Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection...
Where The Mind Is Without Fear by Rabindranath Tagore, written in 1910 in Bengali as Chitto Jetha Bhoy Shunno and translated by the poet himself in 1912.
We celebrate Rabindranath Tagore(1861-1941) on his 165th birth anniversary with translations of his works by contemporary writers. We hope to woo our readers into experiencing Tagore as a visionary and a thinker who used his writing to showcase his convictions transcending divisive human constructs. Most are aware he was much more than just a poet or writer with his pet projects of Santiniketan and Sriniketan, that continue to flourish, even today — eighty-five years after his death.
He wrote a birthday poem every year. The last one was drafted as he lay sick on his bed in 1941. We have the lyrics translated by Aruna Chakravarti in her book, Daughters of Jorasanko with an imagined description of his last birthday celebrations.
The outlay includes stories translated by Somdatta Mandal and Chakravarti; essays brought to us in English by Himadri Lahiri and Mandal. And our piece de resistance is Professor Fakrul Alam’s translation of his full length ‘dance-drama’, Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders), with songs and theatre brought together, somewhat like in a musical. What absolutely amazes is that all his work can be read as comments on contemporary life. Enjoy the translations!
Tagore’s Last Birthday Celebration: This has been excerpted from Aruna Chakravarti’s Daughters of Jorasanko. It includes has her translation of the last birthday song he wrote in 1941 a few months before he died. Click here to read.
Short Stories
Daliya, a story by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.
Baraf Pora (Snowfall) : This narrative gives a glimpse of Tagore’s first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated by Somdatta Mandal . Clickhere to read.
Jun A. Alindogan gives an account of how an overgrowth of water hyacinth affects aquatic life and upsets the local food chain while giving us a flavourful account of local food. Clickhereto read.
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne…
The Canterbury Tales (1387-1400) by Chaucer, Prologue
This is the month Asia hosts sprays of new years across multiple regions. Many of these celebrate the fecundity of Earth, spring and the departure of bleak winter months. Each new year is filled with hope for the coming year. The vibrant colours of varied cultures celebrate spring in different ways, but it is a welcome for the new-born year, a jubilation, a reaffirmation of the continuity of the circle of life. Will the wars, especially the shortages caused by them and felt deeply by many of us, affect these celebrations? Had they impacted the festivals that were celebrated earlier? These are questions to which we all seek answers. We can only try to gauge the suffering caused by war on those whose homes, hopes, families and assets have been affected other than trying to cope with the senselessness of such inane attacks. But, in keeping with TS Eliot’s observations on Prufrock, most of us continue our lives unperturbed and as usual.
Some of us think and try to dissent for peace and a world without borders with words – prose or poetry. To reinforce ideas of commonalities that bind overriding divides, we are excited to announce a poetry anthology mapping varied continents with content from Borderless Journal, Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems. We are hugely grateful to Hawakal Publishers for this opportunity and to Bitan Chakraborty for the fabulous cover design. We invite you all to browse on the anthology which is available in hardcopy across continents.
Our issue this month is a bumper issue with the translation of Tagore’s Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders) by Professor Fakrul Alam. It’s the full-length play this time as earlier we had carried only an excerpt. The play is deeply relevant to our times as is Somdatta Mandal’s English rendition of his story, ‘Daliya’, set in Arakan. We also have also translated Tagore’s response to the idea of mortal fame and deification in poetry. Kallol Lahiri’s poignant Bengali story about the resilience of an ageing actress has been brought to us in English by V Ramaswamy. Isa Kamari brings us translations of his Malay poems exploring spirituality through nature.
But what really grips are the fables that Hughes will be sharing with us over four months. He calls them Rhysop Fables, after the ancient ones from Aesop’s with the ancient author himself being mentioned in one of the short absurdist narratives this time. In fiction, our regular fable writer, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao explores a modern-day dilemma, that of social media intruding into the development of children. Jonathon B Ferrini glances at resilience and mental disability while, Sangeetha G looks into societal attitudes that still plague her part of the world. Oindrila Ghosal gives a story set in Kashmir.
From Kashmir, Gower Bhat shares a heartfelt musing on being a first time father. Mohul Bhowmick writes of Eid in Hydearbad (Hari Raya in Southeast Asia) — echoing themes from Kamari’s poems — and Anupriya Pandey ponders over the quiet acceptance of mundane life that emphasises social inequities. Jun A. Alindogan brings home issues from Phillipines. While we have stories about Vietnam from Meredith Stephens, Suzanne Kamata muses about Phnom Penh, mesmerised by Cambodian dancers.
Farouk Gulsara writes of his cycling trip from Jaipur to Udaipur bringing to life dichotomies of values and showing that age can be just a number. Chetan Poduri reinforces gaps created by technology as does Charudutta Panigrah, a theme that reverberates from poetry to fiction to non-fiction and much of it with a light touch. Devraj Singh Kalsi sprinkles humour with his strange tale about hiring a bodyguard.
Keith Lyons has brought in Keith Westwaters, a soldier-turned-poet who seems to find his muse mainly in New Zealand. We have also featured an author who overrides borders of continents, Marzia Pasini. Her book, Leonie’s Leap, has a protagonist of mixed origin and her characters are drawn out of Russia, India, Bulgaria and many other places.
This rounds up our April issue. Do visit our content’s page and explore the journal further.
