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Part 1 · VIDEHA MITHILA MAITHILI DISCUSSION CRITICISM SERIES PART 1

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1. 0:00–0:05Have you ever noticed how the world is just changing so incredibly fast
2. 0:05–0:09that the traditions you grew up with suddenly feel, I don't know, like relics?
3. 0:09–0:13Oh, absolutely. Yeah, it's like overnight everything shifts.
4. 0:13–0:19Right. And at the exact same time, the so-called modern world we're rushing into feels surprisingly hollow.
5. 0:19–0:23Well, it is this strange, almost uncomfortable paradox.
6. 0:23–0:27I mean, it's arguably the defining tension of our time.
7. 0:27–0:32It really is. If you're listening to this on your commute or you know while you're making dinner,
8. 0:32–0:37think about it for a second. We're more technologically connected than any generation in human history,
9. 0:37–0:41right? Yeah, we literally have the entirety of global knowledge sitting in our pockets.
10. 0:41–0:47Exactly. Yet study after study shows we feel completely adrift. Like we're isolated and
11. 0:47–0:51disconnected from any deeper sense of meaning. We've basically traded something rooted and
12. 0:51–0:57resonant for something shiny, fragile, and well deeply isolating. We're sprinting toward
13. 0:57–1:02the future at breakneck speed because we're terrified of being left behind by the global
14. 1:02–1:03economy.
15. 1:03–1:05But we're constantly looking over our shoulders.
16. 1:05–1:11Right. Wondering what crucial pieces of our humanity we just dropped along the way. We
17. 1:11–1:15are desperate for progress, but we're mourning our roots.
18. 1:15–1:20I love how you phrased that. And that specific tension, that friction between the ancient
19. 1:20–1:24and the modern is the absolute heartbeat of today's deep dive.
20. 1:24–1:27It's going to be a heavy one, but a really fascinating one.
21. 1:27–1:31For sure. So we have this fascinating stack of sources in front of us today
22. 1:31–1:35centered around an anthology called Videha Masili Lagu Katha.
23. 1:35–1:37Which is such an incredible collection.
24. 1:37–1:40It really is. For those who might not speak the language,
25. 1:40–1:43that translates to the anthology of mythology short stories.
26. 1:43–1:46It's meticulously edited by Gijendra Thakur.
27. 1:46–1:49And we should probably establish right away what we're actually doing here today.
28. 1:49–1:52Yeah, let me be crystal clear right up front about our mission.
29. 1:52–1:56This is not going to be a standard dry book review.
30. 1:56–1:59We are not just going to walk through a table of contents
31. 1:59–2:01and recap a bunch of plots for you.
32. 2:01–2:01Not at all.
33. 2:01–2:03I mean, that would be doing a massive disservice
34. 2:03–2:04to the material.
35. 2:04–2:07We are going to use these texts as a magnifying glass.
36. 2:07–2:08Right.
37. 2:08–2:12Our mission is to uncover how these hyperlocal stories,
38. 2:12–2:14written in the Methyl language,
39. 2:14–2:18act as a flawless, almost unnerving mirror
40. 2:18–2:20for the universal human condition.
41. 2:20–2:21And just to ground us a bit,
42. 2:21–2:24Mathili is an Indo-Aryan language spoken primarily
43. 2:24–2:25in the Bihar state of India
44. 2:25–2:27and the Eastern Terai region of Nepal.
45. 2:27–2:29It's a very ancient language
46. 2:29–2:32with this huge, rich literary heritage.
47. 2:32–2:34But like a lot of regional languages,
48. 2:34–2:36it's fighting for survival in a globalized world.
49. 2:36–2:37Yeah, exactly.
50. 2:37–2:38But what we're gonna see today
51. 2:38–2:40is that the stories coming out of this region
52. 2:40–2:43are not, well, they aren't quaint little village tales.
53. 2:43–2:45Far from it.
54. 2:45–2:47We're gonna explore the painful, violent clash
55. 2:47–2:51between ancient traditions and brutal modern realities.
56. 2:51–2:53We're talking about the commercialization of religion,
57. 2:53–2:55the psychological toll of terminal illness,
58. 2:55–2:57and the deeply insidious ways
59. 2:57–3:00that systemic rebellion is crushed by capitalism.
60. 3:00–3:01And of course the quiet tragedy
61. 3:01–3:05of fading indigenous languages, it covers so much ground.
62. 3:05–3:08What's truly remarkable about this specific collection
63. 3:08–3:11and what Haqqour highlights so well in his curation
64. 3:11–3:13is the sheer breathtaking breadth
65. 3:13–3:15of the human experience it captures.
66. 3:15–3:16It really does.
67. 3:16–3:19It completely shatters any preconceived notions
68. 3:19–3:22a reader might have about regional literature.
69. 3:22–3:23Because there is this persistent,
70. 3:23–3:28somewhat patronizing assumption in global literary circles,
71. 3:28–3:30people assume literature from developing regions
72. 3:30–3:33or minority languages is solely concerned
73. 3:33–3:35with rural nostalgia.
74. 3:35–3:37Or like simplistic morality tales
75. 3:37–3:40or basic agrarian struggles,
76. 3:40–3:42which I have to admit is exactly the assumption
77. 3:42–3:43I had before reading this.
78. 3:43–3:45A lot of people do, it's a very common bias.
79. 3:45–3:46But I was in awe.
80. 3:46–3:49I mean, you open this anthology and in one breath,
81. 3:49–3:52you're standing in a sterile, terrifyingly quiet cancer
82. 3:52–3:55ward in London, looking at a massive window at Big Ben.
83. 3:55–3:58Yeah, the geographical scope is wild.
84. 3:58–3:59And then you turn the page and suddenly you're
85. 3:59–4:01crouching in the pitch dark of a girl
86. 4:01–4:03war zone in the mountains.
87. 4:03–4:06You're listening to the very real sound of state sanctioned
88. 4:06–4:07bombs falling around you.
89. 4:07–4:09It swings wildly across geography,
90. 4:09–4:12across socioeconomic classes, and across the entire
91. 4:12–4:14spectrum of human emotion.
92. 4:14–4:16And that diversity is exactly what makes this collection
93. 4:16–4:18a masterpiece of modern curation.
94. 4:18–4:21So let's talk about the editor, Gajinda Thakur,
95. 4:21–4:24because his introduction isn't just a polite forward,
96. 4:24–4:26it's practically a manifesto.
97. 4:26–4:28Oh, he comes out swinging.
98. 4:28–4:31He absolutely goes after lazy literary criticism.
99. 4:31–4:34He argues that Mithili short stories have evolved
100. 4:34–4:38light years beyond those old repetitive tropes
101. 4:38–4:41about the simple, innocent village life.
102. 4:41–4:42Right.
103. 4:42–4:47He's saying they are now dealing with the trauma of global diaspora, the absolute absurdity
104. 4:47–4:52of the postmodern world, and deep paralyzing existential dread.
105. 4:52–4:56But before we get into the stories themselves, I want to stop and look at how Thakur demands
106. 4:56–4:57these stories be read.
107. 4:57–4:59Because he does not hold back.
108. 4:59–5:00He really doesn't.
109. 5:00–5:04Thakur explicitly calls out critics who fail to see the depth of these modern stories
110. 5:04–5:07because they refuse to update their critical toolkits.
111. 5:07–5:11And to prove his point, he invokes some incredibly heavy philosophical frameworks.
112. 5:11–5:16Yeah, he points to the French philosopher Jacques Derrida's concept of deconstruction.
113. 5:16–5:20He brings in Michel Foucault's theories on the relationship between power and knowledge.
114. 5:20–5:22He even brings up Lacan, right?
115. 5:22–5:25Exactly, Jacques Lacan's psychoanalytic theories.
116. 5:25–5:31He demands that reviewers look at the subconscious desires, the gaps, and the traumas driving
117. 5:31–5:32these characters.
118. 5:32–5:37He is essentially screaming at the literary establishment to stop treating this literature
119. 5:37–5:39like a quaint artifact in a museum.
120. 5:39–5:40Right.
121. 5:40–5:45treat it with the intellectual rigor it actually demands. Okay, wait, hold on. Before we go any
122. 5:45–5:50further, I need to play the role of the listener who might be like doing their laundry or driving
123. 5:50–5:56to work right now. Sure, let's ground it. You just dropped Derrida, Foucault, and Lacan in one
124. 5:56–6:01single breath. For those of us who haven't sat in a comparative literature seminar in a decade,
125. 6:01–6:05let's break this down a bit. That's entirely fair. If I'm reading a short story about a
126. 6:05–6:12family in rural Bihar? How exactly do I apply Michel Foucault's theory of power dynamics to it?
127. 6:12–6:17Like why does Taqour think I need French philosophy to understand a Mothili story?
128. 6:17–6:22It's a fantastic question and it's crucial to understanding Taqour's entire argument.
129. 6:22–6:25Let's take Michel Foucault for instance. Okay Foucault power dynamics.
130. 6:25–6:30Right Foucault argued that power is not just you know a king sitting on a throne telling you
131. 6:30–6:36you want to do. Power is dispersed through society in the form of knowledge.
132. 6:36–6:39Meaning the people who control the information control the power.
133. 6:39–6:43Exactly. The people who control the narrative, the critics, the media, the institutions,
134. 6:43–6:49they decide what is considered truth. So when Thakur brings up Foucault,
135. 6:49–6:54he's pointing out that literary critics hold a massive amount of systemic power.
136. 6:54–6:57Because they tell the rest of the world what a book means.
137. 6:57–7:02Yes. If a critic from a dominant cultural center looks at a mathily story and says,
138. 7:02–7:06oh, this is just a simple tale about farming, they are exercising power.
139. 7:06–7:08They're defining the reality of that culture for the rest of the world.
140. 7:08–7:13Exactly. Effectively silencing the actual, complex, modern reality the author wrote about.
141. 7:13–7:17So it's about who gets to hold the microphone. If the critic controls the microphone,
142. 7:17–7:19the author's actual voice gets muted.
143. 7:19–7:23Precisely. And then with Jacques Derrida and Deconstruction,
144. 7:23–7:26Derrida basically taught us that texts are unstable.
145. 7:26–7:27unstable how?
146. 7:27–7:33Well, words have multiple meanings, and a story often contradicts itself if you look closely enough.
147. 7:34–7:37Deconstruction asks you to look for the margins of the text.
148. 7:37–7:38Like what's left unsaid?
149. 7:38–7:41Right, whose perspective is missing.
150. 7:41–7:46Thakur is telling critics to stop taking Mathili stories at face value, look at the fractures,
151. 7:46–7:48look at the hidden tensions.
152. 7:48–7:52And finally, Lacan. You mentioned psychoanalysis.
153. 7:52–7:55With Lacan, we're moving from society to the deep subconscious.
154. 7:55–7:59Lacanian psychoanalysis focuses on the concept of lack.
155. 7:59–8:00Like something missing.
156. 8:00–8:06Yeah, the fundamental emptiness inside human beings that we constantly try to fill with desires,
157. 8:06–8:09whether that's money, status, or a perfect family image.
158. 8:09–8:10Oh wow, okay.
159. 8:10–8:14The core is saying these Mathilli characters aren't just reacting to bad crops or bad landlords,
160. 8:14–8:19they are driven by complex subconscious psychological traumas and desires.
161. 8:19–8:20That makes so much more sense.
162. 8:20–8:23He's demanding a three-dimensional reading instead of a flat one.
163. 8:23–8:23Exactly.
164. 8:23–8:29And he gives this brilliant specific and honestly mind-blowing example in his introduction of how a critic
165. 8:30–8:37Completely failed to do this. Oh the parrot story. Yes. Yeah, he talks about a reviewer who is critiquing his story called
166. 8:37–8:39Namaz Ishukrana
167. 8:39–8:43Now that translates roughly to a prayer of gratitude in Islam, right?
168. 8:43–8:46And the reviewer wrote this glowing piece
169. 8:46–8:53Praising this story calling it a beautiful heartwarming tale of communal harmony in India, which is quite the claim
170. 8:53–8:58Right. And why did they say that? Because in the story, there's a parrot in a cage.
171. 8:58–9:02And while the Muslim characters are performing their daily prayers, their namaz,
172. 9:02–9:05the parrot squawks out the Hindu chant, sitaram.
173. 9:05–9:08Which, I mean, if you only look at the absolute surface level,
174. 9:08–9:13might sound like a touching, somewhat heavy-handed symbol of different faiths coexisting in the
175. 9:13–9:17same shared space. Right. It sounds like a bumper sticker. Let's all just get along.
176. 9:17–9:18Yeah, exactly.
177. 9:18–9:22But the core points out that the reviewer completely ignored the actual,
178. 9:22–9:26horrifying plot of the story. The reviewer just saw what they wanted to see.
179. 9:26–9:28And what actually happens in the story is brutal.
180. 9:28–9:34It is, because what actually happens is that the owner of the parrot gets so deeply frustrated
181. 9:34–9:38and enraged by the bird interrupting his prayers with Sitaram that he just snaps.
182. 9:38–9:40He completely loses it.
183. 9:40–9:46He grabs the cage. And in a fit of absolute violent fury, he repeatedly smashes the cage
184. 9:46–9:49against the stone wall of the mosque until the bird is beaten to death.
185. 9:49–9:50It's incredibly visceral.
186. 9:50–9:55The story literally ends with a battered, dead bird and a character weeping over the
187. 9:55–10:01senseless violence. And the critic somehow published a review calling it a heartwarming
188. 10:01–10:05tale of communal harmony. It's a staggering, almost pathological,
189. 10:05–10:10misreading of the text. It perfectly illustrates Thucker's point about Foucault and power,
190. 10:10–10:15actually. It's like watching a tragic, blood-soaked horror movie like The Shining,
191. 10:15–10:19and writing a review praising it as an informative documentary on managing remote
192. 10:19–10:25real estate. It's utterly absurd. It is absurd, but it's also deeply revealing about human psychology.
