Author: borderlesssg1

Categories
Poetry

Dinosaurs Peeping over Prison Walls

 By Saranyan BV

From Public Domain 
I don’t have to pinch myself to check if I  am alive   --                                                                                             Together we tread this ochre path in a convoy of mortuary vans.
We have no issues over stopping at the gas stations now and then for refuelling. 
Most of us rush to the rest rooms, a wise guy buys sachets of glucose at the counter --orange flavour,
He  tucks the stuff into his backpack and settles down in his black van, the sachets come with plastic straws which do not decay.
I button up my trousers and board mine.
The map on dash board shows the route, 
The blue line does not show the destination though.
I get this funny feeling the place is pretty close, not more than few months. 
It would be a calm place, a camp cot kind of thing,
Or at least a hard-surfaced concrete bench 
And a place to wash with tap water.
The needlessness for God is now clear in the glare of evening twilight 
Like fish spread on the beach sand of truth.
Fish cannot close  eyes, God seem to have made them that way. 
There is some kind of curiosity left on arc of their eyes.
It makes me wonder what have I lived for? 
I gloat over my prayers, the rituals I performed day in and day out,
The images trail like ocean clouds in the river of blue sky.
My piety seem unreal at this point of time, all my piety
The vans stop at the toll gate following sombre lane discipline, 
The wise old man’s van too stops, CO2 from it spews next to mine.
He lifts and shows one of the sachets, 
Takes a small sip from it and explains over the window, 
“Time and energy is all misspent”, then takes a large sip,
His eyes squint to see where the straw enters the small hole.
I see his Adam’s apple rising and levelling, “Piety is of no use after we pass brother, it always come to that, all things in our life.”

“Belief in afterlife is stupid”, I tell the old man to keep the conversation going.
“I never had a chance to ask  dinosaurs how it came into extinction.”
He likes the way I speak with perennial eyes,  offers me a sachet through the window and expresses alignment, 
“True, the last of the dinosaurs died 65 million years ago. You know if the dinosaur had souls, those too would have died.”
This way he tries to prove souls hang around though eventually they die.
I think he invests in the concept of soul to prolong his own life after death.
His ticketing is done, the van starts ahead.
My soul died at birth,  the inevitability of death sticks on the wall
Like  residue of the gums left by Bollywood posters, 
Snatched and eaten by the city bovines.
My mom told me that the only protein city cows get is from the glue, 
She also  kept telling that milk of the city cows smell of the wheat adhesive. 
Mom is gone and she won’t be watching, all that she has taught too is gone. 
It is not about God or religion or even atheism, 
It’s about us, the dinosaurs peeping over the prison walls.

Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.

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Categories
Review

How Resilient are Forests, Rivers and Animals?

Book Review by Rakhi Dalal

Book Title: The Shoot: Stories

Author: Dhruba Hazarika

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Dhruba Hazarika is a novelist, short-story writer and columnist. The Shoot is his fourth published book, the previous three being two novels and another collection of stories. He has also been a columnist for 40 years, writing for The Telegraph, The Sentinel and The Assam Tribune. He divides his time between Guwahati and Shillong.

In The Shoot, Dhruba Hazarika offers a remarkable collection of seventeen stories set largely in the landscapes of Assam, where the lines between the human and the wild blur with lyrical precision. These are stories in which rivers, forests, and animals are not merely setting or backdrop, but players in a drama as emotional as it is elemental as we can see in the titular story. Through a careful balance of violence and tenderness, Hazarika conjures a world where the rawness of nature mirrors the inner lives of his characters, and where the most subtle gestures—a bird taking flight, a child stroking an injured animal—carry quiet revelations.

The collection is defined by this tension: the everyday friction between cruelty and compassion, solitude and connection. Hazarika’s Assam is not a romanticised escape into the natural world, but a lived-in, at times harsh territory where poachers and foresters share space with schoolchildren and aging widows. Yet amid the reality of rifles, hunting dogs, and worn-out boots, there is also grace—brief but luminous moments of understanding between humans and animals, or between people themselves.

The story, ‘The Hunt’, anchors the collection in this interplay of brutality and regret. A group of men set out into hills to hunt a deer. The thrill of the chase and the shared camaraderie are abruptly fractured when they confront the full weight of what they’ve killed—a doe carrying unborn fawns. It is a moment as visceral as it is symbolic, capturing how deeply the act of taking life reverberates, especially when one is already grieving. The story unfolds with a slow, almost meditative pace, allowing space for both awe and horror.

