Author: borderlesssg1

Categories
Musings

The Elusive Utopia?

By Farouk Gulsara

When I was growing up, the radio was the musical score constantly playing in the background. Blaring between Tamil movie songs and radio dramas were news of the hour and current issue discussions. The things that got imprinted on my impressionable mind as I was transforming from a teenager to a young adult were about violence, wars and bombings. I remember about the war in Vietnam as it was close to home. For every peace talk and the end of war announcement, there would pop up another bombing and a barrage of casualties. My simple mind wondered when the war would end, but it never did. It went on for so long that they had a Tamil film in 1970 named Vietnam Veedu (House of Vietnam), referring to a household forever in family feuds and turmoil. 

Along with the war in Vietnam, people came by boat to the shores of Malaysia. The then leaders, in the late 1970s, dealing with a poor economic climate as they were reeling from a devastating racial riot, were not so cordial with their arrival. Malaysia went into the bad books of the international arena when the Marines were issued a ‘shoot-at-sight’ order on Vietnamese boat people by the then Deputy Prime Minister, Mahathir Muhammad. The refugees were eventually placed in barb-wired concentration camps-like holding centres. The last of the boat people left Malaysia in 2005. Even today, many former refugees who had started life anew elsewhere return to Pulau Bidong to perform ancestral worship or to remind themselves and their descendants of the hell they escaped.

Just as I thought Malaysia had seen the last of the people displaced from their homes gracing their shores, Malaysia had to play host to economic refugees from Myanmar, the ethnic Myanmarese and the Rohingyas. And the cycle of not wanting to spend the country’s precious resources and accepting them on humanitarian grounds continues to date.  

My ever optimist friend is dreaming of a utopia on Earth. Her idea of utopia is one where people are kind to each other, not hurling grenades or aiming intercontinental missiles at each other and accepting each other’s citizens with open arms. In fact, in her world, there would be borders. She dreams of a world where people are happy, able to enjoy the fruit of their existence, a world where there is no destruction of Mother Earth and none of the species of plants and animals go extinct. She envisages a space where everyone communicates with one another with kindness without hurting their psyche. The search is still on, where people do not look at each other with scorn and suspicion and are willing to accept another as a fellow sibling from a common mother. She dreams of a borderless world where heart, mind and territories are a continual flow of ideas and messages for the betterment of humankind. Unfortunately, despite all the strides the world has seemingly made, she remains unhappy and is getting more discontent by the day. 

“Why is there so much hate? Why is there war after all the wisdom we have supposedly learnt as evidenced by our scientific advancements?” she asks. “Are we just developing creative ways to annihilate each other until the whole race reaches the point of no return?” 

I see our newspapers and digital media. I became convinced that humans are evil and anthropocentric. They do not bother about other living beings. They are only interested in fending for themselves, fattening themselves, usurping treasures and fattening their coffers, and rapaciously wanting to leave a legacy for their descendants to savour to eternity. In typical situations, the world can accommodate all of Man’s needs, but not their greed. 

Innately, I reminisce about the times when I was young, trees were tall, the air was clean, and adults were trustworthy. We long to go back to those innocent days. 

Upon closer scrutiny, we realise we were presented with a false image of serenity. Beneath the surface of sobriety, even then, trenches were built to gun down brothers and chemical factories to neutralise them biologically. We think we are in the worst of times, but historians differ. Our current era is the most peaceful and safest throughout our existence. The chance of an average man in the current time, unlike his ancestors, to be directly involved or affected physically by wars is quite remote. 

Our ancestors did not need the media to know the world’s plight because it often happened at their doorstep. The swords carved out people’s fate line, not consensus or democracy. 

Life is cyclical. Peace and chaos have alternated all through our history. Like a phoenix, we keep rising from the rubble of destruction only to be broken to smithereens. Torrents of events around us bear testimony to this fact. It has been like this since time immemorial.

There was a time when Angkor Wat was the talk of travellers who could not stop praising man’s colossal achievement. With mind-binding engineering marvels, it testified to what the human mind could think next. Then, it got lost in the folly of human activities, only to be discovered as an ancient relic by passing foreigners. 

Isfahan, an essential stop along the Silk Road, was once hailed as heaven on Earth with the highest level of culture. People with exquisite taste for art, literature, music and architecture made it their second home. Babur, who established the Mughal Dynasty, never synced with India as he felt the Indians were less cultured than the Persians because of what he was exposed to in the Safavid capital. Isfahan’s own glory brought its destruction. 