193. 10:25–10:29How so? Well, the reviewer approached the text through the lens of what they desperately wanted
194. 10:29–10:35to see. India has a complex, often painful history of communal tension between Hindus and Muslims.
195. 10:35–10:41Right. It's a very charged topic. So the critic, likely operating from a place of wanting peace,
196. 10:41–10:47or perhaps wanting to project an image of peace, was so desperate for a narrative of communal
197. 10:47–10:52harmony that they forcefully imposed that narrative onto the text.
198. 10:52–10:56They completely blinded themselves to the horrific violence that the author actually
199. 10:56–10:57put on the page.
200. 10:57–10:58Exactly.
201. 10:58–11:01They literally couldn't see the blood because they were too busy looking at the bumper
202. 11:01–11:03sticker they brought with them.
203. 11:03–11:04Wow.
204. 11:04–11:09We see what we need to see to protect our own worldview rather than what the artist
205. 11:09–11:10or reality created.
206. 11:10–11:15Which raises a profound question for all of us really, not just literary critics.
207. 11:15–11:16Like in our daily lives?
208. 11:16–11:17Yeah.
209. 11:17–11:22your own daily life. How often do we consume media or read the news or even interact with
210. 11:22–11:28our own family members through our own incredibly biased, heavily filtered lenses?
211. 11:28–11:30Oh, all the time.
212. 11:30–11:34How often do we force our own comfortable, pre-packaged narratives onto someone else's
213. 11:34–11:39painful reality? Simply because engaging with what is actually right in front of us would
214. 11:39–11:41require us to be uncomfortable.
215. 11:41–11:45That is a heavy, necessary warning before we dive into these stories.
216. 11:45–11:50So, if critics so often misread the struggles of others, because they refuse to look closely,
217. 11:50–11:55let's do the opposite today. Let's look as closely as possible and how the authors in
218. 11:55–12:01this anthology vividly, almost painfully, portray intense, inescapable human struggles.
219. 12:01–12:03I think that's the best way to honor the text.
220. 12:04–12:08Let's start with what might be the ultimate most terrifying battle any human being can face.
221. 12:09–12:11The betrayal of one's own body.
222. 12:11–12:16Yes. The anthology tackles this theme brilliantly and devastatingly in Mina Chah's story,
223. 12:16–12:20Breast Cancer. And this is where we immediately see the global scope of
224. 12:20–12:26Mathili literature that's accurate promised, right? Exactly. This story is an emotional sledgehammer.
225. 12:26–12:29The setting immediately tells you we are not in rural Bihar anymore.
226. 12:29–12:33We are placed squarely in St. Thomas Hospital in London up on the fifth floor.
227. 12:33–12:37And the atmosphere is just so heavy. The protagonist, a Mathili woman named
228. 12:37–12:42Madorama Singh is lying in a sterile hospital bed staring out a large glass
229. 12:42–12:48window and what dominates her view the massive looming face of Big Ben.
230. 12:48–12:50It's such a striking image.
231. 12:50–12:54She is obsessively watching the giant hands of the clock.
232. 12:54–12:59It's 6.35 p.m. the sun is setting casting this supposedly beautiful light over the
233. 12:59–13:03River Thames but she cannot appreciate the beauty at all.
234. 13:03–13:04She's just gripped by anxiety.
235. 13:04–13:07Yeah, she's waiting for the 7.0 pm chimes.
236. 13:07–13:10Waiting for her husband, Suresh, and her two daughters,
237. 13:10–13:13Rashmi and Kiran, to arrive for evening visiting hours.
238. 13:13–13:16The environmental storytelling here is just masterful.
239. 13:16–13:20The relentless ticking of Big Ben serves as this constant,
240. 13:20–13:23oppressive, mechanical reminder of mortality
241. 13:23–13:25and the irreversible passage of times.
242. 13:25–13:26Like a countdown.
243. 13:26–13:29Big Ben is the ultimate symbol of the Western metropole.
244. 13:29–13:32It represents cold, precise, unyielding time,
245. 13:32–13:35which stands in stark contrast to the often more fluid,
246. 13:35–13:39cyclical concept of time in traditional agrarian societies.
247. 13:39–13:42For Manorama, that clock is literally ticking away her life.
248. 13:42–13:45Because Manorama's personal time might be rapidly running out.
249. 13:45–13:48Through her internal reflections, we learn her tragic arc.
250. 13:48–13:49And it's a brutal history.
251. 13:49–13:51Three years prior to this moment,
252. 13:51–13:54she endured the trauma of a mastectomy.
253. 13:54–13:57She went through the pain, the recovery, the fear,
254. 13:57–14:00and she truly thought she had beaten the disease.
255. 14:00–14:01She thought she had bought back her life.
256. 14:01–14:03But the cancer came back.
257. 14:03–14:03Yeah.
258. 14:03–14:06After endless exhausting hospital visits and tests,
259. 14:06–14:10the doctors have delivered the worst possible news.
260. 14:10–14:12The cancer has returned, and it's aggressively
261. 14:12–14:13invaded her remaining breast.
262. 14:13–14:16The medical staff tells her that conservative medication
263. 14:16–14:17won't work anymore.
264. 14:17–14:20If she wants to live, she needs another grueling, life
265. 14:20–14:22altering, mutilating surgery.
266. 14:22–14:24And here is where the psychological depth
267. 14:24–14:28of the story, the kind of Lacanian psychoanalysis
268. 14:28–14:31that Thakur urged us to look for, really comes into play.
269. 14:31–14:36we are forced to witness a complete devastating flip in the psychological landscape of a marriage.
270. 14:37–14:42Manorama is faced with a terrifying physical reality. She's facing the loss of what society
271. 14:42–14:47and perhaps she herself perceives as a core component of her physical womanhood.
272. 14:47–14:49Not to mention the agony of another recovery.
273. 14:49–14:56But deep within that terror, she finds an anchor. She makes the active conscious choice
274. 14:56–15:00to endure the mutilation and the physical pain solely to stay alive for her daughters.
275. 15:00–15:04Her motivation is entirely externalized into maternal duty.
276. 15:04–15:09She isn't fighting for herself anymore. She's fighting for the future she wants to secure for her girls.
277. 15:09–15:14Right. She explicitly states she wants to see them through their A-level exams.
278. 15:14–15:18She wants to see Rashmi go off to medical school and she wants to see Karen go to law school.
279. 15:18–15:23She finds this incredible almost inverted strength in her role as a mother.
280. 15:23–15:28It's a profound sacrifice, but the real psychological tension of the story comes
281. 15:28–15:31from the stark contrast with her husband, Suresh.
282. 15:31–15:33Yes. Before the cancer,
283. 15:33–15:36Manorama was clearly the foundation of the family.
284. 15:36–15:39The author gives us this incredibly visceral,
285. 15:39–15:40sensory flashback to show that.
286. 15:40–15:42Right, the cooking scene.
287. 15:42–15:44Manorama remembers a day when she was in the kitchen
288. 15:44–15:47making Suresh's favorite traditional food.
289. 15:47–15:49She's rolling out cornflap breads,
290. 15:49–15:53makaiki roti, and cooking mustard greens, sarson kasag.
291. 15:53–15:55She is literally providing the nourishment,
292. 15:55–15:56the taste of home.
293. 15:56–15:59and suddenly the chest pain hits her so violently
294. 15:59–16:00that she collapses.
295. 16:00–16:03She burns the food and the smoke alarm starts blaring.
296. 16:03–16:05It's a brilliant metaphor.
297. 16:05–16:08She is the foundation and when she physically falters,
298. 16:08–16:10the entire house fills with smoke and alarms.
299. 16:10–16:12But when that foundation cracks,
300. 16:12–16:15Suresh completely collapses.
301. 16:15–16:19I have to admit, reading his reaction was infuriating,
302. 16:19–16:20but also deeply tragic.
303. 16:20–16:22He just cannot cope with her illness.
304. 16:22–16:25He can't cope with the physical changes to her body
305. 16:25–16:28after the first misdemean and the impending reality of the second.
306. 16:28–16:29He just breaks.
307. 16:29–16:32His reaction is a tragic unraveling
308. 16:32–16:35of the traditional patriarchal expectation of strength.
309. 16:35–16:37When the crisis hits, he abandons
310. 16:37–16:39the emotional intimacy of their marriage.
311. 16:39–16:41He stops sleeping in the same room, right?
312. 16:41–16:42They withdraws completely.
313. 16:42–16:44He turns to alcohol as an anesthetic,
314. 16:44–16:46eventually spending half the income
315. 16:46–16:48from his news agent shop on liquor and cigarettes.
316. 16:48–16:52He becomes irritable, angry, and verbally abusive.
317. 16:52–16:57and ultimately completely unable to face the reality of his wife's mortality
318. 16:57–17:01and utterly crushed by the weight of his own failure to support her,
319. 17:01–17:06he commits suicide in the back of his shop by taking a massive overdose of sleeping pills.
320. 17:06–17:08It's a total inversion.
321. 17:08–17:13The woman lying in the hospital bed, facing the loss of her body, is the bedrock of strength.
322. 17:13–17:16The man, who is physically healthy, crumbles into dust.
323. 17:16–17:18It's deeply unsettling to read.
324. 17:18–17:21But I have a question about the author's choices here.
325. 17:21–17:24Why did Minaja set this story in London?
326. 17:24–17:29The details are so specific the A-levels the news agent shop Big Ben.
327. 17:29–17:30Yeah, it's very deliberately placed.
328. 17:30–17:36If this is a Mathili story, why not set it in the village in Bihar or even a bustling city like Patan or Delhi
329. 17:36–17:38Where the language and culture originate?
330. 17:38–17:41It's a structural choice and it's crucial to the theme of the story.
331. 17:42–17:48Placing this narrative in the diaspora specifically in a Western city like London highlights a profound sense of isolation.
332. 17:48–17:50Well think about the social structures.
333. 17:50–17:58If Manorama were facing this illness in a village in Bihar, or even in a traditional joint family setup in an Indian city,
334. 17:58–18:04there would almost certainly be an extensive network of family neighbors and community to lean on.
335. 18:04–18:07There'd be grandmothers, aunties, and cousins flowing in and out of the house.
336. 18:07–18:14Exactly. They would help cook, they would help with the children's schooling, they would sit by her bed and share the emotional burden of the terror.
337. 18:14–18:18So the burden would be distributed across 20 people instead of just two.
338. 18:18–18:19Precisely.
339. 18:19–18:23But in London, they are living in a nuclear family structure.
340. 18:23–18:25She is utterly alone.
341. 18:25–18:30The Western model of individualism amplifies the tragedy exponentially.
342. 18:30–18:34Because when Suresh's mental health collapses, there is no safety net beneath him.
343. 18:34–18:37There's no uncle to pull him aside and tell him to get his act together.
344. 18:37–18:40There's no sister-in-law to take over the shop.
345. 18:40–18:42Manorama is left entirely isolated.
346. 18:42–18:47She's trapped in a foreign medical system, dealing with her own life-threatening illness,
347. 18:47–18:52simultaneously watching the wreckage of her marriage and her husband's life unfold.
348. 18:52–18:56It makes the ticking of Big Ben so much louder, doesn't it?
349. 18:56–18:59It is the sound of absolute mechanical isolation.
350. 18:59–19:03If you've ever been a caregiver, or if you've ever faced a serious medical crisis far away
351. 19:03–19:08from your hometown, you know exactly what that terrifying silence feels like.
352. 19:08–19:13It perfectly aligns with Ahukkah's point about how modern literature must address feminism
353. 19:13–19:14and the diaspora.
354. 19:14–19:19Because women are so often left bearing the ultimate crushing burdens of modern isolated
355. 19:19–19:25life forcing them to forge a terrifying solitary strength just to survive.
356. 19:25–19:29It's a brilliant dark exploration of modern existential dread.
357. 19:29–19:34So if Menorama struggle was a deeply internal psychological battle in an isolated modern
358. 19:34–19:39setting, the anthology also proves its breadth by swinging to the exact opposite extreme.
359. 19:39–19:40Right.
360. 19:40–19:46quiet terror of a hospital room to external, loud societal struggles involving massive
361. 19:46–19:48groups of people and systemic oppression.
362. 19:48–19:51I want to look at two very different stories that deal with revolution and the fight for
363. 19:51–19:53societal change.
364. 19:53–19:56The first is Roshan Janakpuri's Agni Pushpa Kuchasab.
365. 19:56–19:58This story is a short pivot.
366. 19:58–20:04Here we see the clear influence of Marxist literary themes, exploring literal, physical,
367. 20:04–20:07armed rebellion against entrenched systemic oppression.
368. 20:07–20:13The scene-genic Puri paints is incredibly cinematic, chaotic, and intense.
369. 20:13–20:15We are no longer in London.
370. 20:15–20:19It's the dead of night in remote, mountainous guerrilla warzone.
371. 20:19–20:21The auditory descriptions alone are wild.
372. 20:21–20:24Bombs are whistling down from enemy helicopters sent by the state.
373. 20:24–20:29The John Cena, which translates to the People's Army, is desperately trying to hold the
374. 20:29–20:30line.
375. 20:30–20:33There are chaotic flashes of light from automatic weapons illuminating the darkness of the
376. 20:33–20:34jungle.
377. 20:34–20:39In the background, they're frantically treating the wounded and dying in a makeshift hospital
378. 20:39–20:42set up inside an abandoned school building.
379. 20:42–20:44It's a scene of absolute carnage.
380. 20:44–20:46But the author doesn't just give us action, right?
381. 20:46–20:50He gives us the profound heartbreaking humanity of these soldiers.