In ‘Elephant Country’, a herd of elephants blocks the only road to a village. As the local magistrate faces pressure to use force to reach the village because a woman is in labour, the narrative unfolds with quiet tension, exploring the fragile boundary between human authority and the natural world’s quiet resistance. While the elephants stand as a living barricade, guarding newborns in their midst, the magistrate’s ultimate decision—not to intervene—signals a moment of alignment of human instincts with nature. It is a moment when the animal and human worlds come into uneasy but essential dialogue—reminding us that the miracle of life demands not dominance, but deference.

Another story, ‘Ghostie’, revolves around a group of boys who mercilessly torment a stray dog. The tale, told with an unflinching gaze, does not moralise but instead allows the violence to unfold naturally, in all its thoughtless cruelty. What lingers is not just the fate of the dog, but the haunting change in the narrator—who comes to see, far too late, the cost of such disregard. Here again, Hazarika proves masterful in using small, personal episodes to hint at larger truths: the slow erosion of innocence, the gradual awakening of empathy.

One of Hazarika’s most distinctive strengths lies in his depiction of the natural world. Forests, rivers, birds, and animals are not incidental; they pulse with presence and meaning. A snow-white egret momentarily lifts the spirits of a tired clerk. A solitary crow returns night after night to the same veranda, evoking a sense of memory and mourning. These encounters are never mystical in a fantastical sense, but they carry the weight of the intangible—grief, love, regret, and occasionally, hope.

Woven through many of the stories is an awareness of the political and cultural fabric of Northeast India. Hazarika never foregrounds these themes, yet the region’s complex history—its insurgencies, its marginalisation, its uneasy relationship with mainstream Indian narratives—simmers beneath the surface. There is a sense of a land both remote and familiar, with its own rhythms, codes, and forms of resistance. The occasional reference to tribal customs, local deities, or community rituals further grounds the stories in their specific cultural soil.

Hazarika writes with a light, unobtrusive touch. His sentences are lean and quiet, yet they resonate. He gives space to silence, to gesture, to the unsaid. The characters, too, are often defined more by what they withhold than by what they reveal. A doctor mourning his wife, a boatman with a flute, a young boy who can’t understand his own cruelty—these are not heroic figures, but deeply human ones, faltering and flawed.

Amid the more solemn tales, there are a few that flirt with whimsy or absurdity. These diversions offer tonal contrast without ever straying too far from the book’s central themes. Even the lighter moments carry a trace of melancholy, as if joy in Hazarika’s world is always tinged with loss.

This is not just a collection about the Northeast or about the wilderness. It is about what it means to be tender in a world that wounds, and what it means to live ethically in the shadow of violence—whether that violence is inflicted on others, on animals, or on ourselves. In that sense, The Shoot is both rooted and universal, intimate and expansive.

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

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Categories
Poetry

Losing the Light

By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

From Public Domain 
LOSING THE LIGHT 

The humming Coke machine, and I have lost the light.
The driving rains outside, and a most terrible truth.
The swelling of wet cardboard and that whoosh of darting high beams by the curb.
And tucked inside the asbestos house, I watch ceiling particles come to rest on the floor tile. 
Leaning back in a chair made to brave its own hind legs.
A coke from the machine beside me, half-flat and half-finished.
The mistrustful eyes of the shop proprietor all over me.
I want to tell him the succubus train left her kisses three stations ago,
but he wouldn't understand.  I want to keep him apprised of any sudden menu changes.
I want him to know of that Russian who made X-rays into records
and smuggled them to the masses.  Paid the hospitals for the discards,
and handmade them into bootlegs of all the best banned American music.
I want to show him all the strange patterns on the soles of my shoes,
but the gophers of the earth have dug holes throughout my body.
A tiny troll with purple hair, taped to the back of the register.
And $1.50 slices of lukewarm pizza 
under glass.
From Public Domain

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

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Categories
Notes from Japan

The Tent

By Suzanne Kamata

From Public Domain

Japan is generally considered a safe country with a low crime rate. I feel comfortable walking around our neighbourhood alone, in the dark. In fact, I usually go for a walk in the evening after dinner, when night has already fallen. My walking course is mostly along sidewalks, generally well-lit, and the roads are well-traveled. Part of my usual course goes through a tunnel which is across the street from a large shopping mall.

I’d never had any concerns until a couple of months ago when I discovered a tent in the corner of the tunnel. How odd! Once or twice, I’d come across skateboarding teens, but never anyone who seemed to be living there. I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside, cuddled up within canvas. It was zipped shut, and malodourous. I hurried past, hoping it would be gone the next day, but it was still there.

