Title: Camel Karma: Twenty Years Among India’s Camel Nomads
Author: Ilse Kohler-Rollefson
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
Whenever we read about travel narratives by foreigners in India, especially Westerners, we assume it to be primarily superficial, skin-deep, and without much contact with ground reality. This non-fiction book, that can also be read as a sort of travelogue, busts that myth. It begins with a German veterinarian, Ilse Kohler-Rollefson’s arrival in Rajasthan in 1991 and almost twenty-five years of association with the same. On a field trip to Jordan in 1979, she first became fascinated by the relationship between pastoral peoples and the camels they shared their lives with. After a brief stint of camel field research in Sudan’s eastern desert, her choice to continue her research on camel husbandry led her naturally to India, the country with the third-largest camel population in the world, and she arrived at the National Research Centre on Camel (NRCC) in Bikaner, Rajasthan. Wanting to know more about the practical aspects of camel-keeping or its cultural foundation, she encountered the Rebaris, also called Raikas in Marwar, who are proper breeders of camels and whose whole lifestyle centred around it. She writes, “To me it seemed that the Raikas’ relationship with their animals was equally worthy of conservation as a uniquely human heritage.”
Historically, the Raika of Rajasthan have had a unique and enduring relationship with camels. They offer a compassionate alternative by keeping farm animals as part of nature, allowing them to move and do so in herds. Farm animals can thus extend their potential as humanity’s greatest asset. Their entire existence revolves around looking after the needs of these animals which, in turn, provide them with sustenance, wealth and companionship. Ilse is immediately enthralled by Raika’s intimate relationship with their animals, but she is also confronted with their existential problems.
For her, her research among them gave her not just a glimpse of the history and culture of Rajasthan, but also a way forward in her personal journey. Denying all kinds of creature comforts, the hope of saving both the camel and the Raika way of life took her and her spirited ally, Hanwant Singh Rathore, from vet labs in the city, to Raika settlements in the remotest corners of the Thar Desert, and everywhere in between. The intractable dilemmas— both bureaucratic and cultural—they were often confronted with required creative solutions. As they adapted to their circumstances, they found their orthodox Raika friends adapting with them. Kohler-Rollefson’s is a journey that is often exasperating, sometimes funny, but keeps revealing unexpected layers of rural Rajasthani mores and diverse cultures that make it such a fascinating place.
Spending her own research grants on a shoe-string budget, Kohler-Rollefson set up a base office in Sadri, close to the Kumbhalgarh Wildlife Sanctuary at the foothills of the Aravalli mountains, where she employs several Indians as research assistants (none of whom stay for long), veterinarians who help in administering the teeka, the vaccines to eradicate common camel diseases. With her trusted driver cum translator, her ally, she interacts with several nomadic tribes who rear camels, but whose caste and culture are radically different from one another as chalk and cheese. The narrative also gives details about her interactions with the local people — some of whom had earlier eyed her with suspicion of being an outsider, but later accepted her whole-heartedly.
She describes the sign-language with which she interacts with the womenfolk in the Raika households, her regular visits to the annual animal fair at Puskar, where she even bought a young female camel and named her Mira, leaving her to grow up and breed with the other camels of the Raika. Kohler-Rollefson learned that the Raika did not sell camel milk or eat camel meat. They used other camel by-products, but clearly the economic returns from a camel did not seem optimal. Mostly, they bred female camels to give birth to male camels that could be sold to other caste for work. She was surprised to find that “these camels resembled family members and were treated almost as intimately; nobody was afraid of them.”
Despite repeated setbacks, both from government apathy as well as social taboos, Kohler-Rollefson’s dedication to the cause was so sincere that she was able to found many organisations like the Lokhit Pashu-Palak Sansthan (LPPS), including the Camel Husbandry Improvement Project (CHIP), promote the study and documentation of ethno-veterinarian practices (the melding of traditional and modern approaches to treating camel diseases), highlighting the Raika’s grazing needs at the World Parks Conference (2003), and along with Rathore and a Raika team, even embarking on an arduous 800 km long yatra on camelback throughout Rajasthan to raise awareness and draw attention to the dwindling camel numbers.
She successfully organised a meeting where apart from the traditional Raika constituency, she could include members from a range of castes spanning the whole social spectrum of Rajasthan – Rajputs from Jaisalmer, Bishnois from Barmer, Jats from Bikaner, Gujjars from Nagaur and Sindhi Muslims from deep in the Thar. She even escorted a group of Raika, including a colourful Bhopa (a wandering minstrel who sings and narrates the story of various episodes of the mythical Pabuji’s life through unfolding of cloth scrolls) to Germany and then to Interlaken, Switzerland for an FAO (Food and Agriculture Organisation of the United Nations) conference. She set up the League for Pastoral Peoples and Endogeneous Livestock Development (LPP) in Germany. In other words, Kohler-Rollefson has been successful in drawing attention to the problems of camels rearing at an international level.
The first edition of this book came out in 2014. Since then, they have had a daunting roller-coaster ride, shuttling back and forth between the depths of despair where they thought all was lost to exhilarating heights from which they fleetingly espied camel nirvana: a scenario where camels, people, and the environment live together in harmony and mutually support each other. Interestingly, the second revised edition of Camel Karma was published in 2023 and the other good news is that 2024 has been declared the International Year of Camelids by the United Nations General Assembly, with the stated goal of raising awareness of the contribution of camelids to livelihoods, food security and nutrition. It also aims at encouraging all stakeholders, including national governments, to work towards recognising and valuing the economic, social, and cultural importance of camelids in the lives of communities, especially those that are highly vulnerable to extreme poverty.
