Author: borderlesssg1

Categories
Stories

A Lump Stuck in the Throat

Nasir Rahim Sohrabi

A Balochi short story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi translated by Fazal Baloch

The bus had stopped in front of the roadside hotel, but the dust from the road still hung around it. The passengers, before getting off completely, were busy brushing the dust off the from their travel. The fatigue caused by the delipidated road was visible on their faces and in the creases of their clothes. I had been following the bus and was now sitting under the thatched shelter, drinking tea from a small boy’s cup. The sun was at its peak, glaring down like an angry man. The grime from the boy’s hands on the hot teacup had not yet dried when a red ambulance pulled up in front of the hotel. The dirt and dust stuck to it showed clearly that it had travelled a long way. Two men got out, dusted their clothes, and walked straight toward the water to wash their faces and hands.

The hotel waiter watched them closely. Then the back door of the ambulance opened and their third companion stepped out. His shoulders seemed burdened with many years, and he walked forward with heavy steps until he reached the shade of the shelter. He greeted everyone, and sat down leaning against a wooden pillar. A glass of water was placed before him, but he didn’t touch it. His eyes remained fixed on the ambulance, from which dust continued to rise as though it were still on the road.

After a while, the other two men joined him. Their faces were clean now, but the dust still clung to their ears, eyes, and nostrils. They ordered food. To their third companion they said only, “Come, let’s eat.” But he kept looking at the ambulance fixedly. They didn’t ask him again.

The young boy who had been watching him from a distance placed my tea before me and went toward the man. He touched his shoulder and asked,
“Why aren’t you eating?”

The man was startled as if waking from a deep sleep. His gaze shifted from the ambulance to the boy’s face. He looked at him the way someone, seeing the world for the first time after eye surgery.

“I can never eat alone,” he said. “Food never sits well with me unless someone eats with me. Will you sit here with me?”

The boy nodded.

Offering him the first bite, the man said, “I’ve always fed him the first bite. Until I fed him, he wouldn’t eat at all.”

“Who was he?” the boy asked.

The question seemed to trouble him. His teeth tried to chew the morsel while his eyes stayed fixed on the boy’s face. I saw clouds of dust gather in his eyes, and their darkness spread over his face. Pain began to pour like rain. Lakes of grief rose within him. His breath grew heavy. At last, composing himself, he said: “He was my son. But he had taken my father’s place in my life. When he was a child, I fed him. But over time, I became used to eating the bites he offered me. His mother left him and me long ago. She went away with those who were demanding water and electricity along with the young, the old, and the children. I pleaded with her not to go, but she didn’t listen. She left and never returned. At first, people wrote poems about her. But now, people have too much water in their eyes and too much brightness from electricity in their homes. Now they’re concerned only with their own reflection. She once lived in people’s memories, but the world has forgotten her now.”

After a pause, his eyes drifted again toward the ambulance, though the rain inside him didn’t stop.

“He was in a hurry too, just like his mother. He was always in a rush for everything. He would run to school and never delay returning home. He grew up before my eyes. One day he said to me, ‘Now you sit and rest. It’s my turn to look after you. I’ll feed you now.’ I insisted that my turn wasn’t over yet, but he was in a hurry and won the argument. Then he joined Captian Qasim’s boat as helmsman. But he didn’t stay there long. A year later he became a sailor on Ibrahim’s boat. He never hid anything from me, but after joining Ibrahim, I seldom knew when he left for the sea or when he came home. Whenever I asked, he only said, ‘Whenever the boss orders, we’re ready to go.’

This time too he was in a rush. The moment he came home, he said, ‘We’re leaving for the deep sea. We’ll be back in a few days.’ I wanted to stand up and hug him goodbye, but before I could rise, he had already stepped out the door. Then news came that their boat had caught fire. It didn’t sink, but it was badly burnt. Thanks to the boss, they sent us to Karachi by air. But maybe this time it was the order of the Great Boss. Or maybe the son was in a hurry to go to his mother. He didn’t stay in Karachi even for a day.”

The bus horn blared and the passengers hurried toward it. The boy got up too and began to put on his sandals.

“I haven’t even eaten yet,” the man said. “Where are you going?”

“Look, the bus is leaving. I have to hurry,” the boy replied.

The sun had now slipped behind the western mountains. The shelter had emptied. The red ambulance was gone too. But the old man still sat leaning against the wooden pillar, his eyes fixed on the road. The bus sped off, trailing dust behind it.

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Nasir Rahim Sohrabi lives in Gwadar, Balochistan. He occasionally writes short stories. This story originally appeared in Monthly Balochi, Quetta in year 2000 and translated and published with  permission from the author.