While Japan is a very safe country, bad things sometimes do happen here. There was the guy who dressed up like the Joker and lit a fire on a Tokyo subway on Halloween. There was the woman who killed her neighbors by poisoned curry. Every now and then, some knife-wielding psycho starts slashing strangers in a crowd.

I mentioned the tent to my husband. He thought it was strange, too.

“But there is a camera in the tunnel,” I said.

‘It’s just for show,” he countered. “It’s probably not activated.”

“Maybe I should tell the police,” I said. After I had thought about it, though, I changed my mind. Maybe someone was fleeing an abusive home. Maybe an elderly person who couldn’t make rent was holed up inside. Even though I suspected the worst — some crazed criminal lying in wait — it was possible that there was a perfectly good explanation.

Nevertheless, I avoided going for a walk for the rest of the week. A few days later, I decided that it would probably be safe if I crossed the road instead of going through the tunnel. I set out after dark, as usual, but when I got to the crosswalk before the tunnel, I waited for the light. I saw a patrol car parked on the other side of the road, and two policemen waiting to cross. Maybe I should tell them about the tent, I thought. But I said nothing. We crossed paths without a word.

As I watched them, I realised that they already knew about the situation in the tunnel. That’s where they were headed. I observed as they made their way to the tent and peered at it. I felt sure that everything would be back to normal the next day.

But it wasn’t.

The next time I drove by, I noticed that the tent was still standing. Maybe no one had been inside of it when the police officers dropped by to check it out. Maybe they had left it standing out of consideration for the person who was using it for shelter. Or maybe it was more of a trap, so that they could catch the person when they came back.

At any rate, I was relieved that the police were aware of the tent, and that I no longer had to feel conflicted about whether or not I called them. I continued to cross the road instead of going through the tunnel.

A couple of weeks later, my husband and I had dinner with a friend who often went jogging. She knew about the tent, too, and remarked on how odd it was. No one seemed to know what was going on. I’d heard of out-of-work men sleeping on scraps of cardboard in a Tokyo park, but there were no homeless people in our small town. Not that I knew of, anyway.

Finally, my husband came back from a visit to the shopping mall one evening. He told me that he’d seen a police car and an ambulance near the tent. After that, it was gone. I scanned the local newspaper the next day and watched the evening news, but no one mentioned the tent in the tunnel. Maybe I would never find out what had happened.

I thought of other potentially scandalous events that had never been reported — a preschool teacher knifed by her ex-boyfriend on school grounds, a principal who’d hung himself in his office — and I realised that many things were kept under wraps.

I was reminded not to take my personal safety for granted. It also occurred to me that while people in small towns often complain that everyone knows everyone else’s business, the folks in the small town where I lived were good at keeping each other’s secrets, too.

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Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

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Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Soubhagyabanta Maharana’s Poetry

Five Odia poems by Soubhagyabanta Maharana  have been translated by Snehaprava Das

SUNSET: A SYMBOL 

To bridge the agelessly waiting gap
Between an unvoiced luminosity and a vibrant darkness
Sunset is a magic silence, 
An indulging over the wispy interlapping   
Of light and shadow.

It is an ancient oil-painting 
On the old drawing sheet of the sky by a 
Bohemian, invisible artist who fills the earth 
With a spectrum of the melody of 
An unforgettable twilight.  

Sunset is the gentle thump of 
Disembodied dancers’ feet, tripping  
To the rhythm of witch-chanting
On a phantom, ashy-pale stage.

A lifetime that had glowed like a fake sun
In the crimson smile of the earth 
Slowly turns black, 
And on the black canvas of the sky
Painted in scatters are millions of sparkling stars.

Sunset is a Truth, 
A promise of a melodious, bright morning  
That the sun dreams of 
Slumbering in the palanquin of the night.

SILENCE BETWEEN WORDS

Like a lone, saffron-robed monk 
The silence hiding between the words, waits 
Keeping awake in secret, 
Hoping to get free
from the mysterious chains of mystic incantations.

The bewildering crowd of thoughts stuck between
One word and another,
Before even the mystery of the meaning is unraveled
Confuses the interpreting.

And the silence is left alone,
Weeping, elegizing the loss -- 
A dumb witness to the unwarranted death of words.  

Because the silence does not reveal itself
In happiness, 
A sorrow lives permanently in the palpitations
Of the poet’s heart
To bring the un-wilting flowers of poetry
Molded from the poet’s blood into blooming
in their vivid, picturesque charm.