In combination with the India government’s recent discovery and appreciation of the country’s pastoralist cultures, this may be just the constellation that successfully revives India’s camel sector. In a scenario where companies and countries are competing for shares in the globalised market, the unique selling point of Rajasthan’s camel milk is the Raika’s heritage of producing milk humanely and with compassion. The biodiverse diet of the state’s camels is composed of ayurvedic plants that add another unique quality.
Thus, it seems appropriate that we all read Camel Karma now and let the world know about the unique Raika heritage and to serve as a baseline to look back on ten or twenty years from now. Despite the rapid technological development in all spheres of life, the author sees a future, and even an urgent need, for both the camel and for the Raika and other nomadic livestock keepers. She is optimistic for several reasons as everything in India is cyclical. The camel is a versatile and multipurpose animal that can fulfil many basic needs of humans. Its role as transport and farm animal is certainly on the retreat, so long as oil is available and affordable. Yet its potential as a dairy animal remains huge. Apart from that, there is a range of other eco-friendly products that can be made from happy living camels and that may just satisfy that budding urge of urbanites – in India and abroad – to re-connect with nature.
Apart from wholeheartedly praising the endeavour of Kohler-Rollefson in spending twenty years of her life among India’s camel nomads, in sacrificing her personal and family life for the welfare of the camels, and in drawing the attention to their problems in various fora in the international context, Camel Karma is a must read for everyone who is interested in learning about the socio-economic lifestyle of several castes and tribes of rural people in Rajasthan. We are looking forward to reading the sequel to this book which the author is planning to write, and which she tentatively calls “Camel Dharma” – a book about finding the right way of living with camels!
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Somdatta Mandal, critic, and translator, is former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India
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I found a clock in the creek. It’s broken with all its hands missing. It was ghastly. I loved it the moment I saw it.
I found other things in the creek too. There was a prink pride cap, a broken nail paint bottle, a backpack, some utensils and a ruddy old tire. I heard an echoing rumble while skipping back home. I have been hearing echoing rumbles all the time these days, I wonder why. My Aunt said that the water rumbles before it fills the creek. Is the water coming?
I wonder why it rumbles.
Is it hungry?
My Uncle says that the Water is hungry all the time. He told me She ate the whole earth once when people lived on boats. That sounds desperate and sickly, doesn’t it?
I don’t get along with Water too well. I don’t like boats either; they make me seasick. I don’t think I’ll survive if the water gets very hungry again.
What does she do with so much hunger? It must be so scary being driven by one emotion, one desire...
My mother says that if we do not feed the hungry, they steal and that’s sad because hunger is not greed, it is our right.
Maybe the Water believes we are stealing from her and that’s why she gets so ragefull.
“Why are we taking away what’s rightfully hers, Mother?”
Does the Water feel the silence, too? I wonder if silence makes her angry, the way it makes me angry.
My Dad says I wonder too much. He was feeding me cake as he said that; it left me confused.
I have never told anyone this; I am telling you now, please keep it a secret, can you?
I have heard the broken clock whisper to the tune of the Banjo, the water in the creek ripples when it begins to whisper.
Is it whispering the tune of the Water? Is She coming?
But the Water dances when the Banjo plays and the air and the earth stops trembling. Maybe it calms the Water’s nerves. Maybe it puts her to sleep or maybe the clock is convincing the Water to give us more time.
The Water listens to the clock. Maybe they are friends.
They Water rumbles; The clock sings; It’s a nice harmony.
Samina Tahreem is a young poet from Kolkata.
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The Kuala Terengganu Skyline. Photo courtesy: Ravi Shankar
The lighting was subtle but magnificent. The transparent minarets glowed red, green, pink, and blue in turn. We were at the Masjid Kristal on the island of Wan Man at Kuala Terengganu in the state of the same name in northern Malaysia.
Majid Kristal
The mosque is among the most photographed monuments in the Islamic Heritage Park, and we could easily guess why. This is the first intelligent mosque in the country with an IT infrastructure and wi-fi connection. We were glad we came. The reflection of the mosque lights on water was enchanting. Getting around KT — as Kuala Terengganu is lovingly called by the locals — could sometimes be tricky without your own vehicle. Ride hailing services may not work optimally in the peak hours of the evening. We were informed by one of the cab drivers that Maxim is the most popular e-hailing app in the city.
The population in KT loves to eat out and in the evenings the restaurants are usually crowded. We were staying at the Intan Beach Resort at Pantai Batu Burok and the eating places by the beach were always crowded. The beach is popular with locals with several attractions and rides during the evenings. There is a three-kilometre walking path by the side of the beach. As we stayed right by the beach, we could enjoy early morning strolls on the soft sand.
Panti Batu Burok: Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar
The Kuala Terengganu state museum was huge and is located on over 23 acres of land. The museum was officially opened in 1996 and was designed by a well-known Malaysian architect, YM Raja Dato’ Kamarul Bahrin Shah, who also happens to be related to the royal family of Terengganu. The building is designed in traditionally Malay style and the outer façade was left undecorated. There are nine different galleries, and these include the Royal gallery, the historical gallery, the textiles gallery, the Islamic gallery, the handicrafts, the natural resources, the shipping and trading and the marine resources galleries.
Tha Batu Bersurat. Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar
The ‘Batu Bersurat’ (lettered stone) is the museum centrepiece and of great significance to the state. The stone is estimated to be 700 years old and mentions the position of Islam and the application of Islamic laws in the state. The stone is written in the Jawi script using Arabic characters. Jawi script is still used in Terengganu though in many areas Malay is written mostly in the Roman script. In the museum grounds, there is a good collection of different old cars and other vehicles used by the King and Chief Ministers of the state.
