Author: borderlesssg1

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Stories

Hold on to What You Let Go

By Rajendra Kumar Roul

After nearly twenty years, perhaps more, I bumped into Sadhu Kaka[1] again.

That meeting—sudden, strange—pulled me back. Back to a time before Google was born. When the world still moved at its own unhurried pace, unshackled by the glow of mobile screens; when days stretched longer; when people were simply, quietly human.

That morning, I sat at the bus stop with my wife and daughter. The air was still; the sunlight tender. We were on our way back to Bhubaneswar when he saw me—came running, shouting my name, and clasped my hands tightly. I felt the roughness of his palms, the faint tremor of age in his grip. A smile lingered on his lips—gentle, unguarded, like the soft fragrance of fresh jasmine. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to smile. Something within me had gone still, as if time itself had forgotten to move.

I looked at my wife, bewildered and uncertain. My guess had been right. By then, her face had set like stone, her eyes dulled by silence. She looked at me once, then at him, and turned away. A grimace flickered across her lips, carrying the sting of quiet satire. She stepped aside and stood there wordlessly, her gaze fixed on the road. Cars passed in a slow rhythm, their noise distant and unreal, as though the world around me had quietly lowered its volume.

I wasn’t surprised by my wife’s reaction. She had always flinched whenever I surrendered to the weakness of my heart. I knew my failing well, and what rose in me was not anger but a slow, lingering guilt. Men like Sadhu Kaka have long taken advantage of the tenderness in me, and each time, it was my family that carried the scar. Once, in a moment of misguided affection—or perhaps a surge of foolish tenderness—I had pushed my daughter into danger for his sake, and now, it was my turn to bleed before the world—this time, for the same fragile sentiment that refused to die, the one I still hold for my childhood friend, Jagabandhu.

There was a time when Jagabandhu and I sat side by side in class—sharing the same bench, the same cracked slate, the same fragile dreams that fluttered like paper kites in the dusty afternoon air.

Then one day, poverty came and sat beside him—silent, patient, and unyielding. From that day on, his place in the classroom remained empty. He began walking to the fields with his father instead, turning the soil where once he had turned the pages. The spade and the hoe became his prayer, the sun his only witness.

I went on, class after class, until the village felt too small for my growing dreams. I left, but he stayed behind, as though the earth itself had claimed him, unwilling to set him free.

The words came unbidden as I walked to the bus stop. Without intending to, I turned down the narrow lane that led to Jagabandhu’s house.

He was sitting beneath the guava tree in his courtyard, the same spot where I had seen him years ago. The tree had grown denser, its shadow trembling on the cracked earth. A brown cow stood nearby, chewing its cud in slow, unhurried rhythm.

When I saw Jagabandhu, I hesitated. It took a moment to recognise him. His face had grown thinner, his eyes sunken, as if time had quietly worked its way through him. His life, I thought, could have belonged to one of those tragic stories that never make it to paper.

The years had pressed heavily on him. The weight of poverty had bent his frame. Life, for him, had withered into a cruel jest of fate—an endless hum from some tired, indifferent machine. His wife lay ill inside the house. Last year, his eldest daughter had died. The papers called it suicide, but Jagabandhu whispered that her in-laws had murdered her. Three unmarried daughters still lived with him, and he carried their future like a stone in his chest. At night, he said, a dull pain rose from his stomach and stayed there until morning.

My eyes welled with tears the moment I heard of Jagabandhu’s plight. I have always been an emotional soul; sorrow, whether on screen or stage, seeps into me until I lose sense of where the story ends and my own ache begins. But this was no performance. This was the truth of a man’s suffering, and I was only a witness, powerless to soften his suffering.

A heaviness gathered in my chest. I laid my hand upon Jagabandhu’s shoulder. A long, tremulous sigh slipped out of me, as though my heart itself had grown tired of carrying sorrow.

“Give me five thousand rupees,” I said to my wife.

Startled, she looked up. Her eyes widened—half fear, half disbelief. I ignored her and pressed on, my voice firm. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

For a moment, a spark of rebellion flared in her eyes, but she held it back. Wordlessly, she opened her purse. Her fingers trembled. She drew out a bundle of hundred-rupee notes and placed it in my hand as though it weighed a mountain.

I passed the money to Jagabandhu and whispered a silent prayer to Lord Jagannath. Not for fortune, but for mercy. Then I turned away and walked toward the bus stop, leaving him behind with his burden of sorrow.

The road stretched empty; my footsteps sounded hollow. It felt as if every sound within me had fallen still—as though the earth itself had grown quieter than it should be. I seemed to sink into a darkness so deep that I had not known it existed within me.

How does Jagabandhu live beneath such sorrow? How does he bear a life so heavy? Is what he endures truly a life—or a curse disguised in the clothes of living?

If I were in his place…

No. My body trembled. I tried to imagine it, but I could not. It was not merely difficult—it was impossible, like trying to build a ladder that reaches heaven.

Just as I was making a futile attempt to step into Jagabandhu’s shoes, and failing all the same, my wife’s voice drifted through the silence.

“You gave the last note to charity. Do you have money for the bus fare?”

I snapped out of my thoughts and asked, “Why? What about the money I gave you the day we came to the village?”