In the unshackled voice of the poet
words and silence seek a nerve center,
in a sensitive, ultimate moment of love
to melt into each other. 

Who else other than a poet could gauge
The depth of the silence hidden 
In the koel’s song 
To bridge the gap between life and death?  

A VILLAGE THAT WAS: SKETCHING NOSTALGIA  

No one was there waiting eagerly 
To meet my shadow, 
No one to lament the loss of a village 
That was there once.
The smell of love in the wet mud
Has faded with the passage of time.
The melody of spring in the soft breeze,
The shadow of a rainbow on the face of water 
Have disappeared too.

The day when I left the village, 
A fleeting cloud played hide and seek
In my book-satchel.
The fragrance of the lotus in the village-pond
That wished to caress fondly
The vibrance of childhood on my face 
Missed me.
The name of that village lives in me. 
A village crowded with forests of Mahula 
And throbbing with the song of Adivasis  
Dancing in the shadows of the Sal -- 
The village where rings the rhythm of my birth-cries 
in a straw-thatched hut --
the name of that village, has melted into my breath.
  
A deep sadness pricks me though
That just as I understood the village
I lost my way to it,
 Before I could trace the lotus-pond
And inhale its fragrance.
The smoke the factories emitted 
Choked me midway,
As I went on narrating the nostalgia 
I was left with just myself.
Alone.
While I searched for dreams 
Painted in rural shades,
I lost my own self in the pale horizon
Of a smoky, grey sky.  

DECLARATION

I gathered the ardour of that missing warmth
From the ashes of a decadent sun 
To charge the cold blood that run in my veins.
I gathered the exotic smell of blinking stars
To add years to my life.

My skeletal frame that resembles
some ancient sculptor has a voice.
It can speak, and it can hide 
from the eyes of the world
the pain it writhes under,
lest someone use its vulnerability
and sign a sworn statement for befriending 
its invisible blood, flesh and sinews.  

In every corner of my body that is caged,  
In the prison of the elements,
Love sojourns.
And the intimate voice of my shadow-self 
Has reached up to the planets and beyond. 
 
The primeval tale of my century-old wait
Has sheltered in the feeble gaze of my eyes
May be, I am designed to stand as 
The enemy of Time.
It was perhaps designed so,   
That my victory march, with the bugle blowing 
Will be declared a glorious success 
Against a different backdrop. 

RELATIONSHIP: ANOTHER HORIZON 

It feels odd at times 
To play the hero in 
The brief interlude between 
Ignorance and innocence.
There are times when a relationship 
Founded on poisoned, defiled trust
Tastes sweet.
In the dark sanctum of bitter animosity,
 A beguiling god assumes a friendly form
 And embraces to overwhelm you
 with his gratifying blessings.

 Only a fake hero would nurture   
 The overpowering urge to 
 Flaunt himself in vain glory on the 
 Dazzling stage of civility.
 It is he who fosters a brazen wish   
To draw a line on the water,
And to wish for the moon  
In a moonless night-sky. 
 True friendship is where 
The sapling of love grows
Its green foliage  
To reach a lofty height 
And brings life to fruition.
It’s like a faint streak of light 
That illumines a blind alley at night. 

A heart bathed in that love
Becomes more sacred than a shrine,
More craved than the potion of immortality. 
It is the comfort an orphan child enjoys,
Sleeping inside a cozy culvert
In the chilly night of the month of the Pausha*. 

*December- January
Soubhagyabanta Maharana

Soubhagyabanta Maharana (b.1951) in the  Bolangir town, Odisha, is a prominent bilingual poet, critic and translator of Odia and English.  He is an awardee of Odisha Sahitya Akademi for poetry in 2010 along with many prestigious literary awards. He has to his credit nineteen poetry collections  and  six essay collections on modern Odia poetry.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Categories
Bhaskar's Corner

Can Odia Literature Connect Traditional Narratives with Contemporary Ones?

By Bhaskar Parichha

From Public Domain

Odia literature is characterised by a profound tradition of classic narratives, with notable examples such as Fakir Mohan Senapati’s timeless Chha Mana Atha Guntha[1].  This literary corpus is further enhanced by an array of mythological and folk narratives that hold significant importance in the cultural legacy of Odisha.

These narratives persist through time because they reflect universal human experiences, encompassing themes such as land, power, family, and morality, all while being intricately linked to the historical context and cultural identity of the region. They serve not only as stories but also as reflections of society, having been shaped and refined over the years.

