A million stars are out tonight, a million more burn out of sight. Our world is bathed in radiant light; and we are all witness to its might.
What, then, is Time? Who of us can say? No-one knows, at the end of the day. One by one we will surely decay; our lives, like seconds, just tick away.
A thousand years, they will come and go, yet, still, none of us shall ever know why some seeds perish, while others grow; we can only accept it is so.
Who can tell what days may become, cold as the moon or hot as the sun? What you do now, it soon will be done; moments, like sparks, flash bright - then are gone.
IF I HAD A HORSE
If I had a horse I'd set out at dawn, when sunlight sifts the morning grey, and by the time the sky was bright, the light was sure, I'd be galloping hard and free. And there, the mountains. Beyond, the sea! Somewhere, out of view, a distant feel of blue. For a thousand miles or more we'd thunder over the land, embrace our green tomorrows, leave yesterday behind. And, always, the sun would shine, a bright shower in the morning; in evening a golden gleam. And, deep in the night, I'd taste the sweet taste of the earth and feel the tang of cold air. In starlight I would know what it means just to breathe; beneath a silver halo I'd know just what it means to be free. If I had a horse.
Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.
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The sun often shone brightly in the small, quiet town of Uttarpara,[1] illuminating the newly laid asphalt-lined streets and vibrant gardens in front of most houses. But for Gowri, an elderly woman of seventy-eight, the light had dimmed to a dull flicker. Outside her window, life bustled, yet she felt it was happening on a different planet.
Once she had been the mover in her community—a fierce advocate for women’s empowerment, engaging them in revenue-earning activities, through pottery, painting, cooking, and weaving, supported by her husband Shekhar, a well-known and respected member of the society.
After her husband’s untimely death, the warmth in her home began to fade. She sought the warmth from her artist friends. This did not sit well with her children. They objected to her carrying on with the social activities she was involved with. Well-meaning yet misguided, they insisted it was for her safety. They believed that the world had grown too dangerous for someone of her age. So, they began the process of isolating her, one layer at a time.
At first, it was simple. “Mom, why don’t you let us help with the groceries? We’ll just do a quick online order,” they suggested. That meant not going out. Gowri, though reluctant, acquiesced. Next came the visits that grew fewer and further apart, their busy lives seeming to expand while her own contracted.
Then, her virtual connections crumbled. “We think it’s best if you take a break from social media, and all online activities” her daughter said, her voice filled with concern. “It’s so easy to get duped. There are scammers out to make a quick buck. We will handle all your banking activities, and promise to call more often.” Once the financial control was in their hands, the calls dwindled as the months rolled by, replaced by a suffocating silence.
Gowri found herself trapped in a house that felt like a cage. The once vibrant laughter of her friends at the local art complex, housed in a garage, was replaced by echoes of memories. The absence of touch—of a hand on her shoulder, the embrace of a friend—left her feeling ghostlike, a shadow of her former self. She missed visits to the Sunday haat [2] where her line of pottery drew large crowds, crafted from mud collected from the Hooghly River.
As weeks turned into months, the isolation seeped into her mind, entwining itself with her thoughts. She felt as if she were part of a macabre dance, orchestrated by her family’s misguided affection. Each step in this dance led her further from the world, pulling her deeper into a solitude that echoed with the whispers of the past.
One night, Gowri stood by the window, gazing at the moonlit street. She could see the neighbours laughing, children playing, and couples walking hand in hand…a replay of vignettes from her life when she was younger strolling with her husband behind their skipping kids. She felt punched in the belly wrapped in insufferable loneliness that old age had brought on.
She was unprepared for the awakening that followed. The local community centre hosted an art exhibition, and for the first time in months, Gowri felt a flicker of hope. She longed to see her friends, to share in their laughter and creativity. Summoning her courage, she decided to venture out, despite the concerns of her family. They would have no inkling of her movements being so far removed from her home in Uttarpara.
With a look of determination, she stepped outside, dressed in her favourite cream with red border jamdani [3] saree, which Shekhar had bought from Dhaka on one of his official visits.
When she entered, the warmth enveloped her like a long-lost embrace. Friends turned, eyes widening in shock and delight. “Gowri!” they exclaimed, rushing to her side, their voices filling the air with the vibrant hues of life. At that moment, the dance of death that had surrounded her began to unravel, replaced by a lively rhythm of connection and joy. The spark in her eyes returned as she mingled with them, admiring the work put up for the exhibition. Her last painting rested on the easel occupying centre stage. This gesture made her feel she was never truly alone. A feeling of empowerment suffused her being.
Gowri realised that old age should not be a reason for isolation. It should not mean living in a cocoon, separated from the vibrant life that pulsed just beyond her door.
As she lay in bed, a smile crept across her face. The initiation into the dance of death had not claimed her; instead, she had stepped back into the dance of life, refusing to let anyone dictate the music. In the embrace of her memories and her friends, Gowri found a spark of defiance, a whisper of hope that would guide her forward.