All through Man’s sojourn on Earth, it has been anything but peaceful. The funny thing is that, amid all the destruction, we still managed to bring up our humanity and the science that would save us from extinction. In spite and amidst all the mayhem, we kept famine at bay, found cures for many infectious diseases and sent rockets to the moon and beyond. Paradoxically, the science that saved us becomes a thorn in our progress. From muskets to rifles to intercontinental missiles to the press of a red button, it is becoming easier to plan out our destruction. 

So, the world has never been peaceful, and humans have not been kind. What can we do about it? Do you brood at our shortsightedness, or are we like Sisyphus? Knowing pretty well that, Sisyphus destined for life with the punishment of pushing a boulder up a hill only to see it roll down and for him to repeat the whole exercise again and again, he can take two paths. He can perform the task without thinking, like an automaton, go mad and die, or the alternative is finding simple pleasures in the seemingly mundane task. He could challenge himself to do it faster, explore newer routes to roll the boulder or experiment with various tools to aid in his task. 

We continue doing our bit for humanity, knowing very well that it is just a drop in the ocean. Our efforts to promote peace and brotherhood will trigger small pockets of change and hopefully snowball into something earth-shattering for a good reason.

War, hardship and tragedy are bound to continue. It is too intertwined in our DNA. Many are even convinced that for seismic changes to occur, we need jolts and uncertainties. All these wars may be part of our search for a perfect system to pave Earth’s peace. A war to end all wars? Now, where have we heard that one before?

All through its existence, the Universe has seen it all before. If one were to believe Graham Hancock, the documentary maker or a pseudo-historian as some may call him, then one would be convinced that the world has experienced all these and even greater things before, only to lose everything because of human greed. Some other belief systems are confident that time does not go in a linear fashion but rather in a cyclical fashion. All that is happening today gives the Universe a deja vu.

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Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Saranyan BV

Standing in the Expanse Under the Neem Tree Cluster

I wait with a bundle of tinder logs rolled in a hessian sack.
It’s raining, the air humid, the dust in the air settled.
I wait for the pilgrims to pass, the coast town is overfilled. 
I wait for today’s angels to avail my service,
Angels who arrive with spices and groceries,
They never bring the firewood. I cook their food with love.

I stand waiting at the crossroad with a jerrycan of petrol,
The fuel’s brown looking like gold, no sediments in there,
No decisions to be made by the private car users,
Except to notice the quality of my fuel, 
And ask me if I could take over the wheels. 
I drive with love. Whatever I do, I do with love.

All this waiting is about being and the essence of being
And finding means to make ends meet; 
When the need stops, you would no longer find me 
Standing in the expanse under the neem tree cluster;
The hessian sack or the jerrycan would continue 
In the hands of another good person, waiting to learn.

Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.

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Categories
Poetry

Spring Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

A NEST IN THE BRANCHES 
 
I offer you a night
of bliss by the river
and unconditional
love. I offer you a
 
nest in the branches
 
my little night bird.
It is March, spring,
and your body will
be floating in water.
 
You will not die.
 
But float under silver
stars and the moon,
silver as well, and your
thighs will be tickled
 
by nests branches.


IN THE WOODS 
 
In the woods
one can walk
for miles and
miles in a
long circle.
 
Time will slow
down or speed
up. It all
depends on
your mind’s state.
 
Birds will chirp.
Your belly
will growl. Fruit
can save you
from the end.
 
The sounds of
the woods will
linger on
in your dreams,
an echo
 
of birdsong,
branches and
twigs breaking,
your belly
growling like
 
a stray dog’s
growl, the hiss
of a snake,
a rattle
and hum; wind.

Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA.His poetry has been published by Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Escape Into Life, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, SETU, and Unlikely Stories.

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Categories
Notes from Japan

The Cherry Blossom Forecast

Photographs and Narrative by Suzanne Kamata

Nothing says “Japan” quite like cherry blossoms.

As I write this, the cherry trees on the campus of the university where I work are adorned with deep pink blossoms. There are several varieties of sakura, which bloom at different times. The earliest are the Kawazukura-zakura, which blossom as early as February in some parts of Japan. In a couple of weeks, the more commonly known frothy pale pink flowers of the Somei Yoshino will be seen. Usually, this timed to perfectly coincide with graduation ceremonies, and opening ceremonies welcoming new students. Every speech seems to begin with a mention of the ephemeral blooms.

