Author: borderlesssg1

Categories
Tagore Translations

The Library

A part of Bichitro Probondho (Strange Essays) by Rabindranath Tagore, this essay was written in 1885. It has been translated from Bengali by Chaitali Sengupta from Netherlands

Rabindranath Tagore

The stillness inside the library can be compared to the thousand-year-old roar of the mighty ocean that has now been tamed to sleep. A deep, peaceful slumber of a baby. A place where language is on hold, its rhythmic tide is locked and the brightest light in our souls is imprisoned behind the black and white words. I wonder, what would happen, if one day, the words revolt, breaking free of the bondage? Just as the Himalayas contain in its frozen ice a thousand floods, in the same way this library too preserves the best of human emotion in its breast.

Humans have been able to fence in electricity with iron wires, but who knew that man would lock words behind silence? Who knew that he could trap music, boundless hopes, the happiness of an awakened soul and the prophecy of the oracles in the pages full of words? That he would imprison the past in the present? And create a bridge upon the infinite ocean of time just with the help of a mere book?

We stand at the crossroads of a hundred roads in the library. Some paths lead to the boundless sea, some to the topmost peak, and yet another meanders to the inner crevices of the human heart. There’s no barrier, no matter where you wish to go. Man has created his salvation within the small perimeter of a book.

In this library, one can very well listen to the rise and fall of human emotions, like the echoing of the sea resonating through the conch shells. The living and the dead co-exist in close proximity here and opposition is a close relative of compliance. Trust and doubt, research and discovery are mates here. The popular and less popular live together amidst great peace and harmony. None ignore the other with contempt.

Crossing several rivers, oceans, mountains the voice of humans have reached here, galloping through several ages of time. Come, come here, for here we’re singing the birth song of light.

The Great One, who after discovering heavens, had given out a clarion call to all humans — ‘You all are the sons of heaven, this earth is your heavenly abode’ — it is his voice and millions of other similar voices, that reverberate within these walls through the years.

Have we then, from the foot of Bengal, got nothing to say, no message to give out to the human civilization? In the unified music of the world would Bengal’s contribution be only silence?

Doesn’t the sea at our footsteps speak out to us anymore? Doesn’t the Ganga bring forth the song of Kailas for us? And the vast blue canopy- isn’t it anymore there above us? And the galaxy of stars there, are they not for us?

Each day brings messages to us from far away countries from past and present. In response, are we only going to produce a few flimsy English newspapers? The countries around the globe are writing their names with the ink of immortality. Would we, Bengalis, be happy to put our names only on the application papers? Humanity is putting up a stiff fight against the preordained destiny; with the bugle calls, soldiers are being called upon. At a time like this, are we only going to be immersed in petty affairs?

Bengal’s heart is full after a long silence. Let her once speak out, in her own tongue. Her voice would indeed add melody to the music of the world.

Author’s bio

Rabindranath Tagore (1861 to 1941) was a brilliant poet, writer, musician, artist, educator – a polymath. He was the first Nobel Laureate from Asia. His writing spanned across genres, across global issues and across the world. His works remains relevant to this day.

Translator’s bio

Chaitali Sengupta is a published writer, translator, journalist from the Netherlands. She is involved in various literary & journalistic writing, translation projects for Dutch newspapers (Eindhoven News, HOWDO) and online platforms, both in the Netherlands and in India. Her works have been extensively published in many literary platforms like Muse India, Indian periodical, Borderless Journal, Setu Bilingual, The Asian Age. Her recently translated work “Quiet Whispers of our Heart” (Orange Publishers, 2020) received good reviews and was launched in the International Book Fair, Kolkata, India.

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

Categories
Poetry

Poems of Hurt

By Sonya J Nair

1. Fury Slow burn. A screw coiling, coiling, coiling A watch wound, wound, wound A screw to the heart wōund, wōund, wōund the sound of acid pumping a spring a snap recoil recoiling re-coiling. Tangibility The day you died, I forgot — to fret over the numbness that resided at the tip of my left little toe. — and how annoyed I had been with you for refusing to believe the existence of such a mustard seed of an anomaly. "Totally in the extreme," you howled, while I contemplated blue murder. — how I once woke to find you nibbling away at my hypothesis, your face impishly inching closer, making me want to love you in ten shades of tangibility. It was only by night, after they had buried you, that I wondered — if loss could send feeling flooding into frozen digits — the cascades of pain, a twinge? the keening in my soul, a twitch? I touched the spot. Still cold. As cold as you had gone.

Sonya J. Nair is the editor of samyuktapoetry.com. She is working on her first collection of poems. She has been published in the Shimmer Spring Anthology and Rewriting Human Imagination- an anthology published by IASE and the Centre for Digital Humanities.

Categories
Musings

Happy Hanukkah!

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca tells us about the ancient Jewish festival of Hanukkah, with its origins in the early BCEs and the Seleucid Empire

Growing up in a Jewish home, Hanukkah, also spelled Chanukah (which means dedication in Hebrew), or the Festival of Lights, was one of my favorite celebrations. I loved this time of year as we lit the special Hanukkah Menorah (the candelabra of nine flames) lit by a Shamash, or main candle, for eight days, one candle for each day. The ninth candle was the ‘lighter’ or ‘helper’ candle. The older, more traditional Menorah had seven candles. The Menorah in my home is special since it was a gift to me from a dear aunt in Israel. In my mother’s home, the Menorah had pride of place in a corner of a special shelf in the living room.  

I have read that traditionally, the Indian Jews light an oil lamp instead of candles, but I remember the lighting of the candles in The Menorah in my home. I have also read that the late Rabbi Gavriel Noach Holtzberg, who lost his life during the 26/11 Mumbai terror attacks had started the tradition of lighting the spiritual and festive lights of Hanukkah in 2003 at the Gateway of India, close to the Taj Mahal Hotel. Over the past decade, Chabad Mumbai has continued the tradition of lighting the menorah at Gateway of India with a wish to spread light and love.

I loved Hanukkah as I listened to the beautiful melodious prayers sung by the elders of the family, and the special dishes that were prepared. Like Diwali, it is also a time for gift-giving, especially to children.  Each day, we prayed the Hallel, the selection of five gratitude-themed psalms (113 – 118) from the Bible.