The dance of death was only one story; the dance of life was hers to write anew.
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[1] City in West Bengal
[2] farmer’s market
[3] saree woven in Dhaka (Bangladesh)
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Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a published author of four books and a regular contributor to anthologies published in India and overseas. A septuagenarian, she writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.
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Sun by Edvard Munch (1863–1944). From the Public Domain
ODE TO THE SUN
Day is done . . . on, swift sun. Follow still your silent course. Follow your unyielding course. On, swift sun.
Leave no trace of where you've been; give no hint of what you've seen. But, ever as you onward flee, touch me, O sun, touch me.
Now day is done . . . on, swift sun. Go touch my love about her face and warm her now for my embrace; for though she sleeps so far away, where she is not, I shall not stay. Go tell her now I, too, shall come. Go on, swift sun, go on.
LAUGHTER FROM ANOTHER ROOM
Laughter from another room mocks the anguish that I feel; as I sit alone and brood, only you and I are real.
Only you and I are real. Only you and I exist. Only burns that blister heal. Only dreams denied persist.
Only dreams denied persist. Only hope that lingers dies. Only love that lessens lives. Only lovers ever cry.
Only lovers ever cry. Only sinners ever pray. Only saints are crucified. The crucified are always saints.
The crucified are always saints. The maddest men control the world. The dumb man knows what he would say; The poet never finds the words.
The poet never finds the words. The minstrel never hits the notes. The minister would love to curse. The warrior longs to spare his foe.
The warrior longs to spare his foe. The scholar never learns the truth. The actors never see the show. The hangman longs to feel the noose.
The hangman longs to feel the noose. The artist longs to feel the flame. The proudest men are not aloof; The guiltiest are not to blame.
The guiltiest are not to blame. The merriest are prone to brood. If we go outside, it rains. If we stay inside, it floods.
If we stay inside, it floods. If we dare to love, we fear. Blind men never see the sun; Other men observe through tears.
Other men observe through tears The passage of these days of doom; Now I listen and I hear Laughter from another room.
Laughter from another room Mocks the anguish that I feel. As I sit alone and brood, Only you and I are real.
Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, incorporated into three plays and two operas, and set to music by seventeen composers.
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Reflecting on the last 12 months, Keith Lyons finds some things fade away, others reveal themselves, and mighty trees fall.
Collage courtesy: Keith Lyons
Am I over-sharing if I confess that the first photo on my iPhone of my 2024 year is a spectacle lens prescription? Or that the summary photo for 2024 — chosen by Apple and its algorithm — is of a coffee cup with the best of my efforts to create the basic latte art design: a monk’s head?
Looking back on the year, I wonder about the interplay of personal and global, a year which started with me learning how to make an origami crane, the symbol of peace, hope, longevity and good fortune, and ended with me getting ill, losing my father, without a paying job, and facing an unexpected massive bill.
The trick to making a paper crane is to have a good teacher. I was fortunate enough to connect with a semi-retired Japanese man (Mocchan) whose gift to the world is to meet strangers, have a cup of coffee, and patiently show them the dozen or so steps how to fold, flip, and unfold a piece of paper until it becomes a paper crane.
As for ill health, loss, unemployment, and debt, there are no easy tricks; you just need to go through them. “Survive til ’25” has been the mantra of bank economists and real estate pundits, recognising that 2024 has been a rough year for many sectors and most people, with inflation (and with it, rising living costs) the primary concern of citizens all around the world. Many countries are in economic recession, geopolitical threats are on the horizon, and the globe is warming faster than expected. The economic challenges were highlighted for me when earlier this year friends admitted to me they had changed their brand of coffee beans to a cheaper, no-frills variety, to cope with the cost of living squeeze. Yes, a First World problem. But who in 2024 has not examined their expenditure, put something back on the shelves, or not completed an online purchase — known as ‘cart abandonment’?
So, if I was to look back at the year in review, as a tapestry or a mosaic, what would I see? Fragments of memories, experiences, events. The days of my life, some almost the same as the previous day, others with unanticipated twists and turns. Welcome to the journey of 2024.
January
In the very centre of my city, Christchurch (New Zealand’s most English of cities), where a quake-damaged cathedral sits un-repaired, I get transported into another world, an immersive world of lights and colours in the giant inflatable sculpture Arborialis Lunminarium, made by the Architects of Air (https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=901452564787031). Inside the labyrinth of tunnels and designs like cathedral stained-glass windows, I take time to sit in alcoves and lay in the centre of one of the domes, bathing in the natural light filtering through the installation, breathing in the tones, listening to the echoes and reverberations.
February
My next-door neighbour’s house goes on the market. I go across to an open home in the weekend. The neighbours left without saying goodbye. “Gone to Australia,” the real estate agent tells me. “Better jobs.”
Most of the prospective buyers are recent arrivals in New Zealand.
Looking across to my house, I realise, I need to do some work on my property, including having some trees cut and trimmed. I make a mental note to mention it to a friend who often meets with an arborist.