The Islamic Heritage Park is a major attraction located on the island of Wan Man. The park has small scale replicas of famous global Islamic monuments. Among the monuments represented are the mosques at Medina and Mecca in Saudi Arabia, Dome of the rock in Jerusalem, the Taj Mahal in India, and a mosque in Aleppo, Syria. The national mosque of Malaysia and mosques in Singapore, Indonesia, Pakistan, Iran, China, Tatarstan, Uzbekistan, and Iraq are also on display. Replicas of these famous monuments were displayed in the vast gardens of the monument. I liked this concept, and the monuments were well maintained except one or two that may require more attention.
The Floating Mosque. Courtesy: Creative CommonsDetails of the Floating Mosque. Courtesy: Ravi Shankar
The sun was hot, and I had to drink copious amounts of water. In the evening, my friend, Binaya, and I went to the floating mosque situated in Kuala Ibai Lagoon near the estuary of Kuala Ibai River, 4 km from Kuala Terengganu Town. The mosque combines modern and Moorish architecture, and is a white structure situated in five acres of land. There is also a floating mosque in Penang.
The next morning, we went to the Science and Creativity Centre. The centre is housed in a huge, modern building. There are multiple galleries to explore. I was fascinated by the stainless-steel exhibit showing the structure of DNA, the blueprint of life. The encounter with the dinosaurs was the highlight of the trip. The dinosaurs were colour coded in red (dangerous), yellow (exercise caution) and green (safe). Tyrannosaurus Rex was the highlight. Raptors, allosaurus and other dinos filled the hall with their cries and screams. The Stegosaurus had scales on the back. When I was young, I was a big fan of Phantom comics created by Lee Falk and Phantom had a stegosaurus as a pet. The inflatable dome on the top floor had a delightful cosmic show and you can see the universe projected above your head. The museum had plenty of things to see and do and is a big hit with children.
Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar
The Masjid Sultan Ismail Chendering has delicate artwork and is built entirely in white. The simple design and the beautiful artwork had me mesmerised. The mosque has a long history. The small Lebai Zainal Mosque which could accomodate150 people was first built near the current location of the mosque before being replaced by the Raja Chendering Mosque and then replaced again by a new mosque which is the Sultan Ismail Mosque.
Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar
Soon it was time for lunch. There are plenty of food options near our hotel. I enjoyed nasi kerabu, a Malaysian rice dish, in which blue-coloured rice is eaten with dried fish or fried chicken, crackers, pickles and other salads. The blue colour of the rice comes from the petals of Clitoria ternatea flowers, which are used as a natural food colouring.
In the evening, we went to see the Abidin Mosque which is Terengganu’s old state royal mosque built by Sultan Zainal Abidin II between 1793 and 1808. The Royal mausoleum is located next to the mosque. Istana Maziah, the official palace of the Sultan of Terengganu is located close to the mosque at the foot of the mountain, Bukit Puteri. The palace is the official venue for important functions such as royal birthdays, weddings, conferment of titles and receptions for local and foreign dignitaries. We wanted to climb Bukit Puteri, but the place was under renovation and closed.
We continued along the waterfront to the Shah Bandar jetty. A cool breeze was blowing, and many people were strolling along the promenade. We were moving toward the Kuala Terengganu drawbridge constructed in 2019 inspired by the London drawbridge. We waited for the sky to darken so that we could see the lights on the bridge.
Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar
Buses from KL take the highway to Kuantan and then bypass the town. The journey continues to the town of Paka and then takes the coastal highway through Dungun. Some parts of this state reminded me of my home state of Kerala in South India. Plenty of coconut trees were seen. Coconut trees grow so well in Kerala and in many areas along the west coast of India.
The expressways in Malaysia are well-designed and maintained. Traveling on these are usually a smooth experience though they get very crowded during major holidays when people leave Kuala Lumpur for their hometowns and villages. KT is about 400 km from KL and takes around eight hours by bus. Malaysia’s northern state on the East Coast can be a good getaway. The town and the state has culture, history, natural beauty, delicious food, and serene beaches. The islands off the coast were still closed. Redang island was mentioned to be one of the most beautiful islands in the world. Hopefully, we will visit these during our next trip. God willing, we shall!
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Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.
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Jagari Mukherjee in conversation with Rajorshi Patranabis
Rajorshi Patranabis
It was an exquisite late spring morning when the poet, Rajorshi Patranabis, and I met up for this interview at 8th Day Cafe and Bakery in Salt Lake. Over two pots of dark golden Earl Grey tea, Rajorshi answered my questions in his charmingly candid fashion, elaborating on our favourite subject, poetry; in particular, his book published by Hawakal in September 2023. We read aloud from the book, Checklist Anomaly, in between our conversation, and altogether spend a delightful hour-and-a-half figuratively floating on the gossamer wings of poesy.
Jagari: Congratulations, Rajorshi, for bringing out the first-ever individual collection of gogyoshi 1 in India. Checklist Anomaly, like your previous book, The Last Drop of Your Tears, is a seminal volume replete with love poems. Can you tell us a bit about the form and why you chose to express yourself in it?
Rajorshi: Last Drop of Your Tears was my first foray into five-line poetry, but I had previously done Japanese poetic forms like haiku and haibun. Gogyohka2 gave me some more lines to express myself albeit with some conditions of phrase and metaphor in every line. Gogyoshi was a natural transition from gogyohka wherein it is the freest form of five-line Japanese poetry. Gogyoshi should have a title and every line starts with a capital letter. When I started writing these forms, I had no idea that both Tears and Checklist Anomaly would be seminal collections. I’m personally extremely grateful to Hawakal Publishers for having the gumption to publish something to which they didn’t have any past reference points.
Jagari: Going through Checklist Anomaly, I was struck by your depiction of the beloved in your love poems. For instance, on page 16, I found the following poem:
She embraced to feel Doused to drown She kissed deep Bitten lips strip She seduced to engulf
Unlike the western courtly poetry tradition, your beloved is not a passive figure perceived through male gaze, but a powerful woman who defies the virgin/whore dichotomy. Could you tell me how did you create such an empowered feminine figure?
