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Stories

The Scholar

 

By Chaturvedi Divi

Courtesy: Creative Commons

Sathya was sitting under the banyan tree outside the English department of Seven Steps Balaji Maha Viswa Vidyalaya waiting for his research supervisor, Ratnavali. He pulled out from his backpack Ruzbeth N Bharucha’s book, The Fakir, and started reading it.

Sathya had an exposure to spiritual life at an early age. His father, Sachdev, despite his busy medical practice in Chennai, never hesitated to spare time for serving the patients at the free clinics he organised during weekends. Sathya’s mother. Bhuvana, started a publishing unit, devoted to spiritual books. Encouraged by his parents, Sathya did courses in writing, and he played different roles as a translator, book editor and marketing manager. At the recent youth festival in the city, he ran book promotional sessions, and happened to meet a Ph D scholar, Vinay. Impressed by Sathya, Vinay made it a point to interact with him every day during the week-long youth festival. When Sathya discussed with his parents the challenges young researchers face, his mother sensed his new-found interest, and asked him to enrol for a PhD programme.

“Research, yeah, that is a different kind of world. After all that exposure, you may find that the family business is more challenging and even fascinating, who knows,” his father said.

                                             ***

“Wearing white safari suit and sitting under a tree is not a good idea, sir. Sit in the Library…”  It was Raju, the junior assistant in the English office.

“In the library you find books on Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf and the like. Nothing relevant to my research work.”  Sathya consulted his watch. It was 11 am. He moved towards the English department. He saw Dheeraj in their supervisor’s chamber correcting MA exam answer sheets. As he was about to enter, he heard the sound of flip flops. He turned around and greeted Prof. Ratnavali.

 “Dheeraj, are you still correcting…?” 

“Mam, I need just two more days.”

He gently asked Sathya, “Look, is this the right answer?”

Even before Sathya opened his mouth, Ratnavali frowned. “Dheeraj, ask me.”

“Mam, the deconstruction theory…”

“Are you reading those answers? Don’t waste your time. You need not even turn the pages. Just allot some marks between 60 and 70. If everybody gets first class no one will complain.”

 “Ma’am…”

Cutting in, Ratnavali said, “Look, both of you. Don’t meet any other teacher in the department. They are all nebbish and maladroit.”

“Mam, I just greeted…”

 “Don’t argue, listen.” She paused. “The sinusitis is driving me crazy.”

“Try steam inhalation of basil leaves ma’am,” said Sathya.

“Will it work?”

“Yes ma’am, six times a day.”

Ratnavali scribbled on a piece of paper and dropped it into her handbag.  She waited for a few moments and then took out a strip of Benadryl capsules from her handbag. “Sathya, I am afraid that the capsules you brought are in bad shape. The pharmacist might have put a lot of weight on these strips.”

“Heavens above!”

“Any way, I’ll check again.” She removed one capsule and said, “This seems to be good. I’ll check other capsules too.” She went on removing one capsule after the other and emptied the pack. “Better you return. I don’t need them anymore. Get cash.”

Which pharmacist will accept them, Sathya wondered?  “Mam, did you go through my article?” 

“Oh, not yet. If I read for more than 15 minutes, I get a headache. Anyway, I’ll try to finish it shortly.” Ratnavali ran her hands over her head as if she were adjusting her hair style, took out dragon balm and a wad of bills from her handbag. Applying the balm to her forehead she said, “Dheeraj, can you pay the electricity bills? Today is the last date. I have a severe headache. I must go home.” She tried to contact someone on the phone. “No response from the cab service.’

“Usually, we find cabs at the main gate mam. I’ll try.” 

“Look, you have to bargain. I never paid more than Rs 50.”

Sathya thanked his lucky stars when he found a cab near the canteen. As the fare was Rs100, Sathya gave Rs 50 to the driver and asked him to accept Rs. 50 from Prof. Ratnavali. The driver immediately returned the amount and said that he had bad experiences with her. She would stop at all the three temples on the way and at a grocery shop.  It would take at least one hour for him to cover the three km distance and she never paid the waiting charges. He softened his stance only when Sathya offered one hundred and fifty rupees. Sathya had a sigh of relief as Prof. Ratnavali got into the cab and moved out of the premises. When he returned, he saw Dheeraj paying the electricity bills online. He checked the bills and said, “Dheeraj, you’re poorer by Rs 8000.”

Dheeraj looked at the bills disinterestedly. “I know you gave that article to her several months back.”  

“Yes, eight months back, on the teachers’ day. You brought roses and we both greeted her.”

“Then, imagine the time she takes to read my thesis!”

“It will take ages. No hope at all. She has to read in between headaches.”

“I feel tired, I feel exhausted.”

“Shall I arrange for a drink? Do you prefer boost, sir?” asked Raju, who had just entered the room.

Dheeraj was startled.  “When did you come here Raju?”  

“At least we have cleared our written exams,” Sathya said.

“We are only one step ahead. There are six more steps.”

“How do you mean?”

“This is Seven Steps Balaji Maha Viswa Vidyalaya.”

“We have successfully merged all the steps into one big step,” Raju said.

“Raju, are you still here? What is that one big step?” Dheeraj asked.

“I’ll tell you. First pay my consultation fee?”

“You mean tip?”

“No, it’s a consultation fee. I’ve been working in this dept. for more than 20 years. You should know that I can provide you with valuable information.”

Dheeraj offered Rs 200. Raju returned Rs 100 and said, “My fee is Rs. 100 only. Not one rupee more or not one rupee less. I’ve some ethics. I learnt this art of making extra bucks from your supervisor, Madam Prof Ratnavali. You meet Prof. Saskar. He will help you out,” Raju said and left.

Dheeraj said, “Maruti too mentioned Prof. Saskar’s name. Now Maruti is our neighbour. He bought an apartment just four blocks away from my house. The other day he met my father, and he mentioned your name. He said that he couldn’t have cleared the methodology paper without your guidance.”

“I explained to him literary theory and documentation. I prepared some notes too for him.”

“Oh! I too must thank you. My paper was accepted by the organizers of The Great Writing Conference, London. It was you who suggested the topic when I had no clue and you helped me in drafting it.” 

“Congrats. Is it the one on Amitav Ghosh?”

“Yes. Fragmentation in the Novels of Amitav Ghosh… but that is not going to make me happy at all. Can I ever submit my thesis? It is clear. She is not normal. She needs mood stabilizers.”

                                          ***

The next morning Dheeraj and Sathya had the shock of their life. Prof. Ratnavali called them to her house. She almost threw their theses on the centre table. “Sathya, why did you make it topic centric? It should have been author centric?”

“Ma’am, I followed your instructions.” He pulled out a notebook from his backpack and showed the suggestions written by her.

 She was taken aback. However, she gathered herself and said, “No. You have to rewrite the entire thesis. I’ll be busy with my overseas assignment for one full year. Research work is not time bound. It may even take 10 years or beyond.”

She then turned towards Dheeraj and said, “Your theoretical approach is incorrect. Apply psychoanalytical theory instead of postcolonial theory.”

“Ma’am, you told me…”

“Don’t argue, listen.”

Dheeraj became furious. “I’ll not allow you to play with my career. I can join some other university and get my degree within two years.” He picked up his thesis and almost ran out of the house.

There was an uneasy calmness for a couple of minutes. Sathya stood up. He thought he said bye ma’am, but words didn’t escape his lips.

When a two- wheeler zoomed past him, Sathya realised that he was on the wrong side of the road. He moved ahead unmindful of where he was going. After some time, he noticed that he was at the banyan tree outside the department of English of Seven Steps Balaji Maha Viswa Vidyalaya.     

“You are on the wrong side, sir.” It was Raju, near the university gate.

“Am I still on the road!” Sathya wondered. He looked around and turned towards Raju questioningly.   

“My consultation fees.” Slipping the Rs. 100 -note into his wallet Raju said, “I have learnt this art of making extra bucks from Madam Prof. Ratnavali but I’ve some ethics. I just sell ideas, not degrees like the teachers.”  Sathya wanted to cut in, but he waited patiently.