A few weeks later, the house sells at auction, for a price way beyond its valuation.
March
I go on a hiking trip with a friend in Fiordland, at one point missing a direction arrow and going off the trail, with others following us up a rocky stream-bed. After much faffing around, we retreat to the last known marked part of the trail, just as other hikers find the next marker without any problems. Lesson: sometimes the directions are up above your eyesight. Look up.
Back in internet-land, I find much merriment in watching Penn Holderness rapping in the style of Eminem wisdom found on pillows and cushions with quotes. Also, online I find a post detailing things to do for a low-dopamine morning, to sharpen mental clarity, reduce stress and anxiety, and improve long-term brain health. They include not watching Facebook reels or videos first thing in the morning (wait an hour at least), as well as drinking water, getting natural night and fresh air soon after waking, eating a high-protein breakfast, and delaying your first morning coffee for at least an hour.
April
For the first time in ages, I go out to a venue at night, listen to live music, have a few drinks, and end up dancing. The venue is a former Anglican church, built in the Gothic revival style in 1875 with an octagonal layout, and later becoming a theatre and then a Japanese wedding chapel. It is a unique setting with a micro-brewery, stained glass windows, and bouncers at the door. I am trying to recall the last time I went out to a live band and danced. My companion is also speculating that she’d also had not been out dancing since the Covid-19 pandemic. We are both in our 50s but are heartened to see others even older than us moving and grooving to the Balkan-Latin fused dub beats of Yurt Party.
May
I am late for a musical performance in the capital Wellington, and only hear half a composition that has been composed in memory of my brother. Fortunately, the performers agree to repeat the piece afterwards, to enable recording of it, and also so I can call my father so he can listen to ‘Heal’ by Salina Fisher over the phone. It is quite special. I know my father is also deeply moved by the classical composition, even without being in attendance at the Futuna Chapel, regarded as one of the outstanding pieces of 20th-century architecture in New Zealand, combining Maori and European design elements.
A day later we celebrate my father’s 88th birthday. My father is dying. A few weeks later, we are holding him and speaking with him as he takes his last breath.
June
The arborist I wanted to come cut down and trim trees on my property dies suddenly in an accident while felling a large tree on an extensive hillside property he is restoring. At a memorial service the only way through the loss is to retell stories about his character, adventures and humour.
An old friend from school days has sent a native tree to plant in memory of my father, and on the shortest day I think about where I might plant it. Winter is considered the best time to allow trees to establish in the wetter months, but it is cold outside, so I keep the tree inside in my sunroom, and ponder where it might grow best.
July
One night after visiting my mother, I come across an event that seems both crazy and appealing in the coldest time of the year. ‘Rogaining’ is a cross-country navigation sport where teams try to visit as many checkpoints as possible within a time limit. A winter series mixing strategy, adventure, orientation and the challenges of darkness. I resolve to rope in some friends to form a team. Can I offer to be the main navigator given that I’ve gotten lost in unfamiliar terrain more than once?
A pair of WWII binoculars used by my father as a naval navigator ended up in a private collection museum. It is a bittersweet part of letting go, hoping that something once connected to someone special will be put to good use, and is in good hands. When I show the photo to my mother and sister, we have a small sense of closure.
August
My work contract finishes, as our programme wraps up. The significance of the end dawns on me, as I realise the impact on many people and communities from the end of the collaborative research, including early career scientists who now may have to change professions, or go overseas in the hope of work.
In my garden, daffodils bloom bright yellow, and I bring in the flowers to spread the promise of new beginnings inside. My parents planted the bulbs when we were children.
September
Having put off appointments because of being busy at work, I get advice from a dietary nurse, fitness trainer and stress coach on improving my health, fitness, and sleep. Ultimately, I am caring for my heart. My blood pressure and cholesterol have been high in recent years. I don’t want to die ‘young’.
I go on holiday to the comforting golden sands and clear waters of Abel Tasman National Park, where I have fond memories from family trips in the 1970s. I make new memories and feel more connected to my father and brother as I gaze at night up to the vast Milky Way, with the five stars of the Southern Cross emerging over the horizon.
October
In an effort to improve my skills for employment and leisure, I start a coffee-making barista course. Each week, there is a test and challenge. I have to learn the names of the parts of the espresso machine, because at the start I only know their functions and not their exact names: group head/gasket, portafilter, basket, drip tray, steam wand.
A friend of my brother visits, bringing his partner and their child, whose first name is a composite of my brother’s name Ian, and the boy’s grandmother’s name.
November
On the barista course, we learn how to pull the perfect shot of espresso, by ensuring the best combination of freshly roasted beans, fine grind size, and how it is pressed (or tamped) to extract the full flavour of the coffee. At each one-on-one session, my tutor Masako extends my knowledge and practical skill. I have to prepare two different styles of coffee in under four minutes, from order to dispatch. I don’t make them in time. The next week, I have to make four coffees in under eight minutes — latte, long black, mocha, flat white. I am over time. Will I ever improve to be able to work in a busy cafe?