As though she had already anticipated my question, she quietly handed me a notebook where every expense was recorded, down to the last coin.

“The money you gave your friend was the last you ever gave me,” she said. “Now you’ll have to take care of the bus fare yourself.”

It was as if a cold hand had struck me awake. I stepped out of my daze into the harsh glare of truth: I was penniless. I didn’t even have enough to buy the bus tickets.

What madness drove me to Jagabandhu’s house? Why had I stopped there on my way to the bus stop?

He is my friend, yes—but that doesn’t mean I must lose my head every time I think of him. More than anything, why had that sudden tide of emotion risen in me the moment I saw him?

It would have been different if I’d been alone. But I wasn’t. My wife and daughter were there, silent witnesses to my grand stupidity. How could I tell the bus conductor, without shame, “Brother, I have not a paisa left. Take us to Bhubaneswar for nothing”?

My mind went blank. Darkness pressed close, thick and suffocating. I wished I could slap myself. And if anyone asked why, I’d tell them plainly: because I earned it.

Sadhu Kaka broke my trance. “Are you disturbed?” he asked gently. “Your wife doesn’t seem well. Has there been some disagreement between the two of you?”

I forced a smile. A thin, artificial smile.

I wanted to tell him, Life isn’t as simple as you think, Sadhu Kaka. You, who have stepped away from the world, can never truly understand it.

I studied, loved, built a home, became a father—and soon, I’ll be the one giving my daughter’s hand away. And yet, I still wonder if I’ve ever truly grasped the delicate mathematics of living.

If I had, would I, once again ensnared by emotion, have placed my last bit of money in Jagabandhu’s hands today—just as I did twenty years ago, when my daughter burned with fever and I gave you the money meant for her medicine?

I still remember it clearly: my daughter’s asthma had flared again after days of fever. The doctor had ordered an urgent injection, and I set out in haste to buy it.

Sadhu Kaka caught me in the traffic. He ran to me, gasping, and gripped my arm.

“Jayant, disaster has struck. I must leave for the village right now, but my bag is gone. Lend me some money. I’ll send you a money order the moment I reach home.”

I opened my wallet, not even sure why. There were three thousand rupees inside. The instant his eyes fell on them, he said, “That will do. Don’t worry, I’ll return it as soon as I reach the village.”

Before I could protest, he tore the notes from my hand and disappeared onto a bus.

I went back home with nothing. No medicine, no words to explain. My daughter’s condition worsened that night, and by morning she was in the ICU.

That morning never left me. Even now, the sound of an ambulance makes my chest tighten.

Twenty years have gone by since then.

And now, Sadhu Kaka again, after twenty long years.

I wanted to cry out, to shout until my voice broke. I wanted to grab Sadhu Kaka by the shoulders and plead:

“I desperately need that money today, Sadhu Kaka. Otherwise, the bus conductor will humiliate me in front of my wife and daughter. If only you could return what I gave you twenty years ago, it would save me now.”

But I said nothing. His vacant eyes, his frail face, left no space for words.

Long ago, he had loved someone. She betrayed him, and he never recovered. He lived only as long as duty required—until his parents were gone. Then he simply let the world slip past.

People say he has no place to call his own. No one knows what he does or where he lives. How could I expect anything from a man who has already abandoned everything, even himself?

The bus pulled in at the stop. My wife caught our daughter by the hand and climbed aboard. I loosened my grip on Sadhu Kaka’s hand and turned to follow them. But before I could reach the door, he ran after me. With trembling fingers, he straightened my collar and smoothed the stray hair from my forehead. Perhaps he wished to speak, but no words came.

For an instant, I faltered, my mind adrift. His face glowed before me like that of the Lord Buddha at the Peace Pagoda in Dhauli—calm, compassionate. Then I turned away in revulsion. I’ve always been vulnerable to such people. Who would help me now? Sadhu Kaka, or Jagabandhu?

My face hardened in defiance. I pushed him aside, climbed into the bus, and sank onto the three-seater beside my wife. My eyes closed. Inside me, it felt as though the cyclone of ninety-nine was still raging.

Ah, why does this keep happening to me? Why do I remain a slave to my own emotions? Even after stumbling into trouble time and again, why can’t I understand that charity is good—but never at the cost of losing yourself?

I don’t know when I drifted into sleep. A soft touch pulled me back. I opened my eyes. The bus conductor stood before me.

Oh my God!

Startled, I cried out silently. Sweat broke across my skin; the ground seemed to give way beneath my feet. My blood turned cold. I saw my wife and daughter staring at me, their faces pale with fear.

“Mr. Jayant, right?” the bus conductor said, smiling. “Here—your ticket to Bhubaneswar. And three thousand rupees.”

I looked up, uncertain I had heard him correctly.

A ticket… money… what was all this?

The bus conductor’s smile lingered.

“Sadhu Kaka bought the tickets for you,” he said. “He told me to give you the money as well. He was afraid you might refuse if he tried to hand it to you himself.”

So, this time in the crowded market place, both my wife and I smiled and looked with contrition at him. Before we could speak, he smiled and said, “Stay well!” Then he disappeared.

[1] Kaka means “uncle” and is often used in Odia as a respectful form of address for an elderly man. Thus, Sadhu Kaka may be understood as “Uncle Sadhu.”

