Thursday, January 31, 2013
ପ୍ରଥମ ରାଗ
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
PRATHAMA RAGA
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Kesha Guchha
Painting by our Daughter Anwesha ....
Anwesha a Bachelor student of Social Science at St.Francis College Hyderabad
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Sri Jagannath Temple
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Garba Kariba Katha .... An Odia Novel
From my collection ........
This Odia novel is by a novelist by my name of which I'm fall short of many ways including difference of 'Panda' that makes differennce ot one time IAS topper and now serving bureaucrat well know also as a litterateur.
'Garba Karibara Katha' by Dr. Hrushikesha Panda published by Friends Publishers in 2010 a novel eulogizing golden days of Odisha with trade to south-east countries. The novel takes on three generations engaged with trade and presents a social as well as political scenarios of times. Many places of Balasore, Cuttack and Puri are act-spots for actors of the novel. In introduction the author puts blame on Chaitany cult on declining of golden age of Odia community. From the title author eulogizes the era for which Odia community to be proud of.
Though two years back I have procured still have not finished the reading so my comments need not be taken authentic. Actually, I felt flow and language bit jerky and stopped reading to start again on getting time and mood. I will recommend to procure if you have not. To my knowledge it could be a history based novel after Nila-Shaila, the one I love :) ...
If any of you have finished reading Dr.Hrushikesha babu's this noel please put your review ... probably it will wake me up :)
This Odia novel is by a novelist by my name of which I'm fall short of many ways including difference of 'Panda' that makes differennce ot one time IAS topper and now serving bureaucrat well know also as a litterateur.
'Garba Karibara Katha' by Dr. Hrushikesha Panda published by Friends Publishers in 2010 a novel eulogizing golden days of Odisha with trade to south-east countries. The novel takes on three generations engaged with trade and presents a social as well as political scenarios of times. Many places of Balasore, Cuttack and Puri are act-spots for actors of the novel. In introduction the author puts blame on Chaitany cult on declining of golden age of Odia community. From the title author eulogizes the era for which Odia community to be proud of.
Though two years back I have procured still have not finished the reading so my comments need not be taken authentic. Actually, I felt flow and language bit jerky and stopped reading to start again on getting time and mood. I will recommend to procure if you have not. To my knowledge it could be a history based novel after Nila-Shaila, the one I love :) ...
If any of you have finished reading Dr.Hrushikesha babu's this noel please put your review ... probably it will wake me up :)
PARAJA
PARAJA
FROM MY SON'S NOVEL COLLECTION .......
many of you must be knowing still wish to put this marvelous novel Paraja by Sj. Gopinath Mohanty ... The writer winner of Jnanpith award and Padmabhusan needs no introduction of me. As novelist Amitav Ghosh says about this novel ... " A remarkable novel .... among the finest of our times." From Odia, Prof. Bikram Das translated and published by Oxford University Press in 1987.
many of you must be knowing still wish to put this marvelous novel Paraja by Sj. Gopinath Mohanty ... The writer winner of Jnanpith award and Padmabhusan needs no introduction of me. As novelist Amitav Ghosh says about this novel ... " A remarkable novel .... among the finest of our times." From Odia, Prof. Bikram Das translated and published by Oxford University Press in 1987.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Taken from novel Narcopolis .....
We made the whole earth a couch for you,
And the mountains its tent stakes,
We created you of two sexes
And ordained your sleep for rest.
Sura LXXVIII
Sunday, January 13, 2013
SWING
Mrinalini though fascinated still, she knew now swings never would be what it used to be on the mango branches at childhood but can have something like that from ceiling hooks and cane basket ofcourse cushioned fitting to her age that she never told correct to anybody and never heard so even for her utter satisfaction that determined not to remain so for long since family entropy started threatening being inflated in due course of time as she heard recently in native Bahagabata, time wounds and heals in cyclic way as if it has nothing else to do like her house keeping and cooking that have been following each other so long that her children thought it might go on endlessly and they left deleting this chasing game from their timelines that almost made a Y to her timeline while the two were taking stairs to world ahead through the gate she put and colored with cherry paints the best of the market of her time.
Mrinalini on swing is a chasm in present and her swinging is a lullaby of her dreams that neighbours in habit of lending years whisper of deliriums though such things have been at every house of the greying colony that hides its desperation on grey feet trying self pathetically brisk in mornings so much so that in evening cable operators scrupulously send balm adds to colony tv sets with such a rage not only kids turns furious but also pharmacy shops complain to slow down to match with company supplies.
