Author: borderlesssg1

Categories
Poetry

Khadi: A Threat to the Dictator

    By Milan Mondal

Khadi: A Threat to the Dictator

The sun was at the zenith,

Because the dictator had gun.

He never thought of the setting sun.

The dictator cared a fig

And the charcoal was burning behind the white ash.

Tolerance was the stick to kindle the flame,

And truth was the only tool for the silent blast.

From South Africa to Jallianwala Bagh

Or from Champaran to Dandi

The dictator realized the charisma of khadi.

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Status Quo

Three years more passed

After the platinum jubilee

My cheeks are now no better than dry-grapes.

No distinctive line is visible

In between two of my breasts.

The beasts are still treading,

‘Wire’ cannot protect cleavages

From the ‘Oracle’.

Breaking the ‘riddle’,

Oedipus does sow the seed

To stigmatize Jocasta.

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Milan Mondal, Assistant Professor in English at Narajole Raj College (Narajole, Paschim Medinipur, West Bengal, India) is a young bilingual (English and Bengali) writer of poetry and short stories. The major themes of his creative writings include ‘partition’, ‘diaspora’, ‘psychoanalysis’ ‘existentialism’ etc. Some of his poems have been published in reputed magazine.

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Categories
Review

Ballad of Bapu

Book Review by Moinak Dutta

Book : Ballad of Bapu

Author: Santosh Bakaya

My first impression of M.K. Gandhi is a simple drawing of a drooping figure of a frail man with a stick in hand. It was drawn by one of my cousin brothers, when we were studying in primary school. That drawing then appealed to me as a simple thing to do without much artistic skill. From that pictorial knowledge of Bapu, I graduated to something celluloid, when my father one beautiful spring evening brought home a videotape cassette ( at that time VCP was in rage) titled ‘Gandhi’ I was told that the movie was the first one to get American Motion Pictures Award for India.

After watching the film for many days, I thought of Ben Kingsley as the real Gandhi. That got rectified later when I was made to read an interesting article on Gandhi (this time by my mother). Several research books with razor sharp debates and deliberations can be easily found on Gandhi. Afterall, Bapu had remained one of the most ‘loved and hated’ man all through his life. Reading Ballad of Bapu is like having a dream on Bapu — colourful, smooth and enchanting, for it is not a mere research work on Gandhi’s life and his doctrines, it is a ballad, a lyrical one, sustained from page one to the last. Divided into several short chapters and decorated with rare photographs of Bapu’s life, the book is a poetic analysis of Gandhi and his works. I might have said that it is a poetic biography, but if even by mistake should I say that for once about the book, I will be committing a great blunder. I will be completely overlooking the deft touch of analysis of Gandhi’s works as done with meticulous ease by the author-poet. The author is not merely writing a biography. She has mined out several incidents apparently small and insignificant of Bapu’s life, only to indicate a larger pattern.

For any student of history, the book will amply provide details which are astoundingly well researched. But that is probably not the focal point of the book. The author has found how by different actions and deeds, Gandhi laid a foundation of non-violence as a principle which is undoubtedly Godly and because it is Godly, it had to face severe challenges, the final challenge being the assassination of Bapu. By sacrificing his life, Bapu had, with finality, proved the Godliness of his principle. Chapter by chapter, events by events, the author has shown how Gandhi became Mahatma. Of all the chapters , the ‘Centrestage’ , ‘ Phoenix farm’ ‘Tolstoy and Gandhi’ ‘Tolstoy farm’ ‘Gandhi in India’ ‘Annie Besant and Gandhi’, ‘Jallianwala Bagh’ , ‘Chauri Chaura’ and ‘Imprisonment’ appeared to be the most engaging for in these chapters we not only find different anecdotes on Bapu’s life but also the valuable authorial commentary on Bapu. For example, ‘Phoenix farm’ explores Gandhiji’s reading habit:

“At dawn Gandhi read The Gita, the Koran at noon”

 In ‘Tolstoy and Gandhi’, we find how voraciously Bapu read Tolstoy while in jail at South Africa.