“Dheeraj won’t quit, sir. One of his relatives is an IPS officer. He must know when to offer a carrot and when to use the stick.”

“Don’t tell me that you knew what happened just one hour back….”

“Yes, of course, I knew. I am a member of the Campus Information Service. Every piece of information reaches the members within minutes. Our people are everywhere, even in the Chamber of the V C. Prof. Saskar is the head of the service.”

“Really?”

“You must realise that expressions like modifications, theoretical approach, and documentation are stock words used by the supervisors to create trouble for the scholars. The greater the trouble, the more the flow of money into their pockets. The entire show is run by Prof. Saskar. Neither the supervisor nor the external examiners make a serious reading of a thesis.  I see the same panel of examiners year after year at every viva.  He has hijacked the entire examination system. You can’t bank on the head of the department or the chairman. They will not come to your rescue. They are scared of Prof. Saskar and Prof. Ratnavali. They don’t hesitate even to harm you as they don’t want to strain their relationships with Prof. Saskar and Prof. Ratnavali. Avoid confrontation. Just buy your degree or quit.”

Sathya tightened his jaw. “Thanks a lot for your long speech. Do you think that I’ll buy my degree?”

Ignoring what Sathya said, Raju tried to convince him. “Even if you don’t have money it doesn’t matter. Prof. Saskar and Madam Prof. Ratnavali can arrange for bank loans. That was how Madhavan got his degree. He is now in Australia.”

“I am a spiritual person. I won’t meekly submit to anti-social elements, come what may.”

“I have told you sir you are on the wrong side.”

.

Chaturvedi Divi’s short stories and poems have appeared in the anthology of Only Men Please, Reading Hour, America the Catholic magazine, Twist & Twain, Spillwords  and elsewhere.

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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

Categories
Poetry

Two Poems by Ranu Uniyal

GRIEF DOES NOT DIE  

it melts 
it runs 
it smells
and then 
it dissolves

grief
I am sorry to say 
is beyond shelf life 
it outlives us all.   

Please don’t be surprised 
if you see it smirking  
through your years  
pitching in moments of 
relentless tapping 
of bristling laughter 
unguarded affection 
and invincible ties.   

Grief asks you not to surrender.  
“I am here to stay,” it taps on your chest 
and keeps you agog at night.  

Grief walks in at odd times 
when you are just settling in 
it steps inside and howls 
like a cyclone Tauktae
bound by seasons of melancholy
it rips you open and as you 
chug along with crushed smiles 
for all to see and you to bear 
eyes, ears, lips, breasts 
the falling of tears 
and the stepping aside 
of strangers in a bus or 
the train compartment, at the 
shopping mall, roadside paan thela*, 
inside the classroom, in the middle of 
everywhere it stalks you, 
unattended, forlorn.   


*A cart selling betel leaves

HARD TO FIND   


I am good
Amma holds her heart 
inside her fist.   

It is a cold Sankranti* for her 
and my only son 
struggling with dysgraphia rattles 
the mobile number of his father.   

A lullaby whines and I see her  
riding in the submissive dark 
with eyes flipping at unknown bridges.   

There is water everywhere 
The sky is full of treasure  
and the earth has returned all her dues.  
To wind she had her smiles to offer,  

wings, furs, tapioca, coconut shells 
syllables, ragas, laughter, and stray wounds 
there is enough to last a lifetime, 

Till date nobody knows where she has stored that gift of fire.  

*Sankranti is a harvest festival

Ranu Uniyal is Professor of English at University of Lucknow.  She is a bi-lingual poet and Chief editor of Rhetorica, a literary journal of Arts. She has published four poetry collections:  Across the Divide (2006), December Poems (2012), The Day We Went Strawberry Picking in Scarborough(2018) and Hindi Poems Saeeda Ke Ghar (2021) and has read her poems at international literature festivals and conferences. She was on a Writer’s Residency in 2019 at Uzbekistan.  She can be reached at ranuuniyalpant@gmail.com.  Website: ranuuniyal.com

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

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Categories
Review

Is Time Future Contained in Time Past?

A Book Review by Rakhi Dalal

Title: A Handful of Sesame

Author: Shrinivas Vaidya

Translator: Maithreyi Karnoor

Publisher: Gibbon Moon Books

Originally written and published in Kannada as Halla Bantu Halla by Shrinivas Vaidya, this book won the Karnataka Sahitya Academy Award in 2004 and Central Sahitya Akademi Award in 2008. The author of many critically acclaimed literary collections, Vaidya is also the recipient of Karnataka Rajyotsava Award.

The English translation A Handful of Sesame by Maithreyi Karnoor was shortlisted for the Lucien Stryk Asian Translation Prize. Karnoor is the recipient of the Charles Wallace India Trust Fellowship for creative writing and translation. She has also won the Kuvempu Bhasha Bharati prize for translation.

Written with the backdrop of India’s struggle for independence, spanning a time period of almost a hundred years from the mutiny of 1857 to Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination, this book chronicles the life of a Hindu Brahmin family over a century in a town called Navalgund in Karnataka. It is the narrative of a family, whose seed originated in Kanpur in Northern India but which took roots in the small Southern Indian town of Navalgund during a period of political upheaval and then made it a home for generations to come. This story, as Tabish Khair notes in the foreword, thus also becomes a story of internal migration, recording the adoption and assimilation of cultural and religious practices in everyday living. More than that, it offers us a window into the socio-cultural mores of a family affected and shaped by changing times. 

Vasudevaachar is the son of Kamalanabh-panth of Kanpur who marries the daughter of a Brahmin from Navalgund and stays back during the chaotic times brought about after the suppression of 1857 mutiny. Like his father, he practiced medicine and takes on the responsibility of the entire household after Kamalanabh’s demise. The narrative deals with a detailed account of the struggles of running of the household with regular events like birth, death, marriages and so on in the big joint family with Vasudevaachar at the centre even as various occurrences like natural calamities, fight for freedom, world war and political turmoil keep altering the contours of their daily life.

Vaidya essentially creates a Brahmin household, suffusing the narrative with a rich language, idioms and slangs and vivid description of rituals, food and daily practices which are rendered in a delightful manner to the non-native reader through a fine translation by Maithreyi Karnoor. It palpitates with both rhyme and rhythm, of language and everydayness, concocting a gripping tale that captivates imagination.

The major characters that inhabit the world of A Handful of Sesame are diverse and non uni-dimensional. They evolve with the progressing narrative, forging the complex web of relationships within a large family that change as the time moves. Vaidya’s skilful portrayal brings forth the nuances in their interactions and connections which tie them as a family.  

Vasanna or Vasudevaachar, the head of the family, a religious and orthodox Brahmin is shown to be burdened by perpetual looming financial burdens of the family. Tulsakka, his wife, is a quiet yet determined woman. Ambakka, sister of Vasanna, is a shaven widow who lives with them. Impatient and irritable, she however assumes bigger role in caring for the newborns of the family. Venkanna, younger brother of Vasanna and a widower too, instead of marrying again keeps a relationship with a Muslim woman. A firm and resolute man, he shares the financial burden of his brother. Rukkuma, an orphan adopted by Panth family and belonging to a lower caste, lives as a house-help while Narayana, another orphan adopted by the family and son of a distant relative lives with them too.

As the world around them keeps changing, family dynamics change too. When English schools open up in Dharwad, the young sons of the family are sent for an education there. With opening of newer avenues for livelihood, the next generation keeps moving onto newer and bigger places, adopting new ways of life but remaining connected with their roots.  

Struggle for freedom, which remains a constant in the background, is employed to portray the rising collective consciousness across the nation which influenced the lives of ordinary people. We are offered glimpses into how the events like Salt Satyagraha or Congress meetings had an effect on the routine life of people of a small town like Navalgund.  The author also offers a peek into the larger social construct surrounding the Panth family, which though fragmented by caste and religion, lived in harmony with each other. An orthodox Brahmin like Vasanna goes to a dargah to offer sugar to ward off evil eye. In the present context, this might appear contradictory to the very definition of an orthodox, but it simply means that a rigidness in following one’s own rituals did not translate to a dislike of others’ and the minds were more open to accepting the customs believed to bring a greater good. 

