bonanza for a gluttonous child staring greedily at them while they were being made and the aroma filled up the whole house.

Is one an Oriya if one speaks Oriya (albeit with an accent)? I remember when those of us who have grown up in Ahmedabad met during get-togethers, Nilamani Mohanty uncle always used to come up to us children and urge, “Speak in Oriya amongst yourselves, not in English or Hindi.” To our immature minds, it was a quaint thing to do (our schooling made it only natural for us to converse in English); at the time, some of us used to think it was wearing our Oriya-ness on our sleeves and being parochial. The wisdom of what he was saying occurred-- to me at least— years later, and now a parent myself, am happy that my daughter speaks Oriya too.

In any case, after class XII, the urge to learn to read and write Oriya took hold of me, and procuring a Barnabodha tutored myself to learn. Of course, writing Oriya was restricted to writing letters to grandparents, and later to grandparents-in-law. Sushmita, Nilamani Mohanty uncle’s daughter was an inspiring influence who in our growing up years could read Janamamu with ease and élan. Growing up listening to Tapoi, tales of Jagannath, and many other folk tales--- some from either or both my parents, some from ayee and others from mama, my Jejema, or even happily discovering a ‘Folk Tales of Orissa” in a Delhi bookstore while strolling on Janpath one winter afternoon as a student at JNU--- was a treat, and these were often an entry point into Oriya culture. We have grown up on these tales no less than any child born and brought up in Orissa. As adults, at least two of us, Sunita and I have shared common interests in and books on Orissa’s history, folklore, iconography, temple architecture, crafts, rites and rituals. We continue to do so.

Once, soon after we were married, a cousin visited Anshuman and me in Delhi where we were then living. During a long conversation over lunch, which essentially comprised posto bada, phoolkobi patua, khoda sago, bilati baigana khata, dahi salad, rice and mooga dali, the cousin leaned across the table and remarked, “What do you non-Oriyas know about Oriya culture, eh?” The remark stung to the quick, not just because of its rudeness and audacity, but also because it seemed unfair. Why should one have to defend one’s Oriya-ness, lack of it or part of it, to those brought up in Orissa? Why should it be held as something against one? Of course, I spent the greater part of the next forty minutes or so delivering an impassioned speech on how wrong he was; asked him five questions on Oriya history, geography, etc. with a great deal of theatricality and silenced him. In hindsight, I feel it was not necessary to do that. The episode amuses me, and makes me reflect in a different way today. If this be so, then what am I doing, venting my angst, justifying the integral Oriya half/part of myself here? This whole exercise of penning these thoughts down becomes paradoxical and deconstructive.

There is a beautiful story in the Upanishads which explains the oneness of things. Shvetaketu asks Sage Uddalak, his father, to tell him what is the essence of things, of being. Uddalak asks his son to break open the seed of the fig tree. Doing so, Shvetketu finds nothing inside and the father points out how that nothingness leads to the birth and growth of a new tree from the seed. Uddalak calls that nothingness, the essence of being.

We, who live outside the state of our origin, straddle two worlds, imbibe two cultures, are rooted in both and are hence, more cosmopolitan, more heterodox, more accepting of plurality and diversity. People may scoff and remark we are “rootless”, but we probably have the best of both. I grew up here with a heady cocktail—an Oriya in origin, a Gujarati at heart. While I carry in my head the poetry of Orissa’s rivers and streams, her folklore and art, my heart is full of the love and acceptance that is so quintessential of Gujarat.