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. 

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Categories
Poetry

Still, I Dance Alone…

By Laila Brahmbhatt

BETWEEN SONGS

We speak through 
what goes unspoken 
like singers between songs.
We could move as dancers do, 
through unrehearsed steps. 
Let’s speak a language 
of fluent silences, quiet breaths. 
When I yearn to sing and dance with you,
I rewind our unheard conversations. 
The tape holds only silence, 
Yet still, I sing.
Still, I dance alone.
From Public Domain

Laila Brahmbhatt, a Kashmiri/Jharkhand-rooted writer and Senior Immigration Consultant in New York, has published haiku and haibun in several international journals, including Cold Moon Journal and Failed Haiku.

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Categories
Review

This Could be A Love Poem for You

Book Review by Gazala Khan

Title: This Could Be a Love Poem for You

Author: Ranu Uniyal

Publisher: Red River

This Could Be a Love Poem for You by Ranu Uniyal, is her fifth collection of poems. Uniyal is a passionate bilingual poet at heart, a retired professor of English literature by profession and an inspiration to many budding poets. Across the Divide (2006), The Day We Went Strawberry Picking in Scarborough (2018), December Poems (2012) and Saeeda Ke Ghar (In Saeeda’s home, Hindi, 2021) are some other significant contributions made by the poet.

“Poetry and beauty are always making peace. When you read something beautiful, you find co-existence; it breaks walls down.” A quote by Mahmoud Darwish is reflective of Dr Uniyal’s poignant portrayal of human existence layered with love, grief, crises and relationships with the One (Self) and the World.

The collection is an aesthetic delight that traverses the heart of the readers with astute directness and a distinct confessional tone. It has three segments: ‘Dust My Regrets’, ‘Be a Good Girl’ and ‘Thy Eternal Grace’. Collectively, there are 62 poems in all.

The poems start from the personal and move to the universal  with their intricate details. The poetic sensibilities take us to the female imaginary of the physical, psychological and spiritual domains. If Kamala Das in the 20th century introduced the readers to her brazenness in poetry, then Ranu Uniyal in the 21st century coerces her readers to travel from the common routine to the coveted spiritual abode found in the creative doctrine of poetry. The poetic depth can also be inferred through the rhythmic structure, the play with the words through alliteration and rhymes introduce jibes in poems such as ‘The Shop and the Shutter’.

The themes of love, identity, self-expression, language and power, old age, body’s fragility, vulnerability, precarity, loss, women and domesticity, motherhood, death and memory are persistent throughout the anthology. She poetically contours the theme of human existence and its distinct flavours like WB Yeats in Sailing to Byzantium with — “That is no country for old men.”

The poetic pondering over the question of ‘Self’ or recurrent declaration of ‘I’ is developed through linguistic, racial, and geographical temporal identities. For example, the poet’s ‘Garhwali’ identity is camouflaged with the the more modern Anglophone identity. The declaration of the personal “self” and dedication to some personalities like Mohini Mangalik, S. A. Hamid and Amma takes us to the glints of the poet’s biography in the most poetic manner. Gulzar once uttered that, “we poets are errant grains of dust… life takes us and tosses us, we do not know where it will end.” The poems hail the essence of life’s evolutionary journey, especially the one of experience and the mature years of life.

Her poems present multiple binaries: of love and grief, seller and buyer, life and death, through picturesque imagery. Additionally, the poet familiarises the readers with the references to the pagan myths from diverse cultures, Christ, Nachiketa, Yama, Isis, which also introduce us to the eco-folklorists’ traditions which is a delight to explore.

She writes in aphorisms at times and critiques the personal and public crises. The poem, ‘Only Grief’, provocatively emotes the climate crisis as an apocalyptic warning through a distant voice from the future, wherein, critiquing the war-torn present world and the catastrophic space left for the progeny of the future.

We sang dangerously of the failure.
Of our prodigal ancestors.

Another poem, ‘From One Life to Another’, reflects a similar concern about the cataclysmic/tragic climate situations left for the future:

Sparrows and crows have 
been hushed to silence.
The once-green acacia shrieked
as they chopped her limbs.

Nature and motherhood hold each other’s hands in sharing the identity of exploration and exploitation. Furthermore, the intricate details through the lens of the ecofeminist poetic sensibilities highlight the diversified literary corpus in the anthology. The same poem states further:

I was once a tree- all green.
Very tall, bobbing in the wind.
I had leaves, branches.
And occasional flowers.
I, too, had a name.
A woman. A mother.
Once a tree.
I brush them aside,
My tears, an upright foliage
Lying heavy on my chest.

