In the development agenda of the 21st century, the land takes the biggest blow, and the struggles of those who live adapting to its rhythms are buried under the cities and industries that rise. On the Banks of Pampa, by Volga, a prominent name in Telugu literature, translated by Purnima Tammireddy, is a reimagining of Sabari’s tale in Ramayana. Reduced to four shlokas in Valmiki’s version, the story of Sabari, the ascetic who lives by the river Pampa, waiting for Rama, gets the prominence it deserves in Volga’s hands. It is a retelling of mythology, but it is all too relevant to the times we live in.
The river Pampa and the forest around guard Sabari like a womb. Her home is sheltered by branches and canopies and fruit-bearing trees that gift through the year. She knows the movement and stillness of the woods and water. The wind, tides, land and all that it encompasses acknowledge her presence. She has faced the sharp fangs of civilisation as a young girl; it almost got her once and it took all her might to escape its venom and find her way to the bank, which has been her refuge ever since.
Having lost her parents to the ugly side of nagarikata, she was raised by Maharishi Matanga, who was in the forest for his penance – in a quest to get rid of the curse of his caste. Sabari gets the news of the world outside the forest from travellers who visit her ashram. In her old age, she has Kabanda to assist her, and the memories of Matanga muni, which she recalls for the people visiting her.
One day, Sutapa, a traveller from Ayodhya, arrives carrying news of the prince who gave up his kingdom, adhering to his father’s request. Many of his subjects follow the prince, his wife, and his brother into the forest and disperse on quests of their own. The story of the prince and his sacrifice catches Sabari’s attention. Surely, a prince who can forego his kingdom can understand the perils of civilisation. They called thoughtless development wisdom, but Sabari has witnessed the violence and oppression of imperial forces. She waits in the hope that the courageous prince will visit her ashram and hear her out. Maybe the meeting would sow the seeds of change that she wished to see.
The rajyam is an omnipotent power that wields its weapons in all directions to fulfil its agenda of nagarikata. It does not mind crushing everything on its path for its sole purpose. This is the acknowledged dharma of Sabari’s world. Rama acknowledges in his meeting with Sabari that in the process, it is possible that a few may be uprooted from their current situations. The ultimate purpose of the state is to civilise humans. This civilisation comes at a cost. Sabari responds to Rama, everything and everyone is subjected to violence. How is violence encouraged when it meets the state’s schemes and its endless greed for expansion? For Sabari, who true to her roots, believes in the order of the universe and mankind being a part of the cycle and not the head of the pyramid, this destruction feels like flogging on her flesh.
Volga’s rajyam is in many ways a critique of modern-day capitalistic regimes. The borders, fences, treatment of those deemed illegal occupants, plundering of resources, and hegemonic control feel all too familiar. What is civilisation anyway? Whom is the development for? What is jnanam? Is it ignoring the earth and its gifts and the suffering of other lives around us? Is the destruction of land the eternal dharma? Sabari’s thoughts pierce the reader’s mind. This slim, tightly knit novel holds power in every word. The translation is seamless, doing justice to the lyrical dynamics of Volga’s prose.
How far can the voices of dissent travel? What does it mean to the masses intoxicated with the state’s theories of expansion?
For the likes of us, who champion these voices, we wonder if our endeavour is all too Sisyphean. In the end, if everything were to dissipate, we would have done our part and would have had Earth as our witness.
Monisha Raman is a freelance writer and editor.