Such times did exist. How wonderful it would be able to have access to more such works written in regional languages — works which open up bridges to the past of distant lands, connecting to our present, making the present improbable possible and bridging the divide; works which bring to us the account of lived lives of a people separated only by language. Perhaps this is why it becomes important that these works be made available to varied readers through translation.   

For an English reader, Maithreyi Karnoor’s perceptive translation presents a view of the ‘most underrepresented region in Kannada literature’, thereby offering us not only the linguistic nuances neglected by mainstream Kannada but also a compassionate insight into the regional life which is critical for a better understanding of the period.

Rakhi Dalal is an educator by profession. When not working, she can usually be found reading books or writing about reading them. She writes at https://rakhidalal.blogspot.com/ .

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Categories
Musings

Tsunami 2004: After 18 years

Sarpreet Kaur revisits the past with the hope of a better future

A vivid memory

A smile escaped my lips looking at the familiar newspaper, still just four pages of content. I can remember all those birthday listings, retirement announcements and situation vacant columns that formed part of this paper — coloured from the front-back and the time-tested black and white print in the inside. A balcony, a cosy chair, a newspaper and a cup of tea– what could be more perfect!

Suddenly a gloom overshadowed the day– it was 26 December 2022. The paper was filled with a long list of ‘Remembrances’ by families for their loved ones who lost their lives on that dreadful day. I could see a glint of sun here and a wrinkled grey of clouds somewhere on the canvas of azure water but my mind was not contemplating the beauty of this sea, it has already flown 18 years back — the cries of women, the heart-wrenching silence of kids, hopeful eyes in search of families, those shrieks to get as less as a glass of water, the echoing wails…

That day I discovered how fickle human life was, how harsh nature was, how devious some humans are and how godly some of our human mates were, all this was demonstrated in mere few hours. Who did this?

This very sea. This very sea did it. I am sure the sea must have had valid reasons. I can still feel the same shiver running down my spine. On that fateful day of 26th December 2004, this sea was furious, not serene as now. It was fuming with anger, ferociously.

Now, the houses on Andaman and Nicobar Islands are all decked up with big stars and shimmering lights, the faraway humming of carols have started accompanying the sea breeze. The winds are not humid anymore. It’s a calm breeze, the thunderous clouds have said goodbye and given way to the clear starry nights. There is an air of general merriment all around but still, there is something– no actually, that one thing which will always bring in the dark shadows no matter how many bright stars are hung over the doors.

That fateful night of the day after Christmas was followed by a heart-wrenching Tsunami. It drilled a big hole in every home on these islands. Someone lost a mother, someone a father, many lost everything and for a few their whole generations got wiped out by the sea. This year on the 18th dreadful anniversary of the Tsunami which we wish had never occurred, we will rewind the horrors. Now one might wonder at the need to do so. Why are we doing it? What’s done is done. However, we must recall because remembering our past is the only way to learn to have a better future.

Revisiting what happened

The first tremors were felt early in the morning. My whole family leapt out of the bed and went straight to the road and then the nearby playground. I could see dozens of people coming out of their houses, all with blank expressions about what was happening. Then after a few minutes of heart-tightening tremors, they stopped and we all smiled our relief to each other.  Then the news started pouring in. How a newly constructed house on a pillar gave up and crumbled like a house of cards. Another one said how the old building in Haddo wharf collapsed to the ground and one could hear the wails of people stuck inside it.

The ships were being sent to the sea to avoid damage. The ropes from the bollards were being ferociously untied. One merchant vessel, in all the clamour and chaos, cast off with one of its ropes still tied to the bollard. This bollard via the rope pulled it back and under the fast swell of the sea it rotated 180 degrees to one side, everyone shouted from the jetty as it was about to crush the smaller wooden ship with people on it. But God does exist because, by the miracle of God, the miracle of brakes or wind or something unknown, the ship stopped and drifted forward just a few inches away from the tumbling boat. The sheer force of the water had moved a Maruti 800 upright with one side towards the trunk; some people hastily tied it to the trunk itself with a rope to stop it from going into the sea. Dinghy boats were floating in the middle of the roads, a few others were already upside down and you could only make out the flat surface. One could see remorseful faces all around. They were not sad; they were looking terrified. Some were curious about what was happening. The Islands had never seen or felt such a thing ever. The Chatham bridge was underwater, the ships were floating to the level of a jetty, and the cars, autos, scooters everything one could see was floating. There was only chaos and chaos around.

Every second everyone was inching closer to the grave and it was said that when we witness something as crude as a Tsunami, humans tend to come together and show their humanity. But the Tsunami proved that it was not true. We, humans, are the worst kind of animals because on that fateful day, just when the Tsunami hit the Islands, a few shopkeepers doubled the rates of paan, tea etc. Some of the elected local representatives went into their burrows and the people who chose them were left off to fend for their own. The next few days saw no electricity, no water and no food.

People cried over the shortages.

Wards were filled with casualties, and the parking lot of GB Pant hospital had turned into a waiting room. These were the condition of the people around Port Blair. We have not yet touched on the other islands. What was happening in Katchal, Nancowry, Champin, Great Nicobar, Campbell Bay and many other small islands in the south was something no one could ever imagine. Whole villages were being swept away, the bodies were being gulped down. The terror of the sea had been unleashed.

In Nicobar, the devastation was unimaginable. Half of the trees had been uprooted. Trinket island was torn in half; Champin island was lost beyond communication and Kamorta was thirsty and hungry. The view was filled with battered houses, hanging roofs, crying infants, stranded grounds, tumbled life and floating bodies. No words or adjectives could ever do justice to what the people of the islands witnessed and suffered because of Tsunami.

We witnessed the humaneness of humankind too. The crew members of MV Sentinel were saviours who brought hope to the people of Nicobar that yet there were some who cared for them. The crew worked tirelessly saving precious lives, dinghy after dinghy was unloaded by the crew, the children and women were the first to come, they boarded and were fed on the ship.

Amidst this full chaos when the administration locked horns with humanism, these very people of MV Sentinel without worrying about their jobs and their own families, negated their orders and continued helping their people. On these islands, many influential people fled first on the crafts of money. However, some leaders outright rejected the ghastly idea of leaving the people behind to go on safer grounds. Till the end, they stayed.

Air force helicopters, coast guards, naval ships, army troops in conjunction with the administration worked together in those trying hours carrying out relief, search and rescue operations to their maximum capacity.  However it must be remembered that this was the first time the local people, administration and the armed forces were witnessing a disaster of such proportions. Many accusations were made on the duties of many in the position of power at that time without understanding the due pressure under which each and every one was. That made it much more pertinent to remember those days so that due precautions and arrangements could be made to revert future tragedies.

Without getting into too much of technical wordplay, we need to look at the reality of Tsunami which was all about behind the scenes. It is a well-known fact that the TV showed only selected pictures, trimmed numbers and blurred ideas to people out there. The tragedy of the Tsunami is imprinted on the heart of that lady who was shouting from the dinghy down below — “Mujhe mera bacha vapis de do. Return my child to me” , when her child was taken away by the rescue ship onboard but suddenly the Captain refused to board any more passengers. The real horror is known by that bunch of humans who were waiting in the dinghy in the middle of the sea waiting for their turn. Real heroism was portrayed when the crew members of MV Sentinel said they would ot leave without leaving a single person behind. How slowly time went by when that girl waiting in GB Pant hospital for her parents to arrive. The real shock was sensed by the people on a stranded island listening to the radio: “Rescue teams have reached and all our people have been fed” while those mentioned were in a stranded island peeling the last coconut they had in their tattered bag.

At that time in that place and in that condition, people were looking out towards the shore with keen eyes, not for food, not for clothes, not for water — they were looking for hope, some sign of hope that yes someone was looking out for them, hoping that their existence mattered. Hope was all that they wanted.

Many years later, one could wonder how the sea which is a treasure for the fisherman, a mate for the sailor and home to the maximum of our living organisms could be so cruel. Then the other picture slides over showing the battered down forests, deforestation over acres, those oil spills, poachers, floating garbage, plastic entangled dugongs and almost extinct species. We leave no stone unturned and give plenty of reasons to the sea to be angry with us and once in a while nature understandably loses its cool.