382. 20:50–20:51That is the crucial element.
383. 20:51–20:54The author humanizes the statistics of war.
384. 20:54–20:58He gives faces, names, and deeply personal histories to the casualties.
385. 20:58–21:00Like the young martyr named Resh Bahadur.
386. 21:00–21:01Exactly.
387. 21:01–21:03He didn't join the armed struggle because he loved violence.
388. 21:03–21:06He joined because of his mother.
389. 21:06–21:09His mother survives by breaking stones for a living.
390. 21:09–21:11And we should pause on that detail.
391. 21:11–21:13Breaking stones isn't just a tough job.
392. 21:13–21:17No, it's backbreaking, finger crushing, desperate labor.
393. 21:17–21:22It's usually done by the absolute poorest of the poor sitting in the dust under a blazing
394. 21:22–21:23sun.
395. 21:23–21:24Precisely.
396. 21:24–21:29Rush Bahador picked up a gun hoping to end the kind of systemic generational poverty
397. 21:29–21:34that forces an elderly woman to destroy her body just to buy a handful of rice.
398. 21:34–21:37And then we learn about another martyr, Kamini.
399. 21:37–21:38She's a young widow.
400. 21:38–21:39Her story is just as heartbreaking.
401. 21:39–21:41Her husband wasn't a soldier.
402. 21:41–21:45He was a civilian who was brutally murdered by state police simply because they suspected
403. 21:45–21:47him of sympathizing with the Maoist rebels.
404. 21:47–21:50The state created its own enemy there.
405. 21:50–21:54Kamini was so consumed by the injustice that she left her two small children with
406. 21:54–21:57their grandparents and went into the jungle to join the revolution.
407. 21:57–22:02These are not abstract philosophical concepts of war discussed in a university classroom.
408. 22:02–22:06This is literal blood being shed into the soil for systemic change.
409. 22:06–22:11These characters are actively giving up their lives, hoping that their ultimate sacrifice
410. 22:11–22:16will eventually, someday, break the cycle of capitalist and state exploitation.
411. 22:16–22:19But then, the anthology does something brilliant.
412. 22:19–22:21It really does.
413. 22:21–22:26We flip the page to another story, Mahaprakash's Sambhavana, which deals with rebellion
414. 22:26–22:30in a completely different, almost horrifyingly quiet, bloodless way.
415. 22:30–22:34Sampavada is a master class in political satire.
416. 22:34–22:39It's a brilliant, insidious tale that shows how entrenched power structures can completely
417. 22:39–22:43neutralize a threat without ever firing a single bullet.
418. 22:43–22:44Right.
419. 22:44–22:46In this story, we're in a more traditional village setting.
420. 22:46–22:51We have a zamindar, a wealthy, powerful, hereditary landlord riding high on top of
421. 22:51–22:52his elephant.
422. 22:52–22:56exuding absolute power, arrogance and dominance over the landscape.
423. 22:56–22:58But suddenly his path is blocked.
424. 22:58–23:03A young, incredibly strong, visibly defiant village boy stands in the middle of the dirt
425. 23:03–23:04road.
426. 23:04–23:06The boy simply refuses to move out of the way of the elephant.
427. 23:06–23:09He's challenging the Zamendari's authority right there in the open in front of the entire
428. 23:09–23:10village.
429. 23:10–23:13It's a moment of extreme tension.
430. 23:13–23:18The natural expectation, especially given the historical power dynamics of the Zamendari
431. 23:18–23:22system in the region, is that this will end in immediate violence.
432. 23:22–23:26Because the Xamandar has the power of life and death over these peasants, right?
433. 23:26–23:27Exactly.
434. 23:27–23:31The Mahut, the man driving the elephant, immediately prepares to attack the boy with his hook to
435. 23:31–23:34clear the path and punish the insolence.
436. 23:34–23:37The audience is bracing for the boy to be crushed.
437. 23:37–23:41But the Xamandar is terrifyingly sociopathically smart.
438. 23:41–23:42He really is.
439. 23:42–23:43He stops the Mahut.
440. 23:43–23:48He plays it off, waving his hand and saying the boy is just young, hot-blooded and
441. 23:48–23:49ignorant.
442. 23:49–23:54But underneath that calm exterior, the Xamandar's internal monologue reveals something else entirely.
443. 23:54–24:00He recognizes the boy's immense physical strength, his charisma, and the extreme danger of his
444. 24:00–24:01revolutionary fire.
445. 24:01–24:05The Xamandar knows that if he beats the boy, he might make him a martyr, sparking a larger
446. 24:05–24:06uprising.
447. 24:06–24:08So what is his punishment?
448. 24:08–24:09How does he crush the rebellion?
449. 24:09–24:11He doesn't order a beating.
450. 24:11–24:13Instead, he orchestrates a marriage.
451. 24:13–24:19He uses his wealth and influence to arrange for this defiant, fiery boy to marry a
452. 24:19–24:21a beautiful, traditional girl from the village.
453. 24:21–24:24This is where the story shifts from a simple confrontation
454. 24:24–24:28into a profound critique of systemic control.
455. 24:28–24:31We have to unpack the Zemindars in Sidious Genius here.
456. 24:31–24:33By giving the boy a wife,
457. 24:33–24:34the Zemindar immediately saddles him
458. 24:34–24:37with a heavy yoke of domestic responsibility.
459. 24:37–24:40The boy is no longer a free, unburdened agent
460. 24:40–24:42with the time, the energy, and the reckless courage
461. 24:42–24:44to stand in front of elephants
462. 24:44–24:45and challenge the feudal system.
463. 24:45–24:47He now has a dependent.
464. 24:47–24:48He has a family to feed.
465. 24:48–24:55The text is so specific about this trap, it mentions the sudden, inescapable struggle for salt, oil, and wood.
466. 24:55–24:59The absolute basic grinding necessities of human survival.
467. 24:59–25:07The boy's revolutionary fire, his desire to change the world, is completely extinguished by the mundane, exhausting weight of domestic duty.
468. 25:07–25:10It's the ultimate pair of gold and, or in this case, copper handcuffs.
469. 25:10–25:14Exactly. The Zem and Awe weaponized the boy's own fundamental human needs.
470. 25:14–25:19The need for companionship, the need for a family, the need for survival against him.
471. 25:19–25:24It's a flawless execution of structural violence, because the boy now has to provide for his wife.
472. 25:24–25:26He can no longer afford to be a rebel.
473. 25:26–25:28He has to become a worker.
474. 25:28–25:30So he leaves the village entirely.
475. 25:30–25:36He packs up and goes off to a massive metropolis like Delhi or Haryana to become an anonymous wage laborer.
476. 25:37–25:42He just disappears into the vast grinding machine of modern urban capitalism.
477. 25:42–25:48He is neutralized. He never returns to challenge the zamindar again. The threat is gone.
478. 25:48–25:50And what makes it so chilling is the collateral damage.
479. 25:50–25:57The boy became a wage slave, but the beautiful girl he married, the tool the zamindar used to trap him, is left behind in the village.
480. 25:57–26:03She's left endlessly waiting by the side of a road that the author poignantly names Highway 1947.
481. 26:03–26:06I mean, 1947. I mean, the symbolism there is incredibly loud.
482. 26:06–26:07Oh, it's deafening.
483. 26:07–26:121947 is the year of these independence from British rule. It was a year of massive promises,
484. 26:12–26:15promises of equality, freedom, and the end of exploitation.
485. 26:15–26:20And yet, this young woman is standing by a highway named after that promise, waiting
486. 26:20–26:24for a husband who has been swallowed by a new kind of economic exploitation.
487. 26:24–26:29It's a devastating critique of post-colonial reality. If we connect this back to Janakuri's
488. 26:29–26:33story of the guerrilla war, the contrast is staggering.
489. 26:33–26:38One story shows the bloody, visible, tragic cost of fighting an oppressive system head
490. 26:38–26:40on with weapons.
491. 26:40–26:45But Mahaprakash's story shows how the modern systems of capitalism and domesticity can
492. 26:45–26:49smoothly, silently, and legally neutralize rebellion.
493. 26:49–26:53This Zamandar won the class war without throwing a single punch.
494. 26:53–26:55It's horrifying because it's so recognizable.
495. 26:55–27:00Think about how many people in our own modern world have massive dreams of changing
496. 27:00–27:02the system of fighting injustice.
497. 27:02–27:06And then they get a mortgage, they have kids, they get a corporate job with health insurance.
498. 27:06–27:08And suddenly they can't afford to rebel anymore.
499. 27:08–27:13The system absorbs the rebellion by making survival dependent on compliance.
500. 27:13–27:17The boy in Sampavana became a wage slave trapped in the daily grind.
501. 27:17–27:21And that structural trap transitions us perfectly into our next theme.
502. 27:21–27:25Because we need to look at just how soul crushing that wage slavery can become when
503. 27:25–27:29it intersects with a deeply personal family crisis.
504. 27:29–27:34Let's dive into Vincent Pogvant-Savant's incredibly stressful story, Ruch Tahrab.
505. 27:34–27:38Which translates to the agony or the throes of death.
506. 27:38–27:43If the previous story was about how one becomes a wage slave, this story explores the absolute
507. 27:43–27:46psychological horror of existing as one.
508. 27:46–27:49It's a deep dive into the mechanics of economic coercion.
509. 27:49–27:54The protagonist here is a man working as a junior supervisor at a massive, unforgiving
510. 27:54–27:58construction site, specifically the Solali Canal and Dane Hill Project.
511. 27:58–28:04working in brutal conditions. And his salary is a meager 12 rupees a day. Just let that sink in.
512. 28:05–28:10Even accounting for inflation in historical context, 12 rupees a day is starvation wages.
513. 28:10–28:13It's barely enough to buy the calories required to keep his family breathing.
514. 28:13–28:18At the exact same time he's dealing with this job, his father is at home, paralyzed,
515. 28:18–28:23bedridden, and actively dying. The father is literally in his final hours gasping for
516. 28:23–28:27his final breath surrounded by the weeping family. The author constructs an unbearable
517. 28:27–28:31pressure cooker. The supervisor is caught between two absolute unforgiving forces.
518. 28:31–28:38On one side, he has his deep moral, emotional, and cultural duty to sit by his father's side.
519. 28:38–28:42He needs to hold his hand as he passes from this world and perform the necessary rites
520. 28:42–28:43as the eldest son.
521. 28:43–28:48But on the other side, at the construction site, there is a monstrous executive engineer.
522. 28:48–28:54This boss is completely devoid of basic human empathy. He's entirely focused on bureaucracy
523. 28:54–28:55and power.
524. 28:55–28:59high-ranking government official, the chief minister, is scheduled to make a political
525. 28:59–29:01visit to the construction site on Tuesday.
526. 29:01–29:06And the executive engineer is frantic about making the site look perfect for the politician.
527. 29:06–29:10He threatens to fire the junior supervisor instantly if the site isn't cleared and ready.
528. 29:10–29:13The threat of termination is not an empty one.
529. 29:13–29:14The dialogue is brutal.
530. 29:14–29:18The engineer screams at him in front of the workers, you useless supervisor, if this
531. 29:18–29:21work isn't done, I will hand you your termination order.
532. 29:21–29:27And for a man making 12 rupees a day, losing his job is not an inconvenience, it's an existential
533. 29:27–29:28threat.
534. 29:28–29:32Because if he loses that income, his entire family, including his elderly mother and his
535. 29:32–29:36young dependent siblings, will literally face starvation.
536. 29:36–29:39He possesses zero economic safety net.
537. 29:39–29:44This impossible situation forces the protagonist into an inner monologue that is frankly
538. 29:44–29:47one of the most morally agonizing things I have ever read.
539. 29:47–29:51He's sitting in the dim room by his dying father's bed.
540. 29:51–29:54He can hear the horrific death rattle in his father's throat.
541. 29:54–29:56He loves his father.
542. 29:56–30:00But because he's so deeply terrified of the executive engineer, and because he's so desperate
543. 30:00–30:05to keep his family from starving, he catches his own brain doing a grotesque, monstrous
544. 30:05–30:07kind of temporal calculus.
545. 30:07–30:08Yes.
546. 30:08–30:10The psychological fracture occurs.
547. 30:10–30:15He begins to actively hope to quietly pray that his father dies before Thursday.
548. 30:15–30:16It's gut-wrenching.
549. 30:16–30:19He's wishing for his own father's death to hurry up.
550. 30:19–30:20Why?
551. 30:20–30:25died before Thursday, the supervisor has a socially, legally and professionally valid excuse to miss
552. 30:25–30:31work without the executive engineer being able to fire him. He can say, my father died, I need leave.
553. 30:31–30:37But if the father's strong heart keeps fighting, if the father lingers too long and survives past
554. 30:37–30:42the weekend into the new work week, the supervisor will be forced to make an impossible choice.
555. 30:42–30:47He'll either have to abandon his actively dying father to go to the construction site
556. 30:47–30:52or stay by the deathbed and condemn his entire surviving family to starvation by getting fired.
557. 30:52–30:57It's the ultimate degradation of the human spirit. What's so fascinating and so deeply
558. 30:57–31:02disturbing about this story is how it proves that systemic poverty strips away our humanity,
559. 31:02–31:07our dignity, and our morality long before it actually stars our physical bodies.
560. 31:07–31:12Economic coercion is a form of violence that forces a good, loving, dutiful son into
561. 31:12–31:14to having morally horrifying thoughts.
562. 31:14–31:16He is reduced to wishing for the swift death
563. 31:16–31:18of the man who gave him life,
564. 31:18–31:21simply to satisfy the arbitrary corporate timeline
565. 31:21–31:22of a visiting politician.
566. 31:22–31:24It's modern hustle culture
567. 31:24–31:28taken to its absolute most dystopian nightmare extreme.