Rajorshi: A very few people know that I’m a Wiccan by philosophy and practice and Wicca is perhaps the first ever feminist movement. We look up to strong women like Luciana and Joan of Arc, amongst others for inspiration. Having been taught Wicca by my teacher in India, the reference to the 64 yoginis of Hirapur cannot be avoided. Yoginis are nothing but witches and the epitome of ‘Shakti (strength)’. As a direct consequence, love poems from my pen cannot possibly have a beloved who leans upon me for support. The other way round is the truth and it is time that poets realise that a beloved actually is the Shakti and love is the force.
Jagari: Your poems are lacquered with colours. I know that for a certainty that you are diagnosed as colour-blind. So, how does a colour-blind poet perceive hues and tints?
Rajorshi: Oh no, not again! Being colour-blind doesn’t mean I don’t decipher colours at all. I understand all the primary colours. Colours for me are emotions. In the poem ‘Lone Red Venom’ from Checklist Anomaly, I say, “Night of the flipped moon/I sit on your lone red venom.” Here, red is a metaphor—a colour normally not associated with poison. Here, it is more of an emotion. I leave it to the reader to decipher it through their own perspective, through their own eyes.
Jagari: Your answer brings to my mind another gogyoshi, titled ‘Incomplete Refrain’ on page 110.
My night shrouded in violet Your dawn smelling in springtime lavender Your flight took you to life My fall broke my splinters of roving greed Twilight murmurs about our incomplete refrain
Tell me, does the ‘fall’ in this poem refer to a post-lapsasarian world? Would you say that religion/spirituality is deeply infused into your poetry?
Rajorshi: First things first. The version of Wicca that I’ve been initiated into by my teacher (Wiccan High Priestess Ipsita Roy Chakraverti), encompasses every faith, every culture and every philosophy. So, you won’t actually find anything overtly or covertly pointing at any particular religion whatsoever. By the way, this ‘fall’ is actually autumnal fall for me; having said that, I’m happy that you have perceived it differently. This is perhaps where poetry wins.
Jagari: So, what’s next on the creative cards, Rajorshi?
Rajorshi: Something on the lines from the diary of Osiris which are Wiccan prose poems and I am also working on my second collection of gogyohka.
Jagari: That’s wonderful! We will wait for you to contribute new gems and ornaments to the poetic world.
Gogyoshi is a form of Japanese poetry. It is the simplest as it has just five lines. ↩︎
Gogyokha five line form of Japanese poetry but different from gogyoshi. Gogyoshi is considered the freest of Japanese poetic forms, as the poems do not have syllabic restrictions, specific line breaks, or a rhyme scheme. However, the style differs from other five-line forms, such as tanka and gogyohka, by the titling of its poems. ↩︎
Jagari Mukherjee is the Editor-in-chief of Narrow Road Literary Journal and the Chief Executive Editor of EKL Review. She is the winner of Women Empowered Gifted Poet Award, the Reuel International Prize For Poetry, the Bharat Award for Short Story, and the Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize for Book Review. Jagari has three full-length poetry collections and two chapbooks and a bestselling ebook to her credit.
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Ratnottama Sengupta talks to Ruchira Gupta, activist for global fight against human trafficking, about her work and introduces her novel, I Kick and I Fly. Click here to read.
The White Lady by Atta Shad has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Sparrows by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.
Tagore’s Dhoola Mandiror Temple of Dust has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: What are the Options? is an autobiographical narrative by Jyoti Kaur, translated from Hindustani by Lourdes M Supriya. These narrations highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and pandies’. Click here to read.
Ratnottama Sengupta travels back to her childhood wonderland where she witnessed what we regard as Indian film history being created. Click here to read.
Aditi Yadav explores the universal appeal of the translation of a 1937 Japanese novel that recently came to limelight as it’s rendition on the screen won the Golden Globe Best Animated Feature Film award (2024). Click here to read.
Love is a many splendoured thing and takes many forms — that stretches beyond bodily chemistry to a need to love all humankind. There is the love for one’s parents, family, practices one believes in and most of all nurtured among those who write, a love for words. For some, like Tagore, words became akin to breathing. He wrote from a young age. Eventually, an urge to bridge social gaps led him to write poetry that bleeds from the heart for the wellbeing of all humanity. Tagore told a group of writers, musicians, and artists, who were visiting Sriniketan in 1936: “The picture of the helpless village which I saw each day as I sailed past on the river has remained with me and so I have come to make the great initiation here. It is not the work for one, it must involve all. I have invited you today not to discuss my literature nor listen to my poetry. I want you to see for yourself where our society’s real work lies. That is the reason why I am pointing to it over and over again. My reward will be if you can feel for yourself the value of this work.”
And it was perhaps to express this great love of humanity that he had written earlier in his life a poem called Dhoola Mandirthat urges us to rise beyond our differences of faith and find love in serving humankind. In this month, which celebrates love with Valentine’s Day, we have a translation of this poem that is born of his love for all people, Dhoola Mandir. Another poet who writes of his love for humanity and questions religion is Nazrul, two of whose poems have been translated by Niaz Zaman. Exploring love between a parent and children is poetry by Masood Khan translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam. From the distant frontiers of Balochistan, we have a poem by Atta Shad, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch, for a fair lady — this time it is admiration. Ihlwha Choi translates poetry from Korean to express his love for a borderless world through the flight of sparrows.