 “In jail, in Tolstoy’s books he found a soulmate

Greatly inspired by this man born in 1828”

 To write history is difficult, to write personal history is more difficult, but to write personal history of a man like Bapu and that too in ballad form maintaining ‘ a-a-b-b-a ‘ rhyme scheme all through is simply superhuman a work and that Santosh Bakaya has performed with ease, as if she were a musician or a pianist running her practiced fingers on words to make them sing. And they sing in tune with Gandhian philosophy, his unwavering faith on non-violence and peace. A testimony to the author’s assertion on Gandhian philosophy can be found in the chapters like ‘Jallianwala Bagh’ where she has written:

“Towards a self-disciplined Bardoli his eyes turned

 A policy of senseless gore he had always spurned”

The same assertion comes to the fore in the (in)famous ‘Chauri-Chaura’ incident. Bapu with all resilience stood for non-violence and went to prison again, blaming himself for the crime which was not his doing, truely like a father, who can go any distance, to any extreme, for his sons and daughters.

“No provocation can justify murder, he exclaimed

For the protestors’ crime, himself he blamed”

The unshakeable faith in non-violence, however, never posed any hindrance for Bapu, who always stood for what is right. While he was imprisoned, he wrote to the British Government why he felt sedition was the creed that he followed. In fact, Bapu was imprisoned more on charges of sedition than any leader in that period, yet how wrongly his non-violent acts were judged. The author has rightly pointed out: “Sedition was their creed, said the man with integrity

 In his first article ‘Tampering with Loyalty’”

 In similar vein Bakaya has carried on in the chapter ‘Imprisonment’ when she explained:

“On 19 September 1921

Fearlessly wrote this son

The government was shocked at his sheer audacity”

But Gandhiji probably had been too much for both the British and those who could not comprehend his philosophy, as the author has pointed out:

“He started Harijan, a weekly new

Which, with his rapier touch he did imbue…

… But for the Sanatanists an unpalatable brew”

This outer struggle led eventually to an inner struggle in Bapu. So, even after independence he could not be happy. He had remained restless with agony, hurt by pains.

“2nd October 1947 did not dawn like any day

Though it was the Mahatma’s 78th birthday

He was restless

The fury relentless

Dampened his spirits he could smell decay”

 And that decay took him to the point of being challenged. He responded by sacrificing his life.

“Was he a mad man or a coward?

He whipped out a pistol, with no compunction?”

 The author has left that rhetorical question beautifully, almost theatrically poised towards the end of the concluding chapter.

If we are to rediscover and relearn Gandhi, if we are to trace the path between Gandhi and Mahatma, this book is a must read.

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Moiank Dutta is a teacher by profession and published fiction writer and poet with two literary & romance fictions to his credit. His third fiction is going to be published soon. Many of his poems and short stories have been published in dailies, magazines, journals, ezines.

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Categories
Poetry

To Thee O Gandhi

By Soumik De

Round glasses and a cane stick

A loin cloth and a pair of clogs

Mark thee O mark thee!

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Truth and triumph

Struggle and stride

Shape thee O shape thee!

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Bold and bald

Bend but strict

From thee O from thee!

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Wheels and whiffs

Text and textiles

Spins thee O spin thee!

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Glamour and Glory

Great yet gentle

Merge into thee O merge into thee!

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Thou art the other name

Of India

Salute thee O salute thee!

Soumik Kumar De, a teacher   by profession and a poet by passion, likes to write both in Bengali and English. His creative compass includes poetry, short-story, flash-fiction etc. Adrika Ke Niye is a collection of Bengali modern creative poems . His poems have recently been published in Aulos: An Anthology of English Poetry and in Caravan. His Bengali poems has also been included in the anthology Sangshaptak . Besides he has to his credit several other academic writings. The areas of his interest include cultural studies, diaspora writings, Dalit studies etc. He also passes his leisure by playing guitar occasionally.   

 

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Categories
Stories

When Bapu met MLK Jr…


By Santosh Bakaya

A skeletal man, almost half-naked, was sitting under a tree next to a charkha* reciting something from a piece of paper while tiny birds hopped around, at their twittering best.

Stand ye calm and resolute,
like a forest close and mute
with folded arms and looks which are
 Weapons in unvanquished war 

And if then the tyrants dare
Let them ride among you there,
Slash and stab and maim and hew
What they like, that let them do …….