568. 31:28–31:30We hear a lot of podcasts and read a lot of articles
569. 31:30–31:33about work-life balance or setting boundaries,
570. 31:33–31:36but this story strips all that privileged jargon away.
571. 31:36–31:39Here, human grief, the sacred, profound moment
572. 31:39–31:41of a parent's passing from this earth
573. 31:41–31:45has to be mathematically scheduled around a VIP visit
574. 31:45–31:46and an abusive middle manager.
575. 31:46–31:48It forces the reader to confront
576. 31:48–31:51the profound fragility of morality.
577. 31:51–31:53We all like to believe we're moral people
578. 31:53–31:55that we hold family above all else.
579. 31:55–31:58But this story asks, how moral can you afford to be
580. 31:58–32:01when basic survival is on the line?
581. 32:01–32:03When the system demands your soul
582. 32:03–32:05in exchange for 12 rupees,
583. 32:05–32:07the soul is often the first thing to go.
584. 32:07–32:08If you're listening right now,
585. 32:08–32:10think about your own workplace.
586. 32:10–32:15Think about times you've had to negotiate your own personal tragedies, an illness, a loss,
587. 32:15–32:19a family crisis, around a project deadline, or a boss's bad mood.
588. 32:19–32:23We might not be making 12 rupees a day, but the underlying systemic pressure, the commodification
589. 32:23–32:26of our time and our grief, is eerily similar.
590. 32:26–32:30And that precise realization that our morality is often compromised by the systems we live
591. 32:30–32:35in transitions us seamlessly into another major recurring theme across this anthology.
592. 32:35–32:40societal hypocrisy that flourishes when people prioritize appearances, wealth, and social
593. 32:40–32:42standing over genuine humanity.
594. 32:42–32:47The mythilli authors in this collection absolutely skewer the performative nature of religion
595. 32:47–32:48and social customs.
596. 32:48–32:50Oh, they take a scalpel to it.
597. 32:50–32:51They do not hold back.
598. 32:51–32:56There is a whole cluster of stories, specifically Hamar Samaj, Babaham, Aina, and Utrep,
599. 32:56–33:01that just systematically dismantle societal hypocrisy piece by piece.
600. 33:01–33:06Let's start with how they tackle the commercialization of faith in Hamar Samaj in Balbdham.
601. 33:06–33:12These stories expose how the sacred has been entirely devoured by the transactional.
602. 33:12–33:17In the story Hamar Samaj, which translates to our society, the author describes a Vishnu
603. 33:17–33:18Mahayajna.
604. 33:18–33:23Traditionally, this is supposed to be a massive, deeply spiritual, religious gathering,
605. 33:23–33:25a ritual of purification and devotion.
606. 33:25–33:29But the author depicts it as a grotesque carnival of commerce.
607. 33:29–33:36There's a commercialized statue of Lord Ganesha that's literally rigged to sell la dues, a type of suite, to devotees for profit.
608. 33:36–33:38It's a spiritual vending machine.
609. 33:38–33:40Even worse, there's a fake Kamdenu cow.
610. 33:40–33:46In Hindu mythology, Kamdenu is a sacred, mythical cow that grants wishes and provides infinite abundance.
611. 33:46–33:58But in this story, the organizers have just set up a mechanical or dressed up fake cow as a blatant scam to extract donations and money from desperate, uneducated believers who are hoping for a miracle.
612. 33:58–34:00The priests are basically running a con game.
613. 34:00–34:04And this critique of performative religion is personalized perfectly in the story of
614. 34:04–34:05Babaham.
615. 34:05–34:11It gives us a phenomenal character study in hypocrisy through a man named Sukhan.
616. 34:11–34:17Sukhan is the archetype of the man who makes a massive, incredibly loud public show of his
617. 34:17–34:18piety.
618. 34:18–34:22He spends a lavish amount of money to go on a grand pilgrimage to Babaham, which involves
619. 34:22–34:27a grueling physical journey carrying holy water to offer to Lord Shiva.
620. 34:27–34:29He makes sure everyone in the village sees him going.
621. 34:29–34:30He chants the loudest.
622. 34:30–34:34To top it off, he tacks on a luxurious vacation to Calcutta.
623. 34:34–34:37His entire religious practice is designed for public consumption.
624. 34:37–34:42He wants the social capital that comes with being seen as a devoted, successful, pious
625. 34:42–34:43man.
626. 34:43–34:46He wants the Instagram aesthetic of holiness.
627. 34:46–34:49But the author pulls back the curtain on his private reality, and it's entirely different
628. 34:49–34:51and frankly disgusting.
629. 34:51–34:55While Sukhan is spending thousands of rupees on a performative pilgrimage to impress
630. 34:55–35:01his neighbors. He's a monster at home. He literally refuses to buy a simple two rupee
631. 35:01–35:07cup of tea for his own elderly father. Even worse, his mother is suffering from severe
632. 35:07–35:11cataracts. She's going blind. The surgery would cost a fraction of what he spent on
633. 35:11–35:16his Calcutta vacation. But he refuses to pay for it, leaving his mother to stumble around
634. 35:16–35:21in the dark, vulnerable to falling and breaking a hip. He will travel hundreds of
635. 35:21–35:25miles to worship a stone idol of a deity, but he won't spend a dime to alleviate the
636. 35:25–35:27suffering of the mother who birthed him.
637. 35:27–35:32It's a brutal juxtaposition, and the author twists the knife further by introducing
638. 35:32–35:35Fakhan's neighbor, Lakhan.
639. 35:35–35:36Lakhan serves as the foil.
640. 35:36–35:39Lakhan does not go on the fancy, loud pilgrimage.
641. 35:39–35:40She stays home in the village.
642. 35:40–35:44If you only looked at the surface, you might think Lakhan is less devout.
643. 35:44–35:46But why does he stay home?
644. 35:46–35:50Because he's busy actually doing the hard, unglamorous, unseen work of caring for
645. 35:50–35:52for his own disabled parents.
646. 35:52–35:55He is practicing actual applied empathy.
647. 35:55–35:58And the ultimate karmic irony of this story is beautiful.
648. 35:58–36:01While Sukhan is far away in Calcutta,
649. 36:01–36:02performing his grand religious duties
650. 36:02–36:04and taking his vacation,
651. 36:04–36:07his neglected abused father falls severely ill.
652. 36:07–36:11And who steps in to save the old man, Lakhan?
653. 36:11–36:12The neighbor who skipped the pilgrimage
654. 36:12–36:15is the one who rushes Sukhan's father to the doctor,
655. 36:15–36:17pays the medical bills out of his own pocket
656. 36:17–36:18and nurses him.
657. 36:18–36:22It highlights a fundamental catastrophic failing of modern society.
658. 36:22–36:24We love the spectacle of morality.
659. 36:24–36:29We love the loud declarations of faith, the purchasing of blessings, the elaborate public
660. 36:29–36:30rituals.
661. 36:30–36:35This theme is further explored in Binupai's philosophical story Utrep, which looks at
662. 36:35–36:40the absurdly elaborate, incredibly expensive rituals surrounding death.
663. 36:40–36:43Families will bankrupt themselves to throw a massive lavish feast for the village after
664. 36:43–36:47a relative dies, purely to maintain their social prestige.
665. 36:47–36:50But those same families will have completely ignored the deceased person while they were
666. 36:50–36:52alive and suffering.
667. 36:52–36:58We excel at the performance of duty, but fail completely at basic, quiet, day-to-day human
668. 36:58–36:59empathy.
669. 36:59–37:02We care more about what the neighbors think of our grief than we care about the person
670. 37:02–37:04we are grieving.
671. 37:04–37:07And this hypocrisy isn't just confined to religious rituals.
672. 37:07–37:11It bleeds heavily into social customs and the economics of family.
673. 37:11–37:16The story Aina, which translates to the mirror, is a brutal, flawless takedown of this
674. 37:16–37:18exact phenomenon.
675. 37:18–37:22Aina is a psychological trap for the reader and for the narrator himself.
676. 37:22–37:27The story revolves around the deeply entrenched, highly toxic practice of the dowry system.
677. 37:27–37:32The narrator of the story is highly critical and very vocal about his brother-in-law, a
678. 37:32–37:33man named Mahesh.
679. 37:33–37:39Mahesh has just arranged a marriage for his son, LeLan, who is an educated engineer.
680. 37:39–37:43Because his son has a good degree, Mahesh treated the marriage market like an extortion
681. 37:43–37:44racket.
682. 37:44–37:50a massive dowry, 500,000 rupees, from the desperately poor father of the bride, a man
683. 37:50–37:52named Bukantakur.
684. 37:52–37:53It's a crippling amount of money.
685. 37:53–37:58On the actual day of the wedding, with all the guests assembled, Bukantakur is short.
686. 37:58–38:01He couldn't raise the final balance of 100,000 rupees.
687. 38:01–38:03And Mahesh is furious.
688. 38:03–38:07He insults the bride's father in public and threatens to call off the wedding, which
689. 38:07–38:10would destroy the bride's family's reputation forever.
690. 38:10–38:13As readers, we naturally side with the narrator.
691. 38:13–38:15The narrator is judging Mahesh harshly,
692. 38:15–38:19viewing him as a cruel, greedy, socially backward man
693. 38:19–38:20for demanding this money
694. 38:20–38:23and holding a young girl's future hostage
695. 38:23–38:25over a financial transaction.
696. 38:25–38:27The narrator confronts Mahesh,
697. 38:27–38:29standing tall on the moral high ground,
698. 38:29–38:31ready to deliver a lecture on modern values.
699. 38:31–38:33He's ready to be the hero of the story.
700. 38:33–38:36He tells Mahesh how shameful his behavior is,
701. 38:36–38:38but Mahesh doesn't argue back.
702. 38:38–38:40He doesn't defend the dowry system.
703. 38:40–38:42He just looks dead into the narrator's eyes
704. 38:42–38:44says three words, look in the mirror.
705. 38:44–38:46And in that exact second, the narrator's
706. 38:46–38:47entire reality shatters.
707. 38:47–38:51He has this sudden sickening realization of his own history.
708. 38:51–38:52The revelation is stunning.
709. 38:52–38:55The narrator suddenly remembers his own son's wedding.
710. 38:55–38:58When his son, Ganesh, got married a few years prior,
711. 38:58–39:00the narrator did the exact same thing.
712. 39:00–39:04He forced the bride's father, a man named Tuntun Babu,
713. 39:04–39:07to literally mortgage his ancestral farmland
714. 39:07–39:10just to pay a 50,000 rupee balance
715. 39:10–39:12before he would allow the wedding procession to proceed.
716. 39:12–39:15He practically ruined a man's life for 50 grand,
717. 39:15–39:17but he had completely compartmentalized it.
718. 39:17–39:20He had justified his own greed.
719. 39:20–39:20He probably told himself,
720. 39:20–39:23well, I spent so much on my son's education,
721. 39:23–39:24it's only fair I recoup the costs,
722. 39:24–39:26or it's just our tradition.
723. 39:26–39:29He found a way to make his extortion acceptable
724. 39:29–39:32on his own mind, but he was perfectly willing and eager
725. 39:32–39:35to aggressively condemn his brother-in-law
726. 39:35–39:36for the identical behavior.
727. 39:36–39:39It's the pinnacle of cognitive dissonance.
728. 39:39–39:41The human mind's ability to excuse its own flaws
729. 39:41–39:44while magnifying the flaws of others is boundless.
730. 39:44–39:47We are entirely blind to our own cruelty
731. 39:47–39:49when it benefits us financially or socially,
732. 39:49–39:52but we are hypercritical of the exact same cruelty
733. 39:52–39:53when we see it reflected in others.
734. 39:53–39:56The mirror in the title isn't just for the narrator.
735. 39:56–39:59It's held up to the entire society.
736. 39:59–40:00It reflects the ugliness of a culture
737. 40:00–40:02that commodifies human relationships,
738. 40:02–40:05turns marriage into a hostage negotiation,
739. 40:05–40:07and then justifies extortion
740. 40:07–40:10under the respectable guise of tradition.
741. 40:10–40:11Think about that the next time you get mad
742. 40:11–40:13at someone cutting you off in traffic
743. 40:13–40:15when you probably did the exact same thing
744. 40:15–40:16to someone else a week ago,
745. 40:16–40:18because you were running late.
746. 40:18–40:20We always have an excuse for ourselves.
747. 40:20–40:23So we have explored a society prioritizing profit,
748. 40:23–40:28spectacle, and ego over genuine empathy.
749. 40:28–40:30And what these mathily authors argue
750. 40:30–40:33with profound sadness is that this very hypocrisy,
751. 40:33–40:38this endless transactional mindset is destroying their culture from the inside out.
752. 40:38–40:42Which brings us to our final and perhaps most heartbreaking theme, the fading of roots, the
753. 40:42–40:45loss of language, and the death of tradition.
754. 40:45–40:49This is where the anthology shifts from sharp anger to a deep, mournful elegy.
755. 40:49–40:53It explores the irreversible cultural cost of this rapid, hollow modernization we've
756. 40:53–40:54been discussing.
757. 40:54–41:01Shambu Kumar Singh's story, Baibahinak Vyathakhafer, which translates to the sibling sorrow, uses
758. 41:01–41:07a beautiful, almost magical realist metaphor to explain this cultural decay.
759. 41:07–41:10It's framed as a literal conversation between nature and culture.
760. 41:10–41:14We have a massive ancient banyan tree who acts as the older brother, speaking in the
761. 41:14–41:19dark to the Missile language itself, personified as his sister.
762. 41:19–41:21It's a stunning literary device.
763. 41:21–41:27Both of these ancient entities are mourning their slow, suffocating, ignored demise.