Suzanne Kamata writes a light-hearted yet meaningful column on the recent Taylor Swift concert in Tokyo. Aditi Yadav takes up the Japanese book on which was based a movie that won the 2024 Golden Globe Best Animated Feature Film Award. Sohana Manzoor journeys to London as Devraj Singh Kalsi with tongue in cheek humour comments on extracurriculars that have so become a necessity for youngsters to get to the right schools. Snigdha Agrawal gives us a slice of nostalgia while recounting the story of a Santhali lady and Keith Lyons expresses his love for peace as he writes in memory of a man who cycled for peace.
In reviews, Somdatta Mandal has explored Tahira Naqvi’s The History Teacher of Lahore: A Novel. Srijato’s AHouse of Rain and Snow, translated from Bengali by Maharghya Chakraborty, has been discussed by Basudhara Roy and Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Toby Walsh’s Faking It: Artificial Intelligence in a Human World. News and Documentary Emmy Award winner (1996) Ruchira Gupta’s daring novel born of her work among human traffickers, I Kick and I Fly, has been brought to our notice by Sengupta and she converses about the book and beyond with this socially conscious activist, filmmaker and writer. Another humanist, a doctor who served by bridging gaps between patients from underprivileged backgrounds, Dr Ratna Magotra, also conversed about her autobiography,Whispers of the Heart — Not Just a Surgeon: An Autobiography, where she charts her journey which led her to find solutions to take cardiac care to those who did not have the money to afford it,
We have fiction this time from Neeman Sobhan reflecting on how far people will go for the love of their mother tongue to highlight the movement that started on 21st February in 1952 and created Bangladesh in 1971. Our stories are from around the world — Paul Mirabile from France, Ravi Shankar from Malaysia, Sobhan from Bangladesh and Ravi Prakash and Apurba Biswas from India — weaving local flavours and immigrant narratives. Most poignant of all the stories is a real-life narrative under the ‘Songs of Freedom’ series by a young girl, Jyoti Kaur, translated from Hindustani by Lourdes M Supriya. These stories are brought to us in coordination with pandies’ and Shaktishalini, a women’s organisation to enable the abused. Sanjay Kumar, the founder of pandies’ and the author of a most poignant book about healing suffering of children through theatre, Performing, Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play, writes, “‘Songs of Freedom’ bring stories from women — certainly not victims, not even survivors but fighters against the patriarchal status quo with support from the organisation Shaktishalini.”
While looking forward in hope of finding a world coloured with love and kindness under the blue dome, I would like to thank our fabulous team who always support Borderless Journal with their wonderful work. A huge thanks to all of you from the bottom of my heart. I thank all the writers who make our issues come alive with their creations and readers who savour it to make it worth our while to bring out more issues. I would urge our readers to visit our contents’ page as we have more than mentioned here.
Dhoola Mandir (The Temple of Dust) was written by Tagore in 1910 and can be found in his collection, Sanchayita1. It is a poem that seeks to bridge social gaps.
Peasant Couple (1950), painting by MF Husain (1915-2011)
Discard all prayers, Meditation, hymns and rituals. Why do you hide behind Closed doors of temples? In the darkness of the sanctum, Who do you worship in secrecy? Open your eyes and look, There is no God in this house.
He has gone to visit the Farmers who plough the hard ground, The workers who break rocks for paths, People who slog round the year. He is there with them under the hot sun, With dust-smeared hands; Take off your garb of purity, Join him in his dusty domain.
Nirvana? Oh! Where will you get it, Where can you find freedom? After Creation, our God, Found himself bound to all of us. Discard meditation, relinquish floral offerings. Let your garments tear, your hands get dusty, Join Him in His endeavours -- Free yourself of the rituals of religions.
Sanchayita (literal meaning: collection) was published by Visva Bharati in 1931 to commemorate Tagore’s seventieth birthday. ↩︎
This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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Ratnottama Sengupta has known Ruchira Gupta for more than 40 years. But reading I Kick and I Fly has made her see in a new light the young journalist who has become a force of change in the global fight against human trafficking.
Ruchira Gupta
Kiddy. Ruchi. Journalist. Documentary filmmaker. Emmy Award winner. Founder President, Apne Aap[1]Women Worldwide. Social activist. Agent of changes to international laws. Sera Bangali[2]. Ekta[3]Award winner. Professor, NYU. Cancer survivor. Essayist. Exhibited artist. Published novelist…
“What next?” I could have asked Ruchira Gupta. And without waiting for her to reply I could add, “Member of Rajya Sabha? The first step to even higher offices on the world stage.” Because? This kid born to Rajni and Vidya Sagar Gupta has dedicated her life-breath to ensure that not a single child is either sold or bought for sexual gratification in exchange of a few rupees.
Hardly surprising that when she picked up her pen while recovering from Covid in her family home in Forbesganj, she penned a novel like I Kick and I Fly. “A book that is a MUST READ for one and all who are interested in fighting, tackling, and – not or – ending sex trafficking,” as Anjani Kumar Singh, Director, Bihar Museum said at the launch in Patna. Because? It is a story of optimism as Heera the protagonist, overcomes unimaginable obstacles to emerge a path breaker in the Nat community who believed it was the fate of its girls to sell their body at puberty, or even earlier, for the welfare of their family.
Inspirational. And in the most absorbing way. Read this excerpt from the novel to understand how a message becomes engrossing read.
"My name is Heera. I am from a town named Forbesganj, in a state called Bihar, in northern India, very close to Nepal,” I begin. My voice is shaking along with the rest of me. But I go on. “My brother and I are the first people in our family to ever go to school, and I have grown up believing that being sold for prostitution is my Destiny. That there are few doors open to me as a child of an oppressed-caste family. Our people used to be wrestlers and performers. But overnight we were told we could not do those things anymore, that our entire way of life was illegal.”