We sure have come a long way since the first Tsunami, we have all the sensors, ships, rules and a detailed mechanism to handle such a situation and everything, but still, ARE WE READY TO BEAR THE NEXT HIT? Have we prepared enough to take head on the sea as the opponent? NO! no matter how technologically advanced we get we will never be ready to take on nature. The only thing that we can do is be respectful towards it. Yes! Development has to go side by side and change is the only constant law of nature but our greed could lead us to dig our own graves. Let the development be sustainable in its true measure not just on paper. This earth is not ours, we are mere tenants. Let us mend our ways before the owner loses his cool again.

(Special thanks to Denis Giles)

Sarpreet Kaur is a teacher, a Ruskin Bond fan and an aspiring writer. Her articles and stories have previously appeared in The Hindu, New Delhi Times, Cafe Dissensus, Muse India and many other magazines. This adapted from an earlier version in Andaman Chronicle.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Scott Thomas Outlar

WHIRLING PRANA

Instinctual movement
is what holds this orbit together

Wind-blown aura
spontaneous action

Wherever the moment is centered
I will find
and feel you there
like a crazed disciple

and, Lord, we shall dance
as if the truth’s been told



A LOT OF GOOD, OUR THUMBS

The fog of war
has never been thicker
and every angle of attack
casts its own shadow
of propaganda upon the scene

but I give a wide berth
to all they’re selling – 
be it bombs, sanctions,
or nuclear annihilation

I found a forecast in the woods
about the end of days
where seven squirrels told me
why they buried all their nuts 
just for this age

and the sparrow sang
a song that hurt my heart

and the patient worms were licking their chops

but I stared straight toward the sun
praying for violet

promised my palms
and the flesh thereof

because God only knows
how we’ll build this bridge anew


SERENADE OF SIRENS

An ambulance screams
and twenty cars pull over

The emergency vehicle
maneuvers through a congested intersection

speeds onward

Traffic resumes its natural motion
as each car is guided
by a human being
going somewhere
to do human things
in an inhumane world

but everyone bears the brunt of it well
as one crew races to save the day

and all the rest of us
do our best to stay in rhythm

so please just show some mercy
with your next siren serenade

Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland. He is the author of seven books, and his work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com

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

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Categories
Stories

Nobody in the Sky

Story by S Ramakrishnan, translated from Tamil by R. Sathish

Courtesy: Creative Commons

Midway through the movie, Chitra felt very hungry. But she did not fuss over it.

Like clockwork by 8pm, the stomach rang its hunger alarm. She always finished her dinner before 9. But on movie-going days, she couldn’t do much, though.


She was munching on popcorn. But that barely satiated her hunger. She couldn’t focus on the movie. She badly wanted to go home.

Karthick, sitting next to her, was fully immersed in the movie. She softly asked Priya, her eight-year old daughter seated to her right, “Are you hungry?” She nodded. On most days, Priya would be in bed by nine.

Chitra wondered if at least the two of them could step out for some quick bites. But Karthick wouldn’t like it. How long for the movie to finish, she didn’t know.

She sat tight and bore with it. No more interested in the movie, she browsed through the Whatsapp messages on her phone.

That day was their wedding anniversary.

They were celebrating their tenth.

Chitra had taken a day off from office. But not Karthick who promised to come early in the evening. Well, quite strangely, they didn’t know how to celebrate their anniversary. Year after year, they routinely put on new clothes, visited a temple, watched a movie, and ended their special day with a non-vegetarian meal at a hotel. Chitra found this utterly boring.

If we unable to make ourselves happy, we cannot have anyone bring that unexpected joy for into our lives. Be it a wedding day or a birthday, we celebrate pretty much in the same way. Hardly any difference.

For a few years, they invited some friends home for birthdays. But those interactions were anything but real. Fake smiles and pretensions. Complaints about how a certain person was not invited on purpose and a critique of the dinner fare. Such needless problems made them stop hosting parties. 

As for the anniversary, whether it was the ninth or the tenth, the milestone made no difference. On that day, we had to look happy and cheerful.

She had given Priya a day off from school, and kept her home for company. Karthick scolded her for this.

“What is she going to do by not attending school?”

“What am I going to do, by the way! Never mind, let her be with me “.

“That’s indeed what I am also asking you. We are not kids, Chitra. In fact, even you should be going to the office. We are going out only in the evening. Aren’t we?”

“I don’t feel like going today. And I have informed my office.

“That’s your choice. But, let her go”.

“Nothing will be lost in a day, pa”.

“Your choice”, grumbled Karthick with a tight face. Wedding day… so, Chitra did not want to quarrel.

As he got on to his bike, ready to leave, she gently asked, “You will be home for lunch, right?”

“Will see. Have a lot of work.”

“Shall we…. come over to your office? We can all head to ECR for lunch from there.”

“No need, I will try to come early.”

“I am cooking many items: Aviyal, Curry, Koottu, Pachadi, Payasam,…“

“Okay, I will come. But can be a little delayed.”

“Will wait for you.”

Karthick, dapper in his new clothes, rode off to his office. Chitra and Priya hung around in the house. Chitra pulled out her wedding album, flipped through the photographs. Have put on a little more weight now. Wedding makeup doesn’t look good. Hair is dishevelled near the ear. Didn’t notice at all.

Many of the jewels she wore at the wedding belonged to her aunt. She had loaned them for a day. Chitra wished to buy them all by herself one day. After all these years, that day had yet to come.

When young, Chitra dreamt that angels would descend from above and lavish her with lovely gifts. After the wedding, she realised that one must create one’s own moments of joy. There was nobody high up in the sky to delight her.

It was already 10:30 when she and Priya boarded the “share auto” to go to the supermarket. They got down at the main road. Beyond the signal and to the left was the supermarket. Along the way, when they crossed Shivani Readymade Store, Chitra asked, “Priya, would you like a new dress?”

“For what?”

“Should only Amma and Appa wear new clothes for the wedding day?”

“So, I also get a new dress?” Priya asked eagerly.

They entered the store. As she was choosing the dress for Priya, Chitra looked around for any new sarees for her too. She found one. In her favourite ‘peacock neck” colour. But she hesitated.

“Buy it, ma. Appa[1] won’t scold”.

Chitra considered checking with Karthick. She had already set aside a silk saree for the anniversary. But this would look better on her, she felt.

Priya chose an ethnic party wear in white with floral patterns. Chitra wanted to wear this sort of dress when she was young. But her father never bought them.

“No white dress for girls,” her father would say sternly.

The ethnic dress looked so pretty. She checked the price tag. It revealed 8300 rupees! Karthick would definitely scold her. But Priya likes it! She looked pleadingly at her mom.

“Okay, take it,” said Chitra.

They both looked thrilled when they left the store with one new dress for each of them. She wished there could be someone who would take her out and allow her to buy what she wanted.

At the supermarket, Priya bought a chocolate bar and hid it to give them later as her gift. On their way back, with handfuls of bags, they stopped by an ice cream parlour next to a tailor shop. They treated themselves to an almond ice cream. Priya had never felt happier.

Once home, almost instinctively, Chitra started humming her favourite song from some Tamil movie — “A pleasant mind embraces music (oru iniya mandhu isaiyai anaiththu chellum)”. While enjoying the song, Priya asked, “Did anyone sing at your wedding, ma?”

“No, not really”.

“But I see people sing and dance around the couple in movies”.

“Oh! That is a film wedding. This is a real wedding”.

“Why don’t they sing at the real weddings?”

“Yeah… why shouldn’t they? But anyway who knows to sing?”

It was getting late for lunch. Chitra got down to cook. Meanwhile, Priya put on her new dress and stood before Chitra. How beautiful she looked! Chitra recalled how she must have also looked pretty like Priya when young. Pulling Priya towards her, Chitra hugged her tightly and stroked her hair.

“Do I look beautiful, ma?”

“You look pretty”.

“Reema is the most beautiful girl in our class. You know, how her skin shines!”