764. 41:27–41:30The banyan tree, which traditionally served as the center of village life, the place
765. 41:30–41:34where elders met, where disputes were settled, where children played.
766. 41:34–41:35Lomense's current state.
767. 41:35–41:40He says that years ago a parasitic vine known as an Amar Ladi was carelessly thrown onto
768. 41:40–41:41his upper branches.
769. 41:41–41:46Over time this vine has grown, spreading its roots down his trunk and it's slowly,
770. 41:46–41:49systematically draining the life and sap from him.
771. 41:49–41:50He is dying.
772. 41:50–41:52But the tragedy is that the people in the village do not notice and they do not
773. 41:52–41:53care.
774. 41:53–41:56They don't see the decay, they only see the tree as a convenient prop.
775. 41:56–42:01When there's a wedding or a festival, they come and hang blinking, cheap, colored electric
776. 42:01–42:03lights all over his branches.
777. 42:03–42:08They use him for superficial, performative decoration while completely ignoring his fundamental
778. 42:08–42:10structural death.
779. 42:10–42:15The imagery is so powerful, the tree is choking to death under neon lights, and the sister,
780. 42:15–42:19the personified Methili language, is crying just as hard.
781. 42:19–42:23Her sorrow is even deeper because she's being betrayed by her own offspring.
782. 42:23–42:27She says that her own children, the Methil people, have grown ashamed of her.
783. 42:27–42:32In their desperate pursuit of global capitalist success, they have abandoned her.
784. 42:32–42:34If they want to be seen as educated, they speak English.
785. 42:34–42:39If they must write in Methili, they refuse to use her ancient, beautiful native script,
786. 42:39–42:40which is called Tirhuta.
787. 42:40–42:42We should provide some context here.
788. 42:42–42:47Tirhuta is the traditional script used for Methili with a history spanning centuries.
789. 42:47–42:51But over time, due to the dominance of printing presses that favored the more widespread
790. 42:51–42:55Devanagari script, this is a script used for Hindi and Sanskrit, and a push toward national
791. 42:55–43:01homogetization. Tirhuda was sidelined. People stopped teaching it. So she is losing her
792. 43:01–43:05literal shape, her visual identity. Her children write her words in an adopted script,
793. 43:05–43:11and they call her backward, useless, or just a village dialect. She asks this heartbreaking
794. 43:11–43:18question. If people like you consider your own mother tongue untouchable, what will be the
795. 43:18–43:23future. The metaphor of the Banyan tree in the language is incredibly potent. The blinking
796. 43:23–43:28electric lights on the dying tree perfectly represent the superficial, hollow ways modern
797. 43:28–43:33people cling to their culture. We were a traditional outfit once a year for a photo op.
798. 43:33–43:37We perform a loud, commercialized ritual. We eat the traditional food at a restaurant.
799. 43:37–43:42But the actual root of the culture, the language, the deep philosophical understanding of the
800. 43:42–43:47rituals, the daily communal practice is being choked out by the parasitic vine of globalized
801. 43:47–43:53transactional modernity. We keep the aesthetic of our ancestors, but we abandon their wisdom.
802. 43:53–43:58We see that exact transactional nature perfectly illustrated in Hume Shmandal's story,
803. 43:58–44:05Amaya Bar. We have an old man in a village, Padma Therbaba, and he is absolutely completely furious.
804. 44:05–44:09His daughter got married and moved away. According to deep-seated tradition,
805. 44:09–44:11her in-laws are supposed to send him the Amaya Bar.
806. 44:11–44:16But this year, a messenger arrives and hands the old man an envelope containing
807. 44:16–44:221100 rupees in cash instead. And the old man loses his mind with anger.
808. 44:22–44:27To understand his anger, we have to understand what the Amaya Bar actually is. It's not just
809. 44:27–44:34a generic gift basket. It's a highly specific, carefully curated offering of seasonal mangoes.
810. 44:34–44:39And not just any mangoes. It involves specific prized varieties like Rojini,
811. 44:39–44:43Molda, and Fasli, which ripen at different times during the brutal summer months.
812. 44:43–44:47It's a deeply ingrained sensory cultural tradition.
813. 44:47–44:51Okay, I have to jump in here and play the devil's advocate because I guarantee you a lot of people
814. 44:51–44:55listening to this right now, myself included, honestly, might have the exact same reaction
815. 44:55–44:56I had on my first read.
816. 44:56–45:01Isn't cash just practically better in the modern world? It's easier to send. The mangoes won't
817. 45:01–45:02rot in transit.
818. 45:02–45:06The old man can take that 1,100 rupees and buy whatever he wants. He can buy his own mangoes
819. 45:06–45:12or medication or tea. Why is he being so stubborn and irrationally angry about getting
820. 45:12–45:14a very practical envelope of cash.
821. 45:14–45:20It's a totally valid modern reaction, but it entirely misses the old man's point.
822. 45:20–45:25He's furious because he recognizes that the shift from a basket of mangoes to an envelope
823. 45:25–45:30of cash is not a shift in practicality, it's a fundamental shift in values.
824. 45:30–45:32It's the death of human connection.
825. 45:32–45:34Think about the labor involved in the tradition.
826. 45:34–45:38To send the MIA bar, the in-laws must know the land.
827. 45:38–45:39They have to track the seasons.
828. 45:39–45:44They have to walk into the orchard, inspect the trees, select the best unblemished fruit.
829. 45:44–45:48They have to pack it carefully in straw so it doesn't bruise, and then they have to designate
830. 45:48–45:52someone to travel across the district to deliver it personally, sit down, and share a cup of tea.
831. 45:52–45:58It requires time, physical effort, thought, and a communal connection to the land and to each other.
832. 45:58–46:04It's an act of deep intentional care. It's proof that you spent hours of your life thinking about the recipient.
833. 46:04–46:11Precisely. Replacing that rich, sensory, curated basket with 1,100 rupees is an act of what
834. 46:11–46:13we might call cultural outsourcing.
835. 46:13–46:20It turns a deeply personal, living cultural bond into a cold, sterile, effortless financial
836. 46:20–46:21transaction.
837. 46:21–46:27By sending cash, the in-laws are essentially saying, we don't have the time, the energy,
838. 46:27–46:31or the care to engage with our shared traditions, so here is some money to buy off our social
839. 46:31–46:33obligation to you.
840. 46:33–46:36The old man isn't angry because he wants fruit.
841. 46:36–46:40He's angry because his family relationships, the very fabric of his community, are being
842. 46:40–46:42reduced to a banking transaction.
843. 46:42–46:45He's watching his culture be monetized and discarded.
844. 46:45–46:48It strips the entire soul right out of the interaction.
845. 46:48–46:52It's the difference between cooking a five-course meal for your partner's birthday versus handing
846. 46:52–46:55them a $50 gift card to a chain restaurant.
847. 46:55–46:59And the anthology makes sure to show us what we are losing by contrasting this sterile
848. 46:59–47:03cash-based transaction with stories like La Baoji, where we actually see the raw,
849. 47:03–47:06unpolished, beautiful human connections that make a culture alive.
850. 47:06–47:10In that story, a young man named Eugen comes home to his village from his
851. 47:10–47:15exorpting job in the city. It's a festival of holy. He immediately starts
852. 47:15–47:19playfully teasing his beautiful sister-in-law, throwing colored powder on her,
853. 47:19–47:23engaging in this vibrant, chaotic, joyous banter.
854. 47:23–47:26It's a simple, humorous, almost fleeting story,
855. 47:26–47:30But its placement in the anthology serves a vital structural purpose.
856. 47:30–47:32It acts as a counterweight to the darkness.
857. 47:32–47:38It shows the reader that the actual beating heart of a culture isn't found in bank accounts,
858. 47:38–47:42or in loud performative religious rituals, or in the perfect grammar of a language.
859. 47:43–47:47It's found in those organic, sometimes messy, deeply human interactions.
860. 47:47–47:52It's the laughter, the teasing, the shared unregulated joy of a festival.
861. 47:52–47:54That is the sap running through the banyan tree.
862. 47:54–47:56When you replace that human warmth with the cold
863. 47:56–47:59decision of cash and capitalism,
864. 47:59–48:00you lose the culture entirely.
865. 48:00–48:03You're left with nothing but blinking lights on deadwood.
866. 48:03–48:03Wow.
867. 48:03–48:07OK, let's take a breath and pull all of this immense material together.
868. 48:07–48:09This journey through gijendra takur's videha,
869. 48:09–48:12mathele lagukkatha has been nothing short of a massive,
870. 48:12–48:14intellectual and emotional revelation.
871. 48:14–48:17We started this hour with the mission to see how
872. 48:17–48:20hyper-local stories from Bihar and Nepal could possibly
873. 48:20–48:22mirror the universal human condition,
874. 48:22–48:25and they have absolutely undeniably delivered on that promise.
875. 48:25–48:27We watched arrogant literary critics
876. 48:27–48:30try to whitewash horrific violence just
877. 48:30–48:33to fit their own comfortable prepackaged narratives.
878. 48:33–48:37We stood in a sterile London hospital room staring at Big Ben
879. 48:37–48:40and felt the deeply alienating terror of terminal illness
880. 48:40–48:44and the devastating collapse of a modern isolated marriage.
881. 48:44–48:47We witnessed the literal bloody cost of revolution
882. 48:47–48:50in the dark mountains as men and women gave their lives
883. 48:50–48:52to fight systemic poverty.
884. 48:52–48:57And then we saw how brilliantly and terrifyingly the power structures used the mundane, inescapable
885. 48:57–49:03traps of domesticity, marriage and wage labor to silently neutralize rebellion without shedding
886. 49:03–49:04a drop of blood.
887. 49:04–49:09We felt the sheer dehumanizing claustrophobic weight of poverty, where a desperate son is
888. 49:09–49:14forced by an abusive boss to calculate the exact timing of his own father's death
889. 49:14–49:16just to keep a 12 ruby a day job.
890. 49:16–49:22We exposed the spectacular, enraging hypocrisy of a society that happily buys blessings
891. 49:22–49:28from fake mechanical cows, but flatly refuses to pay for a mother's eye surgery and enthusiastically
892. 49:28–49:33judges others for the exact same financial greed they practiced themselves at their own
893. 49:33–49:34children's weddings.
894. 49:34–49:40And finally, we mourned the relentless commodification of culture itself, where the deep, thoughtful,
895. 49:40–49:45effort-heavy bonds of tradition, like a carefully chosen basket of mangoes, are replaced by
896. 49:45–49:48sterile, thoughtless envelopes of cash.
897. 49:48–49:53We watched ancient languages being abandoned out of modern shame, slowly suffocating under
898. 49:53–49:55the weight of globalization.
899. 49:55–49:59If we step back and connect all these profound narratives to the bigger picture of our own
900. 49:59–50:03lives, the core message of this anthology is searingly clear.
901. 50:03–50:07Whether you are navigating the cold bureaucratic medical system in London, searching for gig
902. 50:07–50:11economy work in the sprawling slums of Delhi, or trying to hold on to your small
903. 50:11–50:15farm in a village in Bihar, the core tension is the same.
904. 50:15–50:20The tension between holding on to your deep human roots and surviving the relentless grinding
905. 50:20–50:26transactional machinery of the modern world is a universal struggle.
906. 50:26–50:31We are all, every single day, trying to figure out what pieces of our humanity to keep and
907. 50:31–50:35what pieces we are being forced to sell just to survive.
908. 50:35–50:37It is the defining paradox of our time.
909. 50:37–50:42We are sprinting toward the future desperate for security, but we are constantly anxiously
910. 50:42–50:47looking over our shoulders, wondering what vital pieces of our soul we dropped along the
911. 50:47–50:48way.
912. 50:48–50:53So as we wrap up this deep dive, I want to leave you, the listener, with a final lingering
913. 50:53–50:55question to Mullover.
914. 50:55–50:59Think about the traditions you practice in your own life, the holidays you celebrate,
915. 50:59–51:03the family text threads, the rituals you perform, the ways you try to connect with
916. 51:03–51:04your past.
917. 51:04–51:05Look really, really closely at them.
918. 51:05–51:09Are you actually doing the hard, quiet work of nurturing the roots of the tree?
919. 51:09–51:14Are you taking the time to understand the language, the history, and the deep communal meaning behind your actions?
920. 51:14–51:20Or are you just hanging, blinking, cheap colored lights on a trunk that is slowly suffocating underneath?
921. 51:20–51:23It is a hard question, but it's one we all need to answer.
922. 51:23–51:28Keep diving deep, keep questioning the narrative, and we'll catch you next time.