My voice is shaking less now and I manage to look at people in front of me. “How do people survive when they are not allowed to do the work they know and love? For my family of nomads, it meant asking people for a place to live, and then doing just about any job they told us we could do. One of these jobs was having sex with people for money.
“These children and women had no choice but to sell their bodies in exchange for a place to live. For food to eat. And for their husbands to be given work. And though people say that times have changed, they must not have changed everywhere, because I have been told since I was a little girl that selling my body was what I had to do to support myself and my family. And I believed it. Many in my family believed it too.
“Finally early this year it was my turn to be put up for sale. My family was in a tight spot, in debt to the wrong man. I grew up in a red-light area, so I knew what it involved. There are no secrets kept from kids where I come from. So, I said No, and we tried to get around it.
“My mother paid back our loan, but the traffickers came for me anyhow. The first time I got away. The second time they got me, but I was rescued by my brother and teacher.
“When I was stuck in a tiny room with my traffickers outside the door, I asked myself why had they kept coming for me even when they had no claim, no right? And that’s when I fully realized that they believed my body belonged to them, and I knew for certain it did not. It was kung fu that helped me understand this. Because it is through kung fu that I learnt, my body would do what I told it to. That my body listened to me – and only me.”
I take a breath. “There is power in my body. My body connects me to my cousin, my aunt, my grandmother who were all sold for prostitution. But kung fu also connects my body to my ancestors, who were champion wrestlers. If both these things lived within me, could I choose which course I wanted to take?”
I look up now, realizing that I have memorized the final words on the page. “For most of my life, the answer to that was NO. But suddenly I felt that maybe there was another possibility. I didn't do it on my own: I needed my family to stand with me, and most importantly, a cheerleader who made me believe that safety could be mine. Rini Di taught me kung fu and opened the doors of the world to me. And that is how I have come to stand before you now.”
Heera stands before her teachers and her friends, other survivors of trafficking as an example who not only fights, successfully, the might of traffickers but who actually saves another trafficked girl. Who, even more importantly, instils faith, and courage, and dream… In her brother, her mother, and her father. Her brother Salman who always stood by her even as he studied for a better future. Her Mai who broke stones for a livelihood and gathered enough courage to take a loan to put in place a roof over their head. Her Baba who stands as a loser but accepts change and even starts to nurse a dream — for his daughter as much as for his son.
And so, when the Martial Arts Foundation awards Heera and her co-fighter friend, Connie, a scholarship to train for one full year in New York, along with admission to a local school, Heera too starts dreaming. Of a future, perhaps only twelve months down, when her family would be dwelling in a pink-bricked three roomed house. When Salman would study in a residential school in Siliguri. When Mai would have a betel shop. When Baba would be a porter at the railway platform. When her cousin Mira Di would be a seamstress with a tailoring shop of her own in the very backroom where she was forced to service men. When the corrupt policeman, Suraj Sharma, and the trafficker, Ravi Lala, would be in jail, no longer on the prowl in Girls Bazaar.
“It’s not a dream,” says Ruchira , reiterating the clinching line of I Kick and I Fly. “I have seen this transformation actually take place in Forbesganj. “There were 72 home-based brothels in the lane when Apne Aap started. Today there are two. Girls no longer sit outside waiting for customers. The two sisters who were locked up in the hut have finished school. One is a chef, the other is a teacher. The girl who was kidnapped is a karate trainer. Someone like Mai really has a betel paan leaf shop and someone like Mira Di is a seamstress. The cattle fair is no longer allowed to bring dance or orchestra groups.”
This was the perfect time to strike a conversation with Ruchira Gupta, I reckoned. And so I decided to shoot…
Me:How – rather, why – did you start writing I Kick and I Fly?
Ruchi: I started writing this story when a fourteen-year-old girl just like Heera won a gold medal in a karate championship in Forbesganj. She was being groomed for prostitution with other girls in her lane. A lane just like Girls Bazaar.
Her journey was not easy, it was heroic. I saw how she and her friends overcame hunger, fought off their fear and stood up to traffickers with grace and gusto. An annual cattle fair used to claim girls from that lane every year. When my NGO, Apne Aap, opened a community centre and a hostel there, we were constantly attacked by men like Gainul and Ravi Lala. They would stalk the mothers, the daughters, and me. They hurled abuses, threw stones, stole from our office and even kidnapped girls. We built higher walls around the hostel to prevent traffickers from jumping over. I posted guards outside my home, hired lawyers, filed police complaints and cases in court. Just like Mai, some mothers in the lane disobeyed their husbands even though they were beaten up. Their daughters were the first batch of girls in our hostel.
Me:Are all the characters real? Is the hope real? Do people in real life change the way Baba does?
Ruchi: Most of the events in the book are inspired by real people, places, events. To give you one example: A trafficking survivor from Indonesia told me how she was locked up and how she escaped from a brothel in Queens, New York, by disguising herself in a burqa. She is now a global leader in the struggle against trafficking. In my novel, Heera uses the same device to rescue Rosy.
Baba, Heera’s father, is also based on real-life fathers in the Nat community of Forbesganj. They would actually auction off their daughters to the highest bidder when the mela came to town! But as I began working in the red-light area I saw that they were not black and white criminals but human beings desensitised through decades and generations of oppression. Of course, there was no excuse that they did not try to fight back. I did see some fathers change when they saw their daughters succeed. Until then the possibility of a different future had not even occurred to them.
When hope unfurls in a downtrodden human being, it is like a tendril. I saw it in the eyes and actions of some fathers in the red-light area of Forbesganj when their daughters won gold medals in karate.
Me:You have not learnt kung fu. Why did you project Rini Di – clearly your alter ego – as a kung fu teacher? It is a physical art of self-defence. How precisely does that connect with, or help, girls who are in the river of flesh?