It is apt to compare Hanukkah with Diwali, the festival of light, albeit with a different history. The importance of light in all religions is significant as it represents the triumph of good over evil, the dispelling of darkness, which is said to be banished with wisdom, and obscurity is said to be be illuminated with truth.  In Judaism, light is also linked to creation, and to hope and redemption. The candles are never used for pleasure but have a holy significance. Light has always been a metaphor for wisdom.

 In 2020, Hanukkah will be celebrated from the evening of December 10th to December 18th, coinciding with the Jewish month of Kislev.  The Jewish calendar is a lunar one. It commemorates the re-dedication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem in Israel, where according to legend Jews had revolted against their Greek Syrian oppressors in the Maccabean Revolt. The event took place before the birth of Jesus Christ. It is also a time to celebrate religious freedom, especially for Jews in India, a phenomenon unmatched anywhere else in the world because Jews never faced any sort of institutionalized anti-Semitism in India. 

According to early studies, it was said that the first Jews in India never celebrated Hanukkah, which indicates that their arrival in India pre-dated the re-dedication of the Second Temple which took place around 516 BCE. They were only introduced to Hanukkah much later.

It is customary to eat fried foods during Hanukkah, as oil is symbolizes the miracle of the feast, where a single night’s supply of lamp oil lasted eight days.  I remember eating the coconut milk curries, sweet flattened rice (poha), rice pancakes and the onion pakoras, at my grandmother’s home in Bombay. The biggest treat was China grass halva, which is a dessert, made of Agar-Agar and coconut milk. One of my aunts was well-loved for making this halva, and I have written and published a poem dedicated to her. The poem was named China Grass Halva. I missed her and the sweet dish when she immigrated to Israel. The Indian Jews, called the Bene Israel Jews, the community to which I belong, had this kind of cuisine at Hanukkah time. The cuisine was also influenced by Maharashtrian and Konkan cuisine.

In the Eastern-European tradition, the potato latke, which is kind of a pancake is usually served with applesauce. In Israel, a popular jelly-filled doughnut, called sufganya, is eaten.  My French-Canadian neighbor makes potato latkes, shaping them into small potato cakes, not into a pancake. She serves them with applesauce. Her husband’s mother had many Jewish friends.

Dreidels

A popular game played by the Ashkenazi Jews (Jews in Israel from western countries, as opposed to the Sephardic Jews who are from Africa and the Middle East) during Hanukkah, is Spinning the Dreidel, which is a kind of four-sided spinning top with some Hebrew letters on it. Legend has it that the Jews were forbidden by their Greek Syrian masters to study the Torah.  They would do so in secret, but whenever a patrol passed by, they would hide the Torah and pretend to be playing ‘Spinning the Dreidel’.  The letters on the dreidel have values and determine the winning or losing of the game! There is also a dreidel song that the children sing while spinning the top. We played with tops growing up in Bombay, but not the game of ‘Spinning the Dreidel’. 

In Calgary, Alberta, Canada, which houses the fourth largest Jewish community in the world, there is a special Hanukkah celebration at City Hall, where the Mayor lights the Shammash or ‘lighter’ candle on the Menorah to kick-off the 8-day celebration.

This year I wonder how such community celebrations will be impacted?

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca was born and raised in a Jewish family in Mumbai.  She was educated at the Queen Mary School, Mumbai, received her BA in English and French, an MA from the University of Bombay in English and American Literature, and a Master’s in Education from Oxford Brookes University, England.  She has taught English, French and Spanish in various colleges and schools in India and overseas, in a teaching career spanning over four decades. Her first book, Family Sunday and Other Poems was published in 1989, with a second edition in 1990.

