Every war has its turning points, and for the Kaurava army, one such turning point arrived the moment their commander-in-chief, the venerable Dronacharya, was struck down on the battlefield. An army without a general is a body without a head, and Duryodhana, ever the anxious king, was suddenly faced with the delicate business of choosing who would fill that void. It was not a question that could be answered lightly, for the man chosen to lead would carry upon his shoulders the fate of an entire war.
The first claimant to step forward was Ashwatthama, son of the slain Drona. Grief and lineage together lent force to his words. Was it not fitting, he argued, that the son should inherit the mantle his father had worn? Blood, in his eyes, was credential enough.
But there was another man on that battlefield whose claim could not simply be waved away — Karna, the great archer, friend of Duryodhana, and a warrior whose skill on the field had never been in serious doubt. Duryodhana found himself caught between two loyalties, unable to dismiss either the son of his fallen teacher or the friend who had stood by him through every humiliation of his life. It is here, in this uneasy pause, that the real drama of our story begins — not on the battlefield of arrows, but in the battlefield of words.
Ashwatthama, unable to bear the thought of losing the generalship to a rival, turned upon Karna with a cruelty that epics reserve for their sharpest moments. He did not attack Karna's skill, for that was beyond reproach. He attacked his birth. Karna, said Ashwatthama, was but the son of a charioteer — a "suta-putra" — and no matter how fine an archer he might be, the blood of a charioteer's son could never qualify him to command kings and princes. It was an old wound, this taunt, one that had followed Karna since the day he first picked up a bow in the court of the Kurus, since the day Draupadi herself had refused him at her swayamvara on the very same grounds. Ashwatthama's words that day on the battlefield were not new; they were simply the latest blade drawn from an old and familiar scabbard.
What is remarkable, and what makes this small episode worth the retelling even three thousand years later, is not the insult itself — the world has never been short of men who mistake the accident of birth for the substance of worth — but the reply that Karna gave to it. For in that reply lies the whole philosophy that a twentieth-century Odia editor would later borrow to name his magazine.
The Sanskrit play "Venisamhara" preserves for us the words Karna is said to have spoken in that moment, and they deserve to be turned over slowly, like a coin held up to the light:
"Whether I am a charioteer, or the son of a charioteer, or whatever indeed I may be — that is not for me to decide. Birth into a particular family lies in the hands of fate. But pourush — manly exertion, the force of one's own effort and courage — that lies in my own hands."
Read once, this sounds like the retort of a proud man refusing to be shamed. Read twice, it becomes something closer to a manifesto. Karna does not deny the accusation. He does not claim noble blood he does not possess, nor does he plead for sympathy on account of his humble upbringing. Instead, he does something far more radical for a man of his time and place: he simply declares the entire question of lineage irrelevant to the question of worth. Birth, he says, is a lottery run by destiny, and no man should be praised or condemned for its outcome. What a man does with the years given to him — his courage, his labour, his will to rise — that alone belongs to him, and that alone should be the measure by which he is judged.
It is worth pausing here to notice how quietly devastating this idea is. In a world — then as now — arranged so carefully around hierarchies of birth, caste, family name, and inherited privilege, Karna's words cut a clean line between what is given and what is earned. He was, in effect, telling Ashwatthama: you may mock the house I was born into, but you cannot touch the house I have built with my own bow and my own blood. And the epic itself seems to know the weight of this claim, for Karna, the so-called low-born charioteer's son, goes on to fight as fiercely and as nobly as any prince on that field.
କର୍ଣ୍ଣଙ୍କ ପ୍ରତି କଠୋର ବାକ୍ୟ ପ୍ରୟୋଗ କରି ଅଶ୍ୱତ୍ଥାମା କହିଲେ, କର୍ଣ୍ଣ ସାରଥିର ପୁତ୍ର। ସେ ସେନାପତି ହେବାକୁ ଯୋଗ୍ୟ ନୁହେଁ। ତାହାର ଯେଉଁ ଉତ୍ତର କର୍ଣ୍ଣ ଦେଇଥିଲେ, ଏବେର ଭାରତବର୍ଷର ଯୁବସମାଜ ପାଇଁ ତାହା ପ୍ରଯୁଜ୍ୟ। ସଂସ୍କୃତ 'ବେଣୀସଂହାର' ନାଟକରେ ତାହା ଏହିପରି ଅଛ—
“ସୂତୋ ବା ସୂତପୁତ୍ରୋ ବା
ଯୋ ବା କୋ ବା ଭବାମ୍ୟହମ୍।
ଦୈବାୟତ୍ତଂ କୁଳେ ଜନ୍ମ,
ମଦାୟତ୍ତଞ୍ଚ ପୌରୁଷମ୍॥”
ମୁଁ ସାରଥି ବା ସାରଥିର ପୁତ୍ର ହୋଇପାରେ, ବା ଯେକେହି ହୋଇପାରେ। ଉଚ୍ଚ କୁଳରେ ଜାତ ହେବା ମୋର ଆୟତ୍ତର ବାହାରେ। ତାହା ଦୈବର ଅଧୀନ; କିନ୍ତୁ ପୌରୁଷ ବା ପୁରୁଷକାର ମୋର ଅଧୀନ। ଏହି ଦୃଷ୍ଟିରୁ ଏହି ପତ୍ରିକାର ନାମକରଣ 'ପୌରୁଷ' ରଖାଯାଇଛି। ପ୍ରତ୍ୟେକ ବ୍ୟକ୍ତିଙ୍କ ମଧ୍ୟରେ ଯେଉଁ ଅନ୍ତର୍ନିହିତ ଶକ୍ତି ଅଛି, ଜାତି ବା ବଂଶ ନିର୍ବିଶେଷରେ ତାହାର ଜାଗରଣ ପ୍ରତ୍ୟେକ ସମାଜ ଓ ରାଷ୍ଟ୍ରର କର୍ତ୍ତବ୍ୟ ହେବା ଆବଶ୍ୟକ।— ସମ୍ପାଦକ)
Editor Pattnaik, in explaining his choice of title, pointed his readers to this very episode — and rightly so, for the word "pourush" carries within it an entire worldview, not merely a definition. The great Odia lexicon, the "Purnachandra Bhashakosha", when consulted on this word, offers up a small treasure chest of meanings, each one a facet of the same underlying gem.