Ruchi: I still remember, it was early morning when a boy came to my home with his mother to seek help. His sister and cousin were locked up by traffickers to stop them from coming to the hostel. We had to mobilise the police to get them out. I noticed then that the girls were badly bruised while the traffickers were unscathed. I wished that the girls were able to fight back.
Our Apne Aap women’s group met that afternoon at the centre. Everyone was afraid that we would be beaten in retaliation for the police raid. That’s when I suggested martial arts classes. The women loved the idea. I used to see a couple teach karate teacher near the rice fields to boys in a private school. We hired them and the classes began. Soon the bullying in schools stopped.
As the girls started to win competitions, something changed. The very townspeople who had agitated to urge the principal to expel our red light children began to respect them. And the fathers in the community began to see value in their daughters. The biggest change was in the girls themselves. They began to own their bodies and value themselves. As they gained self-esteem, they began to do better in class. Soon more mothers began to stand up to the traffickers and even to their husbands in the lane, saying they would send their daughters to school.
Me: How did Apne Aap help change the picture at the ground level?
Ruchi: Today Apne Aap has educated more than 3,000 girls from red-light areas through school and college and is still continuing to do so. They are in jobs as animation artists, teachers, doctors, lawyers, chefs, managers of pizza parlours and of gas stations too.
Our NGO’s community has become a safe space to hold meetings, share stories, get food, do homework, and plot against traffickers. Women, very much like Mai and Mira Di, meet regularly in the centre to solve their problems. They fill out forms with the help of Apne Aap workers to access government entitlements like low cost housing, ration and loans. They go collectively to talk to the authorities when there are delays.
The Apne Aap legal team helps victims to file police complaints, testify in court and get traffickers convicted. The real Gainul and the real Ravi Lala are in jail. In 2013, Apne Aap survivor leaders and I testified in Parliament for the passage of section 370 IPC, a law that punishes traffickers and allocates budgets for services to the prostituted and the vulnerable.
Before these could happen, I had shown my documentary and testified to the UN and to the US senate for laws that would decriminalise the victims; increase choices for vulnerable and trafficked girls and women; and punish the traffickers and sex buyers. I can proudly say that my testimony and inputs contributed in the passage of the UN Protocol to end Trafficking in Persons and the UN Trafficking Fund for survivors as well as the passage of US Trafficking Victim Protection Act.
Me: Ruchi you come from an established, politically aware, well connected and much respected family. You grew up in the metros and now live an international life, mostly abroad. You won a coveted award for The Selling of Innocents. You helped in the making of Love, Sonia. Why did you not continue to make films? In short, what compelled you to start Apne Aap Women Worldwide?
Ruchi: As you know, I started as a journalist right after graduation. I learnt to ask questions, and I listened. The question that changed my life was: Where are the girls?
I was researching a story in the hills of Nepal when I came across rows of villages with missing girls. I had asked this to the men playing cards in the villages in Nepal. I followed the trail and found that a smooth supply chain existed from these remote hamlets to the brothels of India. Little girls, perhaps only twelve, were locked up in cages in Kolkata, Delhi and Mumbai for years and sold for a few cents night after night.
All the girls were from poor farming families. Many, like Heera, were from nomadic indigenous communities or marginalised castes. Like her, they were either not sent to school, or bullied until they dropped out, or pulled out by their fathers and sold into prostitution.
I was sad, then angry, and finally determined to do something about it. That’s how I ended up exposing the horror in my documentary. When I was on the stage in Broadway receiving the Emmy in 2013, all I could see beyond the glittering lights were the eyes of the mothers who had broken their silence to save their daughters. I decided in that instant to use my Emmy not to build a career in journalism but to make a difference.
I did two things. I dubbed it in six languages and I travelled across the world with it. I screened it in villages to show parents what the brothels were like. I showed it to the UN and the US Senate when I testified against the crime that is human trafficking. It contributed to a global push by activists that led to a new UN protocol to end trafficking and the first US anti-trafficking law, the Trafficking Victims Protection Act (TVPA).
Me: What was your magic wand?
Ruchi: I had no magic wand. I didn’t even have experience to stop the kidnapping of girls, or knowledge about how to put traffickers in jail. I was an English literature student from Kolkata’s Loreto College who joined The Telegraph while pursuing my honours degree graduation. But as a journalist, I saw the reality and invented ways to move forward.
Something had happened while I was filming the documentary. A pimp had stuck a knife to my throat. I was in a small room. There was nowhere to run. Suddenly, I was encircled by the 22 women I was interviewing. They told the pimp that he would have to kill them first. He knew it would be too much trouble to kill so many women, so he slunk away. I was saved. That moment changed my life.
The Emmy award money helped me start Apne Aap Women Worldwide with the women who had bravely spoken up in my film. I listened to the women who said they had four dreams: Education for their children; a room of their own; an office job; and punishment for those who bought and sold them. That became my NGO’s business plan.
I learnt that the best solutions came from those who experience the problem. The idea of the hostel, the idea of food in the community centre, and even the idea of karate came when we sat in a circle in the mud hut that is our community centre. It evolved into a grassroots approach which we call asset-based community development – ABCD or the 10 Asset model. Every woman or girl who becomes an Apne Aap member gains ten assets – both tangible and intangible. These are: a safe space, education, self-confidence, the ability to speak to authorities, government IDs and documents, low-cost food and housing, savings and loans, livelihood linkages, legal knowledge and support, and a circle of at least nine friends.
Each of these assets is a building block in an unfolding story of personal and community change. I wrote this novel to share with you that change is possible.
Me:Ruchi you had come up with the art-documentation, The Place Where I Live is Called Red Light Area. You got the girls to make a series of videos about different aspects of their life. You supported a documentary on the scheduled tribes. What inspired you to shun Art For Art’s Sake and pursue Art as Activism?