Huge thanks to the wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her art. They help bring together the colours of the world to our pages. Huge thanks to contributors who make each issue evolve a personality of its own. And heartfelt thanks to readers who make it worth our while to write.
Every birthday, Tagore wrote a poem, and this is a later one. Published in Nabajatak (Newborn) in 1940, Jonmodin (Birthday) reflects the poet’s own dispassionate look at mortality.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
BIRTHDAY
The one you decked With many ornaments — I do not recognise that personage, Nor does my antarjami* validate Your deification of my name. The divine act of creation Is beyond your comprehension. By the sands lining the oceans Of time, he sculpts rare statues, Drawing draperies to a close In absolute solitude. Outside, Light blends into darkness. Some see that; some, something else. Fragmenting the form from the shadow, with imagined illusions, Hollow at times — with these they initiate Anomalies in introductions. The sculptor creates And with the creation plays, Raises me from dust to light, From brightness to night — Everyone knows that this is transient, The wheel of time’ll shatter it all to smithereens. Some seem to be blessed With fleeting immortal fame. For a few moments, the delusion holds But what remains is a fistful of dust. Death washes and wipes away all other signs. All you people distract yourselves With the doll you have decked. Will he get more time? Will he become eternal? As you imagine the future, My personal sculptor Laughs, watching From the corner of his eye, That is what I muse on today.
*Antarjami: the one who knows your inner soul, normally refers to God
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This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Daliya by Tagore, published in Magh 1298 B.S. (Jan/February 1891), has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal
Daliya by Tagore
Preface
After being defeated, Shah Shuja feared Aurangzeb and ran away to take shelter under the king of Arakan. He had three beautiful daughters with him. The king of Arakan wished to get the three daughters married to the princes. Shah Shuja was extremely unwilling to accept the proposal and so one day, according to the king’s orders, he was lured by trickery to travel in a boat on the river and then there was an attempt to sink that boat mid-river. During that incident, the youngest daughter Amina was hurled into the river by her father himself. The eldest daughter committed suicide. And one of Shuja’s trusted aides called Rahamat Ali took Julekha and swam away with her, while Shuja died fighting in a war.
Amina floated along with the strong current and quite soon got entangled in a fisherman’s net miraculously and gradually grew up in his hut.
In the meantime, the old king died, and the prince was initiated into the kingdom.
Chapter One
One morning the old fisherman came and reprimanded Amina and said, “Tinni.” The fisherman had renamed Amina in the Arakan language.
“Tinni, what has happened to you this morning? You haven’t laid your hand on anything. My new net hasn’t been glued, my boat…”
Amina came close to the fisherman and affectionately told him, “Old man, my elder sister has come today, so today is a holiday.”
“Who is your sister, Tinni?”
Julekha came out from somewhere and said, “Me.”
The old man was surprised. Then he came close to Julekha and carefully observed her face.
Suddenly he asked, “Do you know any sort of work?”
Amina said, “Old man, I will work on behalf of didi[1]. Didi won’t be able to work.”
The old man thought for a while and asked, “Where will you stay?”
Julekha replied, “With Amina.”
The old man thought, this was also trouble. He asked, “What will you eat?”
Julekha said, “There is also a way.” Saying that she contemptuously threw a gold sovereign in front of the fisherman.
Amina picked it up and handing it over to the fisherman said in a hushed tone, “Old man, don’t say anything else. You go and do your work. It is quite late in the day.”
Julekha had travelled in different places in disguise and at last found out Amina’s whereabouts and landed in this fisherman’s hut. But narrating all that will result in a second story. Her saviour, Rahamat Seikh, worked in the Arakan king’s court under a pseudonym.
Chapter Two
The narrow river was flowing by, and the cool breeze from the first spell of summer made the red flowers from the koilu tree fall below on the ground.
Sitting under that tree Julekha said to Amina, “God has saved the lives of we two sisters just to take revenge of father’s death. Otherwise, I don’t find any other reason.”
Amina kept on looking at the farthest and the densest trees on the other side of the river and said very slowly, “Didi don’t say such words. I like this world quite well. If they want to die, let the men fight with each other and die, I have no sorrow here.”
Julekha said, “Shame on you Amina. Aren’t you the daughter from the Shehezada[2]’s lineage. Where is the throne in Delhi and where is this fisherman’s hut in the Arakans!”
Amina laughed and replied, “Didi, this old man’s hut is better than the throne in Delhi and if any young girl finds the shade of the koilu tree much better, the throne of Delhi won’t shed a drop of tear.”
Julekha partly unmindfully and partly replying to Amina said, “Yes, you cannot be blamed because you were really small then. But just think about it once, Father loved you the most and that is why he had thrown you in the water with his own hands. Don’t consider this life to be more loving than that death given by Father. But if you can take revenge, then the meaning of life is justified.”
Amina kept quiet and kept on looking at the distance. But it could be clearly understood, despite all those words, this pleasant breeze outside, the shade of the tree and her own youth had kept her engrossed in some happy memories.
After some time, she gave a deep sigh and said, “Didi please wait for a while. I have household work to do. The old man won’t be able to eat if I don’t cook for him.”
Chapter Three
Julekha thought about Amina’s condition and kept on sitting in a very desolate mood. Suddenly, there was the sound of a big jump, and someone came from behind and covered Julekha’s eyes with his hands.