As a noun drawn from Sanskrit, "pourush" first and most obviously denotes manliness — but this is manliness understood not as bluster or dominance, rather as "purushakara", manly exertion, the deliberate application of one's own strength and will toward a goal. It carries within it courage, virility, vigour, valour, endeavour, and diligence — the whole restless energy of a person determined to act rather than merely exist. Curiously, the dictionary also lists among its meanings "purusha-pramana", a unit of height — the measure of a man standing with his arms raised overhead, calculated from the sole of his foot to the tip of his middle finger. There is something quietly poetic in this: that the same word which means "self-made effort" should also be used to measure the full stretched height of a human body, as though language itself understood that true stature is best measured when a man is reaching upward, striving, rather than standing at rest. The word further extends to mean dignity, greatness, and even the practical measure of the load a single man can bear on his own back — a nod to endurance, to capacity, to the sheer weight a determined person can carry without buckling.
As an adjective, "pourush" narrows slightly but loses none of its vigour — it describes that which pertains to a man, that which is manly or vigorous in character, that which rises to the measure of "purusha-pramana" height (roughly four and a half cubits, the dictionary notes with charming precision), and that which can bear a load fit for a grown man's shoulders. And in the everyday literary usage of the Odia tongue, the dictionary tells us, "pourush" has also come to serve simply as a term of praise — an exclamation of admiration, a word one might use to applaud an act of daring, a synonym almost for "bahaduri" and "bahaba", bravery and bravo rolled into one.
Now we may return to the question with which we began: why should a magazine be named "Pourush"? The answer, once assembled from the pieces above, is not difficult to see, though it is worth stating plainly, for its implications are large.
To name a publication "Pourush" is to declare, on every cover and in every issue, a certain stance toward the reader and toward society at large. It is to say: we do not care what family you were born into, what caste marked your cradle, what privilege or poverty greeted your first cry. We care only for what you are willing to build with your own two hands. The magazine, in adopting Karna's ancient retort as its very name, was quietly but firmly aligning itself with the side of self-made effort against the side of inherited entitlement — precisely the divide that Ashwatthama and Karna had drawn on the battlefield so many centuries before.
The editor himself made this connection explicit, noting that Karna's words remain every bit as relevant to the youth of Bharatvarsha today as they were on the day they were spoken. And is this not true even now, in our own age of certificates and surnames, of who-you-know and whose-son-you-are? The temptation to judge a person by their origins — their address, their community, their family's standing — has hardly vanished from the world; it has simply changed its costume. Against this temptation, the old Sanskrit verse still stands like a raised hand: "daivayattam kule janma, madayattam cha pourusham" — birth into a lineage is the business of fate, but manly striving is the business of the self alone.
There is, too, something fitting in the editor's closing remark, that the latent strength lying dormant within every individual, regardless of caste or lineage, deserves to be awakened — and that such an awakening ought to be the sacred duty of every society and every nation. A magazine that takes this as its founding creed is not merely choosing a catchy title; it is choosing a mission. It positions itself as a space where achievement is celebrated over ancestry, where courage and diligence are given pride of place over the mere accident of a good family name.
Few names carry an argument inside them the way "Pourush" does. Most titles simply point at their subject — a magazine about farming might be called "The Field", one about cinema might be called "The Screen". But "Pourush" does not point; it insists. Every time the word appears on a masthead, it silently repeats Karna's old challenge to anyone who would judge a man before he has had the chance to prove himself: birth, perhaps, is not in my hands — but everything else is.
And perhaps that is the final, quiet beauty of this small piece of editorial history. In choosing to name his magazine after a single defiant sentence spoken on a long-lost battlefield, Janaki Ballav Pattnaik ensured that every reader who picked up the periodical would, even without knowing the epic reference, absorb something of its spirit — a gentle but unmistakable reminder that we are, each of us, far more the authors of our own worth than the products of our birth. That is no small thing for a name to carry. That, one might say, is "pourush" itself.
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