Another kind, the Shidare-zakura (weeping sakura), is often found in traditional Japanese gardens.  There used to be a Shidare-zakura across the street from my house. I enjoyed seeing the flowers, garlands swaying in the breeze, but, unfortunately, the owner of the property cut the tree down

My family and I used to make at least one outing each spring to roam among the cherry blossoms. Now, it’s just my husband and me, but as I previous years, we will probably visit a park or mountainside, transformed into a fairytale landscape, and take selfies while pondering the impermanence of youth and beauty.

Many people will gather on blue tarp spread under boughs to partake of lavish boxed lunches and drink beer. The park surrounding the former grounds of Tokushima Castle will be thronged with merrymakers. During the pandemic, Hanami (cherry-blossom-viewing) was frowned upon. At that time, the park was eerily vacant. I imagine that for many Japanese, not being able to participate in this traditional event was one of the greatest hardships of 2020-22.

In February, TV announcers are newspapers begin to forecast the passage of blossoms across the peninsula. It goes something like this:

In northern Japan, snowflakes flutter and fall. Winter hangs on.

Cherry tree twigs stick out of bare branches like witchy fingers.

Every year meteorologists predict the appearance of cherry blossoms.

How do they know when the buds will release their blooms?

Well, from March, once a day, sometimes twice, someone checks on 58 designated barometer trees. One is near Yasukuni Shrine in Tokyo. Most people don’t know where the rest of the trees are. It’s a secret!

People from all over Japan send in photos of cherry blossom buds. Team cherry blossom examines all the photos and tracks the progress of the trees.

Tightly clenched buds mean it may be another month.

About ten days later, the tips change color – yellow-green.

And then, a deeper darker green, like moss in a forest.

When the tips become pink, get ready for cherry blossom viewing.

After five or six blossoms have appeared, the Meteorological Agency announces the start of the cherry blossom season.

In Kyushu, cherry trees may bloom in March. Gradually, buds open, releasing frothy flowers all the way up to Hokkaido, in a wave of pink and white.

Cherry blossom petals flutter and fall.

Suzanne Kamata was 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.

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Categories
Poetry

Seasonal Poems by Ron Pickett

CALIFORNIA RAIN

I stand in the covered patio.
I listen to the rain – the sound of the rain.
I force myself to dismiss everything else.
I focus on the sound of the rain.
It falls more heavily, I remember that sound.
Water gushes from the downspouts.
The rain slackens but it is still raining,
I can hear the sounds of the raindrops in the puddles.
I hear distant thunder muffled by the rain.
I must remember the sounds.
I let my perception widen.
I see the raindrops falling leaving streaks.
I smell the fresh smell of the rain.
I know the world is being washed and replenished.
I sun comes out. I’m saddened.

I know when it is the first rain of the wet season – but I never know when it is the last.

 
A POND IN THE SUMMER

The quiet following my intrusion slowly ends.
I sit, very quietly on a tree stump.
Birds begin slowly returning to their songs.
The tiny, flighty birds first.
Then the larger, louder birds.
A dove flutters to the ground raising a small dust cloud.
A heron breaks the surface catching a fish. 
Droplets from the struggling, wriggling fish leave ripples.
The water is tea-stained by the dead limbs and leaves,
And dust and pollen lightly cover the still surface.
A bullfrog croaks, and leaps into the pond.
A fish jumps, catching an insect.
The warm, languid water is the home of many creatures.
A squirrel lets an acorn fall into the pond.
A slight breeze disturbs the placid pond.
I stand up. Silence returns as I leave.
The intruder retreats.

Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.

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Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

A Conversation with God

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Although I have always believed that God keeps his plans hidden and reveals them only at the right time, a recent episode where someone conveyed through a reliable source that my end was close, has not shaken but awakened me to a new realisation — the obvious truth that life is indeed momentary and nothing more than a dream. However, the breach of the confidentiality clause and the choice of an inappropriate messenger made me seek an audience with God for further clarity. Just like question papers get leaked, perhaps some divinely gifted human beings also have access to exclusive, insider information from none other than God. 

Before the prediction of my passing away could bloom into a reality, the man who turned it simpler than making a weather forecast had to attend the funeral of his sister-in-law. He was unprepared for the funeral. Focused on me and obsessed with my premature exit, he could not employ his special powers to correctly identify the first person in the queue, awaiting despatch. I wondered in case he had got this spot on, his reputation as a misfortune-teller would have received a tremendous boost, just like pollsters get a huge appreciation if their survey comes closest to the result.  