Then they will return with shame
the place from which they came
And the blood thus shed will speak
in hot blushes on their cheek. 

One audacious one perched on his shoulder, looked around and whispered something into his ears, the other birds chirped themselves hoarse.

“Bapu, Bapu, look someone is coming to meet you, chirp – chirp – chirp.” The birds were in a frenzy of excitement.

The skeletal man, contemptuously called the half- naked fakir on Earth, who, was indeed Mahatma Gandhi; stopped spinning and sprung up, nudging away a candy floss cloud which was very keen to tickle him. Then, arms outstretched and wearing a toothless smile which brightened the surroundings, he headed towards the dapperly dressed man and remarked, happily: “Oh, you are Martin, are you not? I came up here in the year 1948, on 30 January, to be precise, and in 1955, I heard about a young man in the USA who was doing a lot for civil rights in the USA.   Ah, so I get to see you finally. I remember hearing about the Montgomery Bus Boycott which was a tremendous success,” he remarked.

 “Ah, that was the beginning if it all, and the Bus Boycott was inspired by you, Bapu. Initially started for a day, it lasted for 381 days and we carried on despite the stones and insults flung at us.”

“Oh, you succeeded in instilling a new sense of dignity in your brethren.”

“Yes, our community woke up after a long period of slumber. Oh, I just heard you reciting from The Mask of Anarchy by Shelley but, you know, the opponents are still slashing and stabbing, maiming and hewing – and there are no hot flushes on guilty cheeks.”

“But, mark my words, Martin, they will feel ashamed of their actions, one day, just wait and watch.”

“Yes, I am still waiting for the realisation of my elusive dream….” King remarked with a distant look in his eyes.

“I am told, down below hugging is not allowed! What a dystopian world it is turning into, unimaginable! No one is hugging or even shaking hands.” King said, inadvertently pulling away his hand which he had extended.

“Oh Martin, Don’t be funny, tactility is not taboo here, and we are at liberty to shake hands. No social distancing here. It is high time people shed their mammoth egos — look what they have reduced the world to — it is so scary.”

They hugged and shook hands warmly, their eyes twinkling merrily and the birds once again burst into a happy crescendo of chirps.  

“I love this spinning wheel,” Martin said, casting appreciative glances at it. Bapu chortled in mirth, which was almost juvenile.

“You know, Martin, Gurudeb, my great friend, laughed at me for my charkha obsession, chuckled at what he thought were my idiosyncrasies, but I stuck to them – I was known for my obstinate nature, you know, and continue spinning here. It is just a symbol, actually. We need to be self-sufficient. This is what I was trying to prove.”

“Yes, you spoke the language of symbols, even your clothes symbolized the rampant poverty in your country. But no one seems to be bothered about poverty and homelessness even in the USA.”

“You know, that reminds me of an incident. It was the year 1916 and I had been invited by Annie Besant for the inauguration of Banaras Hindu University, I was shocked to see the bedecked princes sitting on the dais, giving me cold looks when I walked up to the stage, almost half- naked.” He again chuckled, looking affectionately at King.
“I gave them a piece of my mind, when they started talking of India’s poverty. Feeling humiliated, some of the princes left the dais.” He added with a naughty grin. King smiled too, with a wistful look in his eyes.
 
“Bapu, you taught me a lot of things; it was because of you that love and forgiveness became the bedrock of my life. It was long back that I had decided that hate was too heavy a burden to carry, so I also stuck to love and tried to spread it, even when the odds were heavily loaded against us.

“You know, when the segregationists bombed my house on January 30, 1956, (Oh, it is quite uncanny – the date is also the date when they had killed you in 1948) almost killing my wife and seven-month-old Yolande, I seethed in rage and the whole night tossed and turned in bed, waiting for the morn, so that I could get a gun permit and kill the person who had tried to destroy my family. The next morning after a lot of mulling over, I had emerged from the dark night, a true Gandhian.”

“Well, you embarrass me, Martin. I did nothing, I still maintain that there is no such thing as Gandhi-ism. Love and Truth are as old as the hills.  Yes, I remember hearing here that when Izola Curry tried to stab you, you forgave her too.”