Readers are consistently attracted to these literary works for reasons similar to those that draw us to the writings of Shakespeare or the epic narrative of the Mahabharata: their themes are enduring, and the insights they provide remain pertinent. Similarly, publishers and curators, even at the national level, often revisit these classic tales, a trend that is entirely justifiable.

However, it is the transition to contemporary matters that strikes a significant chord. Odia literature has been progressing, albeit perhaps not as prominently or visibly as certain other Indian literary landscapes. Modern voices are addressing current issues—urban isolation, the influence of technology, caste relations, and environmental deterioration. The change is evident, yet it remains less pronounced than it has the potential to be.

What accounts for this? There may be multiple reasons.

The literary tradition of Odisha is profoundly embedded in its heritage. Classic literature is not only revered and taught but frequently eclipses modern works. Both publishers and readers exhibit a conservative inclination, preferring established texts. This trend is not unique to Odia literature; for example, Tolstoy remains a central figure in Russian literary discourse. As a result, this inclination obstructs the acknowledgment of new authors.

Modern Odia literature faces considerable challenges in its distribution. In contrast to Bengali or Tamil literature, which benefits from larger urban readerships and established translation networks, Odia books often struggle to reach broader audiences.

While digital platforms are making significant strides in this domain, the overall development is still sluggish. Without a strong market, numerous authors may opt to concentrate on more conventional themes that are viewed as more commercially viable.

The demographic composition of Odisha is primarily rural, where numerous readers find a stronger connection with stories that delve into village life or ethical dilemmas, as opposed to genres like cyberpunk or themes focused on existential angst. Although there are urban Odia authors, their readership is frequently limited in range. As a result, contemporary themes may seem alien to those who maintain a deep bond with traditional cultural settings.

The literary language of Odia typically possesses a formal tone, significantly influenced by its classical roots. This can lead to a conflict with modern terminology and global themes, posing challenges for writers who wish to innovate without jeopardising their connection to the audience. In contrast, languages such as Hindi and Malayalam readily incorporate colloquial expressions, which thrive in contemporary literature.

Nonetheless, modern Odia literature is dynamic and progressing. Short story writers are exploring a variety of topics including religion, science fiction, feminism, leftist ideologies, and climate change. Prominent authors such as Sarojini Sahu, Satya Mishra, Rabi Swain, Sadananda Tripathy, Jyoti Nanda, Bhima Prusty, Janaki Ballabh Mohapatra, Ajaya Swain, Biraja Mohapatra, Sujata Mohapatra and young writers like Debabrata Das  are actively investigating these contemporary themes. Publications like Kadambini, Rebati, and Katha are offering platforms for these creative narratives.

Despite this, the main obstacle remains the need to improve visibility. Social media and over-the-top (OTT) platforms have the potential to revolutionise this landscape—just picture an Odia adaptation of Black Mirror[2]!

There is an immediate need for greater investment in Odia storytelling to effectively bridge the gap between traditional and modern narratives.

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[1] Six acres and a Third, a novel by Fakir Mohan Senapati(1843-1918) published in 1902

[2]Black Mirror is a British dystopian science fiction television anthology series that started in 2011 and is still on the run.

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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

Poems by Vern Fein

Vern Fein 

BOSOM BUDDY

My seven-year-old grandson 
is his own best friend.
Has many school buddies
but plays for hours
with his creative self—
art work, Star Wars structures,
films movies on his IPad,
imitates Michael Jackson dances— 
never afraid to be alone.

In my childhood, I rode imaginary horses.
Smoky, my invisible steed, 
wherever he would gallop.
Then, my green and white Schwinn—
named Los Cappacaros from a Western
about some cool bandits—
took me into my teens. 

Imagination
as a childhood playmate,
such a fine gift.


CONVALESCENCE

My dog leaps into 
a mellowing life.
Her leg buckles to surgery.
Too young to put down,
she breaks my heart, 
a helpless creature,
beautiful big black
eyes, a forlorn quiz.

In my old age, I come alive
to pet and whisper
into her perked ears
why she now lives in a cage
unable to chase
her squirrel foes,
attack the garbage truck
at the back fence, 
protect me from the neighbour dog.

In her convalescence 
that will never make sense to her
she fills my limited lifetime
as if it will go on forever. 