Julekha was alarmed and said, “Who are you?”
Hearing her voice the young man left the eyes and came and stood in front of her. Looking at Julekha’s face he said without hesitation, “You are not Tinni.” It was as if Julekha was always trying to pass on as Tinni, only the exceptionally sharp intelligence of the young man could decipher the cleverness.
Julekha gathered her clothes, stood up brilliantly, and cast a firm look at him. She asked, “Who are you?’
The young man said, “You don’t know me. Tinni does. Where is Tinni?”
Hearing the commotion Tinni came outside. Seeing Julekha’s anger and the bewildered face of the young man, Amina gave a loud laugh.
She said, “Didi, don’t take his words into consideration. He is not a human being. He is a deer of the forest. If he has behaved impertinently, I will scold him. Daliya, what did you do?”
The young man instantly replied, “Covered her eyes. I thought she was Tinni. But she is not Tinni.”
Suddenly Tinni expressed terrible anger and said, “Again! Uttering big things with your little mouth. When did you cover Tinni’s eyes? You seem to have too much courage.”
The young man said, “It doesn’t take too much courage to cover someone’s eyes; especially if someone has the previous habit. But I am telling you the truth, Tinni. Today I was a little scared.”
Saying that he secretly pointed out his finger at Julekha and kept on looking at Amina’s face and smiled.
Amina said, “No you are a brute. You are not worthy of standing in front of a Shahezadi, a princess. It is necessary to teach you manners. Look, you should salute like this.”
Saying that Amina bent her youthful slim body very pleasantly and paid a salute to Julekha. The young man tried very hard to follow her orders in an incomplete fashion.
She said, “Do this and take three steps backwards.” The young man moved backwards.
“Salute her once again.” He saluted once more.
In this manner by moving backwards, by saluting, Amina took the young man up to the door of the hut.
She said, “Enter the room.” The young man did so.
Amina came out and bolted the door from outside and said, “Do some household work. Light the fire.” Saying that, she came and sat next to her sister.
She said, “Didi, please don’t get annoyed. The people here are like this. I am sick and tired with them.”
But that didn’t get reflected in Amina’s face or her behaviour. Instead, in many instances she expressed a particular bias towards the men here.
Julekha expressed as much anger as possible and said, “Really, Amina. I am surprised at your behaviour. How does an outsider have so much courage to come and touch you!”
Amina added to her sister’s concern and said, “Look at this, sister. If any Badshah or Nawab’s son acted in this manner, I would have insulted him and thrown him out.”
Julekha couldn’t control her inward smile – she laughed out loud and said, “Tell me the truth Amina. You were saying you liked the world, was this because of that brute young man?”
Amina replied, “Well, let me tell you the truth, didi. He helps me a lot. He plucks flowers from the trees, hunts animals and brings them, and rushes forward whenever he is asked to do a certain job. I have often thought of reprimanding him, but that attempt is of no avail. If I tell him with deep anger in my eyes, ‘Daliya, I am very dissatisfied with you’ – he stares at my face and silently keeps on smiling as if in jest. Mocking in this country is probably of this kind; if you give them two blows, they feel very happy. I have even tried that. Just see, I have locked him in the room – he is enjoying himself there. If I open the door, I will see him happily blowing at the fire with his eyes and face all reddened up. Tell me, sister, what should I do with him. I cannot take it anymore.”
Julekha said, “I can give a try.”
Amina laughed and said politely, “I beg at your feet, sister. Don’t tell him anything.”
The way she said those words it seemed as if the young man was a pet deer belonging to Amina, till now his wild habits have not left him. She feared that he would disappear if he saw some other people around.
In the meantime, the fisherman came and asked, “Tinni, hasn’t Daliya come today?”
“Yes, he has come.”
“Where has he gone?”
“He was disturbing too much. So, I locked him in the room.”
The old man was a little worried and said, “If he disturbs you, tolerate it. Everyone is so restless at a young age. Don’t reprimand him too much. Yesterday Daliya gave me a tholu, i.e. a gold coin, and took three fish from me.”
Amina said, “Don’t worry old man. Today I will extract two tholus from him, and you won’t have to give a single fish.”
The old man was very happy to see the cleverness and worldly wisdom of his adopted daughter at such a young age, and he affectionately caressed her head and left.
Chapter Four
It was strange that gradually Julekha no longer objected to this coming and going of Daliya. She thought that there was nothing strange about it. That was because there was current on one side of the river and the shore on the other bank, the passions and public shame of a woman were also like that. But outside civil society, in this remote corner of Arakan, where were people here?
Here nature manifested itself with the change of seasons – trees were blooming and the blue river in front was at spate during the monsoon; during autumn it would be clear and again become faint during summer; there was no criticism in the loud voices of the birds, and the southern wind would occasionally carry in the faint sound of human voices but not their actual conversation.
Just as a deserted mansion gets gradually covered with deep vegetation, similarly staying there for some time, the secret attack of nature gradually weakens the societal rules made by men and everywhere it gets blended with the natural world. The union of a man and a woman who are equal to one another seems so beautiful that it doesn’t seem out of place for a woman to look at it. They are steeped in mystery, happiness, such deep and unending curiosity, that nothing else seems relevant. So, when the lonely shade of poverty in this barbarian hut gradually turned Julekha’s pride about her heritage and standard of dignity into something lax, she started really enjoying watching the union of Amina and Daliya under the flowering shade of the koilu tree.