Dr Uniyal can be set alongside the “literary greats” like Kamla Das and Sujata Bhatt.

The usage of the colloquial vernacular Hindi words and phrases makes it more personal, tinctured with cultural aesthetics.

The eponymous poem in the anthology, ‘This Could Be a Love Poem for You’ is raw and personal between the one waiting for the other partner far away from a distance is the talisman of the relationship, the theme that finds its way again and again in the poet’s poetic oeuvre. This colourful and mature anthology glossed with distinct sonorous imagery could indeed be a reflective love poem for the present and for our progeny, the rightful claimants, who would reminisce over the past.  It’s a love poem about resilience and human existence that shall follow the hearts of the readers for a long, dialogic course of expressions and insights.

Gazala Khan teaches in the Department of English at Doon University, Dehradun, India. She has published poetry in magazines such as Setu, Borderless, and The Fictional Café and has been consistently working on creative and literary projects.

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Categories
Bhaskar's Corner

The Riverine Journey of Bibhuti Patnaik

By Bhaskar Parichha

Bibhuti Patnaik (born: 1937). Photo provided by Bhaskar Parichha

Bibhuti Patnaik’s literary career unfolds like a long river—steady, persistent, and quietly transformative—running through the landscape of Odia literature for more than six decades. From the late 1950s onward, he wrote with a rare combination of emotional honesty and narrative discipline, giving voice to the evolving inner lives of middle-class Odias.

His writing emerged at a time when Odia literature was searching for a new expression after Independence, trying to reconcile classical traditions with modern psychological sensibilities. Into this space stepped a young writer who was not concerned with ideology or grand social systems, but with the stirrings of the human heart.

A defining feature of Pattanaik’s oeuvre is his meticulous representation of the Odia middle class. His novels, whether Aswamedhara Ghoda (Horse of Aswamedha), Sesha Basanta (Last Spring), or Prathama Sakala (First Dawn), foreground the ethical tensions, emotional fragilities, and moral negotiations embedded in quotidian life.

What distinguished Patnaik from many of his contemporaries was his unwavering commitment to emotional realism—a faith that the complexities of human relationships, especially love and desire, could carry as much literary weight as any political or social theme.

In his earliest works, Patnaik revealed a sensitivity to the fragile moral dilemmas that shape everyday life. His characters were not heroic figures or tragic archetypes; they were ordinary men and women negotiating expectations, impulses, and the confines of middle-class respectability. His prose, clean and unadorned, immediately established a new relationship with the reader—intimate, direct, and unpretentious.

For Odia readers of the 1960s, accustomed to more stylized narrative forms, this was refreshing. Young readers in particular embraced his novels, drawn to a writer who articulated emotional experiences with clarity and sincerity. Even at this early stage, Patnaik showed a remarkable ability to create female characters with depth and interiority, granting them agency in a literary culture that often placed women on symbolic pedestals rather than treating them as independent subjects.

As Patnaik moved into the 1970s and 1980s, his literary world expanded. The emotional tensions that shaped his early novels did not disappear, but they began to encounter new social realities. Odisha was changing—economically, culturally, and morally—and Patnaik’s novels became sensitive mirrors to these shifts. Urbanisation, job insecurity, the erosion of joint families, and the anxieties of modern aspiration found their way into his fiction.

He continued to write about intimate relationships, but these relationships were now embedded in broader pressures: generational conflict, economic burdens, and shifting gender dynamics. His characters struggled not only with their feelings but also with the demands of a changing society. Through this evolution, Patnaik maintained a narrative clarity that made his writing accessible to a wide audience, allowing him to be both widely read and critically noticed.

The 1990s marked a turning point in his career. While he continued to produce fiction, Patnaik increasingly turned his attention toward literary criticism and self-reflection. His essays—fearlessly honest, sometimes provocative—revealed a writer deeply engaged with the ethical health of the literary world. He wrote about the politics of awards, the failures of institutions, the erosion of literary standards, and the compromises that authors often make.

These writings unsettled the comfortable spaces of Odia literary culture but also enriched the discourse by demanding accountability and sincerity. At a time when many writers preferred diplomatic silence, Patnaik chose frankness. This choice, while controversial, made him an indispensable voice in understanding the dynamics of Odia letters in the late twentieth century.

His memoirs and autobiographical writings in the 2000s and 2010s further broadened his contribution. They are not mere recollections of a long literary life but important historical documents that offer insight into the personalities, politics, and conflicts of Odisha’s literary circles. The candour with which he narrates his experiences—sometimes tender, sometimes critical—makes these works stand apart in Odia autobiographical literature.