His grand plans to throw a lavish party to celebrate my popping-off remain in suspension until a sudden cardiac arrest or an accident terminates my worldly journey, enriching his life and giving him more solace than what my soul deserves. Although he goes around building the image of being a blessed soul, his predictions have a slimmer chance of coming true than the revival of a moribund political party. 

Conquering the fear of death has been attempted to be made easy with divine prayers over the years, but the potential of fear to enter through locked rooms has never been questioned. This forewarning made me expedite my plans to complete my next novel without wasting a single day as the projection was for the hasty, untimely expiration of my lease of life. Before death came knocking, I decided to knock once more with my manuscript at the glass doors of publishers and hope the letters of rejection arrive before I say goodbye. 

Not a keen devotee who spends quality time in divine remembrance, I thought I should seek clarity from the remitter. Had God really chosen an emissary to convey his secret about my untimely demise? In my prayers, I urged him to grant an audience and respond to my query in brief if he did not like to talk much about it. Hence it was a big surprise when God not only appeared in my dream to address my grievances but also allowed me the opportunity to seal a profitable deal.  

 I was direct, sharp, and swift in my approach. I asked him the truth about death being imminent in my case. Seeking confirmation of what floated in the air, I raised the question of shady characters getting cherry-picked to spell doom. Cutting me short, he said I had accumulated a lot of bad karma in life, and I could not escape the punishment for it. 

I remembered I had ditched many true lovers in the past and their curses were pending. He expressed worry that I was not leading my life according to his plan. He disclosed one example in this regard – I was supposed to die due to alcohol excess, but I had not shown the urge to drink even one peg. He had expected me to guzzle alcohol to destroy my health like several writers had done earlier. 

God said, He never changed his plans to rewrite destiny, but my recent set of good deeds was a big surprise even though I was not supposed to perform such impossible tasks. Hence, it was a foregone conclusion that I would last longer than expected, as the battery life was charged up and still in good working condition. Despite my earlier backlog of bad karma, my current inclusion of good deeds in the basket had earned me brownie points. I asked him if he could specify the date or year, but he said it was decades. The plural meant another twenty years at least. This gave me the confidence to challenge the man who made a wrong prediction and scare him by saying I knew when he was supposed to say adieu after a conversation with God even though I had no idea about it. 

Since God was in a jovial mood, I decided to try the art of negotiation. Making a quick list of the priorities, I kept quiet as he was supposed to know what was going on in my mind. To offer clarity, I chose to specify but he looked quite unfazed to hear the sober litany of demands. He construed it as materialistic – just another example of greed for worldly possessions. I said when everything in this world is temporary –and he would take it back after my death – then he should not hesitate to give it to me for a temporary period. 

As I writer, I felt I should have added the blessing to churn out best-sellers like many other writers. I often wonder what makes potboilers possible. He understood I was nowhere close to being a great writer so the best option to avail was the opportunity to become a successful novelist. I made it categorically clear that great writers get memorials and tributes whereas I was interested in a mansion and royalty cheques with a loyal reader base so long as I wrote.  

After mentioning this desire, I thought God would perhaps vanish from the scene, like a genie. I told him that I was aware that people talk about failure as the pillar of success. I told him many such pillars were ready, so he should proceed to build the roof of success. He liked my sense of humour and urged me to make good use of it as humour alone would unlock many doors for me. It was a clear indication that I should focus on writing comedies. 

My dream was about to reach its end as it was past daybreak. The sunlight was filtering in through the window. Everything in this conversation was delightful including the prediction of my end due to alcohol. When heartbreak and other setbacks did not convert me into an alcoholic, I wondered what kind of intense tragedy could compel me to hit the bottle. As I began to imagine possibilities, I thought maybe while returning from a blockbuster film party, some drunken fellow would ram his car into mine on the highway or my tipsy driver would lose control and hit the lamppost, leading to my death due to an accident caused by alcohol and drunken driving!

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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.  


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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by John Grey

WHEN I FINALLY LEFT HOME

It was two hours before
I returned home
to load up the rest of my stuff
into the back of the van.

It was three days before
I showed up 
for a home-cooked dinner.

It was a week before
I struggled through 
that familiar front door
with my laundry.

And three months before,
the big lie –
“My landlord promised my apartment
to his son and new daughter-in-law”
when the truth was,
I couldn’t hack it on my own.
 
It was two years before,
I really did leave home.