Probably an unsatisfied desire would arise in her young heart too and make her restless in pleasure and pain. In the end, it so happened that if the young man would arrive late, like the anxious Amina, Julekha would also eagerly wait for him, and when they all came together, they would fondly observe the scene in a manner in which a painter looks at his just completed painting from a distance. On some days there would be verbal duels, she would play tricks to reprimand them, and lock Amina inside the hut to prevent the mating urge of the young man.
There is a similarity between the king and the forest. Both are independent, both are the sole rulers in their own territory, and neither of them had to follow any rules. Both possessed a natural magnanimity and simplicity. Those who followed the middle path spent their days and nights obeying the rules implemented by folklore, and they were the ones who remained somewhat independent minded. They were the ones who were servile to the great men, were masters of the lower classes, and remained rather undecided and out of place. The barbarian Daliya was the untamed son of Mother Nature; he had no shyness for the shahajadi, the princess, and both the shahajadis, the princesses, also didn’t recognise him as an equal. He was jovial, simple, humorous, fearless in all circumstances, and his unshrinkable character did not display any trace of poverty.
But even amid these games sometimes Julekha’s heart would start lamenting – she would think about the dire state of a princess’s life!
One morning, Juelkha held Daliya’s hand as soon as he arrived and said, “Daliya, can you show me the king here?”
“Yes, I can. But tell me why.”
“I have a dagger and I want to plunge it into his chest.”
Daliya was somewhat surprised in the beginning. After that, seeing Julekha’s revengeful face, his whole face was filled with a smile; as if he had never heard such a funny thing earlier in his life. If you call it irony, well it was befitting a princess. He kept on constantly visualising the scene when without any talk or message, half of a dagger would be placed in the breast of a living king and how surprised the king would suddenly be when this intimate behaviour would take place. This made him laugh silently at first and occasionally erupt in a loud laugh later.
Chapter Five
The very next day Rahamat Seikh wrote a secret letter to Julekha stating that the new Arakan king had found out two sisters living in the hut of a fisherman and has been greatly enamoured after secretly watching Amina. He was making all preparations to bring her to the palace immediately and marry her. Such a nice opportunity for revenge would not be available again.
Then Julekha held Amina’s hand firmly and said, “One can clearly see God’s wishes. Amina, now the time has come to obey your life’s duty, and now playing games does not look well anymore.”
Daliya was present there. Amina looked at his face and saw him smiling self-indulgently.
Amina was hurt seeing his smile and said, “Do you know Daliya, I am going to become a queen.”
Daliya said, “But that is not for a long time.”
With a hurt and surprised heart Amina thought to herself, “It is really true he was a deer in the forest. It is my craziness that i treat him like a human being.”
To make Daliya more conscious, Amina asked, “Shall I come back after killing the king?”
Daliya found the words logical and said, “Yes, it is difficult to return.”
Amina’s entire soul turned totally pale.
She looked towards Julekha and casting a deep sigh said, “Didi, I am prepared.”
After that she turned towards Daliya and pretending it to be an irony emerging from her suffering heart said, “As soon as I become the queen, first I will punish you for conspiring against the king. After that I will do what is required.”
Hearing that Daliya found it to be especially funny, as if a lot of fun was involved if the proposal was turned into reality.
Chapter Six
The fisherman’s hut seemed to break down with the cavalry, foot soldiers, elephants, music and lights. Two palanquins covered with gold were sent from the palace.
Amina took the dagger from Julekha’s hand. For a long time, she kept on looking at the intricate design carved out of ivory. After that she opened her clothes and tried to ascertain its sharpness upon her own breast. It touched the tip of her breast, and she put it back in its case and hid it within her clothes.
She earnestly desired to meet Daliya once before she commenced on her journey towards death, but he had disappeared since yesterday. Was the pain of arrogance hidden in his smiles?
Before climbing inside the palanquin Amina looked at the shelter of her childhood through tear-filled eyes – the tree in her house, the river next to it. She held the hands of the fisherman and with a suppressed quivering voice said, “Old man, I am leaving. Who will look after your household after Tinni goes away?”
The old man started crying like a small boy.
Amina said, “Old man, if Daliya comes here, please give him this ring. Tell him that Tinni has left it before leaving.”
Saying that she quickly climbed into the palanquin. The palanquin left with great pageantry. Amina’s hut, the riverside, the place beneath the koilu tree, remained dark, silent and without any people.
In due course, the two palanquins crossed the main gate and entered inside the palace. The two sisters left their palanquins and came out.
Amina had no smile on her face, nor tears in her eyes. Julekha’s face was pale. When their duty was far away, they had a lot of excitement among them – now with a shivering heart she embraced Amina with a lot of affection. In her mind she thought how she had plucked the new-found love from its stem and was leading this blossoming flower into sailing in a stream of blood.
But there was no time to think about it now. Surrounded by the attendants with thousands of lamps casting their sharp radiance along the way, the two sisters kept on moving spell bound. At last, they reached the door of the nuptial room and stopping there for a moment, Amina called Julekha, “Didi.”
Julekha embraced Amina deeply and kissed her.
Both entered the room slowly.