They reveal a writer who, despite being celebrated, never hesitated to critique himself or the milieu in which he worked. The tone of these later writings is marked by a late-style simplicity: calm, distilled, and enriched by decades of observation. Unlike many of his generation who grew stylistically heavier with age, Patnaik’s prose became lighter, clearer, and emotionally more resonant.

One of the most enduring features of his work is his representation of women. Throughout his career, Patnaik returned again and again to the complexities of female experience—women torn between personal desire and social expectation, women who resist, women who compromise, and women who assert themselves. His empathy for his female characters is evident not in idealisation but in the dignity he grants to their doubts, choices, and vulnerabilities. In a literary tradition long dominated by male narratives, this alignment with women’s emotional truth marked a significant departure and set a model for subsequent writers.

What ties Patnaik’s diverse phases together—novels, essays, memoirs—is an ethical thread. At the heart of his writing lies an insistence on sincerity: sincerity in feeling, sincerity in storytelling, sincerity in literary practice. His criticism emerges from the same commitment that shaped his fiction—the belief that literature must remain close to life, uncorrupted by pretension or institutional manipulation. Even when he critiques, he does so with the conviction that honesty is necessary for a healthy literary culture.

Today, looking back at his multi-decade journey, it becomes clear that Bibhuti Patnaik’s importance extends far beyond his widespread readership. He shaped the emotional vocabulary of several generations of Odia readers. He penned some of the most psychologically astute portrayals of love and moral conflict in Odia fiction.

He exposed the fissures in literary institutions through his bold essays. And he preserved the history of Odia literary life through his memoirs. His evolution—from a young chronicler of quiet emotions to a mature critic of cultural politics—mirrors the transformations of post-Independence Odisha itself.

Bibhuti Patnaik’s legacy is defined by this continuity of purpose. Whether writing a tender love story or a sharp critical essay, he remained committed to the integrity of human experience. His work endures because it speaks, with remarkable clarity, to the fears, hopes, and contradictions that shape ordinary lives.

 In doing so, he carved a place for himself as one of the most authentic voices in modern Odia literature—unshakeable in sincerity, unafraid of truth, and unforgettable in the emotional clarity of his storytelling.

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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and 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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Categories
Poetry

When The Tide Turns

By Ramzi Albert Rihani

On the sidewalk of his existence,
he signs a lease for his coming days.
He earns a license of freedom
that puts him above the king of kings.

He’s a drifter waiting for the tide to turn
but happy if it never does
cause what he feels is the envy of people,
what he does not have is their fear.
On the surface, they pity him.
In the depths of their soul, they envy him.

Their expectation leads to disappointment.
Their defeat sounds like confinement.
His truth smells like liberation 
and his liberation provides him with freedom.

Fortunate are those who have very little,
for they may not know that they own the world.
Poor are those who have a lot, 
for they may not know that they own nothing.

He sits on the sidewalk 
lays back on his blanket,
his pillow is deeper than the ocean.
He watches the stars,
wishes the kings could share his view,
and wonders if the tide will ever turn.

Ramzi Albert Rihani is a Lebanese-American poet who resides in Maryland, USA. His poems have been published in the US, Canada, UK, and Ireland. He received the 2024 Polk Street Review first-place poetry award.

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Categories
Opinion

Cracking Exams?

By Gower Bhat

Nun chai, traditional pink tea from Kashmir. From Public Domain

The father sat across from me in a small tea shop in Srinagar, stirring his cup of nun chai. His face was lined with worry. His daughter had just enrolled in a well-known coaching centre, aiming to crack the NEET exam[1]. “The fees are high,” he said quietly. “We’ve had to dip into our savings. But what choice do we have?”

In Kashmir, the pursuit of higher education has led to a boom in private coaching centres. These institutions promise success in competitive exams, which have become almost essential for aspirants to institutions of higher learning. But this trend has brought significant financial and emotional burdens to families and students alike.

Over the past decade, Kashmir has seen a rapid increase in private coaching centres, especially in Srinagar. The cost of enrolling in these coaching centres is substantial. Fees can range from Rs50,000 to Rs150,000 per year, depending on the course and the institution’s reputation. For many families in the region, this represents a significant portion of their annual income. The financial strain is even greater when multiple children in a family seek such coaching, leading to difficult choices and sacrifices.

In theory, competitive exams are merit-based. But in reality, access to quality coaching has become a deciding factor. This has led to concerns that the system unfairly favours the wealthy. Children from less privileged backgrounds are often unable to afford the coaching necessary to compete, widening the educational divide.

The intense pressure to succeed in these exams takes a toll on students’ mental health. The relentless pursuit of high scores, coupled with the fear of failure, has led to increased anxiety and stress among students. In extreme cases, this pressure has resulted in self-harm or suicidal tendencies, highlighting the tragic dimensions of this educational race.