It was the first 
but not the last time,
I said “Finally.”



BATTLE LINES

Your house abuts your neighbors’.
And they brawl incessantly, 
in words and sometimes in deed.
Hands over ears don’t help.
Their hardness, their selfishness,
their cruelty towards each other,
penetrates everything in their way.

The husband beats his wife.
She thrashes the boy.
The boy screams at his sister.
The sister smashes things 
against her bedroom wall.

You live alone in loneliness.
Their closeness chafes into rage.
They can't merely sob like you.
They all have to take life out on somebody.

The violence quietens down eventually.
Explosions retreat into shame.
You even hear some sighs of regret,
a hug here and there.

You don’t pity them.
You’re too busy pitying yourself.
You can’t remember the last time
you had someone to make up to.


LISTEN UP

We, always the lesser of the two in a relationship,
need a more explicit way to establish our equality 

than a limp stance or an emaciated smile. 
We, who live in a constant state of ambush,

or underfoot, or mostly outside looking in,
must find, within ourselves, louder voices,

stronger cuss words, eyes that bulge with anger
rather than the kind that retreat deep in their sockets.

I recommend doing this in front of a full-length mirror.
You’d be surprised how much you can terrify yourself.


AN OLD MAN’S LAST HIKE

How far I’ve come, the road beyond won’t tell me.
Up ahead, it’s more of a trail but, thankfully,
it winds its way through forests, to rivers 
and the wide, clear lake they drain into.

It doesn’t even matter if I make it to the waters,
anyplace now, from the field of wildflowers 
to the sturdy trunks of ancient trees, 
is a place of comfort for old bodies.

My blood can spur on the new shoots,
my flesh, grow moss and mushrooms,
my bones, replenish the limestone hills,
my darkness, free the light.


MY PARENTS’ GRAVES

He’s buried in a small country graveyard,
his rough slab also interred
but in long grass not earth.

Her ashes lie 
beneath a smooth slab of granite.
in a field that surrounds
a city crematorium.

His coffin,
her remains.
are a hundred miles apart.

She was fifty years a widow in life
and is still a widow in death.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. His latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. He has writing upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.

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Categories
Poetry

Rough Stone

Poetry and translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

You've lived your life not knowing
That you carry an unpolished gem within.
Only after you're gone do we realise
That your façade was indeed of a rough stone,
Leaving behind the task of gouging the gem.
You departed this world as a single, rough stone,
Departing to the afterlife, leaving behind rough stones.
The world is filled with them.
Some are polished to shine bright,
Only to become rough stones again.
Now is the time to polish that stone,
To shape it with hammer and chisel,
And seat you in your rightful place.
You must quickly extract the gem within
For only then will this rough stone
Transform into a vibrant spirit in life.
How many sleepless nights must be endured,
How many days of hardship overcome,
To polish the stone you left behind,
To complete the unfinished You.
Extracting the shining gem within that stone
Is the resurrection of Yourself.

Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.

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Categories
Stories

Monsoon Arc

                                               

By K. S. Subramanian

There was a time when monsoon was known to be either parsimonious to Chennai or simply indifferent. 

In the sixties and seventies, water scarcity was a byword in every household.  The city evolved from independent houses to matchbox apartments extending its periphery to suburbs and beyond in the name of burgeoning real estate, but water scarcity continued a mole on the elbow.

Like in all commercial activity where promises mean more than performance, real estate developers too promised enough water supply to ensure bookings and until the housing was handed over. Few years after the handing over, the old complaints returned and the problem revolved around deepening or digging more bore wells manipulating the cross currents of water flow…….in the process digging their own grave.

In due course bore wells became economical with water, not costs.

They were not to be blamed strictly either because it was in the nature of demand and supply. Essentially it meant, rather sounded the missive, that planning was all fine on paper but when it came to reality, commercial exigencies and lobbies took over.  It became then a case of passing the buck.

The city had long since graduated from the parsimony of monsoon. Now it was regular, buoyant and often uncomfortably bounteous. So much so that parked cars in the stilt space of apartments went for a swim in roaring waters that stretched to a height of 5 to 10 ft in some places.

One of the inmates from her window of the first-floor apartment saw her car transported to God knows where and screamed knowing full well she was helpless……could not get down into the vast sheet of water that left no sign of anything — let alone the road. And she hoped to find her car when the water level receded.