Rajendra Kumar Roul is an acclaimed bilingual fiction writer. A professional feature journalist, he has written more than a hundred short stories, over a thousand feature articles for Odia daily newspapers, two novels and several plays for the stage.

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Categories
Poetry

My Stillborn Dreams by Pramod Rastogi

The Dream of Venus by Salvador Dali (1904-1989). From Public Domain 
MY STILLBORN DREAMS 
 
Clouds have hovered above me
For as long as I can recall.
Perhaps it was their destiny
To shadow me upon every path.
 
Of all the dreams I once beheld,
None became a rallying call
For those that came thereafter —
So many, yet their hymns elude me.
 
Beneath the ceaseless drought of light,
None could bloom or bear my name,
None to endure through centuries,
None to crown me with esteem.
 
A poet haunted by tavern walls,
I have spent a lifetime digging graves
For my stillborn, fleeting dreams,
Lined like bottles along the bar.
 
A fervent poet I remain, though still
My hands fall short of the desire
To etch a metaphor for each tomb.
Yet those I buried, I cherish as my own.

Pramod Rastogi is an Emeritus Professor at the EPFL, Switzerland. He is a poet, academician, researcher, author of nine scientific books, and a former Editor-in-chief (1999-2019) of the international scientific journal, Optics and Lasers in Engineering. He was an honorary Professor at the IIT Delhi between 2000 and 2004. He was a guest Professor at the IIT Gandhinagar between 2019 and 2023. He is presently an honorary adjunct Professor at the IIT Jammu.

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Categories
Review

The Lost Pendant

Book Review by Udita Banerjee

Title: The Lost Pendant

Editor: Angshuman Kar

Publisher: Hawakal Publishers

The Lost Pendant brings together poems translated from Bengali by translators such as Himalaya Jana, Mandakranta Sen, Rajorshi Patronobish, Sanjukta Dasgupta, Angshuman Kar, and Souva Chattopadhyay. Through these compelling translations, the volume makes a significant intervention in Partition literature, arriving at a moment when revisiting the lingering spectres of the event has become especially urgent. The Partition of India in 1947, which divided the subcontinent into India and Pakistan, resulted in one of the largest mass migrations in history and left enduring scars of displacement, violence, and fractured identities. As the editor, writer and academic, Angshuman Kar, notes in the book’s introduction how Partition remains a 78-year-old wound that continues to bleed.

The anthology showcases poetry from the eastern parts of the subcontinent, chiefly Bengal, Assam, and Bangladesh, featuring works by 41 poets from India and Bangladesh. Kar does not simply compile these poems but thoughtfully curates them to reveal several critical nuances. He invokes the concept of “buoyant memory,” introduced in his earlier work, Divided: Partition Memoirs from Two Bengals, to depict how “forgetting the past is impossible for the direct victims of Partition.” He also draws attention to the disproportionate representation of upper-caste Hindu Bengali poets, in contrast to the relative invisibility of Muslims and those from marginalised communities. This imbalance extends to gender as well, with a noticeable disparity between male and female poets in the collection.

The book is structured in two parts, respectively featuring poets from India and Bangladesh. The Indian section is notably larger and presents a wide range of emotions, reflecting both the immediate trauma of Partition and its long-lasting reverberations over the years. Many of the poems in this section express a deep nostalgia for a lost homeland. For instance, Alokeranjan Dasgupta’s ‘Exile’ evokes memories of abandoned spaces. Similarly, Ananda Sankar Rai’s ‘The Far Side’ laments the estrangement from what was once familiar. He writes, “Once it was a province, now an alien land / where you must enter passport in hand.” Basudeb Deb’s ‘Picture of My Father’ constructs a powerful portrait of the nation through the figure of the father: “Swadeshi movement war sirens famine flood / Riot and partition written in the wrinkles on his forehead.” After the father’s death, only a walking stick remains. The poem draws a powerful parallel between the futility of the father’s dismissive words, “This country is not a pumpkin that you can cut it in one blow”, and the uselessness of the walking stick after his passing. This object comes to embody the spirit of the deceased father, “just another old toy”, offering a stark commentary on how individuals became pawns in the hands of the state.

Several poets in the anthology focus intensely on the experiences of refugees, capturing both their suffering and the complexities of their identities. In ‘The Refugee Mystery’, Binoy Majumdar laments the loss of linguistic roots, noting how “the Bangals now speak the dialect of Kolkata all the time, having forgotten the dialects of Barishal and Faridpur / The Moslems of Dhaka are heard singing and speaking in the radio with the lilt of Uluberia.” His reflections emphasise the deep connection between language and social identity. This theme finds a resonance in Sunil Gangopadhyay’s poem ‘That Day’, where he writes, “On one side they named the waters Pani / on the other side–Jol.” Through this simple yet evocative contrast, Gangopadhyay underscores how a shared concept can be articulated through divergent linguistic expressions in India and Bangladesh, which become subtle yet potent markers of socio-linguistic divisions. Such poems provoke profound questions: Can the adoption of a new dialect truly redefine one’s identity? How does one navigate the tension between past and present linguistic selves, and is reconciliation even possible?