Another casualty of the coaching culture is the traditional schooling system. Many students attend school just for attendance and exams. The ‘real studying’ is perceived to take place in coaching classes. Some students even drop out of regular schools entirely, enrolling in “dummy” schools that allow them to focus solely on coaching. This shift undermines the holistic development that traditional schooling aims to provide.

Coaching institutes have turned into lucrative businesses. They hire aggressive marketing teams, use toppers’ faces on billboards, and charge extra for “elite” batches. Some teachers in these institutes earn significantly more than professors in universities. The focus has shifted from education to profit, raising concerns about the commercialisation of learning.

The rapid growth of private coaching centres has posed challenges for regulators. Concerns have been raised over the lack of a proper mechanism to regulate fee structures and ensure basic facilities for students. The absence of effective oversight has allowed some centres to prioritize profit over quality education, further exacerbating the issues faced by students and parents.

Addressing these challenges requires a multifaceted approach:

1. Strengthening Public Education: Improving the quality of education in public schools can reduce the dependency on private coaching. This includes enhancing infrastructure, updating curricula, and providing continuous teacher training.

2. Affordable Alternatives: Promoting online educational platforms that offer affordable or free resources can provide students with additional learning support without the hefty price tag associated with traditional coaching centres.

3. Mental Health Support: Integrating counselling services within schools and coaching centres can help students manage stress and build resilience, ensuring their well-being alongside academic pursuits.

4. Community Awareness: Educating parents and students about diverse career paths and the importance of holistic development can shift the focus from a narrow definition of success to a more inclusive one.

For now, parents will keep paying. Students will keep pushing. Coaching centres will keep expanding. And the question will remain—are we cracking an exam, or emptying our bank account?

The burgeoning private coaching industry in Kashmir reflects the aspirations and anxieties of a society striving for educational excellence. Balancing these ambitions with financial realities and mental well-being is crucial. As the region moves forward, a collective effort from educators, policymakers, parents, and students is essential to create an equitable and supportive educational environment.

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[1] The NEET (National Eligibility cum Entrance Test) is a national entrance examination in India for admission to undergraduate medical programs.

Gowher Bhat is a published author of both fiction and non-fiction, a columnist, freelance journalist, and educator from Kashmir. He writes about memory, place, and the quiet weight of the things we carry, often exploring themes of longing, belonging, silence, and expression. A senior columnist in several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley, he is also an avid reader and book reviewer. He believes the smallest moments can carry the deepest truths.

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Categories
Poetry

Kasheer by Saba Zahoor

From Public Domain 
KASHEER

Not Ptolemy’s Kasperia, nay, not Kashyap Mar –
Kasheer is the abode of irrevocable loss.
Homes razed to ground by centuries of betrayal:
we stand as mute specters – the ruins and I.


Kalhana, your word is lost!
Spiritual defeat has finally come to pass.
The era of pit dwellers and sun worshippers is gone,
And now the faithless grave worshippers abound.

“In time past, we were; in time future, we shall be;
Throughout the ages, we have been,” quoth Laila Arifa.
I shove back the diggers, frantic to cover
the long-lost city buried in my mind.


Kasheer might have forgotten the monster Jalodbhava,
Were it not for the wine bottles dangling from barbed wires.
I had happily lost my memory of you, until 
It was revived by the fish bones on mountain tops.


The mythical, the legendary -- that Kasheer is non-existent.
The snow endures longer than the memory of the dead.
It’s getting way too dark. Tell me a new story–
of Kasheer – the land reclaimed from the sea of sighs.

From Public Domain

Glossary

Kasperia is the ancient Greek name of Kashmir as mentioned by Ptolemy

Kashyap Mar is he abode of Kashyap, Kashmir, in Kashmiri

Kasheer is Kashmir in Kashmiri

Kalhan wrote Ratnagiri, an account of the history of Kashmir

Laila Arifa is a 14th century poetess who wrote in Kashmiri

Jalodbhava or Waterborn was a mythical demon who tormented the inhabitants of Lake Satisar in Kashmir. He was destroyed by the joint efforts of the sage Kashyap, Parvati and Vishnu. His destruction destroyed the lake and led to the formation of Srinagar, the current capital of Kashmir.

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Saba Zahoor, an engineer from Kashmir and self-styled peasant poet, views poetry as a portal to alternate realities and has been published in several literary outlets.