Just the night before, Ganesan, a young software engineer holding a senior position in a prestigious IT firm, had boarded the train to Srivaikuntam, a holy town close to Tirunelveli where Lord Vishnu held court. A devout believer and practitioner of sacraments that drilled into him the belief that men could succeed and achieve on the merits of brain and diligence but there was always a pervading force that guided him, he had prayed before boarding the train to Tiruchendur.

Four days back, the forecast of a formidable downpour had unnerved him but he wanted to see his parents after a gap of two years. They looked forward to it as much as he did. He was loath to cancel or put off the trip on the prevarications of nature. It could be sunny if the low depression changed its course at the last minute and veered away…not that he wished ill for his brethren in the neighbourhood.

So he took a chance, went ahead with the trip and saw the Tiruchendur Express chug slowly out of Chennai Egmore.

The weather was murky, stubbornly ominous.  He shrugged his shoulders, smiled.

“It’s all in the game. Let us leave it to the on High!”

*

On the way the starless sky got darker still. Dark clouds raged viciously to pour with the chilling owl-like howl of the wind. It was December and the cold wind hitting the windowpane of the train chugging in a monotony of extreme caution, made Ganesan’s arms shudder. He could see nothing in the dark and barely could imagine the procession of dense vegetation and fields obviously drenched in the downpour.

He put on his sweater, but it proved to be no protective cloak and so he had to put on more. “God! It’s frightening… hope I reach my place in one piece.” His thoughts were as intimidating as the weather outside.

Thankfully the lights were on. All the shutters were down in the coach except his, where the glass pane was tightly secured. The biting cold penetrated the inside of the coach though there was balancing warmth due to radiation of body heat.

An elderly man, in his early sixties, was travelling with his wife. There were several families busy chatting about their kin or the functions to attend in Tiruchendur, including the celebrated Murugan temple, though inwardly their minds were filled with queasy churnings.

“Where are you bound, sir?” asked the elderly man with hesitation. Ganesan smiled though he could smell the palpable concern in his voice.

“Vaikuntam sir….to be with parents. I am visiting them after two years.”

The old man returned the smile. “I am a resident of Tiruchendur, have got land and a rice mill there. My daughter is in Chennai. We came on a holiday to be with our granddaughter.”

There were two families in front in the three tier AC[1] coach. Both the families had taken their dinner early in the evening as they were too wary of railway catering. The elderly man, who introduced himself as Muthuraman, was not finicky enough to insist on home made food and shun rail service and had, therefore, ordered. So did Ganesan.

As they dug into the dinner, Muthuraman broke the silence, aware that the inclement weather could make anyone off colour. Silence made it worse, of course.

“Sir!  You must be in touch with parents. They would be worried. The cyclone had hit close to the Chennai coast a few weeks back but now it is pure monsoon fury. The earlier one affected Chennai badly and a lot of them are yet to come out of the trauma. I am worried about the open drains, small dams and culverts and lakes in southern part of the state which are all vulnerable.”

Ganesan, listening to him in rapt attention, said, “I know. A place like Vaikuntam cannot face up to persistent rain for a few hours, let alone the whole day or days. We own land very close to our home and the paddy will be submerged. My father told me just now he is bracing up to some severe loss of crop and money this year.  We have been facing it regularly.  A curse in what is otherwise a holy and fertile belt….”

Muthuraman’s wife nodded with lines of worry in her face. “What else could we do other than pray to Perumal?”

Muthuraman spat out in disillusionment.  “In cities, they lay roads which cannot stand a day’s rain, metro rail and residential skyscrapers where a guy in the balcony is no proof against a bust of breeze. I know of a lady who lived on the 14th floor and wanted to enjoy the scene. She opened the door and stood close to it when the gust of wind, slammed the door on her face knocking her over. She fell into coma and died soon after. I mean…a city is unable to cope with the pressures of money and commercial lobbies which have their way. So, the less said about a rural town the better.”

“God! It is horrible to hear. Such occurrences are hard to believe,” said Ganesan. “Migration in search of a job across the country is inevitable and it adds to the pressure. You need to have a footing somewhere and if all things go well settle down there. You need to build a roof unless you are lucky enough to get back to where you belong.”

Just then, the train had halted at Villupuram for more than 45 minutes before easing into motion. The passengers were blissfully unaware of it, having been preoccupied in their own uncertain world.

“We didn’t even know we were tagged here for this long,” said an exasperated Muthuraman. Ganesan, who was equally chagrined, didn’t reply.