Plain text

Have you ever noticed how the world is just changing so incredibly fast that the traditions you grew up with suddenly feel, I don't know, like relics? Oh, absolutely. Yeah, it's like overnight everything shifts. Right. And at the exact same time, the so-called modern world we're rushing into feels surprisingly hollow. Well, it is this strange, almost uncomfortable paradox. I mean, it's arguably the defining tension of our time. It really is. If you're listening to this on your commute or you know while you're making dinner, think about it for a second. We're more technologically connected than any generation in human history, right? Yeah, we literally have the entirety of global knowledge sitting in our pockets. Exactly. Yet study after study shows we feel completely adrift. Like we're isolated and disconnected from any deeper sense of meaning. We've basically traded something rooted and resonant for something shiny, fragile, and well deeply isolating. We're sprinting toward the future at breakneck speed because we're terrified of being left behind by the global economy. But we're constantly looking over our shoulders. Right. Wondering what crucial pieces of our humanity we just dropped along the way. We are desperate for progress, but we're mourning our roots. I love how you phrased that. And that specific tension, that friction between the ancient and the modern is the absolute heartbeat of today's deep dive. It's going to be a heavy one, but a really fascinating one. For sure. So we have this fascinating stack of sources in front of us today centered around an anthology called Videha Masili Lagu Katha. Which is such an incredible collection. It really is. For those who might not speak the language, that translates to the anthology of mythology short stories. It's meticulously edited by Gijendra Thakur. And we should probably establish right away what we're actually doing here today. Yeah, let me be crystal clear right up front about our mission. This is not going to be a standard dry book review. We are not just going to walk through a table of contents and recap a bunch of plots for you. Not at all. I mean, that would be doing a massive disservice to the material. We are going to use these texts as a magnifying glass. Right. Our mission is to uncover how these hyperlocal stories, written in the Methyl language, act as a flawless, almost unnerving mirror for the universal human condition. And just to ground us a bit, Mathili is an Indo-Aryan language spoken primarily in the Bihar state of India and the Eastern Terai region of Nepal. It's a very ancient language with this huge, rich literary heritage. But like a lot of regional languages, it's fighting for survival in a globalized world. Yeah, exactly. But what we're gonna see today is that the stories coming out of this region are not, well, they aren't quaint little village tales. Far from it. We're gonna explore the painful, violent clash between ancient traditions and brutal modern realities. We're talking about the commercialization of religion, the psychological toll of terminal illness, and the deeply insidious ways that systemic rebellion is crushed by capitalism. And of course the quiet tragedy of fading indigenous languages, it covers so much ground. What's truly remarkable about this specific collection and what Haqqour highlights so well in his curation is the sheer breathtaking breadth of the human experience it captures. It really does. It completely shatters any preconceived notions a reader might have about regional literature. Because there is this persistent, somewhat patronizing assumption in global literary circles, people assume literature from developing regions or minority languages is solely concerned with rural nostalgia. Or like simplistic morality tales or basic agrarian struggles, which I have to admit is exactly the assumption I had before reading this. A lot of people do, it's a very common bias. But I was in awe. I mean, you open this anthology and in one breath, you're standing in a sterile, terrifyingly quiet cancer ward in London, looking at a massive window at Big Ben. Yeah, the geographical scope is wild. And then you turn the page and suddenly you're crouching in the pitch dark of a girl war zone in the mountains. You're listening to the very real sound of state sanctioned bombs falling around you. It swings wildly across geography, across socioeconomic classes, and across the entire spectrum of human emotion. And that diversity is exactly what makes this collection a masterpiece of modern curation. So let's talk about the editor, Gajinda Thakur, because his introduction isn't just a polite forward, it's practically a manifesto. Oh, he comes out swinging. He absolutely goes after lazy literary criticism. He argues that Mithili short stories have evolved light years beyond those old repetitive tropes about the simple, innocent village life. Right. He's saying they are now dealing with the trauma of global diaspora, the absolute absurdity of the postmodern world, and deep paralyzing existential dread. But before we get into the stories themselves, I want to stop and look at how Thakur demands these stories be read. Because he does not hold back. He really doesn't. Thakur explicitly calls out critics who fail to see the depth of these modern stories because they refuse to update their critical toolkits. And to prove his point, he invokes some incredibly heavy philosophical frameworks. Yeah, he points to the French philosopher Jacques Derrida's concept of deconstruction. He brings in Michel Foucault's theories on the relationship between power and knowledge. He even brings up Lacan, right? Exactly, Jacques Lacan's psychoanalytic theories. He demands that reviewers look at the subconscious desires, the gaps, and the traumas driving these characters. He is essentially screaming at the literary establishment to stop treating this literature like a quaint artifact in a museum. Right. treat it with the intellectual rigor it actually demands. Okay, wait, hold on. Before we go any further, I need to play the role of the listener who might be like doing their laundry or driving to work right now. Sure, let's ground it. You just dropped Derrida, Foucault, and Lacan in one single breath. For those of us who haven't sat in a comparative literature seminar in a decade, let's break this down a bit. That's entirely fair. If I'm reading a short story about a family in rural Bihar? How exactly do I apply Michel Foucault's theory of power dynamics to it? Like why does Taqour think I need French philosophy to understand a Mothili story? It's a fantastic question and it's crucial to understanding Taqour's entire argument. Let's take Michel Foucault for instance. Okay Foucault power dynamics. Right Foucault argued that power is not just you know a king sitting on a throne telling you you want to do. Power is dispersed through society in the form of knowledge. Meaning the people who control the information control the power. Exactly. The people who control the narrative, the critics, the media, the institutions, they decide what is considered truth. So when Thakur brings up Foucault, he's pointing out that literary critics hold a massive amount of systemic power. Because they tell the rest of the world what a book means. Yes. If a critic from a dominant cultural center looks at a mathily story and says, oh, this is just a simple tale about farming, they are exercising power. They're defining the reality of that culture for the rest of the world. Exactly. Effectively silencing the actual, complex, modern reality the author wrote about. So it's about who gets to hold the microphone. If the critic controls the microphone, the author's actual voice gets muted. Precisely. And then with Jacques Derrida and Deconstruction, Derrida basically taught us that texts are unstable. unstable how? Well, words have multiple meanings, and a story often contradicts itself if you look closely enough. Deconstruction asks you to look for the margins of the text. Like what's left unsaid? Right, whose perspective is missing. Thakur is telling critics to stop taking Mathili stories at face value, look at the fractures, look at the hidden tensions. And finally, Lacan. You mentioned psychoanalysis. With Lacan, we're moving from society to the deep subconscious. Lacanian psychoanalysis focuses on the concept of lack. Like something missing. Yeah, the fundamental emptiness inside human beings that we constantly try to fill with desires, whether that's money, status, or a perfect family image. Oh wow, okay. The core is saying these Mathilli characters aren't just reacting to bad crops or bad landlords, they are driven by complex subconscious psychological traumas and desires. That makes so much more sense. He's demanding a three-dimensional reading instead of a flat one. Exactly. And he gives this brilliant specific and honestly mind-blowing example in his introduction of how a critic Completely failed to do this. Oh the parrot story. Yes. Yeah, he talks about a reviewer who is critiquing his story called Namaz Ishukrana Now that translates roughly to a prayer of gratitude in Islam, right? And the reviewer wrote this glowing piece Praising this story calling it a beautiful heartwarming tale of communal harmony in India, which is quite the claim Right. And why did they say that? Because in the story, there's a parrot in a cage. And while the Muslim characters are performing their daily prayers, their namaz, the parrot squawks out the Hindu chant, sitaram. Which, I mean, if you only look at the absolute surface level, might sound like a touching, somewhat heavy-handed symbol of different faiths coexisting in the same shared space. Right. It sounds like a bumper sticker. Let's all just get along. Yeah, exactly. But the core points out that the reviewer completely ignored the actual, horrifying plot of the story. The reviewer just saw what they wanted to see. And what actually happens in the story is brutal. It is, because what actually happens is that the owner of the parrot gets so deeply frustrated and enraged by the bird interrupting his prayers with Sitaram that he just snaps. He completely loses it. He grabs the cage. And in a fit of absolute violent fury, he repeatedly smashes the cage against the stone wall of the mosque until the bird is beaten to death. It's incredibly visceral. The story literally ends with a battered, dead bird and a character weeping over the senseless violence. And the critic somehow published a review calling it a heartwarming tale of communal harmony. It's a staggering, almost pathological, misreading of the text. It perfectly illustrates Thucker's point about Foucault and power, actually. It's like watching a tragic, blood-soaked horror movie like The Shining, and writing a review praising it as an informative documentary on managing remote real estate. It's utterly absurd. It is absurd, but it's also deeply revealing about human psychology. How so? Well, the reviewer approached the text through the lens of what they desperately wanted to see. India has a complex, often painful history of communal tension between Hindus and Muslims. Right. It's a very charged topic. So the critic, likely operating from a place of wanting peace, or perhaps wanting to project an image of peace, was so desperate for a narrative of communal harmony that they forcefully imposed that narrative onto the text. They completely blinded themselves to the horrific violence that the author actually put on the page. Exactly. They literally couldn't see the blood because they were too busy looking at the bumper sticker they brought with them. Wow. We see what we need to see to protect our own worldview rather than what the artist or reality created. Which raises a profound question for all of us really, not just literary critics. Like in our daily lives? Yeah. your own daily life. How often do we consume media or read the news or even interact with our own family members through our own incredibly biased, heavily filtered lenses? Oh, all the time. How often do we force our own comfortable, pre-packaged narratives onto someone else's painful reality? Simply because engaging with what is actually right in front of us would require us to be uncomfortable. That is a heavy, necessary warning before we dive into these stories. So, if critics so often misread the struggles of others, because they refuse to look closely, let's do the opposite today. Let's look as closely as possible and how the authors in this anthology vividly, almost painfully, portray intense, inescapable human struggles. I think that's the best way to honor the text. Let's start with what might be the ultimate most terrifying battle any human being can face. The betrayal of one's own body. Yes. The anthology tackles this theme brilliantly and devastatingly in Mina Chah's story, Breast Cancer. And this is where we immediately see the global scope of Mathili literature that's accurate promised, right? Exactly. This story is an emotional sledgehammer. The setting immediately tells you we are not in rural Bihar anymore. We are placed squarely in St. Thomas Hospital in London up on the fifth floor. And the atmosphere is just so heavy. The protagonist, a Mathili woman named Madorama Singh is lying in a sterile hospital bed staring out a large glass window and what dominates her view the massive looming face of Big Ben. It's such a striking image. She is obsessively watching the giant hands of the clock. It's 6.35 p.m. the sun is setting casting this supposedly beautiful light over the River Thames but she cannot appreciate the beauty at all. She's just gripped by anxiety. Yeah, she's waiting for the 7.0 pm chimes. Waiting for her husband, Suresh, and her two daughters, Rashmi and Kiran, to arrive for evening visiting hours. The environmental storytelling here is just masterful. The relentless ticking of Big Ben serves as this constant, oppressive, mechanical reminder of mortality and the irreversible passage of times. Like a countdown. Big Ben is the ultimate symbol of the Western metropole. It represents cold, precise, unyielding time, which stands in stark contrast to the often more fluid, cyclical concept of time in traditional agrarian societies. For Manorama, that clock is literally ticking away her life. Because Manorama's personal time might be rapidly running out. Through her internal reflections, we learn her tragic arc. And it's a brutal history. Three years prior to this moment, she endured the trauma of a mastectomy. She went through the pain, the recovery, the fear, and she truly thought she had beaten the disease. She thought she had bought back her life. But the cancer came back. Yeah. After endless exhausting hospital visits and tests, the doctors have delivered the worst possible news. The cancer has returned, and it's aggressively invaded her remaining breast. The medical staff tells her that conservative medication won't work anymore. If she wants to live, she needs another grueling, life altering, mutilating surgery. And here is where the psychological depth of the story, the kind of Lacanian psychoanalysis that Thakur urged us to look for, really comes into play. we are forced to witness a complete devastating flip in the psychological landscape of a marriage. Manorama is faced with a terrifying physical reality. She's facing the loss of what society and perhaps she herself perceives as a core component of her physical womanhood. Not to mention the agony of another recovery. But deep within that terror, she finds an anchor. She makes the active conscious choice to endure the mutilation and the physical pain solely to stay alive for her daughters. Her motivation is entirely externalized into maternal duty. She isn't fighting for herself anymore. She's fighting for the future she wants to secure for her girls. Right. She explicitly states she wants to see them through their A-level exams. She wants to see Rashmi go off to medical school and she wants to see Karen go to law school. She finds this incredible almost inverted strength in her role as a mother. It's a profound sacrifice, but the real psychological tension of the story comes from the stark contrast with her husband, Suresh. Yes. Before the cancer, Manorama was clearly the foundation of the family. The author gives us this incredibly visceral, sensory flashback to show that. Right, the cooking scene. Manorama remembers a day when she was in the kitchen making Suresh's favorite traditional food. She's rolling out cornflap breads, makaiki roti, and cooking mustard greens, sarson kasag. She is literally providing the nourishment, the taste of home. and suddenly the chest pain hits her so violently that she collapses. She burns the food and the smoke alarm starts blaring. It's a brilliant metaphor. She is the foundation and when she physically falters, the entire house fills with smoke and alarms. But when that foundation cracks, Suresh completely collapses. I have to admit, reading his reaction was infuriating, but also deeply tragic. He just cannot cope with her illness. He can't cope with the physical changes to her body after the first misdemean and the impending reality of the second. He just breaks. His reaction is a tragic unraveling of the traditional patriarchal expectation of strength. When the crisis hits, he abandons the emotional intimacy of their marriage. He stops sleeping in the same room, right? They withdraws completely. He turns to alcohol as an anesthetic, eventually spending half the income from his news agent shop on liquor and cigarettes. He becomes irritable, angry, and verbally abusive. and ultimately completely unable to face the reality of his wife's mortality and utterly crushed by the weight of his own failure to support her, he commits suicide in the back of his shop by taking a massive overdose of sleeping pills. It's a total inversion. The woman lying in the hospital bed, facing the loss of her body, is the bedrock of strength. The man, who is physically