PINOCCHIO

Pinocchio’s nose began to grow.
The cat and the fox whiskered him over.
“What’cha got boy?”
He doesn’t know his nose has grown.
He thinks they want the pennies in his pocket,
the hat Gepetto made him.
Fox says: “What a great nose. How’d you do that?”
He touches his nose and scares his hand.
“I don’t know,” he stammers.
Cat says: “Tell the truth!”

From Public Domain

Vern Fein has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces in over 100 different sites. His second poetry boo, Reflection on Dots, was released late last year. 

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Categories
Slices from Life

Undertourism in the Outback

Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble

I have read about overtourism in Spain and Greece. Locals have been overwhelmed with the visitors, and some even displayed signs for tourists to go home. According to Fortune magazine (17 July 2024), some locals in Barcelona turned on tourists with water pistols, and others in the Canary Islands embarked on a hunger strike in response to the numbers of tourists. Images of overtourism in Santorini, Greece prompted me to search for an unpopulated area, and I didn’t have to look much further than our own state of South Australia. We hoped to visit deserted towns, dotted with ruins, where there are more sheep than people.

Alex, Verity and I headed out of Adelaide on a bleak wintery day, caravan in tow, to the outback. First stop was Burra, a former mining town where copper was mined from 1845 until 1877. Copper brought prosperity to the state of South Australia saving it from bankruptcy. The small town centre featured a proudly-standing rotunda. Businesses were open, and there were grand buildings and churches which overwhelmed this small town, standing testament to a thriving past.

The caravan was too big for a parking spot, so we parked it parallel to the kerb straddling several spots. We entered the tourist bureau, and as there was no-one in line, headed straight to the desk. We were greeted warmly by the assistant, who handed us a map and explained the various places where we could stay overnight in a caravan. There were free sites, a caravan park, and if you bought a meal at the pub you could camp in their grounds.

Then she pointed out the many historic sites on the map, fixing her eyes on me with a wide smile. I could sense Alex pulling away ever so slightly, as he was anxious to secure a caravan site and do some sightseeing before nightfall, but I was captivated by the enthusiasm of the guide and tried to remember as much as I could of what she was telling us. We headed to one of the recommended sites for the night and investigated the former mining sites with original equipment that had been shipped out from Cornwall, England, in the1800s. We were the only tourists at the site.

The next day we drove through Peterborough and Orroroo. We entered the cafe in Orroroo for lunch and asked the assistant what there was to see there. She gave us a map and explained that we absolutely had to see a spectacularly large 500-year-old tree on the outskirts of town.

Tree outside Orroroo

Next, we headed to the very small town of Hallet. There at the general store we asked for a key which would open the door to the now deserted birthplace of the polar explorer and aviator, Sir Hubert Wilkins. It was the first time we had been given a key to let ourselves into a tourist attraction, and we felt very privileged. We drove twenty kilometres to the home along dirt roads. Again, we were the only visitors. We made our way to the front door and unlocked it. This home, formerly rubble, had been lovingly restored by the Australian Geographic Society as a tribute to the explorer.

Ruins in the Outback
Restored home

We continued to the Parachilna Gorge in the Flinders Ranges where we spent the night. Alex made a campfire, and we dined outside. Again, we were surrounded by ancient trees with generous girths in a dry riverbed. In the morning Alex woke to spot families of emus passing by, camouflaged by the foliage.

Emu family in Parchina Gorge

We continued onto the deserted nineteenth-century town of Farina that day. People started to abandon the town in the late 1800s, and the last of the inhabitants had left by the 1960s. Fortunately volunteers are keen to preserve the history and the ruins and manage the town during the school holidays. We were given a hearty welcome by a volunteer at the entrance to the bakery and received a map of the town.

Finally, on the 700kilometre drive back to Adelaide, we were low on diesel and made a brief detour to a small town off the highway. After putting the diesel in the car, I went inside to pay.

“Thanks, darling!” the cashier gushed.

“I like your dog! Is he a kelpie?” I asked.

Then I was given an enthusiastic account of how the kelpie had been rescued from a shelter. I think the owners may have been deprived of human company and were glad to see a new face. Alex came in because he was wondering what had become of me, engrossed in conversation. We had the impression that we were their only clients for the day. Eventually, I managed to extricate myself.

On this trip we had no experience of overtourism. Rather we visited sites where few tourists could be seen. Guides were so enthusiastic that they fawned over us. One reason that there were so few tourists is that it was the middle of winter and there was intermittent rain. Another was the geographical isolation of the outback. Australia is distant from countries with large populations. South Australia is distant from the large Australian cities on the east and west coasts and the outback further still—although closer to Adelaide than any other Australian capital city.

