HOW NOW DO DEAD KINGS LAUGH WHILE STRICKEN BY RED RAIN (a villanelle that doubles as a song)
In twilight's hush, where shadows softly sway, How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain? Their echoes drift, as if they still had play.
The crimson drops like petals fall, betray The innocence that once danced on this plain. In twilight's hush, where shadows softly sway,
The laughter's gone, yet memories stay, A haunting tune, a bittersweet refrain. How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain?
They ran with joy, not knowing of dismay, Nor thought their laughter would become such pain. In twilight's hush, where shadows softly sway,
The sky weeps blood, the earth cannot contain The sorrow of the young ones we've slain. How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain?
So hear their mirth, in ghostly disarray, A chilling laughter, under skies arcane. In twilight's hush, where shadows softly sway, How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain?
WHERE ONCE BLUE MIDNIGHT BURNS
Where once blue midnight burns, what then for babes midscream? In dreams, they clutch at stars now far beyond their gleam. The night's cold lullaby, where shadows dance unseen.
The moon, a silent witness to the quiet, keening theme, Whispers through the willows, a soft and silver stream. Where once blue midnight burns, what then for babes midscream?
The sky, a tapestry of wishes and of dream, Holds tight the secrets of the heart, a vault supreme. The night's cold lullaby, where shadows dance unseen.
What tales will be told of the light that once did beam, When innocence was cradled in the arms of esteem? Where once blue midnight burns, what then for babes midscream?
The stars, like sentinels, their steady gazes deem To guard the slumbering youth from the world's harsh regime. The night's cold lullaby, where shadows dance unseen.
So sing the babes a song of time, a flowing ream, And rock them gently 'neath the midnight's azure seam. Where once blue midnight burns, what then for babes midscream? The night's cold lullaby, where shadows dance unseen.
TODAY, ALL SWEETHEARTS
Today, all sweethearts will blossom in a glass cage, Where whispers cling like ivy to the walls. That gaols all fevers under vows, sage.
In crystal confines, love's eternal stage, Each heartbeat etched upon the pane, it calls. Today, all sweethearts will blossom in a glass cage.
With every breath, they sketch a new page, Inked with passion, as twilight softly falls. That gaols all fevers under vows, sage.
Their touch, through glass, a timeless adage, A dance of shadows, love's tender brawls. Today, all sweethearts will blossom in a glass cage.
And though the world may change, turn, and age, Their sealed ardor never stalls. That gaols all fevers under vows, sage.
So let the lovers their pure wars wage, For in this prison, love enthralls. Today, all sweethearts will blossom in a glass cage, That gaols all fevers under vows, sage.
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen
Brochure cover: Provided by Dolly NarangSatyajit Ray(1921-1992): From Public Domain
My trunk call from Delhi to Calcutta booked one day before finally materialised. This was way back in 1990 when trunk calls were the fastest mode of communication. In a coarse voice, the operator demanded a response from the deep, modulated voice on the other end. ‘Satyajit Ray hai[1]?’ she asked, her tone sharp with impatience.
I could hear the legendary filmmaker’s composed response to the operator’s gruff, abrupt tone. I winced at her brusqueness feeling helpless to intervene and apologise.
When she connected me, I introduced myself to Satyajit Ray and ventured to share my idea of an exhibition that would showcase a lesser-known yet equally fascinating facet of his oeuvre—his drawings, film sketches, graphic design and more. A visual archive that, though rarely seen by the public, was as significant as his cinematic legacy. He was initially apprehensive—modest about this body of work and uncertain about how it would be received
This initial conversation was followed by a series of follow-up exchanges over trunk calls, over several months. Each call felt like a step closer to realising the exhibition. I would book trunk calls in the urgent category request for PP (person to person) as they took less time to materialise. PP calls were specifically for the person whose name was specified. Still, patience was essential.
Ray, to my surprise and admiration, always answered the phone himself. No secretary, no assistant screening the calls. The simplicity and humility was endearing.
I had first shared the idea of the exhibition with Paritosh Sen one of India’s master painters and a friend of Ray’s of an exhibition of a lesser known yet fascinating facet of Ray’s genius: children illustrations, detailed film sketches, designs for book and magazine covers, typeface designs, his diverse portfolio of graphic work. Paritoshda, as I affectionately called him who mentored and guided me as I began my journey into the art world, not only approved of the idea but took it upon himself to speak to Ray, whom he knew personally. Following the introduction through Paritoshda, I pursued the idea with the legend.
During the first phone call, I briefly spoke about my concept— an exhibition that would focus on his rarely seen visual art. His immediate response was hesitant and guarded, “These are very small works on paper just a few inches in length and width.” he said. “They would be of no interest.” I ventured that this was a unique and a first time view into his visual legacy and the size would not take away from the impact. He further expressed his doubt about his graphic work having any resonance beyond Bengal, in North India. I further submitted that his artistic genius and versatility has an appeal beyond Bengal. This exhibition would give a rare insight into the work and thought process of not only the deeply respected and admired film maker that we all know but also of Satyajit Ray the illustrator, the graphic designer, along with revealing the meticulous and detailed planning into his films.
I hoped to bring this body of work — into public view for the first time. The idea was to get people to see another Ray — not the filmmaker behind the camera, but the artist behind the pen and brush.
I remember Ray had explained that he had a busy schedule and preoccupied with the editing of Ghare Baire. After several months of trunk calls and waiting, I booked another urgent, person to person call. Finally the breakthrough I was waiting for, “ Come next week,” he said. His doubts of an exhibition having been cleared through the intervention of Paritoshda and somewhat through my persuasion.
As I boarded the Indian Airlines flight to Calcutta the following week, a surge of excitement gripped me. I was given a morning time to meet him at his residence: 1/1 Bishop Lefroy Road. I arrived with some trepidation. Standing outside this tall imposing door, I rang the bell. Soon, I found myself face to face with the master who opened the door himself—his tall, commanding presence matched only by his deep, well-modulated baritone voice greeting me warmly. He led me into his much photographed studio/workplace. He was looking comfortable and relaxed in a white kurta pajama. In contrast to his majestic yet simple presence, I was nervous and hoping it was well masked.
Thereafter, began a series of visits to his flat. Each time the door was opened by the master himself. And I would be led into his study teeming with books lining the teak wood book shelves.
He would sit in a comfortable looking swivel chair with a brown rexine cover, the corners of which were slightly frayed. Opposite him and within a comfortable arms reach was a small work table with jars tightly packed with paint brushes, pen, pencils. Here is where he did his drawings to create his vast and varied visual legacy of set design, costume design, make up instructions, graphic design, children’s illustrations for the monthly children’s magazine, Sandesh, started by his grandfather, He also designed the covers for Sandesh, more books and magazine covers.
Making of the exhibition
Working alongside him to sort through his drawings was an enriching and memorable experience—one that offered rare insight into his creative mind. Each meeting felt like a step closer to the exhibition becoming a reality. I noticed his interest was slowly growing and he was participating in the selection with increasing enthusiasm and a discerning eye. He approved some while some he felt need not be exhibited. Our meetings would stretch till lunch time until he was gently summoned by his wife, Bijoyadi, to take his lunchbreak. He would extend the search and wrapped up a little beyond lunch time. I too was cautious not to overstep limits.