Viewed through the intertwined lenses of faith and suffering, poetry often functions as a repository of collective memory and a means of resilience. In this regard, Devdas Acharya’s three poems present a poignant exploration of the lived experiences of refugees in post-Partition India. A recurring and haunting image emerges in his work: a grieving father, who has recently lost a child to hunger, standing before a deity symbolically embodied by a swadeshi leader. This image encapsulates both the profound deprivation endured by displaced communities and their simultaneous reliance on unshaken faith. Despite the magnitude of loss, what sustained many refugees was a deeply rooted belief system that imbued their suffering with meaning.

By foregrounding the gendered dimensions of violence, Partition poetry exposes how women’s bodies became contested sites of power and trauma. In “She, on the Platform of a Station”, Krishna Dhar powerfully captures the plight of women during Partition. She writes, “Chased from the other side of the border, escaping fire and the fangs and tongues of wolves, one day she arrived,” evoking the image of a refugee woman doubly marginalised– “devastated by Partition” and simultaneously “dodging the eyes of the hyenas.” Here, the metaphorical wolves and hyenas represent predatory men who treated women’s bodies as extensions of territorial conquest. Kar points out in the introduction that very few women wrote poetry about their Partition experiences, largely because they were already engaged in the broader struggle for gender equality. While women’s memoirs on Partition exist, poetry by women addressing these themes, particularly from the 1970s, is strikingly limited. This absence is significant, as women’s experiences are crucial to understanding how deeply gendered the space of the subcontinent was during and after Partition.

Following independence, conflicts often emerged within the nation, revolving around issues of region, language, religion, and ethnicity. In ‘The Diary of a Refugee’, Shaktipada Brahmachari reflects on his sense of belonging across borders, juxtaposing his memories of a past home in Bengal with his present life in Assam. He writes, “The world is my home now, in Bangla my love I spell–Prafulla and Vrigu are the cousins of my heart,” referencing two leaders of the Asom Gana Parishad. While refugees in Assam experienced a more complex form of marginalisation due to ethno-linguistic differences, Brahmachari portrays a gradual process of acceptance, where both the homeland he left and the land he adopted come to hold emotional significance.

Across the border in Bangladesh, the theme of displacement persists. In “Leaving Home”, Jasimuddin asserts, “this land is for Hindus and Muslims,” calling on educators to return and “build the broken schools once more…we will find out our beloved brother, whom I lost,” a poignant appeal for reconciliation and return of Hindu families displaced by Partition. The motifs of memory and loss recur throughout most of these poems, a trope common between both the nations. This sense of finality is further echoed in Binod Bera’s lament: “Our nation is now three, all three are independent, and love lives an alien existence.” The emotional chasm created by Partition, and the subsequent loss of mutual affection, renders any notion of return futile.

The collection deserves commendation for its ambitious effort to recover voices from Bengali literature and render them accessible to a global readership beyond linguistic boundaries, through gripping translations. It is the first-ever translated collection of Bengali Partition poetry that captures the angst of the original poems with perfect nuance. The very title, The Lost Pendant, merits particular attention, for it resonates with themes of liminality and the fractured sense of identity experienced by the refugee poet Nirmalyo Bhushan Bhattacharya, better known by his pseudonym, Majnu Mostafa. Born in Khulna, Bangladesh, yet spending much of his life in Krishnanagar, India, Bhattacharya embodies the dislocation and dual belonging of Partition’s afterlives. As Kar insightfully observes, the choice of pseudonym can be read as a deliberate act of defiance, “a strategy to cross the boundaries set up by religious politics and fundamentalism–a move much needed in the subcontinent of our times.” In this sense, The Lost Pendant is not merely an anthology but a work of cultural recuperation as it attempts to resurrect poets whose voices risked erasure, while simultaneously protecting their oeuvres from the twin threats of historical amnesia and linguistic inaccessibility.

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Udita Banerjee is an Assistant Professor of English at VIT-AP University. Her work has previously been published in platforms such as Outlook Weekender, Borderless Journal, Indian Review, and Poems India.

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Categories
Poetry

The Meadow by Joy Anne O’Donnell

Joy Anne O’Donnell
THE MEADOW 

The meadow opens nature’s wings
To the morning 
When the soft birds sing
Grass grows brave in sight
Each flower a small prayer
Sunlight gleams with a big heart
Across the sky the air holds me
A meadow of nature’s glamour
And the raindrops silver shimmer

JoyAnne O’Donnell is author of five poetry books. Her latest poetry is in Live Encounters and The Galway Review.

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Categories
Musings

How Twins Revive Spiritual Heritage Throbbing Syncretism

Narrative and photographe by Prithvijeet Sinha

Lucknow bears the identity of an old soul always beholding glory and cultural heydays that have not altogether faded. The afterglow of its architecture, spiritual antecedents rarely misses the mark. After being pulverized by the lost revolution of the First War of Independence (1857), it transmuted its fearless legend to the present day, it’s hard not to think about the city’s twin children who breathe new life to it.

Shah Najaf Imambara
Sibtainabad Imambara

Shah Najaf Imambara and Sibtainabad Imambara are nestled just ten minutes away from each other within the historic and unmistakable centre of Lucknow- Hazratganj. But they cannot be summarised in pithy words. For if serenity draws us closer to our own tranquil and fuller selves, they play a huge part in orienting us towards a spiritual life that’s almost impressionistic.