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

Categories
Poetry

December poems

By Anita Nahal

Sleepless nights – Anita Nahal i. Storm Sleepless nights are an aphrodisiac, sometimes. They are you and your naked skin next to mine. When hands linger and the morning sun is asked to wait, intense sun rays are hushed out the room. In the middle of the night between endless sharing, sleepless nights are like that glass of water at my bedside in which I’d slipped a couple of ice cubes to cool the heat. Those sleepless nights don’t come very often even though I send hand written letters sprinkled with a bit of ittar at the envelope’s opening. I keep waiting for you…keep waiting for you and the storm stands at the doorstep crushing dry leaves against restless window panes. ii. Lull Sometimes, sleepless nights come like a lull between pregnant chapters of a novel. Curiosity compels to turn the page and I drag my feet like exhausted horses after a long, tedious journey in medieval times. I try to calm the pawns and the elephants that the horses are being tended to, but a game of chess gives me away. I don my royal clothes and try to appear majestic as I stride out to allay fears of my ailing armies, but sleepless nights don’t let go…don’t let go and hold on to reigns like lonely seaweeds in a forgotten marsh. And the parched leaves of the now overlooked storm have been pressed dried as book marks in my novel. iii. Rejuvenation Since I’m not the game type, I give up any lackluster attempts to try. Neither chess, nor dice, nor the war or love kind. I lay alone for that’s how I find peace to rejuvenate. On clean sheets after a lazy shower, I refuse to even put on my reading glasses or stretch my hand for the lamp switch. A nightcap of hot buttered rum, some Amazon rain sounds with light Native American flute soothes. Sleepless nights walk away…walk away gently as I lay beneath a dreamcatcher with fairy lights blinking tenderly. The storm and the lull have bonded, and the expectant novel goes to sleep unread. And so, do I. Glossary: Ittar: An essential oil derived from botanical sources Airplanes in flight, when a heart came to be in crimson and saffron I guess, I guess it’s tough to say where you are headed. Perhaps away from a love, or to a love. I’m just a relentless romantic so bear me my mushy heart’s muse as did Robert Frost whom I met last night as I was making my way for a glimpse of you flying. He told me to keep walking till I reached a clearing through thick tree tops where the sky and the crimson-saffron leaves mingled with the hues of my cheeks so that I would blush, and a heart would come to be. I stood in the open with my arms far above trying to hold on to some magical woodland while shadows of hearts danced in tinges of yellows, browns, and lime greens playing mischief with my own shadow. As I serenely tried to capture them, butterflies flew in from all sides with naughty eyed elves riding abreast. I pinched myself. I shook my clothes. I kicked off my shoes and was ready to waltz when Alice in Wonderland stood beside me watching you fly and zoom by. I whispered to the heart shadows to come back and they all blushed crimson and saffron, and a heart came to be. I kept watching till I could only hear your hum, and then turned to the wise trees beseeching their embrace. Avatars of all foliage clasped palms sprinkling me with autumn leaves and my yogic breaths and poses didn’t fail as I prepped to fall to rise again. I merged with the ground with my heart full and calm as all the crimsons and saffron held arms, and a renewed heart came to be. As time flew along with you, I slowly rubbed my eyes watching a paler blue than pale blue sky. Perhaps its misty clouds were lifting you to keep flying, chugging, going . Perhaps a lover, or a soldier, a mother or father, or a child are yearning inside you to take them to their loved ones. Your journey is long, yet I’ll watch you from my crimson-saffron clearing, my heart next to yours. And when all loved ones have met those waiting, everyone’s blushing cheeks will turn an enduring red, and a heart forever would come to be. Sleepless nights – Anita Nahal i. Storm Sleepless nights are an aphrodisiac, sometimes. They are you and your naked skin next to mine. When hands linger and the morning sun is asked to wait, intense sun rays are hushed out the room. In the middle of the night between endless sharing, sleepless nights are like that glass of water at my bedside in which I’d slipped a couple of ice cubes to cool the heat. Those sleepless nights don’t come very often even though I send hand written letters sprinkled with a bit of ittar at the envelope’s opening. I keep waiting for you…keep waiting for you and the storm stands at the doorstep crushing dry leaves against restless window panes. ii. Lull Sometimes, sleepless nights come like a lull between pregnant chapters of a novel. Curiosity compels to turn the page and I drag my feet like exhausted horses after a long, tedious journey in medieval times. I try to calm the pawns and the elephants that the horses are being tended to, but a game of chess gives me away. I don my royal clothes and try to appear majestic as I stride out to allay fears of my ailing armies, but sleepless nights don’t let go…don’t let go and hold on to reigns like lonely seaweeds in a forgotten marsh. And the parched leaves of the now overlooked storm have been pressed dried as book marks in my novel. iii. Rejuvenation Since I’m not the game type, I give up any lackluster attempts to try. Neither chess, nor dice, nor the war or love kind. I lay alone for that’s how I find peace to rejuvenate. On clean sheets after a lazy shower, I refuse to even put on my reading glasses or stretch my hand for the lamp switch. A nightcap of hot buttered rum, some Amazon rain sounds with light Native American flute soothes. Sleepless nights walk away…walk away gently as I lay beneath a dreamcatcher with fairy lights blinking tenderly. The storm and the lull have bonded, and the expectant novel goes to sleep unread. And so, do I. Glossary: Ittar: An essential oil derived from botanical sources Airplanes in flight, when a heart came to be in crimson and saffron I guess, I guess it’s tough to say where you are headed. Perhaps away from a love, or to a love. I’m just a relentless romantic so bear me my mushy heart’s muse as did Robert Frost whom I met last night as I was making my way for a glimpse of you flying. He told me to keep walking till I reached a clearing through thick tree tops where the sky and the crimson-saffron leaves mingled with the hues of my cheeks so that I would blush, and a heart would come to be. I stood in the open with my arms far above trying to hold on to some magical woodland while shadows of hearts danced in tinges of yellows, browns, and lime greens playing mischief with my own shadow. As I serenely tried to capture them, butterflies flew in from all sides with naughty eyed elves riding abreast. I pinched myself. I shook my clothes. I kicked off my shoes and was ready to waltz when Alice in Wonderland stood beside me watching you fly and zoom by. I whispered to the heart shadows to come back and they all blushed crimson and saffron, and a heart came to be. I kept watching till I could only hear your hum, and then turned to the wise trees beseeching their embrace. Avatars of all foliage clasped palms sprinkling me with autumn leaves and my yogic breaths and poses didn’t fail as I prepped to fall to rise again. I merged with the ground with my heart full and calm as all the crimsons and saffron held arms, and a renewed heart came to be. As time flew along with you, I slowly rubbed my eyes watching a paler blue than pale blue sky. Perhaps its misty clouds were lifting you to keep flying, chugging, going . Perhaps a lover, or a soldier, a mother or father, or a child are yearning inside you to take them to their loved ones. Your journey is long, yet I’ll watch you from my crimson-saffron clearing, my heart next to yours. And when all loved ones have met those waiting, everyone’s blushing cheeks will turn an enduring red, and a heart forever would come to be.

Anita Nahal Ph.D., CDP is a professor, poet, short story writer and children’s writer. She teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. Nahal has two books of poetry, one book of flash fictions and three children’s books to her credit, besides an edited poetry anthology. Her writings have appeared in journals in the US, UK, Asia and Australia. More on her at: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal

Categories
The Literary Fictionist

Monalisa No Longer Smiles Here

By Sunil Sharma

Everybody called her Monalisa.

Nobody knew or cared who the real Monalisa was. The name just stuck on. Just like that. Three months and she was already running the household like an old woman.

If grandma needed warm water, she would shout, “Oye, bring me some warm water. My feet are giving me hell.” Grandma — the poor soul! She suffers from joint pain and pain of every conceivable type — rarely stirred out of her large bed and needed lot of things in her ground floor room. The burly mustachioed Grandpa needed tea after every half-an-hour in the cluttered drawing room. He would sit throughout the day, watching television, smoking constantly and coughing and belching smoke —making the whole place look like a huge chimney — and, reading morning paper in installments, throughout the long and still days. Monalisa supplied him with tea every half an hour and grandpa would feel mightily happy with this service and say invariably, “Here comes my little precious Monalisa. The only soul who cares for an old man in this goddamn cursed house,” and while saying so, he would often peer over the glasses, his gray bushy eyebrows uplifted, reminding you of a tired Santa.

Bhavi wanted the breakfast early in her first-floor bedroom and would shout urgently, “Monalisa, run. I am getting late for office again.” Little Monty always forgot his tiffin. Monalisa would run after the auto and hand it over to fat bespectacled sleepy Monty. She was on her toes right from morning till evening. Within last three months, she had taken over all the responsibilities of an adult homemaker. Grandpa would often say, “If Monalisa runs away, we would all be in great trouble, starved and mad at the other.”

Bhavi would feel irritated by this grim forecast, “Why would she run away? The rich food she eats here, frocks of my Tanya she gets to wear, will she be getting all these things anywhere else?”  

Grandma would say, “Oye, Pa is getting soft in his head. Old age? He goes on babbling like that. Always seeing bad things first.”

Bhaiya* would shrug off, rephrasing his boss, “The world is full of such Monalisas. If one goes, another comes. Nobody is indispensable in the world. Is it not Pappaji*?” Pappaji would grunt.  