As he began to look in his study, he unearthed these miniature treasures on paper tucked between books or between their pages, resting on tall teakwood bookshelves. Some were found under sofa cushions. He remembered that many were with his cousin Lila Majumdar[2] and that he would have to ask her. As he delved deeper into his collection he remarked, “I had forgotten I have done all this work.”
During few initial meetings, I would address him as Mr. Ray, which was beginning to feel formal and somewhat awkward. So I asked if there was another way I could address him.
“Manik,” he asserted. “Everyone calls me Manik.”
From that moment on, I called him Manikda. These recollections return to me vividly as I write this piece.
We turned our attention to his iconic crimson books, neatly stacked in his study. These well-known volumes are a treasure of Ray’s meticulous preparatory work—filled with detailed sketches for his films, costume and set designs, makeup instructions for his makeup artist, architectural notes, and an astonishing range that gave glimpses into his thought and work process.
Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
We did not want to remove any drawings from these precious notebooks. He selected the drawings that he liked and decided he would ask Nemai Ghosh (1934-2020), his close associate and long-time photographer, to photograph them for the exhibition.
Several drawings, having come loose from the notebooks, were used in their original. We did not want to remove any drawings which were firmly in place in these volumes. Ray identified the drawings that appealed to him and Ghosh photographed them.
Part two of the exhibition was titled “Drawings and Sketches For Films’ and it comprised of both originals and the photographs by Nemai Ghosh of the drawings chosen by Ray.
I nudged him further and asked if there was anything else he might suggest from his visual repertoire.
He thought of his film posters. The ones readily available in his flat were posters of Nayak and Ghare Baire, which were loaned for the exhibition. He was particularly eager to include the poster of Devi, but after searching, he discovered he only had one copy and was reluctant to part with it.
Top: Hoarding of Ray’s film Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne (1969). Below:: Film posters of Nayak(Actor, 1966) and Ghore Baire (Home and the World, 1984). Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
We tried to include artworks which would represent the different aspects of his visual repertoire. It seemed there was no end — typefaces he had designed, advertising campaign when he worked for D.J.Keymer. While searching he realised he did not have the originals of the typefaces he had designed but fortunately they had been preserved in the photographs taken by Nemai Ghosh. Later Paritoshda told me that he was given an award for the typeface by an American foundry and named it after him, Ray Roman.
Provided by Dolly Narang
An album was discovered containing a silent film he had conceptualised on paper but never brought to life—a silent film on Ravi Shankar with his music in the background. The album, composed of monochromatic black watercolours, was photographed by Nemaida. It drew great interest, offering a first-ever glimpse into a project that was never realised.
Paritoshda advised that Ray had composed music for many of his films. A tape with his compositions was playing continuously and softly in the background at the exhibition.
The exhibition was presented in two parts each had a duration of three weeks. Part one was devoted to his Graphic design, drawing and part two was about his preparatory sketches for films.
I requested Paritoshda to write an article for the exhibition catalogue, to which he graciously agreed. He penned an insightful essay which was appreciated by Ray himself as well as by fellow artists, critics, and visitors who found his insights both illuminating and deeply engaging. When I asked him for his suggestion for a title for the exhibition, he thoughtfully suggested — “The Other Ray” — a title both fitting and meaningful.
With the socio-political upheavals around us in Delhi, it wasn’t easy—cataloguing, printing invitation cards, framing, arranging transport to distribute the invitations. Invitation cards from our mailing list of over one thousand had to be hand delivered.
I asked Manikda for names of his friends and associates who he would like invitations to be sent to. His list included names both in India and abroad.
About a week before the event, I visited AIFACS[3] to put up a poster for the exhibition. To my surprise and delight, sitting in one of the exhibition halls was none other than M.F.Husain himself. It felt like a godsend—an unexpected opportunity to personally invite him.
He was visibly excited upon hearing about the exhibition and expressed interest in seeing the artworks immediately wherever they were. I explained that the pieces were still at home and would be better appreciated once they were displayed on the gallery walls. But he was insistent—he wanted to see them right away. We got into my car and drove to my house. Husain viewed the works in thoughtful silence moving from work to work, looking at each with great interest. After perusing them keenly he settled at the dining table and began reminiscing about his association with Ray – a moment as historic as it was moving, etched forever in my memory.
I was not prepared with either a tape recorder or a camera to record this memorable encounter. Fortunately, The Illustrated Weekly, under editor Pritish Nandy, later published his reflections in an article spread over two pages with several illustrations of his graphic work.
Opening to the Public
When the exhibition finally opened at The Village Gallery in New Delhi’s quaint Hauz Khas Village it was received with great enthusiasm and acclaimed by both critics and the public
Visitors from all walks of life came to see the “ The Other Ray”. For many, it was a revelation. The same legendary filmmaker who had given the world The Apu Trilogy had also crafted whimsical illustrations for children, designed book jackets, created typefaces. It was exciting for them to get a peek into his creative process as a filmmaker through his detailed film sketches.
I made another trunk call to inform him that the article in the brochure by Paritosh Sen had been chosen for The India Magazine’s cover story. The next day, when I spoke to him again and offered to send him a copy of the magazine, he responded with excitement. He said he couldn’t wait and had already gone to the market to buy a copy for himself.
Once the exhibition—having stirred great excitement in the art world—came to an end, it was finally time to take it down. The last few days were deeply moving. Visitors lingered, often spending long hours in the gallery, reluctant to leave, as if trying to hold on to the experience a little longer. The space was filled with quiet reflection and enriched by heartfelt exchanges.
Looking back, organising this exhibition remains one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life. What I cherish is the memory of the many hours spent in his study carefully selecting the works for the exhibition. It was a collaborative process, he was open to my suggestions yet he became more and more involved as he delved deeper into his graphic work.
An idea, carefully nurtured, took shape as an exhibition. What was especially fulfilling about the exhibition was how it brought to light a lesser-known facet of Ray’s creative genius—his remarkable visual imagination, his penchant for details, his industriousness. Until this exhibition, only a few of his sketches had appeared in articles and books, leaving much of this work largely unseen. The display offered audiences a rare and intimate glimpse into his visual world as well as his work and thought process, making it especially significant.
The final step was to return the works. I personally placed each delicate sheet into thin plastic sleeves, compiled them into a portfolio, and flew to Calcutta to return them to the master. True to his dignified demeanour, he received the compilation with quiet pleasure. He expressed both satisfaction and a hint of surprise at the enthusiastic response the exhibition had received. I took the liberty of asking him if I could keep as a memento two works from each part of the exhibition. He readily agreed and asked me to choose. I selected one black white illustration for Sandesh and credit title from his film Sonar Kella (The Golden Fort, 1974) . One more request — Could he sign these please? To which he graciously agreed.
As I took my leave, I shared a thought—could we perhaps work on a sequel to The Other Ray? He received the idea warmly, but unfortunately, it never came to fruition. He soon became immersed in Agantuk (The Stranger, 1991), and not long after, his health began to decline.