Built under the aegis of Nawab Ghazi-ud-Din Haider in 1818, Shah Najaf Imambara derives its name from Shah-e-Najaf (King of Najaf), leaning towards its Shia origins and a place of spiritual importance in erstwhile Iran. Once again, these imambaras/ mausoleums were made in such formative fashion that the distinction between a royal estate and a resting place for architects of the region almost blurred. Today, it’s taken as the burial place of Nawab Ghazi-ud-Din Haider and some other pivotal family members. But on every occasion where the spirit meets holy chants and inner emotions especially during Muharram, Shah Najaf Imambara celebrates human valour to let the timeless strains stir those that need history to guide the present.

Two doorways usher us towards the main structure. The first has two lions almost standing as eternal sentinels while the second one has arched designs, windows in striking sky blue and turrets to welcome us. Then, past a garden and symbols of umbrellas and pillars on both sides, we enter the domed structure with a golden spire. The initial architectural framework has a miniature castle-like arrangement and pillars. Then the unique indoors open to wide verandahs, huge walls resembling those of a palace while stained glass windows and floral patterns catch our eyes.

We walk around and behold the sunshine. Pigeons make their passage like unobtrusive guides. It’s once we enter the main hall of the Imambara that its richness finds heft and visual import. Intricate doorways in black open the way to the sanctum where colours shimmer and add lustre to portraits of erstwhile kings.

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Here tazias (handmade religious symbols), chandeliers, gilded mirrors and clocks, tapestries, lanterns, Quranic verses engraved on walls and pillars evince an aura of holding everything in a single space. Yet they never overwhelm the assortment. From the high roof with circular vents, light floods this space as green and gold filigrees shimmer admiration for the craft. Gold, green, black, white are the prominent colours expediting a unique spiritual leadership. We come here to capture serenity in our pulses, quieting our anxious throb. Shah Najaf Imambara commences that sojourn in true humbling fashion. It’s said that the thick walls around the central mosque withstood the heavy gun fires of the Rebellion of 1857. Looking at this centre of secularism today, it’s obvious there’s some extraordinary strength that still radiates power and integrity.

Then walking towards the further center of Hazratganj which is bustling and still lively with the rhythms of an active day, we reach the other spiritual cousin which is the Sibtainabad Imambara. Here too, dual gateways, one that begins amid the main market area and the other that leads us further to the main structure, are attractions in their own individual right. Then commanding a centre surrounded by a few residences styled in an exquisite classical style is a white mosque, Sibtainabad Imambara, raised on an eight-foot platform navigated by steps. Its historical continuum is still intact and that is why it’s so fascinating.

It was Amjad Ali Shah(1801-1847), the fourth King of Awadh, who greenlit its construction as a place of majlis (mourning) in memory of Imam Hussain’s martyrdom in the Battle of Karbala. It was his son, the great Wajid Ali Shah, who completed the structure with his army of architects and other creative hands. Today, Sibtainabad Imambara houses Amjad Ali Shah’s tomb and bears the history of being under the eye of the storm during 1857. But since History and Time always have a unique way of restoring Lucknow’s architectural marvels, it has withstood the test of time despite changing administrative jurisdictions and the gradual passage of eras.

Its outer surface is one of arches, parapets, eaves, dome and stucco which makes it conjoin its formation with Shah Najaf Imambara. The interiors are adorned with beautiful green paint of the most impressive hue. The main hall enthralls with images of horses bearing coat of arms, floral designs, anthropomorphic beings, swords, angels harking to past riches and fish symbols central to the city.  Stained glass windows, huge mirrors on the walls and chandeliers complete a mosaic of colours that take the caravan of spiritual fulfillment further ahead, all the way from Shah Najaf Imambara.

Tazias deck the main hall while a throne shrouded in black and zig-zagging floor designs create a most exquisite picture.

While many people, men and women say their prayers here in both these places of spirituality, religious exclusivity never even becomes a point of consideration. You can be anyone, belonging to any faith or religious background which are after all man-made labels. Both the Shahnajaf and Sibtainabad Imambaras let us become one with the light emanating from their natural structures and the tranquil air that counters the world of noise and everyday activity. We are encased or should we say delivered from the coves of our daily occupations to their cores of transformation simply by choosing to go there.

Spirituality and faith beckon private, internalised journeys. Both the Shahnajaf Imambara and Sibtainabad Imambara attest to those journeys, occupying the heart of Lucknow to let its bloodstream flow with due diligence, with an eye towards true serenity.

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Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

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Categories
Poetry

Too Tight

By Ananya Sarkar

The ring is too tight for me,
But I'll give you my heart.
The ring is too tight for me,
But I'll give you my soul.
The ring is too tight for me,
But I'll give you all
That can never be confined with a ring.
And all the invisible rivers
That meander in the wind
Will fail to swerve me
From you.
And tattooed on my finger,
By imagination alone,
The ring will gleam
Stringing me to you
In ways others can only dream,
Dissolving the tightness
Like salt in a hot water stream.