Tanya, doing her homework, would add, “Before her, there was Rani. Before Rani, there was Kusum. Before that….”

Little Monty would interrupt the total recall, “Look, Pappaji, Tanya is not doing her homework. She is disturbing me.” Tanya, hurt, would make faces, “Oh, the Einstein is working. How many marks did you get in math in the first term?” Little Monty, looking cross, would adjust his Harry-Potter frame over his hooked nose and say, “What about your physics, Didi*?” Tanya would sigh, “Oh, you would know when you come to class VIII”.

Deep down, everybody dreaded the prophecy of grandpa. The fact was that our house ran because of these servants.

When Rani had disappeared one evening, there was total chaos. It had continued for long. Nobody got anything on time and everybody cursed everybody else. Old grandma cursed her fate. Grandpa cursed rising prices and the government. Bhaiya and Bhavi fought bitterly everyday.

“Where is my breakfast?” he would ask.

“I am already late. You prepare one for yourself and one for the kids,” Bhavi would answer flatly.

“Oh, so I should leave my job with an international company and become a cook at home.”

“And who am I? An unpaid cook. What else? I also have a job to keep.”

“Leave that job then. I earn quite sufficient.”

“No. You leave your job first.  Why should I leave my bank job?”

This was routine. The mornings were awful ritual and a delight for the nosy neighbours.

Both would leave, cursing each other. Grandma, deprived of tea, would grumble, “Oye, my legs. I wish I were dead.”

“That you have been saying for last 45 years,” grandpa would say. “Oye, You always wanted me dead. Listen, old man, I am not going to die. If I do, I will come back as a bhoot* and torment you forever.”

“For   that you need not die. You have already been doing all that to me,” grandpa would say and laugh his belly laugh. “Oye, my kismet*. Nobody wants me. That bahu*, that son, my own man—nobody wants me anymore. What should I do, rabba*?”

“Keep your mouth shut. As easy as that.”

“Oye, nobody allows me to speak now. O good Lord! strike me dead,” she would cry.

Little Monty, dressing by himself, would say, “Why does grandma say Oye, Oye?”

“Oh, shut up, Einstein!” Tanya would shout.

“Oye, Oye, nobody allows me to speak, not even my fat sis,” he would complain. Tanya would fly for him across the room but our Einstein, a smart runner, would fly faster than a missile.

“This house is a nuthouse!” Grandma would say.

“No doubt about it. ” Grandpa would   confirm.

In this chaos, one August afternoon, walked in a little girl, later called Monalisa. It was unusually cold and wet day, dull and grey, the heavy rains whipping the high-rises of Vasant Kunj in New Delhi. Dark clouds had covered the area and mild darkness had fallen. The doors flew open magically and entered a child, followed by a short, slim man. The gloom of the day was lit up by the silver of the lightening that traveled like an enormous quivering white snake across the sky.

“Papaji, this is my daughter.”

The girl looked frightened.

“Do not go by looks. She is small. She can clean, sweep, cook. She is very good at that,” the dhobi* said, hard selling her as if she were a new detergent.

“What should we pay?”

“You keep her full time. Feed her. Then pay whatever you want.”

 The deal was on. The dhobi did not say goodbye. He turned his back and went out in the pouring rain. The child looked longingly at the rain, the retreating figure, and the outside world. She half- raised her hand to wave at a receding father and then stopped in mid-air, lost in that instant between a fading and an emerging world.

 “Child, make me a cup of tea,” Grandpa said gently.

That moment on, she was sucked into a new adult harsh reality.

Her pearly smile won everybody’s heart. Her waif-like figure flitted silently from room to room and she cleaned, swept, mopped like a new detergent. The only difference in her appearance was an occasional shampooed hair and scrubbed-clean look. And she looked out of shape in the hand-me-down, ill flitting dresses of Tanya who had overgrown or discarded them for her hundredth dress. The madness had subsided but temporarily and everybody got food of their choice in time.

“This girl can work like ten horses,” Grandpa said one day.

“Oye, do not cast an evil eye. May God give her more strength,” countered grandma. In the duplex, Monalisa occupied a 3 ft 2″space on the threaded carpet of grandma’s room. That was her nocturnal home where she slept like a log. Her family never visited.

After Diwali, all of us planned to visit Agra. My job was to deliver her to the dirty basti*, 10 km away, where her family lived in a shack under a spreading old banyan, near a Hanuman temple, an open-air structure next to the tree where elders congregated for their daily fix of gossips, chai and smoke. As I left her there on the side street, I saw her running off the remaining 100 meters, the distance that intervened between a free world and a grown-up world. I sat in the car and saw her disappear in the crude shack made up of plastic and ropes and bamboos. The 10-meter yard was reclaimed from the weeds and dressed up. A tulsi pot bloomed. She came out immediately, waved her hand to signal safe arrival, and smiling, vanished again in the dark womb again.

Evening I came back to retrieve her. I was a bit early. Cold November dusk was settling down. The orange disc was slipping fast behind a bank of the fluffy, white clouds. Crows were returning. An icy wind had stated blowing. I got down from the car and walked the short distance to the home of Monalisa. She was not there. Her asthmatic battered graying starved mother went out to search for her.

 Then I saw her.

Some 600 meters away. She was playing with kids her age. She was running, her hair streaming, thin face flushed, yelling at the top of her piping voice, a little goddess in motion. Some kid was chasing her. In order to avoid the pursuer, Monalisa, happy and excited, began climbing the nearby peepul tree. All the malnourished brown kids, sweaty and out-of-breath, shouted and formed a circle beneath the tree.

A simple game I have never seen Tanya and Monty play.

The simple drama was rudely interrupted by the yelling of her mother. In a minute, she ran up to me, followed by her lean, semi- starved, ill-clad kid brother crying for her, “Do not go, do not go. Let us play one more time, didi, please. Come back.” The light went out of didi‘s eyes. Her mother grabbed the whimpering child but it cried louder. “You have to wait for her for so long. Please excuse her, she is just a child,” her frail mother, lifeless and bloodless, pleaded with me abjectly. “No problem. I can understand.” I said, already feeling like a robber. We went to the car. She looked back longingly, her eyes blank, face drained. Her friends came running, waved and then began playing. The brother cried. A cold wind sliced us cruelly in the middle. The sun, effeminate and yellow-faced, went down. The early darkness suddenly embraced us.