The landscape of the outback feels as different as another country. Our city, Adelaide, has a multitude of houses and new freeways, but the outback has few houses and many ruins. These ruins attest to a time of optimism when settlers believed the rains would be consistent. We enjoy hitching up the caravan and driving to the outback, where there are so few tourists that the sight of another human being results in an effusive welcome.

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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Pramod Rastogi

From Public Domain 
ETERNAL LIGHT 

Every night, beneath the veil of stars,
I feel your love, mother,
As vast as the ocean,
Its depths whispering calm paradise.

Your eyes, golden pools of tenderness,
Once held my fears,
Turned tears into sweetness,
And wrapped my heart in peace.

Though time has drawn you away,
I find you in the quiet,
In the light that lingers on the horizon,
In the bosom of memories woven into my soul.

You are the warmth beneath the cold,
The golden thread binding my days,
The eternal whisper of love
That lives within me,
Undimmed by the passage of time.

In this stillness, I carry you,
Guardian of my heart,
A light that will never fade,
A love that even the night cannot steal.

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

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Categories
Excerpt

The Cave of Echoes

Title: The Cave of Echoes: Stories about Gods, Animals and Other Strangers

Author: Wendy Doniger

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

It is impossible to define a myth, but it is cowardly not to try. For me, the best way to not-define a myth is to look at it in action, which is what have tried to do throughout this book: to see what myth does, rather than what myth is. It seems to me that by the time you’ve defined your terms in an argument, you’ve lost interest in the problem. But at this point, as we begin to reexamine our own assumptions about myths, it might be useful to list some things that I think myths are not: myths are not lies, or false statements to be contrasted with truth or reality. 1bis usage is, perhaps, the most common meaning of myth in casual parlance today. Indeed, other cultures, too, call myths lies. The Malagasy end the recitation of any myth with a traditional tag-line: “It is not I that lie; this lie comes from olden times.” In our culture, in particular, myths are often given the shadowy status of what has been called an “inoperative truth,” when in fact they might better be characterized as operative fictions. Picasso called art a lie that tells the truth, and the same might be said of myths.

What a Myth Is and Is Not

The desecration of the word “myth” to mean “lie” began with Plato, who contrasted the fabricated myth with the true history. It is, I think, an irony that our word for myth in most European languages, together with our basic attitude to myths, comes from ancient Greece, one of the very few cultures in the world from which we have almost no example of real, live myths, of myths as a part of a vital tradition; by the time most of the Greek myths reach us, they have been so thoroughly reworked in artistic and philosophical forms that they are mythological zombies, the walking dead. Plato was, as Eliade pointed out long ago, the first great demythologizer; he “deconstructed” the myths of Homer and Hesiod. It was Plato who challenged, successfully, the status of the poetic myth-carvers and myth collectors and banished them from his Republic. We can see in Plato a spectrum of mythmakers: at one end are anonymous wet nurses, who transmit the old myths to helpless infants; at the other end are the poets, like Hesiod and Homer, the “mimetic clan” who cannot imitate the true forms since no one has ever seen the forms and the poets can only imitate what they have seen.

Plato warns us that we must not tell these poetic myths about the gods even if they are true; in this, I think, he affirms the power of myths to influence human life; for he fears that a bad myth will make a bad life. (We shall see, in chapter 6, other Greek arguments against the evil effects of the myths in Greek tragedies.) Moreover, it is hard to escape from this image of the bad life; the stories that we learn in childhood have a marvelous hold on our memory.

Yet it is necessary for people to believe in good myths, even if they are false; this is the argument that Plato advances for the “noble lie” (gennaion pseudos) in the Republic, the statement that distorts an outside surface in order to convey an inner truth. Some of these good myths come from the old days; Plato distrusts this sort of “mythologizing,” the stories about centaurs and Chimaeras and Pegasus and so forth, but he distrusts even more the people who analyze them away as metaphors for the North Wind and so forth ( anticipating Friedrich Max Miller by some twenty-four hundred years); such analyses are altogether too clever and waste an awful lot of time. 13 People do have to have myths, Plato concedes; if they don’t believe in the old ones, we must construct new ones for them, logically, and this is very difficult to do, for we must convince them, in the cold light of reason, of the truth of the myths in order to make them accept the laws that we wish to give them:

“How can one assert in cold blood that the gods exist? Because we must hate and find unbearable those who, today as in the past, due to having refused to allow themselves to be convinced by the myths related to them since earliest childhood by a mother or a nurse giving them the breast, have obliged us, and still do so, to develop the arguments which take up our time now.”