As I write this, memories come rushing back, and I find myself tempted to echo Manikda’s words of my experience that “I had forgotten I had done all this work.”
Costume designed and sketched by Ray for Hirak Rajar Deshe (In the Country of the Diamond King, 1980) Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
Ray’s Note in the Brochure:
My grandfather was, among other things, a self-taught painter and illustrator of considerable skill and repute, and my father — also never trained as an artist — illustrated his inimitable nonsense rhymes in a way which can only be called inspired. It is, therefore, not surprising that I acquired the knack to draw at an early age.
Although I trained for three years as a student of Kalabhavan in Santiniketan under Nandalal Bose, I never became a painter. Instead, I decided to become a commercial artist and joined an advertising agency in 1943, the year of the great Bengal famine. Not content with only one pursuit, I also became involved in book designing and typography for an enterprising new publishing house.
In time I realised that since an advertising agency was subservient to the demands of its clients, an advertising artist seldom enjoyed complete freedom.
This led me to the profession of filmmaking where, in the 35 years that I’ve been practising it, I have given expression to my ideas in a completely untrammelled fashion.
As is my habit, along with filmmaking, I have indulged in other pursuits which afford me the freedom I hold so dear. Thus, I have been editing a children’s magazine for thirty years, writing stories for it and illustrating them, as well as illustrating stories by other writers.
While preparing a film, I’ve given vent to my graphic propensities by doing sketches for my shooting scripts, designing sets and costumes, and even designing posters for my own films.
Since I consider myself primarily to be a filmmaker and, secondarily, to be a writer of stories for young people, ·I have never taken my graphic work seriously, and I certainly never considered it worthy of being exposed to the public. It is entirely due to the tenacity and persuasiveness of Mrs. Narang that some samples of my graphic work are now being displayed. Needless to say, I’m thankful to Mrs. Narang; but, at the same time, I must insist that I do not make any large claims for them.
Ray’s signature: Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
SATYAJIT RAY
The Consummate Artist by Paritosh Sen (1918-2008)
(Republished from the brochure of “The Other Ray” exhibition)
It was the summer of 1945. I was holding my third one-man show and my first in Calcutta. On the third day of the exhibition, Prithwish Neogy (a brilliant scholar, now heading the Department of Asiatic Art at the Honolulu University) entered the exhibition hall accompanied by an extraordinarily tall and swarthy young man. I had known Prithwish earlier. The latter was introduced to me as Satyajit Ray. I was vaguely aware of him as the only son of the late Sukumar Ray, the creator of a unique body of nonsense rhymes and humorous prose remarkable for their originality of vision and an extremely sharp intellect and imaginative power. Satyajit was also known as the grandson of Upendra Kishore Ray, one of the inventors of half-tone block making, a pioneering creator of a sizeable body of children’s literature and the founder of the well-known children’s magazine, Sandesh, and a painter of no mean talent either.
Satyajit was then doing a course in painting in Santiniketan under the very able guidance of Benode Behari Mukherjee, a great artist and an equally great teacher. Besides, Ray had also the unique opportunity of coming in close contact with Nandalal Bose, the guru of both Benode Behari and Ram Kinkar, undoubtedly the foremost sculptor of contemporary India.
Earlier he had also received the blessings and affection of Rabindranath Tagore. Although he did not complete the art course in Santiniketan, the experience of being surrounded by these great artists and the unique rural setting of the Santhal Parganas, as portrayed by these artists and the poet, enabled Ray to appreciate nature in all its diverse and glorious manifestations and opened his eyes to the mysteries of creation. This single unprecedented and cherished experience helped him to formulate his ideas about the visual world and to unlock doors of visual perceptions. Added to this was his study and understanding of the classical and folk art, dance and music of our country. The magnificent collection of books in the Santiniketan library of world art and literature also helped him to widen his horizon. It was here that he read whatever books were available on the art of cinema. The seeds of a future design artist and a filmmaker were simultaneously sown here.
Having lost his father early in life, the need for earning a livelihood assumed enough importance to make him leave Santiniketan prematurely and look for a job in the field of advertising art or, as it is better known in modern parlance, graphic design. A latent talent is bound to make its presence felt sooner or later, whatever be the chosen field. As Tagore said in one of his early verses, “Flowers in bloom may remain hidden by leaves but can they hide their fragrance?” Satyajit Ray was appointed by the then D.J. Keymer (now known, as Clarion Advertising Services Ltd.) as a visualiser-cum-designer, often executing the finished design or an entire campaign himself.
Together with two of his contemporaries, O.C. Ganguli and Annada Munshi, Ray was trying to evolve certain concepts not only in illustrations but also in typography which would give their design an overall Indian look. One recalls those highly distinctive newspaper and magazine ads, the magnificent calendars, posters, cinema slides and what not of the late ’40s and ’50s not without a certain nostalgia. If my memory does not fail, I think some of the works of these three artists were even published in Penrose Annual and elsewhere. Here it may be worthwhile to bear in mind that the style evolved by these three artists made a welcome departure from the dull academicism and the stereotypes being practised by most of the advertising agencies of those times. The freshness and vigour displayed in their approach was readily appreciated both by their employers and their clients. Ray was particularly strong in the difficult area of figure drawing, an area in which many graphic designers were found singularly wanting.
Although he was soon to move away from commercial art to embrace his new-found love of filmmaking, he would continue to remain an illustrator of the first order as would be evident from his emergence as a story-teller in the two popular genres of detective and science fiction. (Not many outside Bengal know that Ray’s literary output is in no way less than that of his cinema and that most of his books have already run into thirty to thirty-five editions). He has not only been illustrating his own stories, but over the years he has been designing the covers of his grandfather’s once defunct children’s magazine Sandesh, revived by him nearly two decades ago, which also carried many illustrations by him. But in my opinion his most cherished field is calligraphy, whether that be of the pen or brush variety.
Illustrations from Sandesh: Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
This art he imbibed from his guru Benode Behari Mukherjee. Over the years he had also been studying the art of typography with the scrutinising eye of a highly creative calligrapher. The result has been a series of innovations in both Bengali and English lettering evolved for posters, banners and book covers. These very original works gave a tremendous fillip to graphic design in general and book, magazine and record covers in particular, especially in Bengal. The books Ray designed for the now defunct Signet Press of Calcutta way back in the early ’50s set new trends and were considered as models for book production both in terms of page layout, typography and jacket design, the last being his chosen field where, as I said earlier, his innovations have known no bounds. The covers of the well-known literary magazine Ekshan, which he has been designing for many years, to give only one instance, bear ample testimony to his apparently playful but significant experiments with the forms of three Bengali letters which constitute the name of the magazine. The wide variety of his inventiveness is one of his great achievements in the field of cover design.
Cover designs for Ekshan. Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
Then there are the posters, banners and slides he designed for his own films. These too were eye openers and instant trend setters. Who can ever forget the huge banners and billboards of the Apu trilogy put up at important street junctions of Calcutta! Their freshness of ideas, design concepts and calligraphy were not to be missed even by men and women in the street. Simultaneously with his creative outburst in the art of cinema, his creativity in graphic design reached new heights. What was remarkable was the fact that Ray imminently succeeded in investing all these works with a highly distinctive Indian flavour derived from his awareness of our folk traditions (especially 19th century Bengali book illustrations and woodcut prints of decorative lettering) both in their linear vigour and simplicity as well as in ornamentation.