As soon as she entered, grandma shouted, “Oye, fetch me warm water. My feet are hurting.”

“And tea for me,” said grandpa. She went straight to her territory.

I said to grandma I was not in a mood to bring the child back, at least, for a night, “She would have enjoyed some time more with her family.”

“Oye,” Grandma glowered, “You have become like a woman. Men should be tough. These are poor people. They breed like pigs. If we had not taken her in our custody, her drunkard father would have sold her to a brothel. We provide safety, security and food to her. She gets decent treatment here. She is family to us.”

I did not argue. I went out and blended in the gloom of the advancing night. The cries of her phantom brother and the sad eyes of Monalisa haunted me for long on that short winter night.

*papaji: An affectionate way of addressing a grandfather in Northern India

*bhoot: Ghost

*kismet: Fate

*bahu: Daughter-in-law

*rabba: God

*bhaiya: Brother

*didi: Elder sister

*dhobi: Washerman

*basti: Slum

Sunil Sharma is the editor of SETU. He is a senior academic, critic, literary editor and author with 21 published books, seven collections of poetry, three of short fiction, one novel, a critical study of the novel, and, eight joint anthologies on prose, poetry and criticism, and, one joint poetry collection.

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

Categories
Poetry

The Phoenix

By Soma Debray

Happy memories of girlhood return

With the giggling youngsters

All decked in their best

Furtive glances at may or may-not-be friends

As they chatter along.

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Hair bejewelled like the night-sky

Danglers and bracelets

No signs of fear

Like the eagle flying high

They spread their wings.

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Only man can defy and defeat

Only man can rise

Like the Phoenix

All aglow

Piercing the Universe

With its shrill cry

I live and will live.

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Leatherback turtles are back

The neel gai roam the streets

The cheel shrieks overhead

As I gaze at the green parrots…

My girlhood returns.

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Soma Debray has been a student and teacher of English literature for this half of her life. When in her twenties, she was a proud firebrand feminist, but with maturity settling in, she has opted out of –isms; finding fulfilment in womanhood, enjoying all roles carved by nature with freedom of varied explorations. She has faith in self and is a warrior for women’s cause. Women are power; power latent that need be made patent.

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

Categories
Excerpt

No Strings Attached

Book Excerpt from Bhaskar Parichha’s new book

The Tragedy of Itishrees 

Babina, Itishree, Nirbhayas-the list is lengthy. As 2013 fades away into history, the struggle that women face are enormous, and cases of gender inequality are monumental. Despite positive progress and legal guarantee, women continue to experience injustice, brutality, and unfairness in their homes and at the workplace. The devaluation of women and social domination of the male continues to worry sociologists and planners alike. Women in India are viewed as a shade lesser than men, the weaker gender, and this entrenched perception has led to their social and economic dispossession.

The key factor driving gender inequality is the preference for boys. Boys are deemed to be more useful than girls. They are given exclusive rights to inherit the family name and property. Bias also comes in the shape of religious practices making sons more attractive. What is more, the saddle of dowry discourages parents from having daughters. Thus, a combination of factors has shaped the imbalanced view of sexes in India.

The number of girls born and surviving in India is yet another worrisome factor because female fetuses are being aborted and baby girls deliberately neglected and left to die. Gender selection and selective abortion were banned in India under the Pre-conception and Pre-natal Diagnostics Technique Act, in 1994 but the use of ultrasound scanning for gender selection continues unabated.

In 1961, the Government of India passed the Dowry Prohibition Act, making the dowry demands in wedding illegal. However, many cases of dowry-related domestic violence, suicides, and murders are still reported. At least a dozen die each day in ‘kitchen fires’. Of course, amongst the urban educated dowry abuse has reduced dramatically. But rural women continue to be victims of dowry torture. Issues affecting Indian women are numerous. But it is domestic violence that impacts women the most. True, there are laws to protect them. Yet, they are defenseless and laws ultimately turn out to be mere pieces of paper.

In 1997, in a landmark judgment, the Supreme Court took a strong stand against sexual harassment of women in the workplace. The Court laid down detailed guidelines for the prevention and redressing of grievances. The National Commission for Women subsequently elaborated these guidelines into a Code of Conduct for employers.

 Whether it is self-employment, domestic work,   or even government jobs the discrimination of women more glaring. Equal pay laws may have been enacted, but women are still paid less than men across states and sectors. As if that isn’t enough, they are prohibited from working in the same industries as men. Several studies have linked the gender pay gap with women’s caring responsibilities- a responsibility which comes to women not on their own volition but according to their physique.

Talk about justice to women, the broad issue is one of empowerment. Even though there have been steep increases in women’s representation in parliament, state assemblies, and the Panchayati Raj institutions, there exists a case for more women in politics and public life. The horrendous crime perpetrated on Indian women says volumes about their vulnerability. The individual lives, the catastrophes, and the abuse that are the daily lots of millions of India’s women reveal poignant stories of bravery and struggle.

While there is a growing incidence of violence, many women shrink away from reporting crimes due to social stigma and weak justice systems. The costs and practical difficulties of seeking justice too are prohibitive — from travel to a distant court to paying for expensive legal advice. The result is high dropout rates where women fail to seek redress on gender-based violence. The phenomenon of honor killings is another variety of violence girls in India where village caste councils, or khap panchayats, often operate as an extralegal morals police force, issuing edicts against couples who marry outside their caste or who marry within the same village.

Though gradually rising, the female literacy rate in India is lower than the male literacy rate. Compared to boys, far fewer girls are enrolled in schools, and many of them drop out. According to various reports, the chief barriers to female education in India are inadequate school facilities such as sanitary, shortage of female teachers, and gender bias in curriculum. India has witnessed substantial improvements in female literacy and enrolment rate since the 1990s, but the quality of education for females remains to be heavily compromised.

Women in India suffer from yet another advantage. They are not allowed to have combat roles in the armed forces. According to a study female officers are excluded from induction in close combat arms, where chances of physical contact with the enemy are high. Even a permanent commission has not been granted to female officers.

Gender Inequality Index (GII) is a new index for the measurement of gender disparity that was introduced in the 2010 Human Development Report by the United Nations Development Program (UNDP). According to the Gender Gap Index 2011 released by the World Economic Forum (WEF), India was ranked 113 out of 135 countries polled. This represents a poor distribution of resources and opportunities amongst the male and female.