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Categories
Excerpt

Delhi’s Haunted Monuments

Title: Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments 

Author: Eric Chopra

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

JAMALI-KAMALI

Menacing Jinn and Forbidden Pasts

Do people who come here ask you about the jinn?’ My question lingered in the air for a bit. I was in the courtyard of a medieval mosque. At nightfall, this monument is entrancing, with its white marble dazzling against the red sandstone and the medallions on the spandrels of its pishtaq (arched entrance) appearing as glaring white eyes.

‘That’s all they mostly ask…’ said the guard as he began to dig through his pockets, looking for a key upon my request. ‘But I have my guru’s blessings, nobody has harmed me! And see this, that very guru allows me to find everything.’ He triumphantly raised his hands and dangled the keys which would open the perpetually locked gate of the graveyard that hosts the supposedly ‘haunted’ tomb adjacent to the mosque.

I remember how strong the scent of the devil’s tree, Saptaparni, was that evening. This is the fragrance of October in Delhi, playing its part as the harbinger of winter. The intensity of the aroma was unsurprising since I was surrounded by trees as I made my way through the Mehrauli Archaeological Park. The moon was aglow, and so was the Qutb Minar, (Fig. 23) India’s tallest minaret that oversees this part of the city like a powerful ancestral force.

There have been times aplenty when I have been warned to not come to this park after sunset, not only because of its forested environs but also for the unseeable forces who are believed to inhabit it. ‘At least tie your hair…’ I am told by the flower-sellers who sit in rows across the narrow road outside one of the entrances to the park. My hair, if left untied, is an invitation for the menacing jinn to follow me, and not only that, they would also leave an imprint across my cheeks: ‘Beware…they will slap you!’

Jinn are ‘intermediary’ and complex beings who are made of smokeless fire, unlike humans, who are made of clay. In Islam, both humans and jinn are subject to the Revealed Law and will be held accountable for their actions on the Day of Judgement. Like humans, jinn are considered ‘responsible beings’ as they possess the freedom to choose how they lead their lives. However, they also have unique characteristics: shape-shifters, invisible entities, and magical trickery. While the jinn do possess these abilities, their power serves as a test, and they will face consequences if they misuse it to terrorise people.

But it is not that these jinn float and reside in the many niches that this historical park is dotted with. There is a particular place where they have found refuge, at the tomb and mosque of Jamali Kamboh—a Sufi, courtier, poet, emissary, and globe-trotter. But if you ever find yourself in Mehrauli and ask anyone about him, you would never hear his name being taken alone. It is always in companionship with Kamali, the identity that local lore has given to the mystery man that Jamali is buried next to.

Together, Jamali-Kamali are found in a single-storied mausoleum as magnificent as the meaning behind Jamali’s name: the one who inspires beauty. Resembling a gem-box, it is even protected like one since special permission is required to see it from the inside, though legends will also have you believe that it must also be kept that way so as to not provoke the wrath of the jinn. The monument that is always accessible in this complex is the mosque, also built by Jamali, and to its north is where his tomb lies, in a cemetery surrounded by other open-air graves.

But on that October evening, my request to be let inside had been granted. As the guard reached the graveyard’s gate, the locks clinked and clanked, and I wondered how I would make a rather frustrating character in a horror movie, much like those who are aware of the consequences and yet become responsible for incurring the curse of the Mummy. But I didn’t have to dwell on this thought for too long for by then, the gate had been opened, and I marched purposefully towards Jamali-Kamali.

A chained wooden door shields this square tomb. To get a glimpse of the interiors, one has to walk to its northern and eastern sides which boast beautiful sandstone jalis (latticed window screens). To its north I went, lured by the devil tree’s scent marrying the aroma of the incense sticks that had been lined right under the screen. The guard told me that somebody had come earlier to the tomb to pray and had lit those sticks. ‘But even when there are no agarbattis here, I still always get a whiff of them,’ he said.

I peeked in through the screen and there they were in their shiny graves, right next to one another—Jamali and Kamali. They rest under a domed ceiling that gleams with magnificent motifs and its edges sing the verses of Jamali. It  appears as if these two spend their afterlife at peace under an ornate galaxy of red, white, and blue.

Having beheld its magic, it was puzzling. How does something so precious come to attain the reputation as one of the city’s most haunted sites? But there were more questions. About its uniqueness: how does such a pioneering sixteenth-century tomb, spanning the period between the decline and rise of two dynastic epochs, find itself in Delhi’s first city? About its multiple identities: how can this monument be a place of horrors and simultaneously a haven of sanctity and an oasis for lost histories? And inevitably, about its enigma, not only due to the jinn, but also because of Kamali: who really was this man, sometimes seen as Jamali’s pupil, at other times his friend, and often, his lover?