One of the most outstanding examples of this approach was the publicity material he designed for Devi. The underlying theme of the title expresses itself forcefully both in the highly imaginative design of the lettering and the image. Their fusion is perfect. Not many graphic designers have been as type conscious as Ray. He personifies the printing designer’s gospel “type can talk”. That a letter or a printing type is not only a sign but an image by itself, and if appropriately employed can have immense communicative power and is capable of expressing a whole range of human emotions was known to Ray from the very beginning of his career.
In the enormous range of Roman printing types there are many in the humanist tradition in their simple aesthetic charm, warmth of feeling as well as in their highly elegant but delicate anatomical details. There are also those which are severe, powerful and cold but nonetheless are highly attractive in their own ways.
It is often overlooked by most readers that a letter’s structure and anatomy can be reminiscent of things in the visible world, both natural and man-made. Some can have the gentle rhythm of the rise and fall of a female form, others may have the majestic look of a well-designed edifice-just to give only two similes. Ray not only bore all these considerations in mind but used his calligraphic knowledge, skill and innovative power to their full advantage when he designed the three printing types called Ray Roman, Daphnis and Bizarre for an American type foundry nearly two decades ago.
Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
Not many of us know the infinite patience, rigours, discipline and the endless process of trial and error involved in designing a whole series of a printing type. That, in spite of his other demanding preoccupations, he found enough time to design three complete sets of types bears ample proof of his diligence and perseverance and his passionate love for the world of types. Those of us who have known him over the past decades are profoundly admiring of the fact that he is a workaholic in the best sense of the term. His diverse creative output is staggering and would put many a man half his age to shame.
In the ’40s, I met Satyajit periodically as I worked as an art master in Indore. One of the high points of my visits to Calcutta during the long summer or the short winter holidays was to frequent his ground-floor apartment in South Calcutta. It was at his place I first listened to TS Eliot’s recital in the poet’s own voice of TheWaste Land which was just brought out by HMV (now known as EMI). It was on such visits I would also have an opportunity to listen to his latest collection of records of European classical music. And it was also on one of such occasions I first heard him toying with the idea of making a film based on Rabindranath Tagore’s novel, Home and the World, a project which was abandoned soon after and was finally realised nearly four decades later.
It was not before1 returned home in 1954 after a five years’ stint in Paris that I came to know of his intense involvement with the making of Pather Panchali[4]. I vividly remember to this day the excitement with which he described it to me and invited me to a screening of the rushes. He brought out all the sketches and doodles he made along with side notes in Bengali not only of the dress, props and characters in the script but also very quick but masterly sketches of frames of each of the sequences, camera movements, etc. I remember asking him why he thought it necessary to make such careful preparations before shooting. To which his quick but significant reply, “One of the foremost but very difficult things in filmmaking is to determine the placement of the camera.” He was equally quick to point out that this is only the first part of shooting a movie and not stills.
Those of us who watched him in action know only too well that although there is always a professional cameraman present in his unit, in reality he becomes the cameraman himself. The visual richness of a film is as important to him as a story well told — the one being inseparable from the other. This is the most distinctive feature of his artistic achievements in all his films.
Ray is a lyricist of the highest order. From his first film Pather Panchali to his latest ShakhaPrashakha[5], this lyrical bend binds all his films together in the form of an oeuvre and finds full fruition in his most recent work.
Some of the imperceptibly slow camera movements in this film are sheer poetry. Although not yet released, I had the opportunity of seeing it twice, and apart from anything else, I as a painter was bowled over by its visual richness and its consummate technical finesse. I have reasons to say this. Whenever I see a movie, I try to see it through the lens of the camera and having witnessed many film shootings of some of Ray’s films, it has become a habit with me to follow the movements with great fascination. Thus, it helps me greatly to enjoy watching a film from the aesthetic and technical viewpoint.
I am sure that in order to achieve maximum artistic quality Ray finds the preliminary exercises made primarily in pen and ink very useful. These small and simple sketches, evidently done in quick succession, have all the spontaneity and vigour of something impeccably visualised and bear the unmistakable stamp of a born lyricist. Their linear treatment, unorthodox positioning on paper and an apparent insouciance, at any rate, in my eyes, are the products of a highly creative mind and are designed to meet the needs of a fastidious aesthete.
Among the sketches, one comes across portraits of many of the characters in his films in various moods and postures. These could easily be rated as some of his best works in this group. Only someone with consummate skill can bring out the full characterisation in a postage-stamp format with utmost economy and clarity. The lines which define the contours and other details of the figures are free flowing, sure and firm, the result of years of practice both with the pen and the brush.
One of the most interesting exhibits in the present collection is the album containing one of his earliest essays in visualisation of a film project — the documentary he once wanted to make on Ravi Shankar playing the sitar and on the tabla accompaniment. Ray showed it to me as early as 1954. It is possible that the inspiration came from his viewing Uday Shankar’s ballet film, Kalpana (Imagination) -– a film which he studied frame by frame by taking scores of stills in the dark theatre where the film was released. He showed me the entire series one by one and pointed out among other things the unusual camera angles, the dramatic lighting, the magic of black and white, especially in the close-ups of both the dancers and the tabla playing. Although the Ravi Shankar film was never released, I think Ray thoroughly enjoyed the exercise and learnt a lot from it.
Sourced from the brochure provided by Dolly Narang
This, along with numerous sketches and doodles related to his films, will ever be regarded as something unique in the history of filmmaking in our country.’ Only a few’ and they can be counted on one’s fingers, in world cinema have been such gifted artists too like Eisenstein, Kurosawa, Fellini and a few others. The Village Gallery should be congratulated for presenting to us “The Other Ray – the Consummate Artist.”
Dolly Narang, a gallerist, has conceptualised innovative pathbreaking exhibitions. A recent student of sculpture, she has the satisfaction of experiencing both personal and spiritual evolution as a Pranic healer and as a grandmother.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The dead would gather somewhere to discuss life, but death is an absolute, and remains forever mute. In my mirror I see a stranger, who has arrived at an age, when illusions are lost, like the messages in books he read in his childhood. A small fraction of truth passed over his head obscurely, like clouds passed on a night, when an ordinary day dawned, and like so many others, was misspent or misread. There was no hurry or bother, a bright future still lay ahead. This was a time of long summers, with no thoughts of the soon forgotten dead, but thoughts of love that would never die instead.
A Summer Landscape by Georges Seurat(1859-1891) From Public Domain
George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
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Ira’s mornings followed a ritual, one she would never compromise on. There was something grounding in the familiarity, the routine that made her mornings feel like a soft, warm blanket. Every weekday, she would stop by the small café across the street from her office, nestled between a quaint bookshop and a flower shop. It wasn’t the coffee itself that she adored, though it was undoubtedly good; it was the sense of community, of being part of something small yet significant.