For this reason, despite his opposition to myths and mythmakers, Plato himself was also a great “remythologizer” who invented the drama of the philosophical soul and made it a new kind of myth, a reasonable, logical, “likely” myth, to challenge the old myths of centaurs and so forth. In this way, when it came to myth, Plato managed to hunt with the hounds and to run with the hare. As Marcel Detienne has put it: “Plato’s work marks the time when philosophy, while censuring tales of the ancients as scandalous fictions, sets about telling its own myths in a discourse on the soul, on the origin of the world, and on life in the hereafter.” It was Plato who transformed ancient mythic themes to make the myth of Er, the myth of Eros, and the myth of the creation of the universe. Though Plato’s “likely or resembling story” can be a myth in the sense of a narrative ( and in that sense is interchangeable with logos meaning “narrative”), it is not a myth in the negative sense of a bad copy, like the myths of Homer ( which are negatively contrasted with logos meaning “reason”).

Yet Plato does apply the word “myth” ( mutbos) to the story of the world that he creates in the Pbaedo, a myth that he says is “worth hearing,” though it is merely another “likely story”:

“Now, to assert vehemently that things like this are really so as I’ve narrated them, doesn’t befit any man of sense. But that this is so, or something pretty much like it, about our souls and their dwelling place, since it is clear that the soul is immortal-it is quite fitting that we say that. “

The likely story is not the truth; but it resembles the truth, and is as close as we can ever get to the truth about certain subjects. Plato confesses that he resorts to telling myths, despite the fact that such stories are not literally true, because there is no other way of using words to produce even the effect of truth.

Plato regards the myth that he constructs in the Pbaedo as an essential vehicle for salvation, a kind of religious or magic charm:

“It is well worth running the risk that these things are so for anybody who thinks them so. (For it’s a fair risk.) And he must recite these things over and over to himself like a magic charm, even as I at this moment and for a long time past have been drawing out this myth.”

Plato ends the Republic with his own myth, the myth of Er, which he certainly does not regard as a lie: “And so the myth was saved and was not lost, and it will save us, if we believe it, and we shall safely cross the river of Lethe and we will not sully the soul. “

For Plato admits that a myth says something that cannot be said in any other way, that cannot be translated into a logical or even a metaphysical statement. A myth says something that can only be said in a story.

Which brings me to what I think a myth is. Let me begin with a rather cumbersome and rather functional definition: A myth is a story that is sacred to and shared by a group of people who find their most important meanings in it; it is a story believed to have been composed in the past about an event in the past, or, more rarely, in the future, an event that continues to have meaning in the present because it is remembered; it is a story that is part of a larger group of stories.

The assertion that a myth is a story is basic to my argument; for I think that the myth is persuasive to us because the action itself is persuasive. Even when what happens in the myth is not physically possible in this world ( as when, for instance, a man turns into a fish), when the event is described in detail, as something that happened, we can see it happening, and so it enlarges our sense of what might be possible. Only a story can do this.

About the Book

The Cave of Echoes celebrates the universal art of storytelling, and the rich diversity of the stories—especially myths—that people live by. Drawing on Hindu and Greek mythology, Biblical parables, and the modern mythologies of Woody Allen and soap operas, Wendy Doniger—renowned scholar of the history of religions—encourages us to feel anew the force of myth and tradition in our lives, and in the lives of other cultures. She shows how the stories of mythology—whether of gods, sages, demons or humans—enable cultures to define themselves. She raises critical questions about how myths are interpreted and adapted, and the ways in which different cultures make use of central texts and traditions. Drawing connections across time and place, she proposes that myths are not static beliefs but evolving narratives, and that by entering into other cultures’ stories, we may unexpectedly rediscover our own.

Written with scholarly depth and characteristic wit, this is a landmark work in the comparative study of mythology. It’s essential reading for anyone interested in how we understand others—and ourselves—through the stories we tell.

About the Author

Wendy Doniger is the author of several acclaimed and bestselling works, among them, The Hindus: An Alternative History; Hindu Myths; The Ring of Truth; Women, Androgynes and Other Mythical Beasts; Dreams, Illusion and Other Realities; Winged Stallions and Wicked Mares; An American Girl in India; and translations of the Rig Veda and the Kamasutra (with Sudhir Kakar). She is Mircea Eliade Distinguished Service Professor Emerita of the History of Religions at theUniversity of Chicago, and has also taught at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, and the University of California, Berkeley.

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