My speaking blood pressure monitor reads out my levels in mercury pilar and concludes: Result Normal. I attribute the reduction — without medication — to taking on board the advice of the Mayo Clinic around improving sleeping, reducing stress, less salt, limiting alcohol, lowering weight, and exercising frequently. After positive feedback from my health professionals on the lifestyle changes I’ve made, I felt like I undo my progress when an old school friend visits my house mid-afternoon with a carton of 18 beers and a six-pack of Guinness.
December
The day after the visit, I find the spot to plant the tree the school friend gave me in memory of my father. The tree will bloom in spring with yellow flowers to attract nectar-eating native birds. My father loved birds.
To get the temptation out of sight, I give the remaining beers away to my builder who turns up to guide an engineer through recent quake repairs to my house. The engineer, originally from China, finishes his inspection saying everything seems allright. His visit has cost me over $2,000, an unexpected extra cost due to the previous professional’s work being discredited.
I don’t even get an interview for a job I thought I was dead-certain to be shortlisted for. But another door opens, and I get a job offer for a role starting in the new year. I know I am lucky, given the tough employment market, but I know that while I might be ‘pale’ and ‘male’, I ain’t stale.
I finish my barista course, and take away the need for patience, consistency and practice.
But then, after feeling tired from a gym session, a bike ride and a hydrotherapy class, I come home and feel inertia drag me down. Will I have time to finish this piece for Borderless, I wonder? Then I test positive for Covid-19.
Best wishes to you, wherever you are.
May the past be your lesson, the present your gift, and the future your motivation.
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Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’sEditorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
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Paintings by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890). From Public Domain
THE BLESSING OF AFTER-RAIN
The rain has stopped. The sky is clearing. It’s too late for the sun but the moon, full and glowing gold, does what it can to illuminate the world. I step outside, breathe the newly minted air, look up to where the stars, in various states of gleaming, declare the universe open for heads titled backward, eyes wide enough to encompass everything up there. I must thank the rain for this. So much in life is intensified by time spent with its opposite.
CHORUS
Birds sing a chorus. And the wind orchestrates. We shimmer in the throat of song, the finches that come by daily, the occasional red-winged blackbird, the mourning doves whose grief is purely ornamental for don't they hog the meatiest of seeds at the feeder, and aren't their wings wide and light enough to ride the praise and silence of our breath.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. His latest books are Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. His upcoming work will be in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories and River and Sout.
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Farouk Gulsara discussed William Dalrymple’s latest book
Growing up in the later part of the 1970s, kids of my generation were drilled with stories that India was a subcontinent of poverty, filth, and pickpockets. Even our history books taught us that it was a land of darkness, living in its myths, superstitions, and cults, waiting to be civilised by the mighty European race and their scientific discoveries.
That was what was impressed upon us as we sauntered into adulthood. The media did not help either. With eye-catching news like a particular Indian Prime Minister having his daily dose of gau mutra[1] for breakfast and another ousted after thirteen days of taking oath as the Prime Minister, India was made out to be just another third-world country. Then came the 21st century and the turn of tides. Locally bred academicians started teasing deeper into India’s forgotten history. They started doubting the self-deprecating history that was taught to them by leftist historians in the textbooks.
Like many historians before him, historian William Dalrymple, in his latest book, The Golden Road: How Ancient India Transformed the World outlines the importance of India as a cradle of knowledge that peddled wisdom to regions near and far. Its scientific knowledge was far ahead of its time. This know-how was put into practice and spread via trade routes. Their port of entry received not just their goods but also their culture and way of life.
Enduring attack after attack from foreign invaders, Indians had already forgotten their glorious past by the time of the British Raj. A tiger hunting expedition inadvertently brought British hunters to various beautiful cave carvings and Buddhist sculptures. That kind of rekindled India’s history, which had disappeared from the Indian imagination.
India had been a crucial economic fulcrum and a civilisational engine in early world history. As early as 31BCE, Indians had learnt to manipulate the monsoonal winds to steer their ship to the West to the prosperous kingdom of Ethiopia, Egypt and subsequent access to the Mediterranean. With their mammoth merchant ships, they transported pearls, spices, diamonds, incense, slaves and even exotic animals like elephants and tigers in exchange for gold. Trade favoured India so much that a Roman Naval Commander, Pliny the Elder, lamented the unnecessary spicing of the food and the almost transparent Indian fabric that left nothing to the imagination. It is said Buddhism reached the shores of Egypt through these ships. The Christian monastic way of life is said to have been influenced by these monks.
With seasonal monsoon winds, Indian ships brought not just trade but philosophy, politics, and architectural ideas to Southeast Asia, China, and even Japan. All this cultural allure and sophistication did not happen through conquest. Sanskrit was the language of knowledge and a conduit for spreading knowledge.