The barista, Sana, knew her order before she even had the chance to speak. She could almost feel the warmth of the cappuccino in her hands before it was handed over, the foam expertly swirled into a delicate, lacy pattern on top. The air was always filled with the smell of freshly baked bread and coffee which was rich and inviting. She could hear the sounds of chatter rising and falling, a perfect background hum to her quiet moments. There was always someone new she would bump into, from the elderly Parsi lady in her mid-seventies, who came in for a muffin and a tea, to the young man who had just started bringing his dog along. It was the little things, the casual greetings and shared smiles with strangers who had become familiar faces, that made Ira’s mornings feel less like a rush and more like a soft, unhurried rhythm.
Her favourite part, though, was the corner table by the window. That spot was hers, as much a part of her morning ritual as the coffee itself. She’d been coming to the café for months, and every time she arrived, the corner was waiting for her. The way the sunlight filtered through the window at just the right angle made it the perfect seat, just warm enough for her to relax in, but not hot enough to make her uncomfortable. It offered the best view of the street outside: the bustling pedestrians, the cars honking, the kids running to school, the dogs barking as they tried to get to each other first whilst their owners tried to make them behave. In that little space, Ira could watch the world move without being part of the frenzy. Her seat was a kind of stillness in the middle of chaos. It was where she felt most herself. Centered, grounded, and ready for whatever the day ahead would bring.
But today, things were different.
Ira walked into the café a few minutes later than usual, but that wasn’t the problem. As she stepped in, the smell of coffee already hit her, and her eyes instinctively scanned the room for her usual seat.
The seat, her seat, was taken.
A young man, probably in his mid-twenties, with tousled brown hair peeking from under a beanie, was sitting at her spot. He was hunched over his laptop, fingers moving absentmindedly over the keyboard. His presence was so casual, so comfortable, as though he had claimed that corner for months.
Ira hesitated for a moment, gripping the strap of her bag a little tighter. The seat wasn’t reserved, she knew that, but it didn’t matter. It was like an unspoken rule, almost sacred that the seat belonged to her. The feeling of disappointment washed over her in an instant. She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to take a breath before marching up to the counter.
“Morning, Ira!” greeted Sana, the barista, already reaching for a cappuccino cup.
“You let someone sit in my spot,” Ira deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.
Sana snorted. Her laughter was infectious. “You didn’t call for a reservation,” she shot back, a playful glint in her eye.
Ira huffed, rolling her eyes. “It’s just that I always sit there. It’s my spot.”
Sana slid the coffee across the counter and gestured to the only other open table, near the door. “Well, you’ll have to make do with that one today.” She pointed, and Ira glanced over at the small table with a resigned sigh. Ira had no choice but to sit there. She took the cup in hand and made her way to the table near the door. After a long pause, she lowered herself into the chair and took a long sip of her cappuccino. The coffee was as good as always, but something was missing.
Minutes passed, and Ira tried her best to focus on drafting her work email, but her gaze kept drifting back to her usual corner. The guy was still there, hunched over his laptop, utterly unaware of the territorial crisis he had caused. She could see his fingers flying over the keyboard, absorbed in whatever he was doing. His focus seemed so intense, so at ease. He was clearly one of those people who could work anywhere, in any environment, without needing the perfect surroundings. And yet, Ira couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong there. It was as if his presence had intruded on her space, one that was supposed to be quiet, hers, a part of her morning ritual.
Then, as if sensing her gaze, he looked up. Their eyes met, and Ira froze for a moment, her thoughts racing. She wasn’t prepared for him to smile and wave at her.
“You keep looking over,” he said, his voice light and teasing. “Do I have something on my face?”
Ira blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, no. Umm… you’re in my seat.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Oh,” he said slowly, “I didn’t see a reserved sign on it.”
“There was no reservation,” Ira admitted, her voice softer now, feeling a little awkward. “But I always sit there.”
The guy leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Huh. And what happens if you don’t?” He tilted his head slightly. “What changes?”
Ira frowned, trying to make sense of his question. “What?” she asked, her voice not quite hiding her confusion.
“If you don’t sit here,” he said, gesturing to the chair beneath him, “what changes?”
Ira opened her mouth, then closed it again. What was she supposed to say to that? Her instinct was to reply with something dramatic, something like, “Everything changes.” But that would sound ridiculous.
She wasn’t sure why this seat mattered so much, but it did. Instead, she shrugged, choosing to settle for a more composed answer. “It’s just part of my routine,” she said. “I like watching the street from that window. The sunlight is nice there. It feels just right.” She said it all quickly, almost to herself, trying to justify why it meant something.
He considered her words, his gaze steady. “Maybe you just like the idea,” he said after a moment and a thoughtful look crossed his face.
Ira narrowed her eyes, slightly annoyed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He raised his eyebrows, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “We attach meaning to things because they’re familiar, not because they’re irreplaceable. You think you need this seat, but really, you just need a seat. Any seat. This one or that one.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “What difference does it make? Same coffee, same café. Same morning.”
Ira felt a mix of frustration and curiosity, not sure if she was just annoyed or if he actually had a point. She studied him for a moment, taking in his casual demeanor, the way he spoke with such ease and conviction. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I just like the comfort of it.”
He smiled, a little half-smile that seemed to carry a deeper understanding. “Maybe comfort is overrated.”
Ira rolled her eyes. “Are you a philosophy major or just insufferable?”
He leaned back in his chair, smiling wider now. He tapped his pen against a book and gestured at an empty bench across from him. “If you want, you can sit here. Different angle, same coffee.”
Ira studied him for a moment, while stirring her coffee before shaking her head. “No, its fine.”
The guy chuckled. “See? Change isn’t that bad.”
With a sigh, Ira picked up her bag and coffee cup and walked over to the bench across from him. As she sat down, she took in the new view. The street still moved as it always did. People came and went, a rush of morning traffic blurring by, but now from this angle, she could see the entire café. She noticed things she hadn’t seen before. The way Sana spilled some coffee on the counter as she wiped it. The line of people waiting to place their orders. The man on the phone, his voice hushed as he hesitated to answer a call. The woman across from her, turning her ring on her finger as she stared off into space, lost in thought.
Ira smiled to herself. Maybe change wasn’t so bad after all.
Maybe tomorrow she’d try a different seat again. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d get here early enough to reclaim her corner.
The coffee, however, still tasted the same.
From Public Domain
Parnika Shirwaikar is a law student with keen interest in literature and storytelling. When not studying she immerses herself in books, movies, music and everyday moments seeking inspiration for her next story.
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If you were a lamp, I would not become the night— Nor a moth, Nor a window, Nor an eye. If you were a lamp, I too would be a lamp.
(2)
Whether you dwell afar or near, To me, you are everywhere. Be it dawn or dusk, You bloom—verdant, evergreen. With famished lamps, I wander, seeking you. I crumble, collapse. With my tired soul, I sow and grow whispers. You are my pasture.