It is through the untangling of these various threads which tie Jamali-Kamali together that we may reach closer to understanding what makes this place so astonishing. And thus, the story can only begin at one place…

(Extracted from Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments by Eric Chopra. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025)

About the Book

Delhi is haunted—by its ghosts, its ruins, and its unending capacity for rebirth. In the shadow of medieval mosques and Mughal tombs, the past refuses to stay buried. Saints, Sultans, poets, and lovers—all linger in the city’s imagination, their stories shaping how we remember what once was.

In Ghosted, historian and storyteller Eric Chopra journeys through the capital’s most beguiling sites—Jamali-Kamali, Firoz Shah Kotla, Khooni Darwaza, the Mutiny Memorial, and Malcha Mahal—to unearth a Delhi that exists between worlds: a palimpsest where Sufis bless kings, jinn listen to grievances, and begums occupy dilapidated hunting lodges. What begins as a search for Delhi’s haunted monuments becomes a meditation on why we are drawn to the dead and how ghost stories become vessels of collective memory.

Blending archival research with folklore, myth, and reflection, Chopra paints an intimate portrait of a city forever in dialogue with its former selves. Through invasions and rebirths, he reveals that Delhi’s spirit resides not just in its monuments but in the unseen presences that linger among them.

Ghosted is a lyrical, haunting journey through the city’s spectral landscape— an invitation to listen to what its echoes tell us about memory and identity.

About the Author

Eric Chopra is a public historian, writer, media creator, podcaster, and the founder of Itihāsology, an inclusive platform dedicated to Indian history and art. He leads a range of heritage experiences at museums and monuments and designs history-musicals in which he performs as a storyteller. Chopra is the co-host of the For Old Times’ Sake podcast and Jaipur Literature Festival’s Jaipur Bytes podcast. He also writes and curates for numerous festivals and events focused on history, literature, and the performing arts.

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

Categories
Poetry

Three Poems by Cal Freeman

HAEMUS’ HEIGHTS 

A river bridge in Minneapolis,
the ragged sky all cloaked in river mist.

The only man to make the Furies weep
plaintively sings; he can no longer sleep.

In verdant meadows high above Rhodope,
shades cling to cypresses with little hope.

A backward glance in Avernus’s valley
left us these songs and ruined Eurydice.

Twice dead is dead; though hyacinths still bloom,
the rooks will leave their shadows on the moon.


EARLY AUTUMN 

A northern flicker 
kicking up small clouds 

of dust and needle duff
beneath the blue spruce 

in the yard. Some sparrows 
flit away from the lone 

land-foraging woodpecker.
I’ve seen the bird before,

I’d like to say, but it’s 
probably not the one

that drummed the soffit 
of our roof so many

mornings in a row 
a couple springs ago.


ANOTHER AUTUMN

That saw-whet owl in the boxwood
along the banks of Ecorse Creek.

Woodland sunflowers yellow above
the mud, their green leaves glistening

with water. October rain
has turned to October sun.

A culvert sings with run-off. I wonder 
if the built world will reclaim me.
Greek Mythology: Haemus and Rhodope turning into Mountains as they were punished by Zeus for calling themselves Zeus and Hera.
Greek Mythology: Eurydice dies of snakebite as she was about to be wed to her beloved Orpheus.
From Public Domain

Cal Freeman is the author of the books Fight Songs, Poolside at the Dearborn Inn, and The Weather of Our Names. He lives in Dearborn, MI, and teaches at Oakland University.

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

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

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Categories
Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

Said the Spook

(Christmas Edition)

From Public Domain

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said the spook.

“But it’s Christmas!” gasped the werewolf.

“Why does that matter?”

“Everyone should believe in ghosts at Christmas. It’s a tradition. Just think of A Christmas Carol, for instance.”

“I don’t care. I still don’t believe in them.”

“So you don’t believe in yourself?”

“Don’t be silly,” said the phantom, “a spook isn’t the same thing as a ghost. Not the same thing at all…”

“I was a ghost once,” sighed the vampire.

“What happened?” cried the ghoul.

“Well, it was like this…” began the vampire, and he proceeded to tell a garbled account of how he was once a poor traveller in an earlier century who was attacked by bandits in the forest, then his spirit rose out of his body and proceeded to haunt the bandit chieftain, making the rogue’s life a misery by possessing him and forcing him to act against his will.

The skeleton rapidly tapped an impatient foot.

“Shh!” hissed the ghoul, “you sound like a xylophone, and I am trying to listen to the vampire’s narrative.”

“Yes, but he’s drawing it out a bit, isn’t he?”

“That’s his privilege, of course.”

“How come he gets your respect and I don’t?”