“That is not natural, my baby. Only your skin is natural”. After all, she could but only console herself.

Excited about her new dress, Priya took a selfie with Chitra’s phone, and doubtfully asked, 

“Amma[2], can I send this photo to daddy?”

“No, let it be a surprise”.

Songs kept springing forth as she cooked. Only sometimes was she able to cook with such joy. On most days, it was a chore. An unavoidable work.

It was a big spread she made that day. She and Priya relished a glass of payasam[3] each as soon as it was ready. After arranging the dishes on the dining table, they waited for Karthick.

Chitra came out of the bedroom dressed in her “peacock neck” blue saree. She so wanted to try it out.

“It looks super, ma”, said Priya adoringly looking at her mother.

“Does amma look beautiful?”

“Very beautiful,” said Priya as she went to her and tenderly moved her hands over the saree.

They both waited, dressed in all their fineries, for Karthick. It was 2pm, and he had not come home yet. Chitra phoned him. He did not answer the call. They were famished. She really wanted to eat. When he came at last at 2:30, she did not show any anger.

“Sorry, Chitra. Colleagues demanded a treat. Went to Buhari.”

“That’s okay, but you could have told me that”.

“I ate very less biryani. Wanted to eat with you at home, you know,” Karthick replied with a fake smile.

They ate together. He made no comment about the many dishes she had whipped up. She had lost her appetite waiting for him, so couldn’t quite relish her meal. Karthick helped himself to a glass cup of payasam, sat before the TV and asked,

“The baby is in a new dress. When did we buy this?”

“Today morning. Amma and I bought it. Even the saree she wears is new,” chimed in Priya.

“Why a white-coloured dress, dear? It will get dirty soon.”

His words sounded exactly like her father’s. Suppressing her anger, she responded, “We can wash it if it gets dirty.”

“But why a new saree for you? You do have a new silk saree. Don’t you?”

“I don’t have this colour.”

Good heavens! He did not ask the price of Priya’s dress.

“I need to go back to the office. You both come over directly to the mall at 6pm.”

“What about to the temple?”

“We can do it another day. No time today.”

Karthick left as soon as he got a call from the office. Chitra and Priya changed over to their regular clothes. Priya switched to TV. Chitra withdrew to her bedroom and dozed off. Woke up only at 5pm.   

Strangely, she had a dream in an afternoon nap! She wore a new saree even in her dream! With a nice hairdo and the new silk saree, Chitra was now ready for the evening. Priya was already waiting for her, all dressed up. They hired an autorickshaw[4] and reached the mall.

It was not bustling with shoppers. Chitra and Priya leisurely window-shopped. Took the escalator, landed at the multiplex on the fourth floor, and sat waiting for Karthick. Chitra wondered if there would be any more “anniversary couples” in the mall. Many young men were streaming out of the cinema after the English movie.

She called Karthick to find out if he had left. No answer. They spent their time watching the various ads on the big, wide screen.

“We should also have a car like this, ma,” Priya expressed her desire.

“It costs forty lakh rupees.”

“Then, let us buy some other car.”

“First, house; then, a car.”

“You have been saying this for a long time… nothing has happened.”

“Need at least sixty to seventy lakhs to buy a house,” said Chitra with a sigh.

Chitra realised that a man, in a light red linen shirt, had been staring at her. She felt he was only admiring her. Luckily, Priya didn’t notice it. Soon, a girl in jeans and black top joined him. Holding hands, they proceeded to Screen no 4. She had never walked hand-in-hand with Karthick in a public place. Was this also something to wish for… She chided herself.

When Karthick turned up, it was 6:40pm.

“Movie starts at seven.”

“We could have come late, after all.”

“Didn’t notice. Saw it only after coming here.”

They got into the cinema hall. Karthick walked along but was busy talking to someone on the phone.

It was 10 when the film ended.

“There is a restaurant on the second floor. Let us eat there,” proposed Chitra.

“That is a costly place. Chicken soup… 400 bucks. Not worth it. Food is also crap.
Let us eat at the newly-opened Red Chillies.”

“Where is it?”

“Will check the map.”

“It is already 10pm.”

“It is close by. We will be there soon.”

They rode off on his motorbike. There was no restaurant at the place indicated by the online map. After some roundabouts, they spotted it beyond a couple of streets. It was a small joint. Crowded. They got a table after waiting for some time.

Tired-faced, in a dragged voice, Priya said, “Feeling sleepy, ma.”

“Eat your favourite veechu parotta[5],”suggested Karthick.

Priya nodded her head. It took half an hour for the food to be served. It was very spicy. She couldn’t eat. Karthick ate his kothu parotta 5with relish. Priya nibbled on her parotta drowsily. When they left the place with their leftovers packed, it was past 11.

They lived in Jafferkhanpet. There were many stray dogs around. Karthick didn’t like to live in a multi-storey apartment. Though the house was far inside from the main road, he could get an independent house there. The street leading up to the house ran parallel to Cooum, a polluted river infested with mosquitoes. Theirs was a two-bedroom house.

They did not quite interact with neighbours. They had a motorbike. So they could do their shopping at the main road easily. The place also had many “share autos”. Chitra used them to go to her office and come back home.

Sensing that they might come late, Chitra had switched on the corridor lamp before leaving the house. It shone distinctly to be spotted from the beginning of the lane.

“Keys?” Karthick asked for them as he parked his bike and closed the gate.

She shuffled through her handbag. The keys couldn’t be found.

“Where is the key?” Karthick asked irritably.

She opened her handbag and searched all over. She undid the zipper of the pocket outside and the zipper of the pocket inside. She couldn’t find it.

“The key is missing,” said Chitra with trepidation.

“Didn’t you buy popcorn during the intermission? And taken out the money from the bag.”

“But I unzipped the pocket on the side to take out the cash.”

“So, where did it go?”

“No idea.” said Chitra, worried.

“Could it have fallen down in the cinema?” asked Karthick, filled with anger.

“Possible,” said Chitra nodding her head.

“Let me go and check. You both wait here,” said Karthick frowning at her.

“You didn’t take the keys, ma. I saw them on the key holder.” Priya reminded her.

“Why couldn’t you tell me then?” Chitra scolded her.

“I thought you would be taking it while leaving.”

Chitra realised she had locked the door by shutting it but had forgotten to take the key.
The door lock came with a small key. A modern type lock which locked itself when one shut the door. If it had been a key of the older model, no one could forget it. Amma had it tucked to her waist always.

Now, there was no spare key for this either. Karthick had lost his in his office.

“The key is inside the house,” said Chitra.

“So, how are we to get in?” asked Karthick with anger intact.

“Shall we ask someone for help?”

“Do you know what time it is now? 11:30. Whom can we ask at this unearthly hour?”

“Shall I talk to Nithu?”

“Do whatever you want. Let me see if I can get any help at the main road”

Karthick left on his motorbike.

Standing outside her locked house, Chitra phoned Nithya, her friend. Half asleep, “What happened di[6]. Is someone not well?” she enquired.

“The key is stuck inside the house. I don’t know what to do.”

“Come over to my house. We will figure out in the morning”.

“Can we find any locksmith now?”

“Not at this hour.”

“If you have any contact number, give me.”

“Nothing now. Just come over to my place.”

“Okay, will think about it.” Chitra hung up.

How much more longer could they wait outside like this! Not one house in the street had a bench on the veranda or even a staircase step to sit on. Only iron gates. Couldn’t someone have at least left a plastic chair outside? Could have been helpful in such times, she felt.

Priya, overcome with sleep, asked, “What should we do now, ma?”

No place for little Priya to rest. The street suddenly looked scary to Chitra.

Who could they seek help from? What could anyone do? Head to Nithya’s place without further delay and spend the night there? 

Karthick returned, keeping a tight face.

“The locksmith is on the way. Wants thousand rupees”.

They waited outside the house. The street lamp at the end of the street shone brightly. Clueless, Chitra walked towards the lamp. A dog opened its eyes and lifted its head towards her. It did not bark.

A fifty-something man came on a bike, with a bag full of keys. He asked Karthick to point the flashlight from his phone at the keyhole.