Munir Momin is a contemporary Balochi poet widely cherished for his sublime art of poetry. Meticulously crafted images, linguistic finesse and profound aesthetic sense have earned him a distinguished place in Balochi literature. His poetry speaks through images, more than words. Momin’s poetry flows far beyond the reach of any ideology or socio-political movement. Nevertheless, he is not ignorant of the stark realities of life. The immenseness of his imagination and his mastery over the language rescues his poetry from becoming the part of any mundane narrative. So far Munir has published seven collections of his poetry and an anthology of short stories. His poetry has been translated into Urdu, English and Persian. He also edits a literary journal called Gidár. This poem originally titled as Pajjar (Identity) is taken from Munir Momin’s poetry collection YakBechelley Aazman (A Span Long Sky) published by Gidar Publications in 2014.
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.Fazal Baloch has the translation rights to Munir Momin’s works.
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There is a word I’ve never been able to say. Just three letters in Mongolian—“ААВ” (father)—but for me, it’s the most difficult word of all. I’ve never called anyone by that name.
Duut in Mongolia. From Public Domain
I remember second grade in Duut Soum, one of the most remote and elevated villages in Mongolia. It was a small, close-knit place where everyone knew each other. My classmates and I had grown up together—from kindergarten to school, playing outside in the same familiar streets. Because there weren’t many children, each grade had only one class. Ours was one of the largest.
One day, our teacher assigned us to write a composition titled “My Father”. It was a simple assignment for most, but for someone who had never known a father, I didn’t know where to begin. For the first time, I asked my mother for help. I remember her thinking of her own father—my grandfather—and guiding me gently: “Write that when he comes home, it feels like a mountain’s shelter fills the house.”
I wrote exactly what she said and turned in my paper.
Later, our teacher read aloud one of the essays she liked best. To my surprise, she read mine. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to disappear from my seat. I still wonder why she chose it — maybe because it touched her, or maybe because it came from a child imagining what she had never experienced. When she finished, some boys asked, “How can she write about a father if she doesn’t have one?” Their words cut deeply. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to.
From that moment on, every assignment about “father” became something I dreaded. It felt unfair that schools continued to assign such topics, as if everyone had the same kind of family. In a world where many grow up without a father or mother, why do we continue to teach in ways that exclude them?
Despite it all, I’m endlessly grateful to my mother. She raised me without letting me lack for anything. Because I never had a father to begin with, I didn’t know what I was missing—until much later.
In 2022, I came to Japan as a student. It became one of the most beautiful periods of my life. I met many wonderful people, and one of them was Toshio-san.
As summer approached, I was researching places to travel. When I showed Toshio-san my list, he pointed to one place, Shimanto River. “That’s near my home,” he said. “I can help you get there.”
We arranged to meet at the library the following week. Punctual as always, he was waiting at the entrance. We planned to go on August 22, and he suggested we stay two nights instead of one. I agreed. He called a friend to find accommodations and promised to take me to the Pacific Ocean.
Later, he returned from a trip with brochures and snacks for me, but due to rising COVID cases, he suggested we postpone. “But I promise, I’ll take you,” he said. I would have understood if it didn’t happen, but just before classes resumed, he contacted me again. He opened his calendar and asked about October 29–30. I had no plans, so I said yes.
Before leaving, he added, “Oh, one more thing. Do you know Yuto Ishihara? He’ll join us.” I did. Toshio-san thought I might feel uncomfortable traveling alone, so he arranged a friend for me.
I counted the days until October 29.
When the day came, he called at 5:55 a.m., right on time. We picked up Yuto and headed toward Kochi. It was a warm, golden day. Our first stop was Umi no Eki in Toyocho, famous for fresh raw fish. Unfortunately, I dislike raw fish—and raw eggs too, which was part of the breakfast set. When I asked if it was boiled, Toshio-san laughed and explained that Japanese people enjoy mixing raw eggs with rice and soy sauce.
Still, I ate the miso soup and rice and watched the surfers nearby.
“Kochi is known for its waves,” he said, smiling.
We visited a cave near Muroto, one of Tokushima’s 88 pilgrimage sites, and passed through orange fields. “Do you like oranges?” he asked.
“Yes, I love them!”
He immediately called a friend to find the best ones and bought me two bags. I shared a few, then ate the rest happily. Watching me, he said, “What else do you like? I’ll get it for you!” He was sincerely happy to make me happy.
That’s when a thought crossed my mind: What would it have been like to have a father?
I had never asked myself that before. But seeing someone care so sincerely, someone wanting to make me smile, I couldn’t help but wonder: If I had a father, would he have been like Toshio-san?
We visited the famous Hirome Market in Kochi for lunch. I told him I liked karaage (fried chicken), and he got me several types to try. Later, we drove to Tosashimizu. On the way, he talked on the phone—I guessed it had something to do with fish.
By the time we arrived, the sun was setting. We went to Tosashimizu Geopark to see the sunset. Though we were late, the orange glow lingered, and the lighthouse in the distance glowed beautifully.
That night, we visited an elderly woman, nearly 100 years old, who gifted me handmade crafts and an eco-bag. Then we went to a guesthouse run by another friend. Dinner was elaborate, and though they had prepared sashimi, Toshio-san had informed them in advance that I didn’t eat raw fish. They made grilled chicken just for me.
It was then that I realized: that phone call earlier had been for me.
Another guest joined us—a friend of Toshio-san’s who showed me his collection of sea shells and marine fossils, each labeled and categorized. He even gifted me one as a keepsake.
At that moment, I remembered a Mongolian proverb:
“When your father is alive, meet people. When your horse is healthy, travel far.”
I had never been introduced to so many people before. This was what that proverb meant.
The next morning, we woke early to watch the sunrise. Words can’t describe its beauty—the waves crashing, the golden light spreading over the ocean and cliffs, the lighthouse standing tall.
We visited Kawashijima Island, where the sea was so clear we could see fish without any equipment. Later, we had lunch at another friend’s restaurant—a tiny, spotless place where I had the best omurice I’ve ever tasted. While waiting, another friend of his joined us—a lively woman who had worked in elementary school and was now a river master.
Although it was only a two-day trip, I met so many new people and visited countless beautiful places. It became one of the most precious memories of my life—when I truly felt how beautiful this world is, and how many kind-hearted people there are in it. In those moments, I found myself thinking, If I had a father, maybe he would have taken me on a trip like this, introducing me to his friends, just like this.
And in those moments, it felt like the wound I’d carried deep in my heart for 26 years had finally started to heal. The thought: What if I had a father?
Just be kind. Your kindness may fill someone’s emptiness. It may even heal a wound they’ve been silently carrying for years. Maybe, at that time, Toshio-san didn’t even realize how much of that space he had filled in me. But I truly wanted to say the word I could never say for so many years—father—to him.
Even though we were born in different countries, speak different languages, and live in different cultures, I found the father I had long searched for—in Japan. I haven’t seen Toshio-san since, but if I’m ever asked about my father, I will tell this story again and again.
Because sometimes, it doesn’t take blood to become family.
Sometimes, a kind voice, a shared meal, or a smile from the heart is enough to fill what we thought would always be missing. In a quiet corner of Japan, through simple acts of kindness, I found a sense of belonging—and perhaps, the most unexpected gift of all: a father’s love.