*

Most of the stations en route wore a deserted look except for the idle tea stalls, The passengers too, especially senior citizens, didn’t venture out even for a hot sip of tea apprehending wet and possibly slippery platforms. Inevitably the train ran late by an hour considering possible presence of water or even flooding of the track. Thankfully, signals were in place though the menacing purr of the dark outside continued with the trundle of the train. 

“Are we closer to Kumbakonam?” enquired Muthuraman.

“We are, possibly will reach in a few minutes,” said Ganesan. “But the persisting rain worries me, sir. In some places ahead of us the track would be flooded, and it could delay us longer.”

“If the train drops us at our destinations, I will be more than happy, in fact thank God for it. It will be a blessing,” said one of the members of a family in front.

None of them however had any assurance that they would be blessed in some way.

*

Ganesan slept fitfully as he was accustomed to during train travel at night. “Cool, undisturbed sleep is a luxury,” he thought. Most of the passengers in the coach appeared to have slept well perhaps as a relief from the ordeal of the weather.

He looked at his watch and saw it as 6.30 a.m. He pulled up the shutters to see how the weather was and it was dull, wet and pouring. The train had stopped and he had no way of knowing the duration of the halt. He knew the train should have reached Srivaikundam by now but the stretching flooded farm fields on either side with sparse houses indicated that it was off schedule. There was no evidence of roads or pathways — had there been any.

“Srivaikundam is just a km away sir,” said a passenger who was bound for Tiruchendur.  “The train got an alert and has halted. Seems the ballasts are off. I hope it will start moving again.”

Ganesan gave a sigh of near relief though he was not sure whether the train would move. He could see a sheet of water submerging the fields though the track appeared to be navigable. He could not help blurting out his concern though.

“The scene is scary sir. We can neither get down nor remain in the train.”

Muthuraman, who had got up, was slightly sullen, looking clearly unwell. “Mr. Ganesan, I am glad you are close to your destination….we are still 30 km away.” His wife looked crestfallen, at the end of her tether.

“He is a heart patient. I am only concerned about him.” To Ganesan’s relief the train creaked, began to move. It trundled at a snail’s pace and reached Srivaikundam.

But his relief was only palpable and short lived as the message came through that any further movement was risk bound and foolhardy. One of the railway staffers came to the coach to inform them that the train might remain there for some time before the weather eased or the flooded tracks were restored to usable.

The train had already been delayed by more than 90 minutes. Ganesan was embraced by his father who had managed to come to the railway station in his car driving through flooded roads in the town in meditative hermitlike composure and caution.

Ganesan found someone tugging at his shirt and turned back to find Muthuraman”s wife apprehensive and scared.

“Son! He seems to have symptoms of cardiac attack. I don’t know what to do….”

Ganesan’s father rushed into the coach while Ganesan ran into the railway staff room to look for instant health care.

A stretcher was brought to take Muthuraman and rush him to the nearest hospital. Thankfully Ganesan knew of a specialist hospital close to the station and took him there, having forgotten to even speak to his fretful mother about what had held him and his father back. He knew his mother would continue to worry but there was no time to even ring her up.

“We must know first this man is all right or is recovering,” he muttered. His father took care to let his mother know that an emergency (not related to their family) had occurred and it had held them up at the station.

Ganesan also came to know that the train would not proceed further and that the passengers were holed up there.

A crisis had come home to roost.    

*

All the passengers shackled to Srivaikuntam for no fault of their own put it to a matter of a few hours but it seemed to stretch before the shadows of the night crept in. There was no let up in the rain and the southern belt was not equipped to handle nature’s unmitigated fury.

Thankfully the cafeteria run by a local rose to their needs and gave them breakfast but the railway catering service was not prepared for this eventuality. About 500 odd passengers, including the geriatric, needed round the clock vigil and sustenance though some were near breakdown amid symptoms of vomiting and diarrhea.  

Ganesan and his father were faced with a task not of their own choosing and of the magnitude of a mountain to climb. They could not let it go either. The roads in the town were clogged with knee-deep or waist level sheet of water, hindering their drive to do their best.

“It is a test of our nerve, my boy! We have not spent all our lives to creep back into our shell and watch them suffer, possibly die. It was your good fortune you reached along with others but the rest of them are braving it out. We have to show we are not heartless, nor do we rely on external agencies for help. There is no time for it. Rather we help ourselves.”

Ganesan, who had learnt forbearance in his stint in IT firm and not given to wasteful emotions, nodded and raised his thumb to his father.