“Well, she needed the healing touch, Bapu. She was unwell. And this virtue of forgiveness, I always maintain, has been your inspiration. You know, Bapu, it was in the year 1950 that I had been introduced to you — the man Gandhi — by Mordecai Johnson, I was so impressed that I immediately bought half a dozen books on you — you were responsible for removing all the confusion in my mind.”

“Well, I am really touched by your words. You know I was born in India but was made in S Africa. Pietermaritzburg was the turning point in my career. When they hurled me out of the first-class compartment on a very cold day because of my colour, I was devastated by the rampant racism. The conductor called me a coolie.”   

 “When I visited India in 1959, and went to a school in Kerala, the principal introduced me as fellow Dalit from the USA.  For a moment I was flabbergasted, but then realized that is exactly what I was,” grinned Martin.“You know when I put the wreath at your Samadhi* in Rajghat, I had a fuzzy feeling all over.”

“Dalit lives still don’t matter in India. I am indeed devastated.
You know, just the other day, I heard this gut wrenching news of a nineteen year old Dalit girl being gang-raped in Hathras, UP. I am still stunned into speechlessness. I keep hanging my head in shame — alas, this alone is what I can do.”

“This is indeed so heartbreaking. You know, Black lives still don’t matter in the USA. People are brutally kneed into breathlessness. Sitting here I can do nothing but wring my hands in rage. I cannot breathe… I cannot breathe…”

 “It was on 28 August, 1963, that you gave that iconic I have a dream speech at the Lincoln memorial, pleading for an end to racism, but, alas, things still have not changed.”

“Yes, it is so sad. I can still hear the ear-splitting applause as I said, ‘I have a dream that my four little children will one day be known not by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character.’ I am still dreaming –dreaming – dreaming…Hope someday my dream will be realized.”

“I heard your twelve-year-old granddaughter, Yolande Renee King gave a very powerful speech on August 28, 2020, and many organizations joined forces to March on Washington, in a call for justice. This was indeed commendable. ”

“Well, I am indeed so proud of her, I still maintain that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere, hope this injustice and unfairness is banished from this earth.” King suddenly wiped a tear which trickled down his cheek as the words, “Papa King, we won’t forget”, fell into his ears.

“I am so proud of my granddaughter Renee. Bapu, isn’t it weird that we were killed because we talked of equality, love and forgiveness?”

“Can love ever be killed? They are deluded if they think so!  Can forgiveness ever be obsolete? NEVER! Hope this vaccine of love is a success. They have no option left, they will have to stick to love, come what may.” 

“I still maintain, over the bleached bones and jumbled remains of civilisations
 are written the words too late- too late – too late ….” Yes, if they don’t follow, love and non-violence, it will be too late …Ah, there comes Coretta*.”

“Ah, I notice she is chatting with Kasturba. What a heartwarming scene!”

Bapu and King were last seen sitting amidst a group of people singing the Ramdhun*, while King tapped his feet, time and again, raising a robust fist, saying, ‘we shall overcome’ and Kasturba and Coretta happily joined the refrain.

The birds and candy floss clouds were in throes of divine ecstasy, excitedly discussing the latest breaking news that the vaccine of love used on the humans down below had been a resounding success.

*Charkha — Spinning Wheel

*Samadhi – Memorial monument

*Ramdhun – Hymns to Rama

*Coretta King – Martin Luther King’s wife

*Kasturba – Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s wife

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Dr. Santosh Bakaya is an academician, poet, essayist, novelist, biographer, Ted Speaker and creative writing mentor. She has been critically acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi [Ballad of Bapu]. Her Ted Talk on the myth of Writers’ Block is very popular in creative writing Circles . She has more than ten books to her credit , her latest books are a biography of Martin Luther King Jr. (Only in Darkness can you see the Stars) and Songs of Belligerence (poetry). She runs a very popular column Morning meanderings in Learning And Creativity.com.

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Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author.

Categories
Poetry

Nandini

Written and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

I couldn’t ask Nandini if she had school education. 
I only asked a foreign student excellent in Bengali about her age.

The girl, understanding only English such as brother, sister and thanks 
Was the last daughter of a roti shopkeeper,
Located at the small street near the post office in Shantiniketan, West Bengal,
There was Nandini’s small shop along with fruit shops and bike shops.

Cows passing by would thrust their heads suddenly
Into the shop thatched with bamboo stems.

