Kabisurya Baladeba Ratha and Kishore Chandrananda Champu: An Experience

There are moments when a piece of heritage stops being history and becomes personal memory. Classical Odia literature has always fascinated me for this exact reason. It does not sit frozen in textbooks, nor does it demand reverence through fear. Instead, it lives through voices, instruments, gesture, and community memory. In most parts of India, classical poetry remained confined to courts, elites, manuscripts, or religious recitations. In Odisha, classical poetry escaped the boundaries of literacy and became a sound tradition. It travelled through temples, village gatherings, household rituals, courtyards, and eventually into the architecture of Odissi dance and music. It was not meant to be read silently; it was designed to be heard. The text was only one layer; the larger body of experience was oral, musical, and performative.

To understand Baladeba Ratha and his Champu, we must first understand the literary world he inherited. Odisha’s classical poetic lineage is not fragmented — it is a continuum. Jayadeva lays down a model in the 12th century with Gita Govinda, combining devotion, human longing, and strict structural discipline. Upendra Bhanja refines it into ornate riti aesthetics, with layered Sanskrit vocabulary and grammar-driven sophistication. Dinakrushna shapes intimacy. These poets expanded Odia literature not as isolated accomplishments, but as an unbroken chain of experiments with sound, structure, sentiment, and performance. Their works solidified something distinctive — Odia poetry was not a textual product; it was a musical ecosystem.

Into this tradition enters Kabisurya Baladeba Ratha, born in the late 18th century in Ganjam. His contribution is not merely that he wrote exceptional poetry; it is that he changed how Odia poetry was experienced. While his contemporaries focused on ornamental depth, mythic intensity, and courtly performance, he placed poetry into the hands of performers, communities, and ordinary listeners. Instead of writing exclusively for scholars or royal audiences, he wrote in the rhythm of people’s speech. He merged classical structure with regional dialect, bringing poetry closer to common memory. He is credited with evolving Dhumpa Sangita, a performance tradition using a long bamboo instrument (the dhumpa) that carried his verses across village evenings and temple yards. His writing has an unfiltered, almost conversational ease, which is why it still fits naturally into Odissi music.

Sitarist & Vocalist Soumya Biswajit with Soumyakant Mallick on mardala

Recently, I attended a small, close-knit musical session that did something rare: it allowed us to listen instead of consume. Over three evenings, vocalist and sitarist Soumya Biswajit and Soumyakant Mallick on the mardala curated an experience around Odia classical poetry. Day 1 explored Riti-yuga poets. Day 2 traced Odissi’s poetic forms, including chhanda, chautisa, and Jayadeva’s Gita Govinda. Day 3 was dedicated entirely to Kabisurya Baladeba Ratha’s masterpiece — Kishore Chandrananda Champu. ParibhaAsha was there on Day 3, simply listening. Just observing how the room reacted to a 200-year-old text.

It is only when you hear the Champu sung that its architecture reveals itself. A Champu is not poetry in the conventional sense. It is a composition where structured prose alternates with lyrical verse. In Odisha, this form transforms further — each chapter or song follows the Odia alphabet, from Ka to Ksha. Every stanza inside that chapter starts with the same consonant. It is literary mathematics disguised as emotional storytelling. The Kishore Chandrananda Champu contains 34 songs, each aligned with one letter, each designed for musical rendering. Structurally, it demands precision. Emotionally, it flows without strain. This balance between rigidity and fluidity is where Baladeba Ratha’s intelligence becomes evident.

Soumya Biswajit explaining the theme & context behind the pattachitra art exhibition curated based on the Kishore Chandrananda Champu

But structure alone does not explain why the Champu remains relevant. The answer lies in how Ratha constructs characters.

In this Champu, Radha is not a distant goddess. She is a young woman in conflict with her own emotions, torn between dignity and vulnerability. Krishna is not the omniscient, cosmic deity; he is a teenager — mischievous, charming, evasive. The narrative unfolds not as epic mythology, but as a lived moment between two individuals. Lalita, Radha’s friend, becomes the crucial mediator. She articulates what Radha cannot say aloud. She observes Krishna’s behaviour, calls out his inconsistency, and negotiates on Radha’s behalf. She is not a passive character; she is a sharp negotiator who uses wit as persuasion. Radha brings intensity. Krishna brings unpredictability. Lalita brings strategy. One of the stanzas that caught my attention is the complete surrender of Krishna once he meets his love, Radha, which is perfectly described below:

ଯାବକ ତୋ ପଦକଞ୍ଜର ସମଦଗଜଗତି ମୋ ଶେଖର ରେ, ଯତୀନ୍ଦ୍ରସମାଧିଖଣ୍ଡନା ତୁ ନିଧି ମୁଁ ରଙ୍କମାନଙ୍କ ବର ରେ…

Krishna is placing Radha’s feet on his head, symbolising complete surrender in love, while adorning her ‘Jabaka’ (Alta) proudly on his crown

Ratha’s mastery lies in his language choices. He does not confine himself to Sanskritised purity. Instead, he makes deliberate insertions of Urdu words such as “ख़राब” (spoiled) and “नज़र” (gaze). These are not accidental borrowings. They indicate a social landscape influenced by 18th-century political shifts, interactions with Persianate culture, and multilingual courtly settings. In parallel, he integrates the Ganjam colloquial dialect, which gives the Champu the informal warmth of lived speech. The language shifts based on who is speaking. When Radha is emotional, the tone softens. When Lalita argues, the tone sharpens. This fluidity transforms the Champu into something larger than literature — it becomes a mapped emotional psychology.

Listening to the Champu in a live setting clarifies why reading it is insufficient. The text is designed for performance. The voice carries emotional colour; the mardala dictates tension. No printed book can simulate that. It is easy to call Baladeba Ratha a poet, but it is more accurate to call him a sound engineer of emotion. His poetry demands breath control, vocal modulation, and interpretive sensitivity. The music is not accompaniment; it is the medium.

What moved me most was not the technicality — it was the audience. Young people sat there, focused, attentive, curious. Not one person checked their phone while the Champu was being performed. That moment said more about the future of Odia heritage than any policy document or cultural strategy. Classical art forms do not survive because they are old. They survive because new people find meaning in them. The real preservation is not archival, but aspirational. As long as young musicians & artists choose classical arts as career paths — not as side hobbies — continuity is natural. Soumya Biswajit and his team exemplify this shift. They are not just performing heritage as nostalgia. They are living it.

For ParibhaAsha, this experience strengthens our ethos. Heritage should not be displayed as a preserved artefact. It should be activated. Our role is to create spaces where discussions on classical Odia literature, Champu structures, poetic forms, and linguistic evolution are not limited to academia. Cultural knowledge should circulate — through public conversations, curated listening sessions, contextual writing, podcasts, and visual storytelling. Heritage must become accessible.

Kishore Chandrananda Champu is not an old text. It is an ongoing possibility. It tells us that language adapts, art evolves, and tradition survives only when someone chooses to embody it. This evening reaffirmed something for me:preservation is not an act of memory — it is an act of participation.And participation begins with listening.