The king was dressed in his regal attire and was sitting on a decorated bed in the centre of the room. Amina stood near the door with trepidation.
Julekha advanced towards the king and saw him laughing silently with humour.
Julekha blurted out, ‘Daliya!’ Amina fainted.
Daliya rose and lifted her in his arms like an injured bird and carried her to the bed. Amina became aware and taking out the dagger from her chest looked at her sister’s face. Didi looked at Daliya’s face. Daliya kept quiet and looked at both of them with a smiling face. The dagger also peeped out a little from inside its case and seeing this mirth started laughing with a twinkle.
Somdatta Mandal is the Former Professor of English and Chairperson at the Department of English & Other Modern European Languages, Visva Bharati, Santiniketan. Somdatta has a keen interest in translation and travel writing.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc (1870-1953) was a writer and political activist. From Public Domain
A MOTORBIKE AT KNOSSOS (in memory of Hilaire Belloc)
The chief defect of Arthur Glee was unrestrained velocity. Let’s listen to his final story even though it’s rather gory.
Arthur rode a bike of chrome and red, filled onlookers’ hearts with mortal dread, for he had sworn that he must go to see the island grotto below where the Minotaur in darkness dwelled deep down within a stony hell, his awful bellow the only sound in that grisly underground, and Arthur raced through ruined halls and never hit a single wall. But speed is such a fickle thing, as Arthur learned, while wandering.
The labyrinth, built of stone and myth, was something he would reckon with. He sped past pillars, tall and wide, with nothing but a desire inside to prove that modern speed and gear can conquer every ancient fear. “The Labyrinth!” he roared with pride, and threw the throttle open wide.
But as he leaned into the curve, he lost his grip (and then his nerve). For history is a heavy weight on those who challenge it too late. He struck a wall of Minoan brick and though a rescue team was very quick they found that Arthur, in his haste, had gone most thoroughly to waste.
The surgeons, with astounding skill, repaired his frame against his will. With plastic, steel, titanium plate, they mended his unhappy state until, like Theseus’ famous ship, he’d lost his true identity’s grip. Was he the boy who crashed the bike or something more… robotic-like?
Now tourists stand in frozen lines beneath the Mediterranean pines, while Arthur ponders, strange and grim, with nothing left that was part of him.
The Moral: If you must visit ancient sites, do not go chasing bullish frights. For he who races through the past will find himself replaced at last.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The arrival of royalty cheques should fulfill the dream of royal living. And the finest way to showcase royalty is by purchasing a horse and hiring a personal bodyguard. The rest of the worldly acquisitions are bank financed and hence lack appeal. Before I buy a well-bred horse instead of a swanky car, I need to learn how to ride and lose my weight to reduce the physical burden on the stud. Putting this idea into suspension mode for the time being, my present focus is on hiring a bodyguard first.
It is undeniable that the worldly possessions purchased on bank credit are not a genuine indicator of social status. What works better to reflect wealth and worthiness is the hiring of a personal bodyguard who has to be paid a handsome salary out of monthly income. A gun-toting escort, dressed in black, keeping a hawk’s eye all around, is the ultimate sign of luxury that has scaled up my ambition to pursue material success. Jealous folks and sworn enemies cannot bear the sight of a writer being shadowed all the time, protected every minute while they stay exposed to all kinds of threats.
Before they choose to emulate, they need to tell their families what level of threat exists for real and what is just a figment of their imagination. A similar demand raised by other members of the family makes the proposal difficult to implement. Insurance keeps the family financially afloat and hence the householder fails to get an instant approval for hiring a bodyguard. They do not care if a gangster shoots the earning member as the insurance company keeps the family protected with the insured amount in case of his untimely bump-off on a deserted highway or a crowded throughfare.
A security guard of any housing society cannot be employed for this purpose as the ideal bodyguard needs to be agile, gym-trained, and a sharpshooter as well. Such a rare combination of talents can emerge only after screening multiple experienced candidates with an interesting portfolio of crisis management.
Other people – my fake friends – ask me whether I have written a controversial book that has provoked a fanatic in any part of the world. Writing about myself, making fun of myself, sharing encounters with birds and animals should not ruffle feathers. The question of hurting sentiments does not arise and the justification to get state-sponsored security does not have a valid ground as there is no perceived threat perception. Writing engaging content in a non-discriminatory voice about nature is most unlikely to offend a tiger or a crocodile, not if I do not tend to ignore some and focus on just a few. For me as a writer, the tiny ones and the giant ones provide equal pleasure in equal measure.
On a recent visit to a builder’s office to search for a studio apartment, I was surprised to find the owner entering the premises flanked by two bouncer bodyguards who stood waiting outside the teak-wood door when he walked into his cabin. I was in a hurry so I wanted a quick word but the bodyguards stopped me and scanned me as if I was a big threat to security. When they suspected I was still not tamed and neutralised, they brandished a gun to scare me, hoping that discipline would follow. I told them that this behaviour offended my sentiments and I no longer wished to buy anything from the boss.
The threat of losing a client should have alarmed them but they did not seem perturbed. Instead, they looked ready to cart me away as an unwanted pesky visitor who looked impatient and troublesome, who managed sneak in beyond the reception desk like an intruder crossing the border. That I was not ready to discuss anything with the manager seemed to annoy them but the flip side suggests these builders need to be seen and observed so that one can form an idea if they are likely to siphon off funds and run away to a foreign land without delivering the promised homes. In such an eventuality, their managers would not be found hanging around the rented office to offer possession of the property that has not developed beyond a skeleton in five years.