Odbayar Dorj is an international student from Mongolia currently studying in Japan. Her writing reflects on cultural identity, personal memory, and the power of connection across borders and generations.
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Coffee bean on the floor split down the middle like surgical ward incisions, who put you all the way down there, friend, as if starting a long climb from the foot of a volcano? You should feel lucky in many ways to have escaped the grind, your humming dark roast brethren were not so lucky. Now, the house smells kind as candy. Stained lip of a personalised mug. Coffee bean on the floor I will pull up my socks, kick you under the fridge so we can both go into hiding.
(First appeared in BlogNostics)
You gotta be rich to die there
The rich and famous don’t even croak the same as us. They have their own place. The Motion Picture & Television Country House and Hospital.
With plenty of generous donors. George Clooney is one. You gotta be rich to die there.
I guess the celebs see the others at the end and figure it prudent to kick a little cash that way for when it is their turn.
They have a stipulation that you have to have worked “actively” in the film and entertainment industry for at least two decades.
Then you get to be special. Die with original Picasso’s adorning the halls.
I’d imagine their bedpans are solid gold. But Death being what it is, they never stay that way for long
(First appeared in Terror House Magazine)
Marcel Duchamp’s Snow Shovel
Last time I checked they didn’t get a lot of snow in Israel, but they have Marcel Duchamp’s snow shovel there with an inscription that reads: Prelude to a Broken Arm, 1915. I think ole Marcel would have quite a good laugh if he knew his snow shovel was stored in the Holy Land. Seems like the kind of thing you may want to store up in these more arctic of temperaments. I have two snow shovels and the Holy Land isn’t asking for either.
(First appeared in Poetic Musings)
About the Book: This is a collection of recent poems by Ryan Quinn Flangan. He writes on daily lives of people with a fresh pen and a soupçonof humour.
About the Author: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author who lives in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work has been published both in print and online in such places as: The New York Quarterly, Rusty Truck, Borderless Journal, Evergreen Review, Red Fez, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Blue Collar Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.
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Title: The Phantom’s Howl: Classic Tales of Ghosts and Hauntings from Bengal
Translator: Arundhati Nath
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
Bengalis have always had a curious relationship with the supernatural and so stories of ghosts or bhoots are omnipresent in Bengali literature through generations. The Phantom’s Howl: Classic Tales of Ghosts and Hauntings from Bengal brings us a new collection to savour this genre once again. Written for adults and children by some of the best writers in the language, these stories have entertained generations of readers since they first appeared. Comprising eleven stories in all, from legendary authors such as Rabindranath Tagore, Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay and Hemendra Kumar Roy (who contribute two stories each) to lesser-known writers like Jogeshchandra Bandyopadhyay, Niradchandra Majumdar and Amarendranath Munshi, the stories elucidate the supernatural elements in different forms. Manik Bandyopadhyay and Pramatha Chaudhuri, though well-known for writing in other genres, have also contributed their share in creating spooky tales.
Rabindranath Tagore’s immeasurable talent as a storyteller is well-known. In both Konkal (The Skeleton) where a vainglorious skeleton reminisces about her past beauty, and Kshudito Pasan (The Famished Stone), the supernatural element takes over in a slow burn and our understanding of the other-worldly is a cerebral exercise that is an interplay between emotion and intellect. Bibhutibhusan Bandyopadhyay’s repertoire of ghost stories is well-known. Two of his short stories about hauntings included in this anthology are Bhoutik Palonko (The Spectral Bed) and Paitrik Bhita (Paternal Legacy), and both have an enticing and intangible everyday quality in them. In the first story we are told of a mysterious cursed bed of a Chinese man whose dissatisfied soul still lurks every night and disturbs anyone who sleeps on that bed. In the other story, the generations-owned massive homestead of Radhamohan is inhabited by the ghost of a young girl Lokkhi, who happened to be their youngest paternal aunt who died at the age of twelve and she slips in and out of his conscious memory.
Hemendra Kumar Roy is known for adapting many Western writings of his time and creating his own brand of short stories. In his Bari Buro Bhoot (The House, the Old Man, the Hunting Boots), the ghost has ‘sahebi’ chops and in Bhooter Raja (The King of Ghosts), Mr. J. Taylor is a typical British Raj prop who being posted as the Police Superintendent of Santhal Pargana, had access to encountering the bizarre after spending the night in a hunting lodge in the jungle.
Manik Bandyopadhyay’s horror stories explore the psychological underpinnings of supposed ghost sightings and examine what the mind can do to the perception of a lived experience – something that stands out in Pora Chhaya (The Singed Shadow). In a totally different vein, Pramatha Chaudhuri in First Class Bhoot (The First-Class Ghost) tells the story of a proud English ghost who creates trouble on a train from Kolkata to Kashi and it is steeped in humour.
As the translator mentions, she discovered the three lesser-known writers from the pages of the Bengali magazine Shuktara with its special collection of 101 ghost stories. In Bon Kolmir Bile (Inside the Water Spinach Forest Marsh), Amarendranath Munshi creates a ghostly ambience where the lonely spirit of a young girl forever rows its boat in the marshes. In Sanket (The Signal), we are told of two friends who land up in a remote corner of Aara district and take up residence in an old, rambling, dilapidated house and are narrowly saved after they come across an innocuous black cloth that spells danger for all who wave it. In Preter Kanna (The Phantom’s Howl), Jogeshchandra Bandyopadhyay tells us how the protagonist Debkumar was trapped motionless in a maze of indescribable fear and horror only to discover how the skeleton of a dead lady’s dissatisfied soul left her secret hideaway and then whatever happens is probably a re-enactment of reality.
Though most of the eleven stories that have been included in this collection are well-known to Bengali readers who grew up during the forties and fifties decades of the 20th century, The Phantom’s Howl is a quintessential representation of Bengal and its fascination with its many ghosts and stories of haunted houses. Basically, Arundhati Nath’s translations bring these household favourites to a new generation of readers. Most of the selected stories have undergone translation several times and even non-Bengali readers might already be familiar with some of them and therefore, for many readers they would seem like warmed up fare. In the translator’s note at the beginning of the text, Nath mentions her personal choices as she began listening to ghost and horror stories from her grandmother and reading some of them in Bangla from the books her parents bought for her as she grew up outside Bengal. So, the selection was ‘tinged with the wistfulness of memory.’ But unlike the stories of Dracula, we really do not find these stories ‘as thrilling and sometimes as spine-chilling’ as she claims them to be. At best they give us a lucid picture of the different kinds of ‘bhoots’ and some spooky tales prevalent in Bangla literature.
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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.
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You and Me, Tucked away in the quiet Side street, Close to where I Once lived, The Beauty Salon Was sparkling clean, Lined in the front With potted plants That looked Cared for and green. Old country music Played inside. The gentle drone of A shaver, The snap of a scissor --Were the only Other sounds As the tresses Softly touched the floor.
I still remember That pre-pandemic year, When Kevin, My hairdresser From the far eastern State of Manipur Had said to me, How much he Loved his life And work In Bangalore, A city that Opens its arms To so many From all across.