Ananya Sarkar is a creative writer from Kolkata currently living in Bangalore. Her work has been published in various ezines. She loves to go on long walks, cloud gaze and ponder upon miracles. She can be found on Instagram @just_1ananya and reached at ananya7891@gmail.com

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Categories
Essay

A Place to Remember

By Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia

Odaiba Beach. From Public Domain

It all began in the cold, uncertain days of early January 2025. I was in Tokyo, at Odaiba Beach with one of my closest friends, the icy water soaking our feet. It was bitterly cold, the wind merciless, but our love for the ocean pulled us in. We agreed to dip our feet into the sea, just for a few fleeting seconds. The water stung like needles, yet nothing stopped us from laughing, from enjoying the moment, from playing in the waves like children.

New Year had passed only a few days earlier. We were exhausted from celebrations, worn down by sleepless nights, just as we had been throughout last December. Still, that day felt different. It was the first time my best friend and I had reunited together in the Land of the Rising Sun. Back in Madagascar ten years earlier, we used to dream endlessly about Japan, whispering plans and wishes into the air as if they might someday carry us across the sea. And now here we were together in the country we once imagined only from afar.

I call her ‘Tsu Nami’, not her real name but the one she chose for herself. Her true name means waves in English, yet everyone calls her by her alias. We had known each other for years, but I never asked why she chose that name. Sometimes she said it held both serenity and ruin, as if calm and chaos lived inside her simultaneously. I never truly understood it then.

We spoke for hours that day, about life in Japan, the challenges, the bright moments, the ups and downs of living far from home. We were alike in many ways: two souls far from family and homeland yet living in a country we dearly loved. Life alone in a foreign place is thrilling, but also painfully heavy. She confessed the struggles that had pulled her toward depression, and I encouraged her as much as I could, reminding her of her strength, telling her that not everything deserved her energy.

We filmed silly videos, screamed with laughter, and let the waves numb our feet. Deep in the heart of winter, frozen to the bone, she suddenly asked if I knew how to swim. I said maybe, maybe yes, maybe no. I used to swim as a child, but I no longer knew if I still could. I told her I dreamed of surfing someday. She smiled and said it would be incredible if we could surf together in summer. We come from a warm island paradise where surfing is possible, yet neither of us had ever tried it.

Time slipped through my fingers like sand, and I only realised when spring whispered its gentle arrival. Somewhere along the way, I crossed paths with someone extraordinary, a girl from India, whom I will call A. We would see each other occasionally around the campus, studying in the same university, though in different fields. We first met in the early autumn, when the air was neither hot nor cold during a cultural exchange event.

A. seemed cold and distant; when I politely asked for her SNS contact, she answered in a sharp tone. By nature, I am sociable yet quietly reserved, someone who loves meeting new people and treasures cultural exchange, but my introverted side pulls me back, holding me at a distance like an invisible thread. However, A. is the opposite of me. She is entirely extroverted. And yet, something about her fascinated me, an aura of maturity, strength, reliability. Slowly our conversations grew, and the more time I spent with her, the more I cherished her presence. I never would have imagined she would become one of my dearest friends.

A. was warm, kind, and endlessly sociable, the type of person who knows almost everyone in the neighborhood. She understood my introversion, but she never stopped inviting me into her world. She took me along to events, introduced me to people, pushed me gently outside my comfort zone. She wanted me to live, not merely breathe.

Soon winter was coming to an end, and our friends organised a farewell party for A, who had completed her studies and was returning to India. The atmosphere was warm and lively, with music, laughter, and bittersweet goodbyes. It was there that I met J, a friendly and curious soul from Sri Lanka. He became the first person who ever asked so many thoughtful questions about my country, so many that sometimes I did not know how to answer. As we talked, I learned he loved water sports, especially surfing. And when he whispered the word surf, something inside me ignited. I felt the warmth of summer already, I imagined myself riding waves for the first time.

That day, I told Tsu Nami to visit me during summer break, that I had found someone who could teach us how to surf. She was thrilled. Together, we counted the days impatiently. And then July arrived, our university classes ended, and at last we were free. We went to the beach with J.

J. had lived in Japan for years and knew every hidden corner of our prefecture from quiet paths to secret places untouched by crowds. We asked him where the most beautiful beach was. He laughed and said there was not a perfect one here, not the kind you see in postcards, but there were places where the waves were strong and alive, perfect for learning to surf. So, we followed him, nervous and excited, ready to feel the ocean breathe through us.

It was our first surfing lesson, both for me and for Tsu Nami. The evening sun melted the sky into gold, the air warm but soft. Because of a physical issue, I could not surf that day, so Tsu Nami began first. She could not even swim, yet she stepped forward with fearless determination. J. taught her patiently, movement by movement. And in a surprisingly short time, she stood on the board, shaky, unsteady, but still, standing. Minutes later, she balanced perfectly, rising like a wave itself. I recorded it all, my heart glowing with pride. Even though I could not surf that day, I found joy at the shoreline, soaking my feet, screaming with laughter, recording moments I wanted to keep forever.

A few weeks later, I returned with J, but this time without Tsu Nami. She had returned to Madagascar, and her absence echoed through the sound of the waves. I missed her deeply. Yet something inside me trembled with excitement, my turn had finally come.

J. guided me gently, step by step. After a few minutes, I managed to stand on the board, unstable, but still balancing. I fell countless times, swallowed by the waves, but each fall made me rise stronger. The ocean roared like encouragement, whispering: ‘Again. Don’t stop’. I felt alive, truly alive.