Hearing the noise outside, the builder called them in, and the open door offered him the chance to scan me and feel safe enough to allow me in. The bodyguards were surprised! As the boss was in a good mood, I sought a hefty discount and he seemed to agree with a say-cheese smile. The presence of guns did not scare me. I spoke without fear. The builder perhaps appreciated my courage to speak boldly in the presence of his weaponised bodyguards. He accepted my suggestions and offered a park-facing property with a waiver of preferential location charges. A little bit of courage helped ease off the incoming installment burden.
In the midst of our smooth conversation, he received some threat call on the landline and the security guys became busy with that. A healthy crossfire of abusive words in three languages followed, leaving me clueless and inconclusive since there was no written waiver in my favour yet. The verbal assurance did not satisfy me, but the bodyguards shooed me away, saying that the builder does not write anything on paper.
Maybe he had fears of his signature getting forged and misused. That he said his was the final word was something nobody could question in this office is what I was told. With these bodyguards as my prime witness to my big savings deal, I finally went to the manager and told him what had happened. He seemed to suggest I had broken the protocol as I was pretty fast in reaching out to the owner for discount. He said the property I had finalised had been booked just a few moments ago and the owner was not yet intimated of the closed deal. I could guess this was his trick as he offered the discounted price for a road-facing property instead of a park-facing one with a view of the swimming pool.
The brazen display of power in front of an ordinary citizen made me look at security as a new symbol of social status. I knew the builder was paying the salary by selling the homes at a premium price and his middle-class customers were bearing the burden for his safety. The corridor was sanitized. They ensured no obstructions remained as the builder had spent an hour in the office and it was time to move out for his next task. The manager said it was time for the boss to visit the welfare centre for animals. His social service ventures consumed much time. His bodyguards escorted him to the car while I was left stranded there without a solution to my problem.
The job of escorting the boss looked easy but the risk of ensuring his safety was high. With threats looming large, especially kidnapping, the bodyguards seemed to be under constant stress, and they deserved the high salary they were paid. One mistake and they could end up losing their lives and jobs if the boss suffered. While it was a good idea to be escorted, the loss of privacy was also a concern as the bodyguards entered the washroom as well. When the nature’s call cannot be answered alone in peace, the build-up of pressure is evident. In case I chose to hire a bodyguard, a similar situation would be unavoidable.
While a builder has multiple threats from rivals and gangsters, a writer must record an episode of brutal attack or life threat for offending an individual or a community. Since none of that exists in my case, the justification to hire a bodyguard is missing. Besides, the royalty earnings look inadequate to maintain the salary burden of the bodyguard who might point a gun at the writer in case his salary gets delayed.
Creative people who prefer having a pet have to think twice before hiring bodyguards unless they acquire the tag of being a best-seller. The bodyguard dies in a crossfire while saving the employer, but he gets no gallantry award for that. In most of the cases, they end up running away from the scene of crime, to disappear into a thick jungle or a distant village without claiming salary dues in order to save their precious lives. One needs to pore over this practical aspect before signing up a bodyguard.
In case of a heated argument on any issue of conflict or disagreement, the bodyguard could end up losing calm and blow up my head by pulling the trigger. This would cause irreparable loss to the creative world, although other writers might celebrate this untimely ending in private. Imagine the bodyguard staying alert outside but the glass of poisoned water on the bed-side table leads to death or a family member kills while the writer sleep.
I have given this a second thought and decided to hire one bodyguard for a month just to get the royal experience. A bodyguard employed outside returned home when the bombing in a foreign city began so I offered him a job for a month for his pocket expenses. He accepted my modest offer and started following me. But he looked pretty relaxed during his duty hours. I told him I work as a writer who has many hidden enemies. He was not impacted by my words. There was a wide gap between us. For instance, he was still in the cafe while I was about to cross the main road. I told him these counted as lapses. He still wondered why a person would kill an innocent soul like me. I said you never know fanatics. No logic works when they pump bullets from point-blank range. He was not affected by these grave words.
He ate burgers and pizzas with me and went for shopping trips. He stood outside my writing chamber and felt bored. I opened the garden-facing window one day and he rushed to the front side of the lawn. He advised me not to open the window as a sniper with a laser gun from another building rooftop might target me. His guideline was clear: If you want to write, keep windows shut. Working in an enclosed space made me claustrophobic. I could not write in peace and under surveillance all the time.
I posted his pictures on my social media handles – to boast that I had a bodyguard watching over me. There were weird comments as to why I was wasting resources that should be saved for my retirement. After getting trolled, I defended myself by saying I was gathering experience of this kind to peep into the lives of security personnel, to know what it meant to follow and get followed. But it evoked emojis of laughter. I paid the bodyguard his monthly salary and asked him to deposit the air gun to avoid any potential misuse.
In this entire exercise I noticed that my image of a bold, fearless writer took a severe blow. I lost scores of followers and readers who concluded I was a scared type of writer who was not worthy of being inspiring.
