Once upon a time in Odisha, the word “Agyan” carried the weight of reverence, and “Babu” was not just a suffix—it was a sentiment. Today, in the age of linguistic outsourcing, even Odias greet each other with a pan-Indian “Ji,” as if the soul of Sambalpuri courtesy has been outsourced to a call centre in Noida. The transformation is not tragic—it is theatrical. Odisha, once the quiet custodian of layered rituals and lyrical memory, now pirouettes to the beat of Garba in every condominium courtyard.
Garba in Patia, Kanya Pujan across, and the Rise of Rituals Without Roots
The cultural calendar of Bhubaneswar reads like a west coast wedding planner’s diary. Garba classes are now more popular than Odissi workshops. Kanya Pujan, a ritual with deep North Indian roots, is now a staple in Odia households during Navratri, often performed with more zeal than Raja Parba or Kumar Purnima. The middle-class Odia, estimated to be over 12 million strong, is caught in a cultural Bermuda Triangle—between nostalgia, mimicry, and Netflix.
OTT and the Hindi Heartland: A Linguistic Deluge
The Odia language, spoken by over 82% of the state’s population, is now a guest in its own home. The rise of private schools and the dominance of Hindi and English on OTT platforms have rendered Odia into a ceremonial tongue—used for temple chants and government circulars, but rarely for storytelling or song. The ASER 2023 report shows that while 77.4% of rural children in Sambalpur can read basic Odia, their exposure to Odia literature is negligible. The language survives, but the literature gasps.
The luminous young, present day torchbearers of Odia culture—brilliant creators from Keonjhar, Bhawanipatna, Parlakhemundi, Rayagada and beyond—Prateek Patnaik, Vishnu Adhikari, Deepak Nayak, Pinaki Mohanty, Satyabhama, Manisha Meher, Rades Shamr, Manas Kumar Das, Srinika Purohit (Padhi), Lima Das, Biswajit Mohapatra, Piyush Pratik Mohanty, Subrat Senapati and many others—stand poised, not for accolades, but for a simple gesture of recognition, a quiet pat of encouragement, a hand to guide them through the corridors of legacy.
Do you see any mentoring happening?
Odisha is not alone in this cultural vanishing act. Consider:
• Hawaii: Once rich in native chants and hula traditions, now a tourist caricature of itself. The Hawaiian language nearly disappeared due to English dominance.
• Scotland: Gaelic, once the lifeblood of Highland culture, is now spoken by less than 2% of Scots.
• Turkey: The Ottoman script and Persian-Arabic literary traditions were erased in the 20th century reforms, leaving a rupture in cultural continuity.
• Japan’s youth: Increasingly disconnected from traditional arts like Noh and Ikebana, preferring Western pop culture and digital minimalism.
These are not tales of xenophobia—they are cautionary parables of cultural dilution through uncritical adoption.
Meanwhile, the self-appointed custodians of Odia culture remain geographically and intellectually arrested around AG Square, Rabindra Mandap in Bhubaneswar. Their verses—often recycled from the 1980s—are performed with the solemnity of a bureaucratic oath. They speak of Konark but have never ventured past Patia. Their awards, mostly of living-room-display value, are testament to a culture that celebrates itself in echo chambers because the young turks of today’s Odia culture space are completely left out. They have no patience for the trite ad nauseum.
The retired babus of Odisha, the cultural hubris, are perhaps the most eloquent mourners of a bygone era. Their conversations begin with “During my time…” and end with “Odisha was truly great.” They would like to believe and be believed that their ownership of Odisha’s development is absolute, their nostalgia impermeable. Time, for them, stopped at superannuation. And to their strong conviction, so did the evolution of Odia identity. The Odia diaspora, having left in the 1970s-80s, now lives in a time capsule. Our expectations of their largesse have not diminished over the years, despite repetitive intangible asks. Hence why the space and social leadership for nurturing Odia culture is fast dwindling, is anyone’s guess.
This is not a call to cultural isolation. Odias have always been magnanimous—absorbing, extolling, and elevating whatever comes their way. But magnanimity without memory is mimicry. Secularism without selfhood is surrender. The question is not whether Odias should dance Garba or perform Kanya Pujan. The question is—can they do so without forgetting the rhythm of Dalkhai, the cadence of Rasarkeli, the sanctity of Raja, and the poetry of Fakirmohan?
Odisha does not need gatekeepers. It needs gardeners. Those who will tend to the roots while welcoming new blossoms. Those who will say “Agyana” with pride, even as they say “Ji” with courtesy.
(Charudutta Panigrahi is an author and culture strategist. He may be reached at charu.panigrahi@gmail.com)