His father used his decades old connections in the town, comprising hoteliers, vegetable and fruit vendors, nursing staff to help the distraught. 

The message from the railways was distressful and alarmingly ominous. “Sorry ladies and gentlemen. It will take a day or two. The track restoration is on in full blast and the signal system is in place. Please, please bear with us.”

*

The railway station was abuzz for the next prolonged hours with supplies of food, medicines and equipment being rushed to the respective coaches where the need was greater. It pertained to those who had symptoms of sudden dehydration, stomach disturbance, diarrhea and fatigue and stress related syndromes.

Ganesan and his father were on their feet all the time coordinating whatever they could with local connections of suppliers who rose to the occassion. Commerce took the back seat relatively to an extent.

Muthuraman showed signs of recovery a few hours later in the evening having gone through a CPR and defibrillation by the railway staff as was done in the event of unforeseen emergencies. His wife spoke to her daughter in Chennai who was almost ill with perplexity and worry since they left the city.

The news that the train had halted at Srivaikuntam and might not leave for a couple of days was less painful than one of father’s cardiac arrest which left the family in tatters. She could only hope her worst fears would not come true.  

Muthuraman opened his eyes, took note of his wife’s presence before locking his hands in gratitude with Ganesan.

“No sir…this is no time for thanking me and my father. You must thank all the locals who rose as an army to support and bring relief to so many who are stranded in the train still because they are unable to move out. We have arranged a big hall where most of them could be fed in turns. I am amazed sir… unable to believe it. But I have learnt a world of things from this experience. That alone matters sir.”

His father laid a reassuring hand on Muthuraman’s shoulder. “They are still at work. Possibly the train may leave tomorrow morning. I hear the track has been restored. If you wish you can return in the train itself or you can have somebody from Tiruchendur to take you in a car.”

Muthuraman’s wife said “It will take three days as per medical opinion to discharge him. We will ask our cousin to take us home in a car.”

“We will take care of you till you leave for home,” smiled Ganesan.

He took leave of the couple as one of the hotelier’s employees came up to him. “Sir! We have the next consignment of water cans ready for the station. Care to join us?”

“Of course,” said Ganesan and hopped into the front seat of the van.

A cool breeze blew across the vast fields from a distance. The weather had improved beyond expectation two days after the train came to a halt at the station, looking sunny, soothingly warm and reassuring after the terrible onslaught of the monsoon the day they left Chennai.

Suddenly, nature seemed to have recovered from its surge of fury and had become benign and benevolent. But anything could have happened in the passing hours when the fury was in full swing and the aftermath would have been horrible to imagine, much less experience.

But what gave him succor and regeneration was the unstinted display of human kindness and concern in times of adversity. The whole village worked as an army to guard, nurse and redeem the afflicted from the depths of despondency.

“There is always a light in the tunnel” thought Ganesan with a smile. “If I had any cynicism about the milk of human kindness it is gone.”

[1] Airconditioned

K.S.Subramanian, a retired Senior Asst. Editor from The Hindu, has published two volumes of poetry titled Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India.   His poem “Dreams” won the cash award in Asian Age, a daily published from New Delhi. His essays and blogs can be found under his name in http://www.boloji.com.

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Categories
Poetry

By Any Other Name

By Staurt McFarlane

Now the school of semantics is fully enrolled,  
we begin to believe the lies we’re being sold. 
‘Proportional response’. ‘Collateral damage’. 
‘It’s a situation we feel we can manage’. 
Politicians, as ever, so sensible,  
queue up to defend the indefensible. 
The Israelis freely act without constraint. 
The Americans continue to urge restraint.   
Schools, housing, hospitals; all are destroyed,
yet, still, euphemistic terms are employed.  
Artillery posts now even have trouble 
finding a building to reduce to rubble.  
And, as Gaza withers, festers and rots,  
the diplomats tie themselves in knots. 
‘Not a ceasefire, a humanitarian pause’.   
Treating the symptoms, not the underlying cause. 
But Israel miscalculated, and crossed a red line, 
in denying the idea of a Palestine. 
For an idea does not so easily die; 
all the dead children of Gaza so testify. 
How can the fighting now ever cease?     
There’s not the faintest prospect of peace. 
By conducting such a senseless war, 
they've only ensured centuries more. 
You can justify anything, if you try hard enough 
but, deep down, do we realise, it’s all so much guff. 
So, don’t pretend, as you kill, wound and maim, 
It's not murder; by any other name.

 Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.                                                                                                                    

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International