Mrilani has made her swinging unique for helping self. she closes her eyes and pushes the cane basket up and up; and soon falls asleep for pictures to project on her eye-lids preferably as those have turned enough white for good viewing. While going up and up backward, the cobwebs on route uses to disappear along with the big spider with its sticky hairy stalks that used to horrify her before. The route gets alive with foot steps and the walks become so fast that she sometimes desires to brush her shoulder to a few of previous choices. And then she chooses to swing forward, again up and up towards an orange and to find small flowers blooming forever in airy garden of angels who play hide and seek like movie hero heroines on her wide large wall hanging tv that everyday makes stealthy effort to make living room noisy of her choice. For some unwanted item songs creeping in her eye lids crack open to find Mithun standing with ginger tea to find swing, relatives and neighbours as usual remain the same!
Friday, January 11, 2013
Monday, January 7, 2013
Fish Market
Machha Hata ... Fish Market Ashok Nagar behind BHEL HIG colony, Hyderabad... It's a real one ... see the frenzy ...
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Thursday, January 3, 2013
BEING UNTAGGED (Micro Story)
Micro Story
Once I was untagged, there quite a few running and running, like kite runners that I could see for sometime behind and so I was sure of while got untagged myself thinking there was no point for more because there is an end to all the kites even for the one with glass dust ridden threads daring to touch the future I soared up and up above the plains, deserts and swamps and then to fly along infinite blue up and above for the endless feelings, the feelings of void tasteless like the taste of my first making of curry unwinding juggernaut cabbage ripping off leaves after leaves cutting into nearly cubes and hurling those to hot oils sizzling with life; but I forgot to add right spice to it, then taste it gave so bad that I had to wash out all the glass dusts pasted to the thread making it naked and vulnerable for rest of me in tiny things though I was told of great things were always on wait for me behind the dark cloud that badly patched my horizon ahead giving an impression of permanency but lately I found to my surprise the fear similar to that of chickens in a closed barbed wire to which a scaring skeleton symbol is tagged forever.
I giggled at those wires in moon lights, harsh Suns and in middle of the storms with my protruding thick lips guarded inner with a set of white sentries fortunately found still with good boots to parade and stand till the hoisting of the flag . Wriggled out of those wires so smooth to my wonder and found self untagged as I caressed my wounds found the body missing and so also my voice. Being untagged I flew thousand and thousand miles into deep and deeper blue where faces of unknown astronauts passing by through my memoryless journey making it memorable down below, very below the deep blue ocean on the cliff of coral reef I am sitting untagged while my sack of bones still rattles there in my wall, I constructed with all the savings as well as hoodwinks wherever whatever is easy all on my trodden ways .
Once I was untagged, there quite a few running and running, like kite runners that I could see for sometime behind and so I was sure of while got untagged myself thinking there was no point for more because there is an end to all the kites even for the one with glass dust ridden threads daring to touch the future I soared up and up above the plains, deserts and swamps and then to fly along infinite blue up and above for the endless feelings, the feelings of void tasteless like the taste of my first making of curry unwinding juggernaut cabbage ripping off leaves after leaves cutting into nearly cubes and hurling those to hot oils sizzling with life; but I forgot to add right spice to it, then taste it gave so bad that I had to wash out all the glass dusts pasted to the thread making it naked and vulnerable for rest of me in tiny things though I was told of great things were always on wait for me behind the dark cloud that badly patched my horizon ahead giving an impression of permanency but lately I found to my surprise the fear similar to that of chickens in a closed barbed wire to which a scaring skeleton symbol is tagged forever.
I giggled at those wires in moon lights, harsh Suns and in middle of the storms with my protruding thick lips guarded inner with a set of white sentries fortunately found still with good boots to parade and stand till the hoisting of the flag . Wriggled out of those wires so smooth to my wonder and found self untagged as I caressed my wounds found the body missing and so also my voice. Being untagged I flew thousand and thousand miles into deep and deeper blue where faces of unknown astronauts passing by through my memoryless journey making it memorable down below, very below the deep blue ocean on the cliff of coral reef I am sitting untagged while my sack of bones still rattles there in my wall, I constructed with all the savings as well as hoodwinks wherever whatever is easy all on my trodden ways .
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
MAGNA MATI
'MAGNA MATI' (The Submerged Soil) IS AN EPIC NOVEL by PRATIVA RAY, this year Jnanpitha Award Winner. A novel on a group of people of Odisha who faced the devastating super cyclone, is unique in its own way in painting sorrows and loves towards life. I would like to recommend this book to Odia book lovers to put the book on your book-shelf near to MATI MATALA .. of GOPINATH MOHANTY the other Jnanpitha Award winner from Odisha,
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Xmas and new year gift to my kids ...
NARCOPOLIS by Jeet Thayil's debut novel takes Bombay of 70s portraying it in collusion with itself with pimps, pushers, poets, gangsters and underworlds. Reviewers say Jeet charters an orginal style of writing ... I have to borrow it from my kids to read ... and then will write more. Now ofcourse I'm still with the novel of Garbriel Gracia Marquez ...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)