Today as my Salt and pepper Sprays on the floor, Kevin, the Naga The husband Of a young bride Father of a baby girl Yearns for his home, His mother and father, Siblings and his own, The hills and the vales Of what is now A tortured land Torn with strife Amongst Meitei and Kuki-Zo, Two thousand miles away In the far eastern State of Manipur.
Jobs are few and far Says he, There are few means To make a decent living Back in my town. So, in Bangalore I must stay and work, Even as I pine For those I love, Those I was forced To leave behind.
Those like Kevin Who travel far For fulsome work And money to earn Vacation is a time To visit the place They still think Of as home. When there is war And peace is gone Where is their home? Where do they belong?
NATIVE
Ride along a country road, Hike over a hill, Thirty minutes in a Metro rail, Or an hour and a half in the Traffic of Bangalore, A myriad of means To get to the haven That we call home.
But for those Who leave behind Their land, Bonds of a family, The language they speak, The rituals that weave Through the fabric Of what had been, Their daily routine, Does home remain An eternal wish?
I may not ever know For I have no village To return to. I belong at once To no place and every place A Native At home.
Kajoli Krishnan was born in the Shimla hills of India. She descended at the age of two and thereafter remained consigned to plains and plateau. Kajoli is a Physicist by training and has been an active researcher for four decades. She loves to read and write; cares for Nature and cherishes liberty.
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A few weeks ago, my daughter invited me to go on an outing with her and her helper. My daughter, who is deaf and uses a wheelchair, lives in a group home in Osaka. She is becoming more and more independent, but she does have kind people around her to give her support, including a helper who is also deaf and uses Japanese Sign Language.
Actually, my daughter invited our entire family to accompany her and her helper on a weekend to Happy Village, a recreational facility in Kobe especially for persons with disabilities. We had visited the onsite stables years ago, and our twins had ridden around a ring on ponies. Having such pleasant memories of the place, I looked forward to visiting again.
My husband declined due to a golf tournament, and my son, who had just entered college as a graduate student, was concerned that he would have too much homework. My daughter informed me that her brother would meet us for a meal.
Although I was looking forward to seeing my daughter and getting to know her helper, I did have a few concerns. For one, I don’t have the confidence to drive in the megapolises of Japan. Kobe, for example, is a confusing city with many ramps, overpasses, and one-way streets, not to mention the traffic. I knew that Happy Village was on the outskirts, however, and I thought that maybe I could get myself there by car. I could have gone by bus or train, but it would have taken me two or three times as long to get there.
In addition, I was a bit worried about communication. I can converse with my daughter, more or less, in Japanese Sign Language, but my signing is not perfect. Since leaving home, my daughter’s vocabulary has expanded, and her signing has sped up. When among fluent JSL users, I can’t always follow the flurry of their fingers. Nevertheless, I know that my daughter often struggles to keep up with what hearing people are saying, and I thought it would be a valuable experience.
A couple days before, my daughter sent me a Google Maps link to the restaurant where we would meet. We would have a meal and then proceed to Happy Village. On the day of, I packed a bag, filled my car with gas, and set out. I had no idea what we would be doing. On trips with my husband, every hour was pre-planned. I thought it would be nice to just go with the flow. I was looking forward to seeing my two kids.
I managed to arrive at the restaurant with ten minutes to spare. I staked out a table and sat down to wait. While perusing my phone, I came across a link that I thought would interest my son. I sent it to him. He replied with a laughing emoji, followed by “Are you coming to Kobe tomorrow?”
A cold sweat broke out over me. “Tomorrow? I thought it was today.”
“She told me tomorrow,” he texted back.
“Oh, no.” I quickly scrolled through our communications and confirmed that we were indeed meeting him the following day. It was now ten minutes after the time I had agreed to rendezvous with my daughter at this restaurant. Or so I thought. Was I supposed to meet her tomorrow? Would I have to find a hotel for the night?
Panicking, I sent my daughter a text and a photo of the restaurant. “I’m here!”
She texted back that they would be a little late, and that there would be six of them.
Six! I had thought that there would only be the three of us. Now I was feeling really intimidated. I am an introvert, and I know my limits. The more people there are around me, the more I retreat into myself. Plus, there was the issue of communication.
Finally, my daughter and her entourage arrived. I met her helper, the helper’s husband, the helper’s twin sister, an older woman with cropped hair and rainbow socks, and a young man about my daughter’s age. We got down to the business of ordering food via the tablet on the table, and sorting our basic facts, such as my age, and that we would be meeting my son the following day at Sannomiya Station.
Sannomiya Station! That was in a busy district in the heart of Kobe. I hadn’t known that we were actually going into the city. I managed to sign that I was scared of driving in such an unfamiliar place. I was beginning to realise that I should have pried more details about this trip out of my daughter beforehand.
Three hours later, I followed the others in my car to Happy Village. My daughter and I were in one room, the others in their own rooms. By this time, my social battery was waning. I was ready to take a bath and curl up in bed with a book. My daughter, who is an extrovert, went down the hall for a couple more hours of JSL conversation and cake with her friends.
The next morning, we checked out of the hotel and stopped by the stables. Just as before, children rode ponies around the ring. My daughter zoomed around in her wheelchair, and the rest of us tried to keep up.
Next, we dropped by the helper’s apartment. I was invited to leave my car in the parking garage, and ride in the car with the others, for which I was very grateful. As we headed toward Kobe, I noted how quiet it was inside the car. No one tried to talk or sign. It would have been dangerous for the driver to take his hands off the wheel to form words, or to look away from the road for too long.
We finally connected with my son, and went to a restaurant. Because there were so many of us, we split up. My kids and I sat at one table, and the others sat at another. I brought my son up in English, and it remains our lingua franca. After my son and daughter exchanged a few words in sign language, my son and I talked a bit about the recent political situation in the United States. Although my daughter was curious, I couldn’t quite explain to her what we were talking about in JSL. I encouraged her to write notes to her brother. They communicated by pen and paper for a while.
After lunch, my son went back to his apartment to prepare a PowerPoint for his class the next day. The rest of us wandered around the city, window-shopping, until it was time for me to leave. My daughter wasn’t ready to go home, so the helper’s husband offered to give me a ride back to my car.
On the way, he said, “When you were talking to your son, your daughter didn’t understand.”
“That’s true,” I conceded. “We were speaking in English.” Although I had wanted to bring up my daughter in English, circumstances made it too difficult. Yet, my son was the only one in our family that I could freely communicate with in my native language.
“I felt sorry for her,” the helper’s husband continued.
I nodded. I had an idea of how my daughter felt. Although I had lived in Japan for many years, I often didn’t fully understand what people were saying around me.
He activated an app on his smartphone, which was affixed to the dashboard, which rendered spoken words into text. He suggested that my daughter could use such an app. I tried to explain that she already knew how to use the app, but for some reason she hadn’t tried to employ it in the restaurant.
I guess I could have been offended by his words, but instead I was moved. I was happy that my daughter was surrounded by people who cared so much about her, who were looking out for her best interests. How wonderful that she had finally found her tribe.
Suzanne Kamatawas 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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