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Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
In casual rags I made my way down the streets of El Paso saturated with the city’s aromas. The trees were perfectly situated to drop shade as the burning sun loitered above. Each day seemed worse than the next as drought played its silly games. No water fell from the sky for weeks. I checked each day as I walked in my casual rags drenched in sweat. At night I dreamt of the water that would not drop from the sky. In silence I meditated and imagined how great it would feel for rain to start falling on me.
MOVING OUT
The curtains are drawn. I folded the sheets. There is no hold here where I once was held.
This is goodbye. I have to let you go, house.
Every memory is etched in every cell of my being. Mother, father, raised me.
A THOUSAND YEARS
My body is not much to look at. I am the least interesting man on earth. I have never been to Paris, France. I have been to the Paris Las Vegas. I have never kissed you on a winter morning or at any season. I have never dreamt about you kissing me. You hugged me once. If I lived to eternity, I will never forget that. If I lived for another year, I would not forget that. If I lived a thousand years, I would always remember that day.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in Los Angeles.He has been published in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Chiron Review, Kendra SteinerEditions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His most recent poems have appeared in Four FeathersPress.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I was sitting by myself in a vast auditorium in Phnom Penh, while Yoko, my travel companion, hunted for an outlet so that she could recharge her phone. I was attending the opening ceremony for an international conference on teaching English to speakers of other languages. It was my first time in Cambodia, but for Yoko it was the third or fourth. She had seen it all before.
After several speeches by conference organisers and invited dignitaries, the special entertainment segment of the ceremony began. A troupe of traditional Cambodian dancers in sparkly golden costumes took to the stage. Their faces were serene but unsmiling as they balanced pagoda-like headwear on their heads and dipped their knees. I marveled at the intricate hand movements of the dancers. How did they get their fingers to bend back like that? Was it an ability that you had to be born with, like being double-jointed or being able to roll your tongue? At any rate, I was deeply impressed by the grace and beauty of the young women.
The following day, after attending conference presentations, Yoko and I decided to visit the Royal Palace, which was just down the street from our hotel. It was late afternoon, but according to online information, the grounds were still open to visitors.
Yoko, who is single and childfree, and accustomed to traveling by herself, strode ahead purposefully, while I hung back, taking photos of street vendors and ornate gates. Would-be guides with tuk-tuks called out to us, telling us that the palace was closed due to a visit from the President of Laos, but they would take us somewhere else. They shoved laminated flyers our way.
We arrived an hour before closing time. The grounds were virtually abandoned, but the sunstruck golden roofs were dazzling.
Before coming to Cambodia, I had re-read the picture book Little Sap and Monsieur Rodin by Michelle Lord, with illustrations by Felicia Hoshino. From the book I had learned that the palace was built by King Norodom in 1866. At one time, the compound was home to the court dance troupe, musicians, and elephants. Young girls were trained as dancers to entertain royalty, appeal to the gods, and seek blessings for their people. They only left the palace to accompany the king on his travels. On a trip to France, the dancers attracted the attention of Auguste Rodin. The king allowed Rodin to sketch three of his favorite dancers. My daughter and I had admired some of the Danseuse Cambodgienne drawings on our visit to the Rodin Museum in Paris a few years previously.
Flowering trees and statues of mythical creatures decorated the gardens. Lotus blossoms bloomed in a pool. Several cats wandered about freely, one sitting on the balustrade of a structure that was off-limits to tourists. A weathered mural of the history of Cambodia ran along one wall. Palanquins used by royals were displayed in another area.
I tried to imagine the girls dancing in one of these buildings on the palace grounds. I tried to imagine their lives within the compound’s walls. Perhaps it was like living in the Garden of Eden; they had been surrounded by beauty and riches but were unable to leave. Yoko and I had our fill of bling and departed just before closing time. We could hear traditional music coming from somewhere, but we couldn’t see who was performing. Perhaps someone was dancing, too.
Video recorded by the writer
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Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
An introduction to Leonie’s Leap (published by Atmosphere Press) by Marzia Pasini and a conversation with the author
Maria Pasini
Leonie’s Leap by Marzia Pasini is a novella that explores the inner recesses of a teenager’s mind till he finds clarity, perhaps a kind of bildungsroman, if realisations can happen in thirteen days! Leonie technically leaps to self-realisation as he tries to run away from an exploitative orphanage somewhere in Hungary.
It’s an unusual story, with a commentary by an inner voice which addresses the fifteen-year-old Leonie as “dearheart” and leads the teenager towards self-realisation. With a background in Philosophy and a Master’s in Comparative Politics from the London School of Economics, Pasini began her career in international development and has moved on to become writer and life coach. This is her second book which she has dedicated to her two children, William and Maria.
The narrative travels through Leonie’s subconsciousness to his coming to realisation about his life’s choices. Colours are woven into the tapestry of his subconscious experiences with a Buddhist monk called Hridaya, Leonie’s own mysterious Indian mother who might have an interesting backdrop, colourful circus characters — Isabelle who plays violin to her elephant named Grace, Astrid, the chief of the circus’s daughter who wants to be a ballerina, clowns, a lady that wrestles with a tiger, a Russian oligarch and more. Young Leonie meanders through an adventure of his own making, a bit like Pinocchio’s experiences in the circus except the teenager soul searches where the puppet was just mischievous.
The plot is simple you realise at the end of the book, but as you meander onwards, you pause to wonder if it’s child labour, underage marriage or unsafe working conditions you’re grappling with. The conclusion is clear cut. You realise you have been led along a maze. All the action was in Leonie’s subconscious.