Buddhism emerged in the 5th century BCE as an alternative to caste-centred and animal sacrifice-filled rituals. Unlike Jainism’s strict austerities, it offered a middle path. Due to King Ashoka’s untiring efforts, Buddhism spread beyond its borders. Contrary to the belief that Buddhism promotes an impoverished way of living, early Buddhists drew interests (and resources) from the merchant group, as evidenced by the Ajanta Caves’ findings. Buddhism drew many Chinese scholars to India’s centres of higher learning in Nalanda and Kanchipuram in the South to get first-hand experience reading Buddhist scriptures in Sanskrit. India’s universities later became the template for other varsities the world over.
Ajanta CavesAjanta Painting inside the caveFrom Public Domain
India’s cultural influence on South Sea Asia is phenomenal. Stories from Indian epics, Ramayana and Bhagvad Gita, are told and retold in children’s stories, plays and cultural art forms. Their ruling elites were Hindus. The biggest Hindu and Buddhist temples are not in India but in Cambodia and Java, respectively, as Angkor Wat and Borobudur. Marvellous stony statues and temple are similar to those in India. At a time when the Byzantines were presiding over Europe, the Suryavarman clan was ruling a Hindu Empire so huge it would dwarf their European counterpart.
The 5th to 7th century of the common era was the golden age of Indian mathematics. Between Aryabhata and Brahmagupta, their knowledge of the nine-number system (and zero) brought them the know-how of negative numbers, algebra, trigonometry, algorithms and astronomy far ahead of their time. They understood that Earth was a sphere spinning on its axis, about the eclipse, gravity and planetary rotations. The Indians even built a space observatory tower in Ujjain to study constellations and devise a solar calendar. The idea of a prime meridian arose from here.
In the 8th century, the Abbasids exerted control over the Afghanistan region through treaties with local viziers. At that time, the Bamiyan region in Afghanistan had over 460 monasteries and 10,000 monks. A member of an influential Buddhist family, the Barmakid, converted to Islam to establish his family in the Abbasid fold. They brought Indian medicines, texts, and scholars with them and encouraged and promoted Islamic engagement with the East. Sanskrit texts were translated into Arabic. It is said that the Barmakids were instrumental in the building of Baghdad.
The Islamic hegemony spread, as did the scholarship it had built.
The Bamakid-Abbasid liaison met a tragic end due to palace power dynamics. The Abbasids started looking at the Romans for inspiration. Many Europeans were drawn to the Golden Age of Islam. Many texts were translated into Latin. Toledo of Andalusia introduced the science of timekeeping from Ujjain to Oxford. A particular young Italian named Leonardo of Pisa picked up the beauty of Mathematics during his stay in Algeria. He returned to publish ‘Liber Abaci‘ (The Book of Calculation) in 1202, which introduced Europe to the sequence of Fibonacci numbers and the mystic power of mathematics. This sudden gush of knowledge spurred the European Renaissance.
First published in 1202, Liber abaci was one of the most important books on mathematics in the Middle Ages, introducing Arabic numerals and methods throughout Europe. Its author, Leonardo Pisano of Pisa is known today as Fibonacci .Stature of Fibonacci (1170-1240/50) in PisaFrom Public Domain
The whole cycle completed its full arc when European powers rose to great heights. Benefitting from the knowledge from India that layered its way through, passing from hand to hand, the colonial masters returned to chop off[2]the hands that had nourished it.
Emerging rejuvenated from their occupation-induced slumber, with their Anglophilic familiarity, Indians have risen from the ashes to claim their status in the Indosphere[3], a world where Indian influences permeated every layer of society.
This well-researched, unputdownable book is for all history buffs. Infused with little nuggets from cover to cover that would excite nerds, it is a joy to read about the history of India in a way that is not often told in the mainstream.
[1]Gau mutra, cow urine, has a sacred role in some forms of Hinduism and Zoroastrianism and is used for medicinal purposes and in some Hindu ceremonies.
[3]Indosphere is a collective linguistic term for areas under Indian linguistic influence. It includes countries in the Southern, Southeast, and East Asian regions. 22 languages, including Indo-European and Dravidian languages, are recognised under this category and are considered to have originated in India.
Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.
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I sat with my school dress on; waiting for baba to finish his detour of the paddy fields on his way home. It made me curious --
this detour. I would ask mother with raised eyebrows, but never get an answer.
I have seen the cycle lie slanted on a slender date tree bark by the pond. Maybe he caught fish.
Years ago, when there was no toilet in the household, he frequented the shabby unused ghat and
smoked beedi* as he squatted beside the stone steps on the dewy brown grass patches.
Now we have toilets made for everyone in the village.
Stashes of fuming beedi litter the ghat. Maybe, after all these years, he has grown attached to the pond side. A daily attachment.
*Beedi: A thin cigarette smoked in the Indian Subcontinent
Lokenath Roy’s work explores themes of society, memory, and the human experience. His poems have appeared in several literary journals and online magazines like The Cawnpore Magazine and The Monograph Magazine. His work is also immensely popular on platforms like Quora.