He couldn’t open the lock even after trying with different types of keys.

“Only an original key can open this lock, sir. This is an expensive lock. The company alone has a duplicate key for this”.

“What am I to do now?”

“Take the help of some carpenter. He will break open the door.”

“It is a rented house. Can’t break the door, you know.”

“No other way. None of my keys is pairing with the lock.”

“Please do something. We have only you to depend on now.”

“Poor thing, your wife! Your kid also looks lost. Let me see if I have any more keys at home.”

“Shall I come along?”

“Not necessary, sir. How could you leave the womenfolk alone in the dark?”
The locksmith went away on his bike. Chitra felt guilty at having been so forgetful.

“Shall we spend the night at Nithu’s house?” Chitra asked very hesitantly.

“If that chap can’t open the door, then we can,” replied Karthick.

No woman has ever not worried about losing the keys. Yet she bears the brunt even
if others lose theirs. If only Karthick had come home in the evening, this wouldn’t have happened. But could she risk telling him that? He would turn livid.

A movie she didn’t like, food she didn’t relish — and to be standing outside your own house at this hour. All this irritated her. Such a situation would never have arisen in an apartment. Even if it did, the watchman would be around to help.

The three of them kept standing outside their house. Priya was leaning against the bike. Nithya called to ask if they were coming.

“I don’t know. The locksmith is yet to come with a new set of keys”.

“Shall I speak to Karthick?”

“No. He is seething with anger. He might even bark at you.”

“Come anytime,” said Nithya and disconnected the call.

Chitra felt like speaking to her mother. But she would panic on receiving a phone call at this odd hour. A situation like this would also leave her confused. But wait! Wasn’t she the one to force me to marry Karthick? Why shouldn’t I call her?

The locksmith hadn’t turned up yet. Karthick kept calling him. No answer. Not a soul to help them in this big metropolitan city. The house looked like a cave without an entrance. Irritated, Karthick also began walking towards the street corner.

The locksmith returned with another man. Together, they tried. The locksmith’s partner scraped the key continually and slid it inside the keyhole. Keeping his ear closer to the door, he studied the sound. After a long battle, the door opened.

Priya rushed to the bathroom. Karthick paid them off and thanked them.

As soon as Chitra entered the house, she looked for the key on its holder. It was dangling there, attached to a tiny elephant. She showed it to the locksmith.

“Who doesn’t forget, ma? If it was daytime, this wouldn’t have taken so long. I travelled all the way to Saidapet to bring this guy for your work. I am not familiar with these new types of lock; but he is an ace.”

Chitra gave the young man five hundred rupees.

“It is okay, akka[7]. Sir has already paid us.”

“This is for the trouble you took to come at this time.”

“Keep this key as a spare.” He handed her a key he had made.

After they left, she stood there staring blankly, not knowing if she should close the door or leave it open. Tears welled up. As it was their wedding anniversary, she consoled herself. Karthick had gone to bed after changing his clothes.

Chitra stepped out of the now-open house onto the street. It was past 2am. She had never seen the street at this hour. The warm street lights and the silence of the houses in the street — to her it was like a painting that had come to life.

She felt hungry. She did not eat well at the restaurant. There was some batter in the fridge. She thought of helping herself with a dosa[8]. But no, she felt she must punish herself by starving.

Putting away all the memories of the just-concluded chaos, she shut the door. In four hours, it would be another morning. To cook. To get Priya ready for school. To rush to office. She was already gasping for breath.

While dosing off to sleep, she realised that they had not even taken an anniversary photo.

As if all I miss is only that, she muttered.

[1] Father

[2] Mother

[3] A dessert

[4] Motorised version of a rickshaw

{5} Different types of paratha or pan fried flatbread.

[6] Elder sister

[7] Sister

[8] A crispy crepe made of rice and lentil

S Ramakrishnan is one of the most prolific and celebrated writers of modern Tamil literature. His vast body of work spans fiction, plays, screenplays and essays. He has written and published 11 novels, 55 collections of essays on world cinema, world literature, Indian history and painting; 20 anthologies of short stories, three plays and
21 books for children. He has received many major awards for his literary works, including the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2018, Tagore Literary Award and Maxim Gorky Award. Sancharam, the novel which won him the Sahitya Akademi award,is a poignant portrayal of the lives of Nadaswaram (a wind instrument) artists — an instrument that is a part of all celebrations but the artist who plays it is not part of the celebrations. His short stories and essays have been translated and published in English, Malayalam, Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, Kannada and French.

R Sathish is a translator from Tamil to English. He is an advertising professional, and lives in Hyderabad.

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

Categories
Poetry

Our Forever Love

By Snigdha Agrawal

NAYSAYERS

Give me a sheet of ripstop nylon paper
I'll fashion it into a kite
with our names stickered
Fly it from rooftops
Announcing to the world
our forever love

I know frowns of disapproval
will appear
Minds building up a fever
"How dare she!
  How brazen of her!
  How shameless!
  She has broken all norms
  Flaunting the name of her lover
  Get her...get her…locked up forever
  She should abide by what her parents
  choose for her!"

Says the naysayers.

Do I care?
None whatsoever!
I'm a free spirit
Cannot be coerced
Will never bend
Shout out to them
"Clean out the antiquity
  from your mind
  create space for
  new age light
  Of course, you will choose to remain blind!"

Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a spontaneous writer.  She writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories, Tripadvisor reviewer and travelogues. She has authored two books of poems and a book of short stories for children. 

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

Categories
Stories

The Book Truck

By Salini Vineeth

When I first met Quissa, I thought she was yet another post-civil-war filmmaker—stoic and sceptical. At least she looked like one—unisex clothes in military green, brutally cropped hair, and a permanent frown plastered onto her face. She reminded me of Furiosa from Mad Max: Fury Road. But I soon learnt that stories transform her. Her frown smooths out, her dark-circled eyes twinkle, and her grave face turns into a canvas—a smile, a smirk, or a pout. 

“I want to make a film with you.”

I was surprised when Quissa sought me out a few months ago. Which shelter generation filmmaker hires a 60-year-old rom-com writer? The war-torn generation’s movies have no room for cheesy romance or mindless comedy.

“I wanna make a comedy movie,” Quissa clarified.

The thrill of waking up at dawn, brewing a cup of black tea, sitting at my desk staring at the laptop screen, and chuckling at my lines—I hoped I could relive those feelings. That was five months ago. Now I feel I shouldn’t have been too ambitious.

“A comedy movie needn’t be silly.” Quissa has been turning down my plots with no regard for my glowing legacy as a hitmaker. I can’t blame her, though. I had lost my mojo a long ago. Twenty years ago, to be exact.

The pandemic ended in 2022 but left the country knee-deep in recession. Our leaders clung to the ‘our country is the greatest!’ delusion for a while. Then the banks failed. Markets collapsed, online shopping dwindled, start-ups crumbled, and jobs diminished. The currency hit an all-time low value. Prices skyrocketed as people began essential supplies.

The hatemongers who had been sowing the seeds of the conflict knew it was time for harvest. They made the majority believe that the minority was a leech that sucked the country dry. Isolated clashes were blown out of proportion, towns burned, and the nation fought against itself. Quissa’s generation was orphaned during the civil war and spent their adolescence in dingy rehabilitation centres. But then, young leaders emerged from the shelters and instated democracy.

We called them the shelter generation.

The country has stabilized now, and the economy has revived. But the shelter generation anticipates war at any moment. They aren’t ready for a comedy movie; they might even find it offensive. But Quissa is confident, and I believe in her. The past few weeks, while we were hacking at plots, I couldn’t help but admire her deep sense of story. She understands what makes people laugh and what will be a wet firecracker. Quissa won’t settle for anything less than phenomenal. But I am unable to come up with a single decent plot. Stories had left me a long time ago. Maybe I am too adamant to admit that.

We have been sitting in my forlorn study for the past few hours, going over my new plots. Quissa reads them one by one and shakes her head in disappointment.

“This isn’t working. I want something fun, clever, and unapologetic, like Fleabag.”

“You’ve watched Fleabag?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I was thirteen, and it was the lockdown.” Quissa winces; memories have sharp edges.