“He’s a Count, but what are you? Without a shred of flesh on you, I’d say you were merely a subtraction.”

“That’s a really bad play on words,” sniffed the skeleton.

“So what? It’s a good insult…”

“Stop bickering!” growled the werewolf.

The vampire was oblivious to all this fuss. He was explaining how his ghost possessed the bandit chieftain by entering into his brain through his nose, then he would force the miscreant to dance and sing in a very silly manner and do all sorts of humiliating things. The other bandits soon abandoned their leader in dismay and went elsewhere.

“Unfortunately,” continued the vampire, his fangs gleaming in the pale moonlight, “I got trapped inside his brain. I lost my way among the tangle of synapses and couldn’t get back out!”

“That sounds scary!” remarked the phantom.

The vampire nodded and his cape swished in the night breeze. “It was absolutely terrifying, I can assure you. I rushed hither and thither, trying to escape my prison, but I was stuck for good. So, I decided to accept my fate and things got easier. I settled in and was gradually absorbed by the host body, until I became the bandit. Once this happened, I ventured forth and returned to my old ways, robbing travellers in the forest. I was satisfied. But one dark night I chanced on the wrong victim.”

“Who was it?” asked the spook.

“A werewolf! And he attacked and bit me!”

The werewolf looked sheepish. “Don’t swivel your heads at me, I had nothing to do with it, honestly.”

“No, it wasn’t you,” said the vampire.

“Maybe one of my cousins?”

“I have no idea who it was, but I only just managed to escape his teeth and claws before he devoured me, yet I was now infected, and so I turned into a werewolf myself every full moon. I guess it was fun, in a way, but finally I was tracked down by a monster hunter.”

“Did he shoot you with a silver bullet?”

The vampire nodded. “Yes, he did. But when a werewolf dies it turns into a vampire, a fact that humans keep forgetting, and I soon got revenge on him! And that’s who you see before you now: a vampire who was once a werewolf who was once a bandit chief who was once a ghost who was once a poor traveller…”

There was a long pause. The spook cleared his throat.

“So, you believe in ghosts then?”

The vampire clucked his tongue. “Of course!”

“I still don’t,” said the spook.

“You don’t believe what happens to be true?”

“No, I don’t. Why should I?”

The spook and vampire glared at each other. Before they started to bicker seriously, the phantom laughed to lighten the mood and said, “I knew a man who was the opposite of that.”

“The opposite of what?” prompted the ghoul.

The phantom adjusted his ectoplasm.

“Opposite in attitude, I mean. He had no evidence about the existence of ghosts, but he was a firm believer in them. His friends were sceptics and mocked him and so he needed to obtain proof to silence them. But in fact, he required that proof for himself even more. His name was Mr Gaston Gullible, and he did everything possible to meet a ghost. He slept in old churchyards, went for midnight walks in lonely forests, used Ouija boards in the hope of contacting the departed.”

“All without success?” asked the werewolf.

The phantom rolled his insubstantial eyes in his wispy sockets, nodded and sighed. “Nothing ever worked.”

“That’s a shame,” remarked the skeleton.

“One night, it was Christmas Eve in fact, he was sleeping in his bed when the curtains began swishing. The window wasn’t open, there was no breath of wind in his room. The rustling woke him and he sat up and blinked in the gloom and when his eyes had adjusted he saw that the curtains had bunched themselves into the shape of a person, the shape of a woman, and she raised a fabric arm and pointed directly at him.”

“What did he do?” cried the werewolf.

“He died of fright and slumped back onto the bed. Then the ghostly woman approached him and said, ‘I have waited centuries to meet the right man. You will be my husband in the next world,’ and his ghost rose from his body. She was ready to embrace him, but he shook his head and brushed past her. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but I have stopped believing in ghosts. I believed in them all my life without evidence and I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I was wasting my time. I am now a sceptic, and I don’t believe in you,’ and he passed through the wall and was never seen again.”

“That story had a twist ending,” said the ghoul.

“Yes, it did,” agreed the phantom.

The spook said, “I’ve got a twist ending too.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Would you all like to see it?”

The vampire, werewolf, ghoul, phantom and skeleton exchanged glances. Then they said together, “Why not? Go ahead.”

The spook took a deep breath, extended his thin multi-jointed arms and started spinning. He spun faster and faster, became a blur, a spiral of force, a miniature tornado. Then he whirled away through the trees, laughing and crackling with blue thunderbolts.

“Merry Christmas!” he cried as he vanished.

The others shook their heads. The skeleton shook his head so vigorously that it fell off and he had to bend down to pick it up.

“I didn’t anticipate that,” admitted the phantom.

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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

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

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