One Korean poet said he had seen the girl when she was seven.
Her bones had grown until now, at the age of fourteen, selling chai and roti.
In this district, goats and ducks, even dogs and cows, grow up by themselves.
They do not pierce the cow’s nose nor pull them by reins.
The only thing that hinders the cows are the chains around the trees.
The only thing hindering the sleep of dogs are so many steps and vehicle horns.

Maybe Nandini also has grown up like that,
Delivering the dishes of roti and washing the glasses of chai,
Yelling at the two babies of the older sisters,
She might learn about the world hearing the customers’ talk over their shoulders.
How long had she had bare feet? The toes pressed out from sandals looked like tree stumps.

My returning back to my country has nothing to do with Nandini.
She only smiled brightly twinkling her eyes at my small gift.
I wished she would meet a good man not wanting a dowry,
And become a nice mother of children, like her elder sister,
All together with her brothers and sisters and strong and diligent mother,
Dissolving the tragic memory of her father’s suicide.

Nandini smiled though I told her to close her mouth,
Though I didn’t ask her to say cheese to make her smile.
When did she learn to smile in front of a camera?
There lived a flower-like little girl selling chai near the old house of poet R. Tagore.

Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple books of poetry. Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal to name a few. E-mail: choiihlwha@hanmail.net

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Categories
Slices from Life

Bapu walked here

By Lina Krishnan

The corridors of time. The author’s school in Delhi’s Mandir Marg.

At my school, on the 30th of January, at ten minutes to eleven, a bell would ring once, like a Buddhist gong. It was a reminder to keep silence; for this was the hour and the moment when Mahatma Gandhi was gunned down. It was a time to reflect on his message and his life.

While these few minutes of silence might be common practice across India in those days, our school also had more permanent reminders of Gandhiji; there was a sculpted bust of his with a sign that said: Bapu walked here.

As young children, we had the mistaken impression that he had walked from here, and not from Birla House, to his last prayer meeting where the assassin met him; later we realised that was not so; he had merely visited earlier. Perhaps from the Harijan Basti* next door, where older students from our school went to take non-formal classes with the children of the community.

We too were sent, when a little older, to continue this form of teaching. To be frank, we did not feel much like teaching, nor did the children there like studying with newbies like us. At the time, envy was the only emotion we felt at their lack of educational fetters, a sort of Tom Sawyer meets the free-spirited Huckleberry Finn scenario. We would have to return to our classes, strict teachers and tons of homework, while those fortunate beings could fly kites and run about. After a few visits when they relaxed with us, it dissolved into fun and games and that was better than our amateur attempts to teach them.

It was years before I realised that we were the students there, learning life lessons about a world beyond the trappings of our public school life and middle class existence. In this, his birthday month, I would like to think of an old man, schooled in British law courts, yet spending a life outside, fighting both the Empire and injustice on many levels. He was probably nudging us in a puckish way, to walk in his footsteps, towards the not so privileged and to discover the symbiotic web of life in the human ecosystem.

*Harijan Basti: A low caste colony

Lina Krishnan is a poet, abstract artist and photographer in Pondicherry. She has a chapbook of nature verse, Small Places, Open Spaces, with Australian poet valli poole. 

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Categories
Poetry

Bapu and Sabarmati

By Gopal Lahiri

Sabarmati, you stroke the current ripples,

evoke in me song, holding the bird tweets,

a sky we are filling.

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I can see the other side of the river bank

it’s sandy blocks and concrete heights-

shadows falling in silence.

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There you are standing tall with a stick,

your eyes look sharp behind rimless glass

shining in twilight.

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Remember the shadows lurking behind

your words carry the low clouds,

up above the orange heavens.

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Let me wake you up to the cries of

a new born parable, a silent muse

windows open into meanings.

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And then you walk like the sun 

towards west and west,

darkness coming in fast.

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I imagine walking with you

searching for your hand to take me to the

land of peace and harmony. 

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At night

on the edge of sleep

Sabarmati washes all my pains and wounds.

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Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator. He is the author of 22 books published including fourteen volumes of poems in English (four jointly edited anthology of poems) and eight volumes of poems and prose in Bengali, His poems have been published across various journals and anthologies worldwide. He has recently edited the book titled ‘Jaillianwala Bagh- Poetic Tributes’. He has attended various poetry festivals in India and abroad. He is published in 12 countries and in 10 languages. He lives in Kolkata, India.