“Anyway, you gotta come up with something better, something outrageous. People are addicted to gloom. I thought you rom-com writers could make even a rock laugh,” Quissa says, chuckling. It’s a taunt, but I laugh along. I know it isn’t easy for her to laugh. 

A notification flashes on her phone.

“Wow, it looks great! What you say?” Quissa asks, showing me an image on her phone.

A hurricane whirls around me and hurls me deep into the past.

***

October 2023

“We can’t just hole up in this apartment. We need to do something, anything,” the columnist said, peeping through the narrow slit in the curtain. A group of men were attacking a boy.

“The streets are burning. There’s no police, no government, nothing. What we can do is stay here and save our lives. No matter what we do, we can’t save this country,” the independent filmmaker said.

“Aren’t you ashamed to say that? Where’s all that activism you preach in your movies? Aren’t you sick of hiding like a rat?” the columnist retorted.

“No, I am not ashamed of keeping myself alive. You might not be afraid; the majority out there is your people. It’s not like that for me.”

“People, please. Don’t start a war in here. Yes, it’s been months, and it’s horrible. I want to do something, too. All of us do. But there’s nothing we can do,” the soap-opera writer intervened.

“Yes, we don’t have internet, not even the cellular network. It’s impossible to do anything,” the filmmaker supported.

“Do you think posting on social media would’ve got us out of this? Forget the internet. We need to get on the ground. Do something, at least die on the street. That’s better than rotting in here like cowards,” the columnist rushed out of the room.

I stood in my study, unable to curb the fury of my friends. When the unrest started three months ago, we thought it would pass in a week or two. But it didn’t. The four of us decided it was best to move into my high-rise apartment, a gated community where the super-rich lived. Unlike the majority in the country, we had enough money to buy food and other essentials on the black market.

The initial weeks went by amicably. We binge-watched movies, did our part of slacktivism, blamed the government, and planned trips we would take in the better future. We didn’t know we would be stuck in that apartment for the next few months. Then the internet broke down, our mobiles disconnected, supplies diminished, and so did hope. Each of us retreated into our heads.

A few more months passed, and the situation outside wasn’t getting any better. One evening we were sitting in the library, relishing our only comfort—books.

“Guys, I am done here. I am going out, I don’t know what I am going to do, but I am done hiding,” the columnist made a sudden announcement.

“Hey, be practical, okay? Hold on for a while, and we can survive this,” the soap-opera writer said.

“This country came to this situation because of cowards like you. Like the frog in boiling water, you’ll die, and you won’t even know it. I’d rather die fast,” the columnist retorted.

“I am tired of hiding too. But do you have a plan other than going out and getting shot at? It’s suicide, and I won’t let you do that,” the independent filmmaker said.

“Anything is better than sitting here hating yourself. I can’t loathe myself anymore. If not for these books, I would’ve gone out and got shot already,” I said, staring at the pages of Brave New World.

“What did you just say?” The columnist jumped up from the chair.

“Um… that I would’ve gone outside,” I mumbled.

“No, no. before that,”

“The books, I would’ve killed myself if not for the books.”

The columnist turned silent. Peeping outside the window, he brooded. He didn’t speak with any of us for the next few days. It felt like a volcano was fuming inside the apartment.

“I can’t hide anymore. We need to do something,” the columnist said. None of us said anything. “We may not know how to use guns, but we do have something more powerful. Our stories, our books,” he added. I felt a sudden rush of enthusiasm. A new wave of life passed through me.

“What nonsense are you saying? People are dying all around. Who wants to listen to stories? The country is burning; where’s the place for stories?” the filmmaker sniggered.

“The country is burning, yes. But it’s not going to burn forever. There’ll be a time when a new generation emerges to take the reins of this country. For that, they need hope. They should know there’s something to look forward to, a hopeful future. That’s what we are going to do. We’ll tell them stories,” the columnist said.

“If we want to do something, then we should do the basics. Food, water, and shelter. Do you think anyone hungry would want to listen to fairy tales?” I asked.

“We have a truck. We can buy more food, water, and books. We can go to the shelters and read to the children. I don’t know how long we’ll last, but don’t you think it would be a better use of the rest of our lives?” the columnist asked, looking at each of us expectantly.

“It’s suicide. I am not going to go out and get shot for your lame ideals,” the filmmaker declared.

“Me too. I won’t do something stupid like this.” The soap opera writer joined in.

So, it was just the two of us, but it didn’t stop us. Everything moved fast. We emptied our library and loaded books into my truck. We bought food, water, and petrol on the black market. We drove around, hoping our white flag and peace slogans would keep us safe.

But it wasn’t easy as we thought. We found children in shock and trauma in every shelter we went to. They ran and hid when they saw us. They cared little about our food or stories. But we didn’t give up. We went to shelters day after day, braving the violence on the streets.

The children did come around after a while. We sat with them in the dimly-lit dorms of those shelters. Children would relish the bread and water along with our stories. Our stories transformed them, at least for a while. Their fear disappeared, and their eyes twinkled with hope. For a few hours every day, they forgot all about the horrible world outside.

***

“What is this? Where did you get this photo?” I ask Quissa, staring at that image. It looks like a book cover, and the title reads The Book Truck. The cover features an old photo of our truck. My heart is beating at an alarming speed.

“Why? What’s wrong? This is the cover of the new book I am writing. It’s a personal project. I got this photo from a war photographer’s private collection.”

I take the phone from Quissa’s hands and zoom into the photograph with shivering fingers.

“A hand grenade blew the truck just a few minutes after this photo was taken. It killed him, and… and..” I choke on my words.

Quissa rushes to get me a glass of water. I take a sip, trying to compose myself.

“Oh, my God! Was it you?”

“Yes, me and my best friend.” I fill her in.

Quissa rushes to my side and sits by the foot of my wheelchair. She takes my hands into hers.

“I have been searching for you guys all this time. Without you, I wouldn’t have come out of the shelter alive. We were a bunch of kids, always scared, jumping at even the slightest of sounds. When the truck started coming to the shelter, things changed. We called it the book truck. We looked forward to the food, but what appealed to me was the stories. They gave me hope that things are going to be normal. But then you stopped coming. We had no way of finding out what had happened to it,” Quissa says, squeezing my hands.

“Do you remember those impromptu storytelling sessions? While looking for a new writer for the movie, I had your voice in my head,” Quissa adds, and a tear escapes her left eye.

A wave of life passes through me. A warmth embraces me. Quissa’s face tells me it was all worth it. I feel a story forming inside me.

.

Salini Vineeth is a Bengaluru-based fiction writer. She has self-published four books and her stories have appeared in The Bangalore Review, Café Dissensus, and The Bombay Review among others. Her debut novel will release in 2023.

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

Categories
Poetry

Cracking the Code

By Jenny Middleton

Courtesy: Creative Commons
CRACKING THE CODE
 
The Rubik’s Cube Craze was pushed
like some mathematician’s drug
by parents, teachers and TV

but still  I thought more of jelly shoes
and whether they were maybe made
partly at least -- of jelly cubes --
the type eaten at parties
and turned in to trifles
pulled from the elastic
of their gelatinous blocks
and dissolved from their geometry
in boiling water -- growing paler and smoother
with each stir
-- or pushed --
the way my diabetic uncle pops them
with urgent desire into his hot mouth’s cavern
chewing sugar into his blood

and I thought, when I was eight
about sweetness, about needing
something beyond yourself and
about how hard things have to be
before it gets easy  
twist life right.

Jenny Middleton is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites.  Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats.  You can read more of her poems at her website  https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com 

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

Categories
Nostalgia

Ghosh & Company

 

Ratnottama Sengupta travels down the path of nostalgia with her ancestors, her parents, eminent writer,  Nabendu Ghosh and his wife, Kanaklata

Nabendu with his children. From right to left: Ratnottama Sengupta, Nabendu Ghosh & Shubhankar Ghosh. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

Nabadwip Chandra Ghosh of Dhaka was an advocate who had mastered in both, Sanskrit and History. And he was a kirtan[1] singer par excellence. Both these traits have familial roots: His father was a court clerk, his cousin a doctor of those times. And all the males in the Vaishnav family — devotees of Prabhu Jagadbandhu Sundar of Faridpur — were good singers, a talent that was to continue with his sons and grandsons. 