Since independence, many laws have been promulgated to protect women’s rights. The Constitution prohibits discrimination on several grounds including sex and recognises the principle of equality for all before the law and of opportunity in matters relating to employment. Women’s empowerment in India is a challenging task because gender-based discrimination is deep-rooted social malice. This sexual discrimination can be erased only through awareness of the ‘problem’ at all levels in society.

Acknowledging the presence of a problem will lead to solutions sooner or later. While the elimination of all forms of discrimination against women has to be the goal, what is important is a fundamental change in the misogynistic attitudes that exist in our society. 

(This was excerpted from the book ‘No strings Attached: Writings on Odisha’ by Bhaskar Parichha. Click here to buy)

About the Book: No Strings Attached  : Writings on Odisha

The past twenty years have been action-packed in Odisha’s millennial history – political bluntness, natural adversity, economic deceleration, community resilience and so forth. All these are part of the narrative of this book. Every single piece in the collection is the upshot of an occurrence. There are profiles, there is politics, and there are controversies and issues that have been part of the larger political process. The book is an Eldorado.

About the Author: Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.

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

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Disclaimer: The opinions expressed here are solely of those of the author.

Categories
Poetry

Origin

By Sekhar Banerjee

Watermelons have intense violence stored inside

them — the blood and serum of summer

and they are always calm. I appreciate the plant’s climbing habit

from the womb of the seed

to the intricate womb of heat — vertical and horizontal;

it has a miasma of secrecy to hide

what it is developing inside its

spherical mind

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And the rind of the fruit is striped,

dark green or blotched

to guard whatever finally transpires —  red

or pink

with numerous sorrowful pips throughout

like a smile without a meaning

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and I think of the sandy soil of a roadside farm or a forlorn

river-bed somewhere which was harsh

on it — like a trigger

to finally teach us  

how something develops — from seed to plant

to fruit and from fruit to seed to plant again

in reverse order — the order that we generally follow

in love

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Sekhar Banerjee is an author.  He has four collections of poems and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. He is a former Secretary of Paschimbanga Bangla Akademi and Member-Secretary of Paschimbanga Kabita Akademi under the Government of West Bengal.  He lives in Kolkata, India. 

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

Categories
Slices from Life

There’s an Eternal Summer in a Grateful Heart

Sangeetha Amarnath Kamath brings a Singaporean School to our doorstep with a sentimental recount of her experience at relief teaching

It was pre-dawn and still dark. The shrill alarm jolted me from the depths of a death-like sleep even as I tried to cling on to the fading vestiges of a sweet dream. I was just within reach of seeing its mysterious ending but it was gone. Like a wisp of smoke! I tried to slowly blink away the remnants of sleep from my eyes—heavily lidded and which just refused to open even a crack at a grim time as this.

The alarm was ringing incessantly.

“Could it be a mistake that I set it to go off so early? At this bleak hour?!

Uh! Hold on, it wasn’t the alarm but a phone call for crying out loud!”

At this unearthly time, when most of this side of the world was asleep, I dearly hoped that it would be from one of the two sources–Either from Piny Woods Primary School or Woody Pines Primary School. Yes, Thank God! I was right! I recognised Carrie’s number of Piny Woods Primary School.

 Phone calls during pitch-black hours did tend to give me the chills, driving me to think only morbid thoughts. Groggily, as I answered my phone, the usually chirpy voice of Carrie trickled through, panic-stricken.

 “Good morning, Sangeetha! Are you available for relief teaching today?” She spoke fast and the anxiety in her voice was unmistaken. I could almost picture her, crossing her fingers hoping against all hope that I wouldn’t decline.

I steadied my voice trying not to sound garbled, my voice still thick and parched from sleep. But try as I might, my effort to greet her in my signature sing-song tone hopelessly came out more like a croak.

“Hullo there Carrie, a very good morning to you too. Yes I am.”

There was an audible sigh of relief at the other end before thanking me profusely and with a hurried “See you at 8am.”

 Yet another day when I scored a merit for putting Carrie’s worry to rest and saving her the trouble of dialling the next number on her roster.

“I’d better be up on my feet and sort out my day. Every second counts.” My thoughts were racing even though my feet were leaden, unwilling to step on it.

On this rainy and dim morning, I was tempted to burrow inside my quilt and sleep in, but it was not to be. It was a mad rush through the shower, an equally mad brush through my hair, a hurriedly made buttered toast which was thickly lathered with my favourite pineapple jam and finally I was all set and rearing to go! Meanwhile, a pot of coffee brewed. Nothing like a cuppa and a whiff of the aromatic caffeine to get me looking sharp and wide awake.

It was time… to Rock N’ Roll!

*

I was there at 7.30!  At the gates of Piny Woods Primary, there was a bustling crowd of school children chattering away as they made their way in and a jam-packed line of cars and school buses which had come to drop them. I breezed into the general office flashing my brightest smile, to pick up my schedule and made my way to the staff room on the first floor. I was all smiles as a quick glance at my schedule told me that I would be taking a Primary 1 class. An entire cohort of newcomers on their first day fresh out of Kindergarten.

*

“Goooood Morrrrrrningggg, Children. I’m Mdm Sangeetha. Your teacher is not coming to school today and I will be your relief teacher until she comes.”

 I tried to sound sunny hoping to bring some warmth into the classroom despite the overcast greyness and the blowing rains outside. The customary introductions were made which were met with blank faces. They had no idea what a relief teacher was. For them, I was their form teacher for all they cared, on their first day in a new school.

They were hopefully easier to talk to and a cinch to work with…or so I thought. I had looked forward to the day, which was obviously going to be a cakewalk. But Oh Boy, was I wrong!

 As the day progressed there were the occasional tears of homesickness which I had to put to ease to the best of my ability and quieten down some uncontrollable sobbing from stray corners before I could actually dive into uninterrupted teaching. However, the dejection inside the classroom was quite infectious and a long line of droopy faces and quivering lips stemmed from almost everyone. I just put it down to the longer hours in a new, unfamiliar school and the absence of a nap time which they were so accustomed to in Kindergarten or Day-care.

All the same, nothing that a story-telling didn’t cure in getting them acclimatised to their new environment. It was the need of the hour to change my strategies. It worked wonders when their stricken faces bloomed and their eyes lit up. There were bursts of laughter and  joyous clapping of their hands when the ‘Huffing and Puffing Big Bad Wolf fell into a pot of boiling water and the Three Little Pigs lived happily ever after’. My animated voiceover and dramatics went a long thankful way in chasing away their blues. After the initial hiccups, it was a smooth transition into Primary 1.