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Categories
Essay

Without Protest : On the meaning of Searching for Truth

By Dustin Pickering

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the root of the verb protest is “to make a solemn declaration” or as a noun it refers to a pledge. Throughout The Story of My Experiments with Truth, Mohandas Gandhi notes the oaths he carried with him at various lengths. In Part One: Chapter VIII, he resolves to never steal again after he began atonement and reconciliation with his father. At a young age, he shows devout courtesy to truth. He dedicates experience of life to the pursuit of truth hence the book’s subtitle.

Later he swears an oath to his mother to not consume meat while visiting England. His Hindu faith, of which he claims ignorance, requires vegetarianism. He studies and reads on his visit to learn dietary regulations on his own that keeps his promise. When he returns home, he learns of her passing. Throughout his life he continues a strict diet without meat or milk, and his wife Kasturbabai, is also expected to abide. Even under severe threat of losing her life, Kasturbabai refused the doctor’s advice to have beef broth. Gandhi demonstrates such commitment to his ideals that he writes, “Let no one cavil at this, saying that God can never be partial, and that He has no time to meddle with the humdrum affairs of men.” His abidance to truth and oath seem to uncover God’s existence within the human sphere.

The land of India has not changed much since Gandhi’s protests and life devotions. What then is the purpose of a man of God? Gandhi notes the lack of sanitation and negligence of the poor. He is appalled that Indians would defecate in the sacred of river Ganges. He opposes the caste system and refuses to wear the sacred thread until Hinduism improves and serves the people’s well being. However he is not a bigot as he notes, “In matters of religion beliefs differ, and each one’s supreme in himself.” Gandhi’s dedication to moral improvement becomes a passion he shares with his fellow countrymen by founding schools to eradicate prejudice and ignorance so that the poor can become stronger in their self-reliance. Gandhi is not just a political activist as we understand it, but he is also a moral leader and a clear signal that God indeed exists and is concerned with human affairs.

India’s national life and character may not have improved according to Gandhi’s liking or expectations. He frequently suggests that God allows his efforts to flounder. He cannot explain why but suffers his disappointment gladly. He offers this piece of wisdom that all religions aspire to express, “The salvation of the people depends upon themselves, upon their capacity for suffering and sacrifice.” The people of India have their leader and learned to love him—however, the next important task for them is to learn to reverence each other in their habitude. It is always up to a people to secure their own blessings and reconcile with the Spirit.

Satyagraha, or passive resistance, is not a tool of destruction or self-interest. In the Autobiography, Gandhi expresses that passive resistance intends to improve the enemy’s well-being also. This is a powerful statement of political reality, that to resist you must hold the deepest compassion for the opponent and maintain moral strength and fearlessness. In the world today, such moral sacrifice and leadership appears to be absent.

In the United States, riots and violence broke out in protest of police brutality and racial injustice. The movement Antifa, a decentralised ideology and tool, wages violence with right-wing counter protests in a display of moral cowardice. Without securing blame, these street battles escalate and small businesses are ravaged. Government buildings are burned to the ground. A legal analyst on CNN requested that the viewers not focus on the destruction of property because the pain of the Black community is of greater importance. This response was in reference to the killing of Rayshard Brooks in Atlanta, Georgia. In his drunk fear of being sent back to prison, Brooks stole a taser from police and resisted arrest, eventually being shot by the officer who then tried to administer CPR.

Some scholars of literature compare Black American fiction to dalit fiction. Dalits are the untouchables of the Indian caste system. Gandhi’s social mission was to unify people of all castes, faiths, and walks of life. Frequently meeting with people of different faiths, his life effort was in understanding and showing compassion even to those with whom he disagreed. The caste system was something he wished to see overcome so that Hinduism could bear equal measure to other faiths. As mentioned earlier, he would not wear the sacred thread because he felt it was a symbol of superiority. He disavowed himself of self-righteousness.