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Newspapers with audited accounts of circulation and readership surveys gave the opportunity to claim that your piece was read by millions of readers. Even though the metrics did not suggest how the individual piece performed in terms of garnering readership, the millions of people who bought the newspaper were assumed to have read what you wrote. Unlike the digital space where the complete picture of reads, likes, and shares is accessible, the traditional media platforms provided a cover to indulge in tall claims of popularity and the collective statistics delivered a high to those who dabbled in writing to see their name in print. Even if the truth was that your piece was the least read one, there was no way to establish that in the editorial room where the high-brow editors cherry-picked on the basis of quality of writing and the relevance of the topic.
Bouquets and brickbats in the form of letters to the editor was the only reliable way to assess the merit or demerit of the piece, but these letters were dashed off as reactions to columns by leading commentators in the belief that the editor would grant space for the feedback on what the heavyweight columnists churned out. Readers were apprehensive that their letters would end up in the slush pile if they focused on newcomers. This fear was not unfounded as the interactive engagement often appeared limited to luminaries and experts on the edit pages.
Being published next to a syndicated column meant the equivalent of placing your debut novel on the same bookshelf where the works of a bestselling novelist were displayed. As neighbours, you had the liberty to brag about enjoying the same status even though your readership was negligible. You rushed to the newspaper vendor to buy additional copies of the same edition and keep it archived in your portfolio of published works. Printing xerox copies for circulation in your group of friends and relatives was the next big activity but the target group pricked your ego by saying that they do not read the newspaper that carried your piece. It was a polite way of saying that your breakthrough was no big achievement as they did not consider that newspaper suitable for reading.
The desire to see your name in print again and again was a good motivator in the initial stage. Since you never knew you would get the same space twice in a month, it was a struggle to try another kind piece to ensure you were carried on some other supplement page in the next week. You wanted readers of all age groups to notice your name in the newspaper, to register it in the list of frequent contributors. The easiest way to do so was to keep writing on a diverse range of topics. The byline fever gripped you and a week without a piece in the same newspaper or its competitor felt like a long gap of staying away from the limelight. Writing in a hurry also involved the risk of getting your piece rejected. Maintaining the same quality of writing and factual accuracy through proper research work was important because the team of editors should not get disappointed with any of your submission. As a precautionary move, bombing them with low quality pieces for the sake of byline was ruled out. But the obsession to become a regular contributor with a dedicated space led to several attempts across multiple genres to find your strengths. Even though you were able to find out what worked better in terms of flow and engagement, it was not possible to share the same observations with editors who drew their own inferences.
To keep struggling to write with no reward meant sustenance despite all odds. In such a situation, the byline was a big attraction to continue writing. If journalistic writing led to occasional disappointments, you had the freedom to turn to middles and infuse a dose of humour. There was further scope to write short stories and create a new world of awe, with the illustrator adding visual attraction to the theme of your fiction. This was a great opportunity to find your creative bent and, in case, it clicked, you could submit more elsewhere before getting a solo book of short stories published. Writing for some years in this fashion gave you adequate exposure and you turned confident enough to switch from regional publications to national dailies. Listing these achievements in the resume managed to draw the attention of an employer who himself was keen to get published in the same newspaper without releasing advertisements.
There was anxiety and depression every weekend as the expected publication of your piece was delayed due to editorial discretion. You went to browse at the nearby bookstall to know if you were inside the pages. The joy of seeing your name in print lit up your eyes and you picked up extra copies of the same publication without explaining to the vendor what made you do so. If you were lucky to find space for some weeks at a stretch, you chose to subscribe to it. But when you fell out of favour due to changes in the editorial policy or on account of a new editor storming in with his loyal team of freelancers, you felt like cancelling the subscription plan and never writing again. This temporary phase was soon over – when you found another piece of yours getting picked up by a rival publication. You felt buoyed again, determined to get your byline pieces carried to various homes. Your family was glad you were getting published so they did not discourage you. But they were aware you were getting close to the space where politicians dominated. They were convinced you had a future in writing even if it was an unstable one.
Although the honorarium was a modest amount, the thrill of getting paid for the piece was intense. You felt encouraged to write more to get those cheques and line up for encashment in MNC banks. The recovery of courier and stationery expenses from the published works removed the guilt of suffering losses in case of rejections. The newspaper stayed the whole day on your desk and additional copies were displayed in the lobby or the entrance, to let the guests or visitors catch a glimpse of the edition becoming special with your piece. The frisson of delight petered out as the frequency of publication gathered pace. Many readers, including friends and relatives, wrote to the editor in praise of your piece even though you never got to read those flattering comments in print.