For all those, who like to discuss spiritual development and growth, this book could well be like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince (1943), though in that the author reached out to not just within an individual but to pertinent social issues. Leonie’s Leap is more about personal growth — about the teen taking a leap towards adulthood — perhaps because Pasini has opted for a career as a Life Coach who has travelled many countries to make a home in India. Let’s ask her to tell us more:
What led you to write this book?
For many years, I felt called to explore the journey back to the heart—not as an idea, but as something lived. The kind of return that happens when roles fall away and you are left with your body, your breath, and a reality you can no longer sidestep.
The book took shape after a life-altering health crisis that brought me close to death. Writing was no longer optional. It became a responsibility to the life still moving through me and to the vow I made: if I am still here, I will not delay what is mine to live.
You started out as a master’s from London School of Economics in comparative politics, worked for the royal family of Jordan, and then became a life coach. Tell us a bit about why you made these choices and what stirred your muse towards becoming a writer.
I’ve always wanted to be of service. Studying comparative politics at LSE came from a desire to understand how power moves and decisions shape lives. Working for the Jordanian royal family and the UN was a natural extension of that impulse.
In my late twenties, my health redirected that trajectory. It pulled me into myself with no escape. Though I had always been drawn inward, I could no longer outrun what I was being asked to face.
Over time, it became clear that all real possibility begins within. The shifts I later supported in others were first ones I had to move through myself. Writing became the place where I let the truth hold me.
What made you leave Italy? Why did you opt to live in India? What has your journey through six countries done for you and your writing?
I’ve always been adventurous. I left Italy at fifteen to attend boarding school in the UK, driven by a curiosity to discover something larger than the life I knew. Looking back, I see I was chasing aliveness, perhaps even a kind of magic I believed lived somewhere else.
Life later carried me across six more countries. My husband’s work with the United Nations placed us in the Middle East, South America, and eventually India. Each relocation reshaped me, dismantling the illusion that identity is fixed.
India, in particular, asked for radical honesty. There was little room to hide. In that rawness, I began to see where I wasn’t fully inhabiting myself.
That changed my writing. The listening deepened. Stories became less about what happens and more about what is revealed beneath the surface. Today, I carry many worlds inside me. Home is no longer a place.
Has your own life impacted the diverse colours of humanity in this book? Please Elaborate.
I write about the human journey—the longing to belong, the fear of stepping into the unknown, the courage it takes to choose oneself. These are not experiences confined to one story.
My life shaped the book because I have known those edges, too. Uncertainty. Illness. Loss. Love. Each deepened my understanding of what it means to be human, and that depth gives my characters their colour.
The story could have taken place anywhere in the world. Why did you choose Hungary as the locale for your story over all other places?
Hungary sits at a crossroads between East and West, carrying beauty alongside a sober melancholy. When I walked around Budapest, I sensed an emotional gravity that resonated with Leonie’s sense of in-betweenness.
There is also a long tradition of Hungarian acrobatics. The circus in the novel isn’t just spectacle; it represents the inner balancing required to hold contradiction, leap without certainty, and trust oneself first.
Is this book impacted by your choice of career — being a life coach? Please explain.
My work as a life coach has given me a deep respect for the inner process. Leonie’s Leap invites readers into wonder, inquiry, and direct seeing. It isn’t a self-help book in the traditional sense, but it engages questions that draw the reader back to their own heart.
The “dearheart” letters woven into the narrative are not instructions. They are a voice that sits beside you and says, stay. It is tender here. You are not alone.
Did you imagine all the characters in Leonie’s journey towards self-hood or were they based on some experiences? Please elaborate.
I don’t believe we ever write from a neutral place. Even when characters are fictional, we create through our perception—our wounds, our longings, our questions. The characters in Leonie’s Leap are imagined, yet carry the landscapes I have traversed. They hold the mess of being human and the possibility of grace.
Leonie’s mother would have had a back story—a lonely Indian woman. Is she an illegal immigrant? Where’s his father then? What would be her story? Is Leonie an immigrant?
I left her backstory intentionally open because some spaces don’t need to be filled. Leonie’s mother is a woman who lived a complicated life, marked by abandonment, illness, and loss. What matters most is the imprint she leaves on Leonie—a gentleness and fierceness that fuel his longing for freedom.
Your book has a discussion on fear in chapter one. Your first book, Satya and the Sun, also dealt with fear. Does overcoming fear become a theme in both your books? Is the first one also a psychological adventure? Why is overcoming fear so important to you?
Fear has been central to my life. I have been in more surgeries and hospital beds than I can count. In those moments, fear became breath. Today, I no longer see it as an obstacle to overcome, but as a catalyst for deeper embodiment.
Satya and the Sun is also a psychological adventure, though written for children. It follows a girl afraid of the dark who sets out to find a place where the sun never sets. Inspired by my own fear of going blind, it explores what happens when we turn toward what terrifies us and discover that light exists even there.
Are you on the way to writing more books? What are your plans going forward?
I recently completed a poetry collection centred on devotion and heartbreak—an exploration of love when it strips you to your essence. I have also begun a new novel set in the Amazon—a story of initiation, surrender, and what survives when identity falls apart.
(This review and online interview by email is by Mitali Chakravarty)
Borderless 