healthy, crumbles into dust. It's deeply unsettling to read. But I have a question about the author's choices here. Why did Minaja set this story in London? The details are so specific the A-levels the news agent shop Big Ben. Yeah, it's very deliberately placed. If this is a Mathili story, why not set it in the village in Bihar or even a bustling city like Patan or Delhi Where the language and culture originate? It's a structural choice and it's crucial to the theme of the story. Placing this narrative in the diaspora specifically in a Western city like London highlights a profound sense of isolation. Well think about the social structures. If Manorama were facing this illness in a village in Bihar, or even in a traditional joint family setup in an Indian city, there would almost certainly be an extensive network of family neighbors and community to lean on. There'd be grandmothers, aunties, and cousins flowing in and out of the house. Exactly. They would help cook, they would help with the children's schooling, they would sit by her bed and share the emotional burden of the terror. So the burden would be distributed across 20 people instead of just two. Precisely. But in London, they are living in a nuclear family structure. She is utterly alone. The Western model of individualism amplifies the tragedy exponentially. Because when Suresh's mental health collapses, there is no safety net beneath him. There's no uncle to pull him aside and tell him to get his act together. There's no sister-in-law to take over the shop. Manorama is left entirely isolated. She's trapped in a foreign medical system, dealing with her own life-threatening illness, simultaneously watching the wreckage of her marriage and her husband's life unfold. It makes the ticking of Big Ben so much louder, doesn't it? It is the sound of absolute mechanical isolation. If you've ever been a caregiver, or if you've ever faced a serious medical crisis far away from your hometown, you know exactly what that terrifying silence feels like. It perfectly aligns with Ahukkah's point about how modern literature must address feminism and the diaspora. Because women are so often left bearing the ultimate crushing burdens of modern isolated life forcing them to forge a terrifying solitary strength just to survive. It's a brilliant dark exploration of modern existential dread. So if Menorama struggle was a deeply internal psychological battle in an isolated modern setting, the anthology also proves its breadth by swinging to the exact opposite extreme. Right. quiet terror of a hospital room to external, loud societal struggles involving massive groups of people and systemic oppression. I want to look at two very different stories that deal with revolution and the fight for societal change. The first is Roshan Janakpuri's Agni Pushpa Kuchasab. This story is a short pivot. Here we see the clear influence of Marxist literary themes, exploring literal, physical, armed rebellion against entrenched systemic oppression. The scene-genic Puri paints is incredibly cinematic, chaotic, and intense. We are no longer in London. It's the dead of night in remote, mountainous guerrilla warzone. The auditory descriptions alone are wild. Bombs are whistling down from enemy helicopters sent by the state. The John Cena, which translates to the People's Army, is desperately trying to hold the line. There are chaotic flashes of light from automatic weapons illuminating the darkness of the jungle. In the background, they're frantically treating the wounded and dying in a makeshift hospital set up inside an abandoned school building. It's a scene of absolute carnage. But the author doesn't just give us action, right? He gives us the profound heartbreaking humanity of these soldiers. That is the crucial element. The author humanizes the statistics of war. He gives faces, names, and deeply personal histories to the casualties. Like the young martyr named Resh Bahadur. Exactly. He didn't join the armed struggle because he loved violence. He joined because of his mother. His mother survives by breaking stones for a living. And we should pause on that detail. Breaking stones isn't just a tough job. No, it's backbreaking, finger crushing, desperate labor. It's usually done by the absolute poorest of the poor sitting in the dust under a blazing sun. Precisely. Rush Bahador picked up a gun hoping to end the kind of systemic generational poverty that forces an elderly woman to destroy her body just to buy a handful of rice. And then we learn about another martyr, Kamini. She's a young widow. Her story is just as heartbreaking. Her husband wasn't a soldier. He was a civilian who was brutally murdered by state police simply because they suspected him of sympathizing with the Maoist rebels. The state created its own enemy there. Kamini was so consumed by the injustice that she left her two small children with their grandparents and went into the jungle to join the revolution. These are not abstract philosophical concepts of war discussed in a university classroom. This is literal blood being shed into the soil for systemic change. These characters are actively giving up their lives, hoping that their ultimate sacrifice will eventually, someday, break the cycle of capitalist and state exploitation. But then, the anthology does something brilliant. It really does. We flip the page to another story, Mahaprakash's Sambhavana, which deals with rebellion in a completely different, almost horrifyingly quiet, bloodless way. Sampavada is a master class in political satire. It's a brilliant, insidious tale that shows how entrenched power structures can completely neutralize a threat without ever firing a single bullet. Right. In this story, we're in a more traditional village setting. We have a zamindar, a wealthy, powerful, hereditary landlord riding high on top of his elephant. exuding absolute power, arrogance and dominance over the landscape. But suddenly his path is blocked. A young, incredibly strong, visibly defiant village boy stands in the middle of the dirt road. The boy simply refuses to move out of the way of the elephant. He's challenging the Zamendari's authority right there in the open in front of the entire village. It's a moment of extreme tension. The natural expectation, especially given the historical power dynamics of the Zamendari system in the region, is that this will end in immediate violence. Because the Xamandar has the power of life and death over these peasants, right? Exactly. The Mahut, the man driving the elephant, immediately prepares to attack the boy with his hook to clear the path and punish the insolence. The audience is bracing for the boy to be crushed. But the Xamandar is terrifyingly sociopathically smart. He really is. He stops the Mahut. He plays it off, waving his hand and saying the boy is just young, hot-blooded and ignorant. But underneath that calm exterior, the Xamandar's internal monologue reveals something else entirely. He recognizes the boy's immense physical strength, his charisma, and the extreme danger of his revolutionary fire. The Xamandar knows that if he beats the boy, he might make him a martyr, sparking a larger uprising. So what is his punishment? How does he crush the rebellion? He doesn't order a beating. Instead, he orchestrates a marriage. He uses his wealth and influence to arrange for this defiant, fiery boy to marry a a beautiful, traditional girl from the village. This is where the story shifts from a simple confrontation into a profound critique of systemic control. We have to unpack the Zemindars in Sidious Genius here. By giving the boy a wife, the Zemindar immediately saddles him with a heavy yoke of domestic responsibility. The boy is no longer a free, unburdened agent with the time, the energy, and the reckless courage to stand in front of elephants and challenge the feudal system. He now has a dependent. He has a family to feed. The text is so specific about this trap, it mentions the sudden, inescapable struggle for salt, oil, and wood. The absolute basic grinding necessities of human survival. The boy's revolutionary fire, his desire to change the world, is completely extinguished by the mundane, exhausting weight of domestic duty. It's the ultimate pair of gold and, or in this case, copper handcuffs. Exactly. The Zem and Awe weaponized the boy's own fundamental human needs. The need for companionship, the need for a family, the need for survival against him. It's a flawless execution of structural violence, because the boy now has to provide for his wife. He can no longer afford to be a rebel. He has to become a worker. So he leaves the village entirely. He packs up and goes off to a massive metropolis like Delhi or Haryana to become an anonymous wage laborer. He just disappears into the vast grinding machine of modern urban capitalism. He is neutralized. He never returns to challenge the zamindar again. The threat is gone. And what makes it so chilling is the collateral damage. The boy became a wage slave, but the beautiful girl he married, the tool the zamindar used to trap him, is left behind in the village. She's left endlessly waiting by the side of a road that the author poignantly names Highway 1947. I mean, 1947. I mean, the symbolism there is incredibly loud. Oh, it's deafening. 1947 is the year of these independence from British rule. It was a year of massive promises, promises of equality, freedom, and the end of exploitation. And yet, this young woman is standing by a highway named after that promise, waiting for a husband who has been swallowed by a new kind of economic exploitation. It's a devastating critique of post-colonial reality. If we connect this back to Janakuri's story of the guerrilla war, the contrast is staggering. One story shows the bloody, visible, tragic cost of fighting an oppressive system head on with weapons. But Mahaprakash's story shows how the modern systems of capitalism and domesticity can smoothly, silently, and legally neutralize rebellion. This Zamandar won the class war without throwing a single punch. It's horrifying because it's so recognizable. Think about how many people in our own modern world have massive dreams of changing the system of fighting injustice. And then they get a mortgage, they have kids, they get a corporate job with health insurance. And suddenly they can't afford to rebel anymore. The system absorbs the rebellion by making survival dependent on compliance. The boy in Sampavana became a wage slave trapped in the daily grind. And that structural trap transitions us perfectly into our next theme. Because we need to look at just how soul crushing that wage slavery can become when it intersects with a deeply personal family crisis. Let's dive into Vincent Pogvant-Savant's incredibly stressful story, Ruch Tahrab. Which translates to the agony or the throes of death. If the previous story was about how one becomes a wage slave, this story explores the absolute psychological horror of existing as one. It's a deep dive into the mechanics of economic coercion. The protagonist here is a man working as a junior supervisor at a massive, unforgiving construction site, specifically the Solali Canal and Dane Hill Project. working in brutal conditions. And his salary is a meager 12 rupees a day. Just let that sink in. Even accounting for inflation in historical context, 12 rupees a day is starvation wages. It's barely enough to buy the calories required to keep his family breathing. At the exact same time he's dealing with this job, his father is at home, paralyzed, bedridden, and actively dying. The father is literally in his final hours gasping for his final breath surrounded by the weeping family. The author constructs an unbearable pressure cooker. The supervisor is caught between two absolute unforgiving forces. On one side, he has his deep moral, emotional, and cultural duty to sit by his father's side. He needs to hold his hand as he passes from this world and perform the necessary rites as the eldest son. But on the other side, at the construction site, there is a monstrous executive engineer. This boss is completely devoid of basic human empathy. He's entirely focused on bureaucracy and power. high-ranking government official, the chief minister, is scheduled to make a political visit to the construction site on Tuesday. And the executive engineer is frantic about making the site look perfect for the politician. He threatens to fire the junior supervisor instantly if the site isn't cleared and ready. The threat of termination is not an empty one. The dialogue is brutal. The engineer screams at him in front of the workers, you useless supervisor, if this work isn't done, I will hand you your termination order. And for a man making 12 rupees a day, losing his job is not an inconvenience, it's an existential threat. Because if he loses that income, his entire family, including his elderly mother and his young dependent siblings, will literally face starvation. He possesses zero economic safety net. This impossible situation forces the protagonist into an inner monologue that is frankly one of the most morally agonizing things I have ever read. He's sitting in the dim room by his dying father's bed. He can hear the horrific death rattle in his father's throat. He loves his father. But because he's so deeply terrified of the executive engineer, and because he's so desperate to keep his family from starving, he catches his own brain doing a grotesque, monstrous kind of temporal calculus. Yes. The psychological fracture occurs. He begins to actively hope to quietly pray that his father dies before Thursday. It's gut-wrenching. He's wishing for his own father's death to hurry up. Why? died before Thursday, the supervisor has a socially, legally and professionally valid excuse to miss work without the executive engineer being able to fire him. He can say, my father died, I need leave. But if the father's strong heart keeps fighting, if the father lingers too long and survives past the weekend into the new work week, the supervisor will be forced to make an impossible choice. He'll either have to abandon his actively dying father to go to the construction site or stay by the deathbed and condemn his entire surviving family to starvation by getting fired. It's the ultimate degradation of the human spirit. What's so fascinating and so deeply disturbing about this story is how it proves that systemic poverty strips away our humanity, our dignity, and our morality long before it actually stars our physical bodies. Economic coercion is a form of violence that forces a good, loving, dutiful son into to having morally horrifying thoughts. He is reduced to wishing for the swift death of the man who gave him life, simply to satisfy the arbitrary corporate timeline of a visiting politician. It's modern hustle culture taken to its absolute most dystopian nightmare extreme. We hear a lot of podcasts and read a lot of articles about work-life balance or setting boundaries, but this story strips all that privileged jargon away. Here, human grief, the sacred, profound moment of a parent's passing from this earth has to be mathematically scheduled around a VIP visit and an abusive middle manager. It forces the reader to confront the profound fragility of morality. We all like to believe we're moral people that we hold family above all else. But this story asks, how moral can you afford to be when basic survival is on the line? When the system demands your soul in exchange for 12 rupees, the soul is often the first thing to go. If you're listening right now, think about your own workplace. Think about times you've had to negotiate your own personal tragedies, an illness, a loss, a family crisis, around a project deadline, or a boss's bad mood. We might not be making 12 rupees a day, but the underlying systemic pressure, the commodification of our time and our grief, is eerily similar. And that precise realization that our morality is often compromised by the systems we live in transitions us seamlessly into another major recurring theme across this anthology. societal hypocrisy that flourishes when people prioritize appearances, wealth, and social standing over genuine humanity. The mythilli authors in this collection absolutely skewer the performative nature of religion and social customs. Oh, they take a scalpel to it. They do not hold back. There is a whole cluster of stories, specifically Hamar Samaj, Babaham, Aina, and Utrep, that just systematically dismantle societal hypocrisy piece by piece. Let's start with how they tackle the commercialization of faith in Hamar Samaj in Balbdham. These stories expose how the sacred has been entirely devoured by the transactional. In the story Hamar Samaj, which translates to our society, the author describes a Vishnu Mahayajna. Traditionally, this is supposed to be a massive, deeply spiritual, religious gathering, a ritual of purification and devotion. But the author depicts it as a grotesque carnival of commerce. There's a commercialized statue of Lord Ganesha that's literally rigged to sell la dues, a type of suite, to devotees for profit. It's a spiritual vending machine. Even worse, there's a fake Kamdenu cow. In Hindu mythology, Kamdenu is a sacred, mythical cow that grants wishes and provides infinite abundance. But in this story, the organizers have just set up a mechanical or dressed up fake cow as a blatant scam to extract donations and money from desperate, uneducated believers who are hoping for a miracle. The priests are basically running a con game. And this critique of performative religion is personalized perfectly in the story of Babaham. It gives us a phenomenal character study in hypocrisy through a man named Sukhan. Sukhan is the archetype of the man who makes a massive, incredibly loud public show of his piety. He spends a lavish amount of money to go on a grand pilgrimage to Babaham, which involves a grueling physical journey carrying holy water to offer to Lord Shiva. He makes