We delved right into the lessons for the day with great enthusiasm after I promised them with another story when the ‘big hand of the clock was on 10’, on condition that they maintain discipline in class, listen to Mdm Sangeetha and let her do her job of teaching them.

The camaraderie was instant. I had won them over.

When it was time to dismiss the class for breakfast recess, I was in for a very pleasant surprise. A very heart touching craft was given to me by Hannah as I was leaving the classroom. I had noticed that she was tearing a page off her brand-new Power Puff Girls’ diary, folding something hurriedly with it and tying it up clumsily with a strand of light green embroidery thread just moments before the dismissal hour was up. Her friend Samantha, came running up to me in the corridor and almost out of breath said

“Teacher, Hannah wants to give you something. But she’s shy to talk to you”.

I made my way back into the classroom and approached Hannah. I had to squat down to her eye level and strain my ears before I could hear her feeble voice, which was a little more than a whisper

“Teacher, can I give this to you? It’s a butterfly I made for you…”

 It was a heart-warming moment for me as she had crafted it with her tiny shaking hands in a hurry and interpreted it as a butterfly.

“To me it’s a butterfly and more, dear Hannah. It’s beautiful.” I tried not to choke on my words.

Hannah beamed at me with a wide toothy smile. I left the classroom, keeping the delicate strand of paper in a pocket of my handbag careful not to crush it. It almost felt like the butterfly had a flutter of life inside it.

Back home, it went into my treasure chest of other loving charms that I had got from my students over the years. Immaterial as they looked, they were quite hallowed.

This ‘Butterfly’ was my first welcome gift of 2017 at Piny Woods Primary School.

*

The phone buzzed at an alarming rate before I could answer it. It was a call from Woody Pines Primary School.

“Mdm Sangeetha, are you available for relief today?” The frantic voice of Magdalene got me on my toes in a trice. There was no time for formal greetings and niceties as it was almost 20 to 8. I hadn’t expected a call this late either. I had to hustle it if I had to make it on time.

I was also told that there was the festive Chinese Lunar New Year celebrations going on in the school and that the children were all in ethnic costumes of any country that they wished to represent. I too was supposed to come to school in a traditional attire, if I so wished.

I didn’t need to be asked twice. It was a dream come true! An opportunity like this never passed me by without dressing up to the nines. The children in my Primary 4 class were all agog to see my shimmery grey Ghaghara fringed with shiny diamantes paired with the silvery organza Dupatta  

For a brief moment, I too was taken aback by their reaction and double checked myself to see that nothing was amiss– that my face flushed from scurrying in a mad dash that morning wasn’t melting my makeup and streaking my eyeliner down in black tears. God forbid if I had looked like a Halloween masquerade rather than anything else.

 But no, my fears were unfounded. They were all actually in admiration of my Ghaghara and the ‘Kundan’ set of accessories that I wore. They wanted to know all about my country and the name of my attire.

I was only too happy to oblige them with the rich culture and customs of India. That being done, we proceeded with the lessons for the day. After the initial excitement over each other’s costumes subdued, a pin-drop silence ensued with productive work being done for the rest of the hour. As a reward, they had a 10 min time-off for a quiet storybook reading or drawing to recharge. Which in turn led to a little something from Janice, to brighten up my day.

All the Chinese New Year gifts handmade by her were either tagged or already given away to the regular teachers and she had no idea that a relief teacher — that I was coming to her class today. With a lightning flash idea, she drew a caricature of me on an A4 paper — in a floating Ghaghara with a flock of birds flying in the background and gave it to me as her CNY gift.

 Needless to say that the drawing went into my cherished file folder which held innumerable scraps of papers with stick figure drawings on them, Origami crafts and post-it notes with words of appreciation in every style of scrawl and childish handwriting.

But, the ones that I hold most dear are the pages which have undecipherable squiggly-wigglies on them from my Primary 1 classes.

*                              

 With the end of Term 3 in Woody Pines School close on hand, the schedules were getting more compact, deadlines were like a two-edged sword dangling above everyone’s heads and group presentations were getting more and more daunting for the pupils. The weather was wickedly humid and steaming, not helping the mercurial tempers either. I was  in a Primary 5 class scuttling about from workstation to workstation trying to finalise their ideas about project work from rough draft onto the PowerPoint slides, brainstorming those still lagging behind, facilitating them to the best of my ability and stamina, besides cooling down tantrums and teamwork squabbles.

 All in all, a good nonstop 3 hrs and more in only one class. It was a backbreaking, nerve-wracking day and I was psyched enough to plop down limply like a rag doll.

It was a touching moment when Lawrence looked up at me, pointed to an empty chair at his group table and said, “Mdm Sangeetha, you are on your feet since ages, why don’t you sit down here for a while”.

 I was at a loss for words. I did take a seat gratefully, nodding dumbfounded and drained out of my wits when he turned to me and said kindly

 “Being a teacher must be a hard job, right? I understand….” He is a Wise Old Soul, he is!

 It was! It truly was! I was ready to crash and burn…

 Well, the story doesn’t end here! My last hour for the day before dismissal, was in a Primary 2 class. It was a generally good class with kids being kids. And I dutifully lined them up in twos’ to lead them to the parents’ waiting bay area when Kyle said to me in all innocence,“Lǎoshī*, can I hold your hand as we walk?”

Alarmed at having missed a condition the boy might be having and feeling guilty for having overlooked it, I subtly and compassionately asked him –

 “Does your regular teacher always hold your hand as you walk?” He shook his head expressively and pointing in the direction of the bay said

“No, I just want to hold your hand and walk up till there”.

 I obliged, taking his tiny hand in mine. Or rather vice-versa. The trust, acceptance, and the approval– I was moved beyond words. As we reached the gates of the waiting bay, Kyle sped into a run, and turning back waved a bye at me. Stirring moments like these were a cool mist of respite on my scorching soul and on the extremely boiling day as well.

                                                       *

My teaching days at Piny Woods and Woody Pines were not always a rose petal strewn path. I’d had my fair share of unruly classes and  mass indiscipline where I’d  been driven to my wits’ end with the helplessness of my voice being unheard over and above 30 screeching, playful voices even as I was standing in the doorway. News of their regular teacher being absent would reach them even before I did and they would be jubilantly celebrating away.