When a delighted reader approached the newspaper office to gather your postal address and mailed a long epistle in appreciation of the style, it was an out of the world experience in the pre-digital era. When the elderly reader requested you to meet him at his residence, you did not feel shy to reach out to a stranger. Despite the wide age-gap, the conversation flowed well on writing issues as he was curious to find out whether it was a flirtatious relationship with writing or something more serious and everlasting would flower. Without confirming anything, you let it remain open-ended and interpretative. Despite your best efforts, the elderly reader inferred it was going to be an enduring relationship. When he confessed he was a writer with a book out of print, it was a humbling experience as you sat in front of a published author whereas you had no such credit. He got up and offered a signed copy and sought candid feedback on his work. You felt being the chosen one who could revive his interest in writing and motivate the septuagenarian.
You were also reminded of similar moments of frustration and encouragement from multiple sources. In his case, the story was different as he was battling health issues and yet seeking out advice pertaining to whether he should pursue writing or quit the domain. You felt like saying the magic of creativity should be kept alive even if there is nothing rewarding in the pursuit. You did not need to read the book to deliver this piece of advice. Whether he took it seriously or brushed it aside as a generic observation could not be ascertained. Later attempts to communicate proved futile. Perhaps he was gone, from the city or left the world, or maybe, the landline phone was dead. Searching for his byline in the newspapers and tomes in the bookstores produced no result. You did not feel like trudging up to the same apartment to uncover a bitter truth.
Your friends in the varsity were the most critical readers who always found something lacking in your piece but were also generous to appreciate the attempt. Some were jealous and competitive – driven by the urge to appear on the same page – and they went to the same editor with their submissions. Unable to bear rejection, they spread the word that the editor sought freebies to publish opinion pieces and it was the surest way to get a byline. Despite getting featured in multiple publications, the child-like curiosity to see your name again and again retained its flavour. Writing became a habit as a result, and the desire to be published generated the desire to write. Sustaining the urge to write was immense and, once it became a regular habit, everything else ceased to matter. You were confident of facing the blank page despite flak and rejections. Even if you wrote five pieces in a month and four of them were spiked, you had the satisfaction of seeing one in print. This was good enough to keep the pen flowing. You became more risk-bearing and tried out other avenues and other forms of writing at the same time. As the digital world opened up more options, you began exploring the writing opportunities on a global scale.
Years of honing your craft offered a better understanding of the writing world and the real world. When a young person read your piece against dowry and went to the newspaper office to collect your address and visit your residence and offer you a proposal to marry his sister, it was a moment of realisation how writing shapes perspectives and the immense responsibility it carries. It was an episode to remind you that good writing is read and the writer must pen his words with social responsibility. Such early encounters made you understand the value of writing beyond the power of bylines.
The writer must be prepared to reach a mature stage when the byline fever subsides. Whether you acquired a thousand bylines becomes immaterial after a certain stage, but the role of byline in offering you anchorage and encouragement cannot be sidelined in the formative years of your writing career.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
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In the quiet corner of a sunlit room, Lies a quilt of stories, a tapestry of blooms. Each patch a memory stitched with care, Whispers of laughter, moments we shared.
A faded square from a summer’s day, A child’s handprints in play. Next to it, a heart stitched with love, Warmed by the whispers of stars above.
There’s a square of grey, a stormy night, A tear-stained patch, yet it still feels right For woven with sorrow, the resilience shows. With every stitch, its beauty grows.
As seasons change and threads unwind, Life’s fabric weaves, each moment enshrines. The quilt tells a story of joy and strife, A reminder that love is the thread of life.
Here in this quilt, my heart finds a home, A legacy of laughter, a place to roam.
Rajeev Borra is a young writer who lives in the southern part of India and loves to write fiction and poems. His other hobbies include reading, cycling and watching movies.
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My father seemed destined to be surrounded by women. At first there were four aunts, a sister and four female cousins. There was a mother too, but no father he could or would recall.
Seepersad Naipaul was born on 14th April 1906 in the settlement of Cunupia in rural Trinidad. On his birth certificate, his name is ‘Supersad’. The name and occupation of the ‘informant’ (normally the husband or father) is given as Nyepal. He is identified as a labourer. His mother’s name is Poolkareah, with no occupation cited for her. Most likely she was wife as well as mother – occupations daunting enough.
Nyepal, our Pa’s father, was not intended to be a labourer. An only child, he had come from India with his devoted mother, an indentured servant. In other words, she came under an agreement that would oblige her to work on the land, mainly in the sugar-cane fields. Why did she and so many others leave India in this way? Perhaps she had committed some indiscretion, or was running away from a bad marriage. After her term of indenture expired, she had the choice of going back to India or staying in Trinidad. She decided to stay, along with her son. Devoted to him, and a proud Brahmin, she sought to have him trained as a pundit. (In Hinduism, only Brahmins can perform the most sacred rites.) To that end, he travelled to Diego Martin, the large valley immediately west of our capital, Port of Spain, to sit at the feet of a venerable pundit. Being a pundit meant having knowledge and understanding of the sacred texts and rituals, and thus the ability to read and write Sanskrit and Hindi. Whether Nyepal ever practised as a pundit we never knew, but he apparently sold goods and supplies used in pujas, or sacred rites.