sure everyone in the village sees him going. He chants the loudest. To top it off, he tacks on a luxurious vacation to Calcutta. His entire religious practice is designed for public consumption. He wants the social capital that comes with being seen as a devoted, successful, pious man. He wants the Instagram aesthetic of holiness. But the author pulls back the curtain on his private reality, and it's entirely different and frankly disgusting. While Sukhan is spending thousands of rupees on a performative pilgrimage to impress his neighbors. He's a monster at home. He literally refuses to buy a simple two rupee cup of tea for his own elderly father. Even worse, his mother is suffering from severe cataracts. She's going blind. The surgery would cost a fraction of what he spent on his Calcutta vacation. But he refuses to pay for it, leaving his mother to stumble around in the dark, vulnerable to falling and breaking a hip. He will travel hundreds of miles to worship a stone idol of a deity, but he won't spend a dime to alleviate the suffering of the mother who birthed him. It's a brutal juxtaposition, and the author twists the knife further by introducing Fakhan's neighbor, Lakhan. Lakhan serves as the foil. Lakhan does not go on the fancy, loud pilgrimage. She stays home in the village. If you only looked at the surface, you might think Lakhan is less devout. But why does he stay home? Because he's busy actually doing the hard, unglamorous, unseen work of caring for for his own disabled parents. He is practicing actual applied empathy. And the ultimate karmic irony of this story is beautiful. While Sukhan is far away in Calcutta, performing his grand religious duties and taking his vacation, his neglected abused father falls severely ill. And who steps in to save the old man, Lakhan? The neighbor who skipped the pilgrimage is the one who rushes Sukhan's father to the doctor, pays the medical bills out of his own pocket and nurses him. It highlights a fundamental catastrophic failing of modern society. We love the spectacle of morality. We love the loud declarations of faith, the purchasing of blessings, the elaborate public rituals. This theme is further explored in Binupai's philosophical story Utrep, which looks at the absurdly elaborate, incredibly expensive rituals surrounding death. Families will bankrupt themselves to throw a massive lavish feast for the village after a relative dies, purely to maintain their social prestige. But those same families will have completely ignored the deceased person while they were alive and suffering. We excel at the performance of duty, but fail completely at basic, quiet, day-to-day human empathy. We care more about what the neighbors think of our grief than we care about the person we are grieving. And this hypocrisy isn't just confined to religious rituals. It bleeds heavily into social customs and the economics of family. The story Aina, which translates to the mirror, is a brutal, flawless takedown of this exact phenomenon. Aina is a psychological trap for the reader and for the narrator himself. The story revolves around the deeply entrenched, highly toxic practice of the dowry system. The narrator of the story is highly critical and very vocal about his brother-in-law, a man named Mahesh. Mahesh has just arranged a marriage for his son, LeLan, who is an educated engineer. Because his son has a good degree, Mahesh treated the marriage market like an extortion racket. a massive dowry, 500,000 rupees, from the desperately poor father of the bride, a man named Bukantakur. It's a crippling amount of money. On the actual day of the wedding, with all the guests assembled, Bukantakur is short. He couldn't raise the final balance of 100,000 rupees. And Mahesh is furious. He insults the bride's father in public and threatens to call off the wedding, which would destroy the bride's family's reputation forever. As readers, we naturally side with the narrator. The narrator is judging Mahesh harshly, viewing him as a cruel, greedy, socially backward man for demanding this money and holding a young girl's future hostage over a financial transaction. The narrator confronts Mahesh, standing tall on the moral high ground, ready to deliver a lecture on modern values. He's ready to be the hero of the story. He tells Mahesh how shameful his behavior is, but Mahesh doesn't argue back. He doesn't defend the dowry system. He just looks dead into the narrator's eyes says three words, look in the mirror. And in that exact second, the narrator's entire reality shatters. He has this sudden sickening realization of his own history. The revelation is stunning. The narrator suddenly remembers his own son's wedding. When his son, Ganesh, got married a few years prior, the narrator did the exact same thing. He forced the bride's father, a man named Tuntun Babu, to literally mortgage his ancestral farmland just to pay a 50,000 rupee balance before he would allow the wedding procession to proceed. He practically ruined a man's life for 50 grand, but he had completely compartmentalized it. He had justified his own greed. He probably told himself, well, I spent so much on my son's education, it's only fair I recoup the costs, or it's just our tradition. He found a way to make his extortion acceptable on his own mind, but he was perfectly willing and eager to aggressively condemn his brother-in-law for the identical behavior. It's the pinnacle of cognitive dissonance. The human mind's ability to excuse its own flaws while magnifying the flaws of others is boundless. We are entirely blind to our own cruelty when it benefits us financially or socially, but we are hypercritical of the exact same cruelty when we see it reflected in others. The mirror in the title isn't just for the narrator. It's held up to the entire society. It reflects the ugliness of a culture that commodifies human relationships, turns marriage into a hostage negotiation, and then justifies extortion under the respectable guise of tradition. Think about that the next time you get mad at someone cutting you off in traffic when you probably did the exact same thing to someone else a week ago, because you were running late. We always have an excuse for ourselves. So we have explored a society prioritizing profit, spectacle, and ego over genuine empathy. And what these mathily authors argue with profound sadness is that this very hypocrisy, this endless transactional mindset is destroying their culture from the inside out. Which brings us to our final and perhaps most heartbreaking theme, the fading of roots, the loss of language, and the death of tradition. This is where the anthology shifts from sharp anger to a deep, mournful elegy. It explores the irreversible cultural cost of this rapid, hollow modernization we've been discussing. Shambu Kumar Singh's story, Baibahinak Vyathakhafer, which translates to the sibling sorrow, uses a beautiful, almost magical realist metaphor to explain this cultural decay. It's framed as a literal conversation between nature and culture. We have a massive ancient banyan tree who acts as the older brother, speaking in the dark to the Missile language itself, personified as his sister. It's a stunning literary device. Both of these ancient entities are mourning their slow, suffocating, ignored demise. The banyan tree, which traditionally served as the center of village life, the place where elders met, where disputes were settled, where children played. Lomense's current state. He says that years ago a parasitic vine known as an Amar Ladi was carelessly thrown onto his upper branches. Over time this vine has grown, spreading its roots down his trunk and it's slowly, systematically draining the life and sap from him. He is dying. But the tragedy is that the people in the village do not notice and they do not care. They don't see the decay, they only see the tree as a convenient prop. When there's a wedding or a festival, they come and hang blinking, cheap, colored electric lights all over his branches. They use him for superficial, performative decoration while completely ignoring his fundamental structural death. The imagery is so powerful, the tree is choking to death under neon lights, and the sister, the personified Methili language, is crying just as hard. Her sorrow is even deeper because she's being betrayed by her own offspring. She says that her own children, the Methil people, have grown ashamed of her. In their desperate pursuit of global capitalist success, they have abandoned her. If they want to be seen as educated, they speak English. If they must write in Methili, they refuse to use her ancient, beautiful native script, which is called Tirhuta. We should provide some context here. Tirhuta is the traditional script used for Methili with a history spanning centuries. But over time, due to the dominance of printing presses that favored the more widespread Devanagari script, this is a script used for Hindi and Sanskrit, and a push toward national homogetization. Tirhuda was sidelined. People stopped teaching it. So she is losing her literal shape, her visual identity. Her children write her words in an adopted script, and they call her backward, useless, or just a village dialect. She asks this heartbreaking question. If people like you consider your own mother tongue untouchable, what will be the future. The metaphor of the Banyan tree in the language is incredibly potent. The blinking electric lights on the dying tree perfectly represent the superficial, hollow ways modern people cling to their culture. We were a traditional outfit once a year for a photo op. We perform a loud, commercialized ritual. We eat the traditional food at a restaurant. But the actual root of the culture, the language, the deep philosophical understanding of the rituals, the daily communal practice is being choked out by the parasitic vine of globalized transactional modernity. We keep the aesthetic of our ancestors, but we abandon their wisdom. We see that exact transactional nature perfectly illustrated in Hume Shmandal's story, Amaya Bar. We have an old man in a village, Padma Therbaba, and he is absolutely completely furious. His daughter got married and moved away. According to deep-seated tradition, her in-laws are supposed to send him the Amaya Bar. But this year, a messenger arrives and hands the old man an envelope containing 1100 rupees in cash instead. And the old man loses his mind with anger. To understand his anger, we have to understand what the Amaya Bar actually is. It's not just a generic gift basket. It's a highly specific, carefully curated offering of seasonal mangoes. And not just any mangoes. It involves specific prized varieties like Rojini, Molda, and Fasli, which ripen at different times during the brutal summer months. It's a deeply ingrained sensory cultural tradition. Okay, I have to jump in here and play the devil's advocate because I guarantee you a lot of people listening to this right now, myself included, honestly, might have the exact same reaction I had on my first read. Isn't cash just practically better in the modern world? It's easier to send. The mangoes won't rot in transit. The old man can take that 1,100 rupees and buy whatever he wants. He can buy his own mangoes or medication or tea. Why is he being so stubborn and irrationally angry about getting a very practical envelope of cash. It's a totally valid modern reaction, but it entirely misses the old man's point. He's furious because he recognizes that the shift from a basket of mangoes to an envelope of cash is not a shift in practicality, it's a fundamental shift in values. It's the death of human connection. Think about the labor involved in the tradition. To send the MIA bar, the in-laws must know the land. They have to track the seasons. They have to walk into the orchard, inspect the trees, select the best unblemished fruit. They have to pack it carefully in straw so it doesn't bruise, and then they have to designate someone to travel across the district to deliver it personally, sit down, and share a cup of tea. It requires time, physical effort, thought, and a communal connection to the land and to each other. It's an act of deep intentional care. It's proof that you spent hours of your life thinking about the recipient. Precisely. Replacing that rich, sensory, curated basket with 1,100 rupees is an act of what we might call cultural outsourcing. It turns a deeply personal, living cultural bond into a cold, sterile, effortless financial transaction. By sending cash, the in-laws are essentially saying, we don't have the time, the energy, or the care to engage with our shared traditions, so here is some money to buy off our social obligation to you. The old man isn't angry because he wants fruit. He's angry because his family relationships, the very fabric of his community, are being reduced to a banking transaction. He's watching his culture be monetized and discarded. It strips the entire soul right out of the interaction. It's the difference between cooking a five-course meal for your partner's birthday versus handing them a $50 gift card to a chain restaurant. And the anthology makes sure to show us what we are losing by contrasting this sterile cash-based transaction with stories like La Baoji, where we actually see the raw, unpolished, beautiful human connections that make a culture alive. In that story, a young man named Eugen comes home to his village from his exorpting job in the city. It's a festival of holy. He immediately starts playfully teasing his beautiful sister-in-law, throwing colored powder on her, engaging in this vibrant, chaotic, joyous banter. It's a simple, humorous, almost fleeting story, But its placement in the anthology serves a vital structural purpose. It acts as a counterweight to the darkness. It shows the reader that the actual beating heart of a culture isn't found in bank accounts, or in loud performative religious rituals, or in the perfect grammar of a language. It's found in those organic, sometimes messy, deeply human interactions. It's the laughter, the teasing, the shared unregulated joy of a festival. That is the sap running through the banyan tree. When you replace that human warmth with the cold decision of cash and capitalism, you lose the culture entirely. You're left with nothing but blinking lights on deadwood. Wow. OK, let's take a breath and pull all of this immense material together. This journey through gijendra takur's videha, mathele lagukkatha has been nothing short of a massive, intellectual and emotional revelation. We started this hour with the mission to see how hyper-local stories from Bihar and Nepal could possibly mirror the universal human condition, and they have absolutely undeniably delivered on that promise. We watched arrogant literary critics try to whitewash horrific violence just to fit their own comfortable prepackaged narratives. We stood in a sterile London hospital room staring at Big Ben and felt the deeply alienating terror of terminal illness and the devastating collapse of a modern isolated marriage. We witnessed the literal bloody cost of revolution in the dark mountains as men and women gave their lives to fight systemic poverty. And then we saw how brilliantly and terrifyingly the power structures used the mundane, inescapable traps of domesticity, marriage and wage labor to silently neutralize rebellion without shedding a drop of blood. We felt the sheer dehumanizing claustrophobic weight of poverty, where a desperate son is forced by an abusive boss to calculate the exact timing of his own father's death just to keep a 12 ruby a day job. We exposed the spectacular, enraging hypocrisy of a society that happily buys blessings from fake mechanical cows, but flatly refuses to pay for a mother's eye surgery and enthusiastically judges others for the exact same financial greed they practiced themselves at their own children's weddings. And finally, we mourned the relentless commodification of culture itself, where the deep, thoughtful, effort-heavy bonds of tradition, like a carefully chosen basket of mangoes, are replaced by sterile, thoughtless envelopes of cash. We watched ancient languages being abandoned out of modern shame, slowly suffocating under the weight of globalization. If we step back and connect all these profound narratives to the bigger picture of our own lives, the core message of this anthology is searingly clear. Whether you are navigating the cold bureaucratic medical system in London, searching for gig economy work in the sprawling slums of Delhi, or trying to hold on to your small farm in a village in Bihar, the core tension is the same. The tension between holding on to your deep human roots and surviving the relentless grinding transactional machinery of the modern world is a universal struggle. We are all, every single day, trying to figure out what pieces of our humanity to keep and what pieces we are being forced to sell just to survive. It is the defining paradox of our time. We are sprinting toward the future desperate for security, but we are constantly anxiously looking over our shoulders, wondering what vital pieces of our soul we dropped along the way. So as we wrap up this deep dive, I want to leave you, the listener, with a final lingering question to Mullover. Think about the traditions you practice in your own life, the holidays you celebrate, the family text threads, the rituals you perform, the ways you try to connect with your past. Look really, really closely at them. Are you actually doing the hard, quiet work of nurturing the roots of the tree? Are you taking the time to understand the language, the history, and the deep communal meaning behind your actions? Or are you just hanging, blinking, cheap colored lights on a trunk that is slowly suffocating underneath? It is a hard question, but it's one we all need to answer. Keep diving deep, keep questioning the narrative, and we'll catch you next time.

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