A few days later, we went back to the beach again. The sky stretched above us, and the sea sparkled under the sun. Sometimes the waves were too calm to surf, so we simply floated on our boards, talking and laughing.

J. reminded me of a kind uncle, joyful, supportive, and gentle. He told stories about his country that made me laugh until my stomach hurt. J even told me, laughing, that some Japanese people go surfing eveninwinter, when the water is freezing and the wind feels like knives. I stared at him in disbelief, wondering how anyone could survive that kind of cold. He just smiled and said, ‘That’s the real surfing spirit!’ I could not help but burst into laughter, imagining myself turning into an ice statue somewhere in the middle of the ocean.

The ocean has long felt like the place where I truly belong. Every vacation in my homeland, I choose destinations where the beach is close enough to hear the waves. The sea clears my head, softens the storms inside me, and gently repairs the pieces of my heart. Standing at the shoreline, I can breathe again. It is more than just water and waves; it is where I find restoration.

Whenever I walk along the coast or step onto a surfboard, something inside me wakes up, the weight in my chest lifts, and my thoughts begin to move freely. Ideas return, like the tide rolling in, and I remember why I want to write, create, and keep moving forward. There were days when depression felt like weather that would never clear, but the sea gave me solace. It held me together when I thought I was coming apart. Its steady murmur softened the noise in my head, and each wave seemed to lift a little of the heaviness I could not carry by myself.

I cherished every moment of that summer, every surfing lesson, every fall, every laugh. That summer became another precious memory in the Land of the Rising Sun. The beach gave me peace, and a place where my soul felt at home. Now December is here, winter tightens its grip, and the warmth of that summer feels like a distant echo. But the ocean remains, waiting. The beach will always be a place to remember.

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Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia is from Madagascar and is currently studying in Japan as a trainee student. She enjoys reading, writing, listening to music, and traveling to explore new cultures.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Nikolai Tesla (1856-1943), also referred to as ‘Lightning Boy’, discovered the Tesla coil. From Public Domain
December 12th, 2025 (Poem Written at the Quattro Hotel)

Tesla was right. We are receivers of external stimuli. The internal as well,
but Our Boy Lightning was much more deliberate about the external.
As though he were always searching for something. That’s what
some pop psychologist would say.  You know the ones:
red marker for brains, getting to nirvana on a bus pass.
Those people you would rather not run into waiting for an elevator.
It is in the silences that we find ourselves, I truly believe that.
Like a child of exquisite reflections.  Our time away is a necessary distance.
The well-whispered peace of burrowing things, I know this well.
It is hard to write about kisses.
You feel them long before the words ever arrive.
And the conundrum crowds are back before too long. In truth, they never leave.
And the yellow wet floor pylon is out again, making friends.
Squeaky housekeeping carts loaded down with an army of disinfectants.
Conference rooms in use like a meeting of the mindless…
Those colours of twin Oscar fish in the tank by the pool. 
I have always had the eye of a painter.
Happiness is watching light dance off the water forever.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. 

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Categories
Opinion

All So Messi!

By Farouk Gulsara

Lionel Messi in Kolkata. From Public Domain

With the amount of information I am bombarded with daily, I often wonder, as one usually does, how all these changes will change society. Are we all going to be empowered, aware, and demanding what is due to us? Will our minds be so open that we can accept that there is more than one way to skin a cat? On the contrary, will we become more aware of the many ways we can be taken for a ride, and so paranoid that we cannot even breathe a breath of fresh air? What if it is contaminated with toxic effluents?

Three recent video clips steered my mind towards this end.

In the first instance, a group of spectators in a stadium in Kolkata went amok. They were seen tearing fences and wrecking stadium chairs and equipment. They had come to see their favourite world-famous footballer, Lionel Messi, interact with fans. Perhaps the organisers had noble intentions that by having these types of exhibitions, more youngsters in India would take up the sport. 

Unfortunately, the events of that day were quite different. It became a façade, with Messi surrounded by multiple VIPs and their entourages, all eager to take selfies from every angle. 

The crowd was furious that the star was interacting only with VIPs, their children, politicians, and their kin. Messi was seen being passed around like a soccer ball to capture that perfect picture that would one day adorn their study. The ordinary spectators were left drooling, unable to get close enough to see Messi’s scoring actions. Messi was then seen joking around with the exclusive group of kids, kicking a few balls before departing. 

The spectators paid good money not to see their hero paraded as a selfie model. They came expecting some action. A show promised to last two hours, but it ended after just half-an-hour when politicians and officials hijacked the event. One trigger, and chaos erupted.

What happened? Were the people in the stadium offended because they felt duped after paying a lot of money to catch glimpses of the hero posing with others and their children, not with them? They believed his appearance was too brief to matter. They thought the wealthy had used the ticket sales for their own pleasures. 

Has Messi’s overexposure in the media led ordinary people to claim ownership of Messi? They believe they have a legitimate right to him. Watching others possess their hero while he is kept outside was too much for them to bear. Meanwhile, they overlook that their own football hero, Sunil Chhetri, reportedly the world’s third-highest goal scorer after Ronaldo and Messi, is ignored. Some Indians do not even know who Chhetri is.