 If they wouldn’t settle down upon seeing me, what was the next best thing that I did? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!

I would calmly take a marker and write in bold on the board,“Ready when you are! If I don’t finish my lessons in 1 hour, all of you stay back after class!”

Then without a word, I would cross my arms sternly and give a dead stare at the wall in front of me, behind them all. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted something unusual in my composure and would take the lead to shush the entire class. It was only then that I would give them cold stares and each one a pointed eye-contact from where I was standing. That would make them bend down their heads sheepishly and apologetically.

I would never raise my voice at them. Not to scold, never to yell.

Only when they had started to behave themselves and got reined in, which they ultimately did, would I show them the side of me that could be warm-hearted and friendly with them as well.

*

 On a clear Mid-November Friday afternoon, the school term at Piny Woods Primary School was coming to a close for the academic year. There were varied emotions from the graduating Primary 6’s. There were tears of parting, bear hugs with their besties and some trying to keep straight faces with moist eyes and yet ,there was a charming  compliment from Victor after having seen me around, about, in and out of their class for a year now—-

“Why does everyone call you Madam? Are you really Madam?” Madam being the salutation of a married woman, it was my turn to get amused. And in the best way possible not to get blurry myself, I replied that I’m indeed Madam. I really started to wonder how this enlightenment had set in him out of nowhere, when out popped another remark from him—

 “Lǎoshī, serious, ah? You look like Ms.”

More cheers in the background from fellow classmates at their friend, Victor.

I realised no sooner then, that Victor was diverting the class from getting swamped with emotions and lightening the overall energy and mood of the class.

“Yes dear, seriously!! I have a daughter in Secondary 2, so I’m the most perfect candidate for Madam”. They looked at each other, their jaws dropping.

This candid, light-hearted conversation did help banish the despair in the classroom to some extent. Trying to sound convincing, I further assured them that life was a circle and that they were bound to meet each other in Secondary School, Junior College, University or even at their workplaces in future. This consoled them that graduating from Primary School was not the end of the world, after all.

After which, there were fist bumps, hi-fives, promises to keep in touch and smiles of gratitude for the best six years spent together with friends and classmates through countless joys and sorrows right from Primary 1. It sure was a long journey and a hard one to break away from, a bond so concrete.

In the face of it all, it took a lot of grit to maintain my composure and not breaking down in front of them.

Next year, there was bound to be another graduating Primary 6 class and another Primary 1 class to welcome with open arms.

Life gives us many Hello’s in good measure for every fond Goodbye!

*

There’s an Eternal Summer in a Grateful Heart

“I am pleasantly surprised when you know my name even before I introduce myself,

I’m immensely overwhelmed when you are happy to see me early in the morning and greet me with a great show of enthusiasm by cheerfully jumping up and down with a pitter-patter of tiny feet.

 I’m divinely blessed when you come up to me with your teeny-tiny snack boxes wanting to share a biscuit with me, a piece of sandwich or a potato chip. It’s with a heavy heart that I refuse to partake of it so that you have your full fill of it yourselves.

 I feel truly honoured when you share your deepest thoughts and classroom squabbles and fallouts with me, trusting my judgement to solve it for you.

I feel extra special when I see the joy on your innocent faces when I meet you after a gap of a couple of days.

 I feel accepted and approved when you give me that look of recognition and respect.

You make my days fruitful and fulfilling.”

 Thank you, Class for giving me an opportunity to realise my potential.

Disclaimer: Based on true occurrences. Names of locations and characters have been changed to protect identity. Any familiarity, similarities of names of actual people in said locations and of the locations mentioned herein are purely coincidental and unintentional

* Lǎoshī – Chinese for teacher

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Sangeetha Amarnath Kamath did her schooling from St.Agnes Primary and High School, Mangalore, India. She is a B.Com graduate form St.Agnes College, Mangalore. She is an aspiring self-taught creative writer.

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

Categories
Poetry

Two poems from Malaysia

By A Jessie Michael

Caged Birdsong

They stride in graceful rhythm

Qi Pao* fluttering in morning breeze

They swing their cages with gentle sway

Going to Nanjing Park

To bathe in sunshine and breathe fresh air.

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Their feathered friends rise and bend on perches

Flap their wings and stretch muscles.

They are one in movement, master and bird

Lifelong learners each, going to Nanjing Park

To bathe in sunshine and breathe fresh air

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There’s a crowd of cages on every low branch

And sweet birdsong fills the air

Feathered friends chirp and tweet and trill

Outdoing each other; hearts are bursting

Here to bathe in sunshine and breath fresh air

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Old men’s yarns and chortles mingle

With caged birdsong flowing free

A daily short spate of being alive

Voices let loose in cacophony

Bathing in sunshine and breathing fresh air

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Then cages are curtained into darkness

Echoes of birdsong dissipate in the wind

Men in silence swing cages home

To drown in the darkness, and choke in the haze

Of crowded cubicles with no window space

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Weighted

My heart is a kite with a stone on its string

Straining and fluttering to be free

But it is anchored to earth while the wild winds sing

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It longs for new love and youthful flings

It wants to break free, fly over the sea

But my heart is a kite with a stone on its string

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It wonders what the future will bring

When the heart is corralled to what can only be

It is anchored to earth while the wild winds sing

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I was the air beneath the falcon’s wing

I was the joy of sunshine before day’s reality

But my heart is a kite with a stone on its string.

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Sometimes in a dream I feel the old zing

Of our youthful love, my heart’s soaring glee

But it is anchored to earth while the wild winds sing

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The loss is too great, no end to the longing

The fluttering and flittering of fantasy

My heart is a kite with a stone on its string

It is anchored to earth while the wild winds sing.

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*Qi pao – Cheongsam, a dress of Manchu origin.

A. Jessie Michael is a retired Associate Professor of English from Malaysia and a writer of short stories and poems. She has written winning short stories for local magazines and newspaper competitions and received honourable mentions in the AsiaWeek Short Story Competitions. She has worked with writers’ groups in Melbourne, Australia and Suzhou, China. Her stories have also appeared in The Gombak Review, 22 Asian Short Stories (2015), Bitter Root Sweet Fruit and recently articles in Kitaab (2019) and poems and Short story in Borderless (2020). She has previously published an anthology of short stories Snapshots, with two other writers and most recently her own anthology The Madman and Other Stories (2016).

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