It was for his kirtans in particular that P R Das, brother of freedom fighter Chittaranjan Das (1870-1925), asked Nabadwip Chandra to join him as his junior in Patna High Court. The year was 1920. Bihar which was a part of the Bengal Presidency, was steeped in casteism. The Ahirs — Yadavs who tended cattle and sold milk — were exploited by the Bhoomihars, who were Brahmins, and if they retaliated, they were arrested and put in jails. By 1920s, the freedom movement too had gained steam but the  political prisoners were also clubbed with the ‘hooligan’ Yadavs. Nabadwip Chandra fought courtroom battles to win this deprived section their political right, and came to be highly respected – a father figure for a large section of people in Bihar. 

In fighting those battles Nabadwip realised one thing: the acute need for education among the so called Backward Classes. “Unless a person has education, he or she is not respected and remains vulnerable to exploitation, economic or otherwise,” he maintained. And education is best spread through mothers. Consequently he sought marriage alliances for his sons with daughters of teachers, sisters of lawyers and doctors, and — later — with undergraduates and graduates. 

His elder son was married to Kalyani, the daughter of a school teacher. His third son’s wife, IA passed Sundara, was the daughter of a BA-BL – a lawyer in Bhagalpur. His fourth son’s wife, Namita was again the daughter of a teacher from Ranchi — and she was a graduate who was already teaching before she married, and did her MA after her wedding. So had Nabadwip Chandra’s daughter Rani who, after her tying the knot with Mahesh Chandra of Jorhat, completed her schooling and mastered in Economics. Further she taught in JB College, Jorhat and went on to become the vice principal whose students included Tarun Gogoi who rose to hold the high office of the Chief Minister of Assam.

In fact, Nabadwip Chandra’s own wife, Suniti Bala, was the daughter of a minister in the minor royalty of Jessore — a man who won a gold medal as one of the first matriculates of British India. His entire family was keen on education — and Suniti was not only literate, she received formal education at home before she was married at the age of 15 — which was pretty advanced for the first decade of 1900s. All her life, after child bearing, rearing kids, attending to household chores in the kitchen, she would spend her ration of leisure hours reading books and in her  later years, telling stories to her grandchildren.

*

Nabadwip and Suniti’s second son Nabendu inherited his parents’ love for letters. And he took it to a much higher level as a writer who carved a place for himself in the history of Bengali literature and of Hindi Cinema. He started writing early, when still in middle school, as he wrote for and co-edited a handwritten magazine. Even as a teenager he would attend Sahitya Sammelans and while in College he got published in sought-after literary magazines. 

But Nabendu did not stop with words alone. Along with singing kirtans, a talent he inherited from his father, he trained himself to dance in the mould of Uday Shankar. He would regularly dance and act on stage, in Patna and elsewhere in the state, and subsequently played memorable cameos in Bombay films too. Before he passed away at the full age of 91, he had penned 16 novels, 28 collections of stories, and nearly a hundred screenplays for Bollywood classics.

On January 31, 1944 he married Kanaklata. Sister of advocate Bhupendranath Ghosh from Malda. She turned out to be an architect of human lives. Kanak was born to Chandrakanta Ghosh, a landed gentry who was forward looking enough to will large tracts of agricultural land to his daughters at a time when all they were entitled to was Streedhan — jewellery given at the time of marriage. Still, his wife Dakshayani, who was ‘Karta’ — head of the Hindu joint family — after his death, decided to live a part of her sunset years in Vrindavan, the holy land of Vaishnavs.

Kanaklata had not completed her school years when she was married to Nabendu. But being a doughty soul, the 16-year-old not only read Nayak O Lekhak — Nabendu’s first published novel; she got it critiqued by an academic cousin (who later became a professor) before she consented to the marriage with a man older to her by ten years.

Kanaklata’s own education had to be shelved as she became a mother twice over; lost her first born; faced an uncertain future as Nabendu lost two successive government jobs because of his ‘seditious’ – anti-imperialist — writings; and then Partition uprooted the family that had to leave Bengal and seek livelihood in Bombay’s tinsel town. But, despite her young years, it was she who instilled in her husband the spirit to soldier on with his pen and not succumb to any compromise in his literary efforts. 

Kanaklata: Photo Courtesy: Monobina Roy

She herself did not surrender her appetite for formal education to circumstances. Years after her sons and daughter had graduated from universities and she had become a grandmother thrice over, she enrolled in Open Classrooms and got her Master’s certificate in Bengali language. 

In the intervening years? Her home provided a platform to umpteen writers, country cousins, sisters, nephews, nieces, even to nobodies. She was there at 2 Pushpa Colony when they wanted to pursue higher education in Bombay, or make a career in the country’s financial capital,  or shine in the tinsel town. She helped to negotiate marriage proposals, and she supported in every way she could, those who sought medical intervention by specialists. Simultaneously she secured the financial future of her nuclear family by judiciously building houses and investing in government bonds. 

Most of all, Kanaklata was the architect of the lives of her three offspring. Her eldest son Dipankar who, as a child, was legendary in family gatherings for his mischiefs and pranks, was groomed in Shivaji Military Preparatory School. Thereafter she ensured that he trained in Medicine at the Nil Ratan Sarkar Medical College in Kolkata. Once he became a doctor he served with Oxfam during the Bangladesh Liberation War. 

This education stood him in good stead when he went to UK and joined the Royal Army Medical Corp that swung into action during skirmishes in Belize, the Carribian country in Central American land, in 1986, and again in Desert Storm, the first Gulf War of 1991. When the Berlin Wall fell in 1990, he was serving in Belsen, where the Nazis had set up a concentration camp sometime in 1943. He went to the minefields of Bosnia, which Princess Diana visited in 1997. In mid-1990s he was stationed in Brunei, where the British Military protects the Sultan; at the turn of the millennium, he was in Cyprus, which the British forces use as base for both military and humanitarian operations in the region that often saw dissonance. What a rich life of experiences in helping the injured and ailing! 

At her insistence, Kanaklata’s second son Subhankar was trained in direction at the Film and Television Institute of India. He came out to be Associate Director of Damul (1984). He rose to  partner his father in the making of the classic, Trishagni (1989), to direct the National award winning Woh Chhokri (1993). With teleserials like Yugantar, Nishkriti and Dances of India showing on Doordarshan he was a name to reckon with on the National network in its heyday. Then he went on to teach filmmaking in Mumbai’s Whistling Woods and to set up the wing of Filmmaking Studies in the National University of distant Fiji. 

*

And Kanaklata raised the youngest of her brood, their only daughter Ratnottama, to cultivate the inheritance from her father, in literature, cinema and the arts. Even before the word global environment gained currency, by demonstrating how not to chuck everything in the bin, she drove home to her daughter the concepts of ‘re-use and re-cycle’. Blessed with green fingers, she shared with neighbours and friends the fruits of her ‘farming’ in the patch of green surrounding their Goan-style bungalow in the Mumbai suburb of Malad – and inculcated in her children the importance of green environs. Cooking, she taught me, was as significant in our everyday life as banking or management of money. And she drilled into me when I was still in school, that “you must earn, even if it’s only a hundred rupees every month. Else, even your own children will not respect you.”

I am always delighted to give this one example of her practical thinking. Soon as her daughter joined college, the home-maker booked a Life Insurance policy for her and directed her to pay the annual premiums. And how could she do it without compromising on her studies? “Simple. Clean the house, sell the waste to the raddiwala; put the ‘income’ in the bank.” At the end of the year, she had the money for the insurance premium and also the experience of banking. This, at a time, when majority of account holders in the bank were men.

Through all this, long before the world started celebrating International Women’s Day, Kanaklata had taught her daughter to be “no less than a son.” For, she ingrained in her, “there is nothing you cannot do if it spells well-being for people in your care…”

Nabendu and his wife, Kanaklata. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

[1] Religious songs

Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award. 

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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