Another reel that reached me showed stranded Indigo passengers having a field day berating the frontliners verbally as thousands of flights were cancelled because the airline could not comply with the new aviation regulations. The reel commentator scolded the passengers for their unruly behaviour. People of a certain stature, well-travelled and well-informed, should not be behaving as they did—loud, abusive, threatening, and insulting the ground staff. The recipients were merely lowly-paid messengers who had no control over operations, yet they bore the brunt of every customer’s insult.

The message further criticises the stranded passengers for losing their composure. They should have behaved with more dignity. In their view, flying is a privilege enjoyed by the educated; hence the need to act ‘cultured’ rather than resort to theatrics. The demonstration exemplified the deep-rooted middle-class mentality that seemed to prevail amongst the nouveau riche.

It is too simplistic to assume this. The rot runs deeper. On one hand, there is a feeling that passengers are being taken for fools. Airlines have recently been cutting corners due to the sharp increase in air travel. With so many new destinations, more flights, and affordability, the airline industry has never been more profitable. Making hay while the sun shines is the airlines’ motto. By squeezing pilots, crew members, and ground staff, the owners have had a field day. Recognising this, those in power tightened regulations to ensure air safety. Sufficient time was given to industry players to make amends. Indigo, holding the lion’s share of India’s air travel market, believed it was above the law. They procrastinated defiantly. That, in short, led to this fiasco.

So, were the passengers justified in their behaviour? Some were attending job interviews, some were about to get married, while others were taking part in equally important, life-changing events. All of it was for nothing because profiteers turned into vultures. There must surely be some etiquette in the business. They should have a minimum level of responsibility to follow the law and ensure safety. Instead, they failed. They killed the golden goose. 

The failure of public relations to provide practical solutions, leaving customers in limbo about how events would unfold, is a recipe for disaster. And it happened.

In Malaysia, nearly every time after a fatal motor vehicle accident, the public is informed that the driver involved in causing death was driving without a valid driving licence, road tax, or had 30 or 40 unpaid summonses. Each time a suspect sustains fatal wounds during car chases, interrogations, or while in custody, the Malaysian public raises concerns. In defence, the police often mention possession of machetes and criminal records related to the deceased, as if their demise is justified and question why the public should mourn a hardened criminal. 

This time, it was different. Police allegedly engaged in a highway car chase and shot three suspects. They soon announced their list of criminal records and provided a summary of the weapons found and the sequence of events. What the police did not know was that the spouse of one of the deceased had recorded her conversation with her partner, and the phone recording continued until after the trigger was pulled. 

A day after the incident, the recording surfaced. The gunshot did not resemble a typical shootout but rather an execution. The postmortem report complicated matters further. The bullet entered the nose and pierced the heart, execution style. 

For so long, the Malaysian public had been told to believe the various narratives about these kinds of deaths. For the first time, telecommunications tools may reveal what actually happens during police chases in the dead of night. Amnesty International has been warning us that our police custodial death rates are alarmingly high. The police have been dragging their feet on the public appeal to set up an Independent Police Complaints and Misconduct Commission and to equip their officers with body cameras. 

Is the damning evidence produced by modern devices a turning point in how policing is done in Malaysia? 

Modern life has changed many of our priorities. If, a century ago, the average man was content with decent square meals, enough garments to keep himself and cover the essentials, had a roof over his head and was able to provide for his family, the modern man needs more than that. The world’s modern economy, on the one hand, makes him quite aware of his surroundings. He is cognisant of different ways in which others live their life. On the downside, he has become a little self-centred and hedonistic. Travel to a foreign land has become an essential pastime. His obsession with famous media icons makes him mindlessly parrot his hero. He dresses like them, mimics their mannerisms and worships the Earth they stand on. Not all this work is for the betterment of society.

The fence that separates the elite and the plebeians is crumbling. Certain privileged information was kept from the general public, deemed necessary to ensure peace. Disinformation and uncertainty worked very well to maintain law and order. As information became more widely accessible, we found it helpful to curb abuses of the system. That, however, did not assure peace of mind. As in all things in life, there are two sides to the coin. Even though they may present opposing views, they are actually part of the same coin. The analogy is the same. Humans must learn to accept that everything is a work in progress. Not a single item that Man created has stood the test of time; it has needed constant twirling and re-modelling.

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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

Two Poems by Phil Wood

From Public Domain 
A GULL IN THE MOONLIGHT 

I have longed to leave and be not afraid
Take these wings beyond the listless land
Let the sea erase that bight of sand
 
I have come to soar and sightless to fear
Let me hush the clinging shores of here
Take these wings and crave this night 
 
I have longed to be lost and be not afraid
I have come so far and to be so near
These wings will brave the flight of light


THROUGH THE KITCHEN WINDOW 

The damp and slump of weathered branches
made light with a sudden breeze, and leaves
no longer sullen, uplifted to scatter...
time to believe in matters of chance?

The souls of spices arise from the pan,
my wooden spoon a turmeric moon,
and our pandemonium of kids and you
chasing leaves. I can see them.

Phil Wood was born in Wales. He enjoys painting and learning German. His writing can be found in:  The Fig Tree Coal Mining Anthology, The Shot Glass Journal, London Grip.

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