His mother also found him a wife. On the ship coming from India there were two brothers from Patna. They, too, were Brahmins. One of them had six daughters and one son. Pa’s mother chose one of the girls, Poolkareah, as her son’s bride. The wedding took place, and Nyepal and Poolkareah went on to have three children of their own: Prasad, Prabaran and Seepersad (or Supersad).
When Seepersad was two, his father Nyepal died. Did he drown? There is a vague story of a diver who drowned. Nyepal’s mother was distraught after the death of her one and only precious son, whom she had nurtured and cared for during those challenging and difficult years. Inconsolable, she drifted into her own world and became something of a recluse and an eccentric. She appears never to have remarried or formed a new alliance with another man. Curiously, my own mother Droapatie remembered this woman well. Tiny in size and very fair of complexion, she wore nothing but white clothing after her son’s death (white being the Hindu colour of mourning). She lived in or around Chaguanas, where young Droapatie would have seen her, and sometimes came into the town. Other children would sometimes jeer at her as she walked about waving a wand in front of her to protect her from unclean shadows, from people of lower caste. She spoke to no one, did her business, and then disappeared until her next visit. Droapatie would never have imagined that one day she would marry this strange woman’s grandson, Seepersad. But the caste was always right.
Death was not a subject my father liked to dwell on. Several years after his father’s passing, his mother died of an unspecified illness. Unlike his father’s death, Seepersad was evidently old enough to feel this second loss keenly. In the early nineteen-forties he wrote a five-page letter in an old ledger book to the doctor who had not saved his mother. The doctor was late in responding to their call for help, my father wrote in anger; he had not seemed to care about Poolkareah’s crisis; evidently, in his selfishness and arrogance, he was not suited to his profession. The gist of the letter was that his mother had died because she was a poor woman and therefore unimportant to the self-important Dr. Ramesar.
Perhaps the letter was never transcribed, never posted. The written word may have expiated Pa’s anger and supplanted his sense of primal loss. Could my grandmother have been saved? Her five sisters, his aunts, lived on and on despite their emphysema and other medical issues. They took a long time to ‘pop off’, he would say.
Soon after his father’s death, a half-brother was born. He was called Hari, or Hari Chacha to us children. Pa’s mother, Poolkareah, a widow with three children, would have been a burden on the closest relatives. Another liaison would have been encouraged. In my own family, all these details were rather vague. For example, it took us many years to learn that Hari Chacha was Pa’s half-brother.
The older Indian people were tight-lipped about the family’s history. They never spoke about my paternal grandfather, Nyepal, and Hari’s father never had a name. Hari’s son George carried the title or surname Persad. This seemed to fit, as Pa’s elder brother, Prasad, carried the surname Rampersad. Pa, however, eventually called himself Naipaul. He was the only one in his family who carried that name. Even the name Naipaul seems irregular. In its exact form, it does not appear to be previously used in India, or among Indians in Trinidad. In all of his early purchased books, he wrote his name as Naipal: Seepersad Naipal. The change to Naipaul took place, apparently, in the early forties, after he began work at the Trinidad Guardian, our leading newspaper. On Pa’s first driver’s licence, dated 22nd August 1928, his name is given as Bholah Supersad (not Seepersad), and his residence as Tunapuna. However, on its renewal on 24th January 1944, his name is Seepersad Naipaul (of Luis Street, Port of Spain).
About the Book
This is a moving story of a Trinidadian-Indian family’s beginnings, growth and its inevitable dispersal. Savi Naipaul Akal’s memoir pays tribute to extraordinary parents: Her father Seepersad Naipaul, virtual orphan in a dirtpoor rural Indian family, one generation away from indentured migration, who through self-education became a remarkable journalist and writer. And her mother Dropatie, who displayed remarkable diplomatic skills in sustaining a relationship with the large, prosperous and inward-looking Capildeo clan, of which she was the seventh daughter, whilst loyally supporting her husband’s insistence on independence and engagement with Trinidadian life. After Seepersad’s tragically early death, Dropatie held the family together, so that all seven children achieved university education.
It is an account of family loyalty, sacrifice, and sometimes tensions; pride in the writing achievements of her brothers Vidia and Shiva, and sorrow over estrangements and Shiva’s premature death. The memoir also gives a sharply observed picture of cultural change in Trinidad from colony to independent nation, of being Indian in a Creole society, and of the role of education in migrant families.
Elegant and lucid, written with a distinctively personal voice, the book is further enhanced by the generous quantity of family photographs that say so much about these people and the times they lived through.
About the Author
Savitri (Savi) Naipaul Akal, the fifth child of Seepersad and Dropatie Naipaul, sister of V.S. and Shiva Naipaul, was educated in Port of Spain, Trinidad and Edinburgh, Scotland. She was a school teacher, teaching geography and sociology, and retired as vice-principal in 1980. After retirement, she ran a boutique for several years. She lives with her husband in Trinidad.
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Borderless 