His ideal State is one without violence, yet he maintained realistic understanding of the nature of the State. He wrote, “If national life becomes so perfect as to become self-regulated, no representation becomes necessary.” For this writer, such anarchism is the height of mature political ideals. Gandhi served this ideal of a nonviolent state with utmost clarity and dedication.

Finally I must refer to the great statement in the Autobiography on language. As a poet, I am deeply engaged with the thought presented, “Human language can but imperfectly describe God’s ways.” The devotee of Truth must recognize that our world is predicated on falsehood and deceit. Truth, it seems Gandhi suggests, is a lifelong pursuit in virtuous effort and suffering. Sincere willingness to undergo the difficult pursuit of Truth was Gandhi’s mission: however, in no way has he completed it for us. After all, it is our own choice to renounce the world and defy it’s injustices.

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Dustin Pickering is the founder of Transcendent Zero Press and editor-in-chief of Harbinger Asylum. He has authored several poetry collections, a short story collection, and a novella. He is a Pushcart nominee and was a finalist in Adelaide Literary Journal’s short story contest in 2018. He is a former contributor to Huffington Post. 

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Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author.

Categories
Poetry

Light a Candle

By Aminath Neena

You, light a candle in your heart
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Fill your soul with the brightness of its entourage
Let not this world be a selfish mirage
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Let them kill your roseate dreams
Ignore your poignant pleas
Squash your path in mud
Drench the innocent in blood
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But you, light a candle in your heart
.
Fill your soul with the brightness of its entourage
Let not this world be a selfish mirage
.

Let them spill out the venom
Attack the one without any weapon
Destroy your precious homes
Ruin your auspicious hopes

But you, light a candle in your heart
.
Fill your soul with the brightness of its entourage

Let not this world be a selfish mirage
.
Let them smudge your garments
With their gratuitous comments
.
Let them do all the damage
While they can still rampage
.
But you, light a candle in your heart
.
Fill your soul with the brightness of its entourage
Let not this world be a selfish mirage
.
Let them create havoc in the land
But this you must understand
Surely you will overcome this phase
For, the oppressed move closest to God’s space
.
Until then, light a candle in your heart
.
Fill your soul with the brightness of its entourage
Let not this world be a selfish mirage

.

And if not a candle, a tiny spark
Will definitely, drive away the darkness at large.

.

Aminath Neena is an English lecturer from the picturesque archipelago nation of the Maldives. Currently, she works at Maldives National University. An avid lover of words, poetry is a hobby closest to her heart. Her poems usually revolve around themes such as love, relationships, spirituality, society, and global issues. According to her, poetry is the gateway to spirituality because it resonates purity like no other. Among her achievements include having her poem featured in ‘Words And Music’, a programme on BBC Radio. She believes her writings to be a reflection of her thoughts, her feelings and her life.

.

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

Categories
Poetry

Peace & Resistence

By Dr. Piku Chowdhury

Peace and Resistance

For the love of myself, I can’t shut out the drumbeats

Reverberating in the primitive groves of ancient times

Daughter of shadows, you burn in shades of my heart.

I can’t jump over untouched spaces that

Hide under urban gloss, overlying putrid fungal stretch.

If Vemula burns and daughter of soil

Is groped with soiled nails and golden fangs

The untouchable touched with carrion lust,

For the love of self, a daughter of a sacred land

Where Shanti flows in honeyed air, and

Is enshrined in the fluttering flag,

I allow the primitive drums to roar

strange rhythms loud, and echo in blood.

For the love of myself, I strain my ear

To the silent resilience of nation’s father.

And then — I wield the reticent pen

Pregnant with the pent-up pain

And catch the helpless weeping rain

To create a song woven in weft

Of Bapu’s sublime dreams of justice

Liberty, equality, reverence, mercy-

The flowing lines an obeisance

to the power of peaceful resistance.

Against dismal discrimination,

Corruption and exploitation.

The lines take flight like the winged herald

Of peace; the rhythm echoes in groves

With the power of a lonesome figure, righteous in resistance

Marching erect with might of peace; undaunted will

That breathes new life in every faltering existence.

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Dr. Piku Chowdhury is a teacher in a government aided post graduate college of education and an author of 8 books. She has published more than 70 articles in international journals and acted as resource person in many national and international seminars and symposia. She has published poems, acted as editor,  translator and core committee member of curriculum revision in the state. 

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