Ruchi: I learned in a very practical way the power of women’s collective action and the importance of sticking by one another. I promised myself I would never give up on those women’s dream. As a result, today thousands of girls have exited the prostitution systems from brothels across the country. There is more awareness about sex trafficking globally. And there are better laws and services for victims like Mira Di in over 160 countries.
Me:But we still have miles to go before we sleep…?
Ruchi: Yes, because the truth is that there isn’t one but many, many more Heeras. Girls Bazaar still exists in many parts of the world, including the USA. The brothel in Queens is real. The International Labour Organisation estimates there are more than 40 million victims of human trafficking globally with hundreds of thousands of victims in the US alone. Human trafficking is the second largest organised crime in the world, involving billions of dollars, according to the United Nations Office for Drugs and Crime (UNODC).
Me:So, what more actions would you suggest to tackle the issue? Through IKAIF, an upbeat tale of an underdog’s rise to victory, you have shown that ‘lost girls’ earmarked for ‘the oldest profession’ can erase their ‘destiny’ through education, and reliance on their own inner strength. What other positive actions would you suggest?
Ruchi: Heera’s is a story of hope in spite of great odds. It’s about our bodies — who they belong to, the command they can give us. It is about friends who make changes you want in your life. It is about a community that resolves to make change contagious, and succeeds.
You too can ‘Join The Movement’ to create a world in which no child is bought or sold. You can do that in so many ways. You can 1) Sign the freedom pledge on my website Ruchiragupta.com.
2) Learn more about the issue by reading I Kick and I Fly, and by watching The Selling of Innocents on my website.
3) Create further awareness by sharing the book, the movie and the pledge on your social media handles.
4) Volunteer and intern with Apne Aap or a local NGO in your town.
And you can Sponsor a girl like Heera on apneaap.org!
[2] The Best Bengali – An award given by the Ananda Bazaar Patrika group
[3] Unity: The Ekta Award is a National Award from India
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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It’s been five years since the American cyclist ‘Hutch’ died, yet his message of peace remains, as Keith Lyons remembers the global citizen who challenges us all to live life to its fullest
In early 2019, having not heard from an old friend ‘Hutch’ for a few weeks, I learnt that the American I’d first met in China has died of natural causes at his new humble home in the mountains of Greece. He was almost 80 years old.
There’s nothing extraordinary about living until your late 70s. Or relocating to live the last years of your life in a warmer place. But Hutch was not your ordinary septuagenarian retiree. Nor was he a typical American. Though when I first heard about him in 2009, it was when a German friend staying with me in southwest China had come across a sign on the wall of an Italian restaurant in Lijiang, Yunnan, seeking fellow cyclists for day trips around the area. The deal was, go on a ride with Hutch and other cyclists, and he would pay for lunch or dinner. “So how was he?” I asked my friend about the organiser, who had a website promoting world peace. “American, very American,” she replied. I was intrigued by this.
But it wasn’t till another month or so that our paths crossed, and I met him in a café with a gaggle of others: locals, Chinese youngsters who had moved to Yunnan province, and some foreigners.
Hutch was treating them all to drinks and pizza. I found out later, he bought bikes for some ride participants who became his friends. That’s the kind of person he was.
Hutch was not a tall man in stature, and the cycling obviously kept him very fit, I noted on first meeting him. He wore lycra cycling gear, a neck scarf and bandana, and had a gentle face, with a bright eyes and a benign smile. He was polite, and entertaining, and clearly enjoyed the carbo-loading pizza as much as the entourage, made up of English-speaking Chinese who ranged from their 20s to 40s.
He invited me to join them, as after pizza, there was going to be cake and dessert. He got up to shake my hand, and I noticed he was wearing cycling shorts, with spindly yet muscle-toned legs.
Having set up his new China base in the mountain town where I’d been living since the mid-200s, I got to know him over drinks, meals, outings and adventures. Mr F. A. Hutchinson (I never knew what those initials stood for) acquired names in each country where he stayed – Haqi in China, Nima (meaning ‘sun’) in Tibet, Hache in Bolivia. At one stage he was signing off his emails with ’The Magic Dragon’, his serpent name. ‘Or just call me a bum on a bike’, was tagged to the end of his signature. I just knew him as Hutch.
Generous and giving, sometimes overly generous, he also adopted adult children, accumulating a family of daughters and sons in China during his half decade living in Xining and Lijiang. While his trusted bike, Ms.Fetes, was loaded with pannier bags front and back, he didn’t carry much baggage from his past, which had seen him serve in Vietnam, work for decades in TV sports production in the US, and establish a talent development agency in China in 2007.
Over the couple of years I knew him in Lijiang I can only recall a few occasions when he was not sporting padded cycling shorts. More often than not he turned up to cafe, meeting and events on his bicycle, sometimes not bothering to take off his cycling helmet indoors.
That cycle helmet proved its value one day when we were out cycling in the hills to an alpine lake around 2,600 m above sea level not far from LIjiang. Hutch was a cyclist with remarkable stamina, and his slow and steady approach could burn off others 40 years his junior on hill climbs. While Hutch had cycled all over China for a number of years, without major incident or accident — a fact which impressed all who inquired about the safety and sanity of cycling in The Middle Kingdom — while out with me he broke that 100% safety record. Coming down a winding hill late one afternoon the wheels of his bike skidded on icy gravel and he ended up falling off his bike, a large truck behind him putting on its brakes just in time to avoid running him over. Worried he was requiring an ambulance or hospital treatment, I rushed over to Hutch to find him un-fazed by it all. He cycled back to where he was living, and tried to tend to his battered and bloody knees, elbows and hands himself, a wry smile over his beard-stubbled face.
One of Hutch’s most impressive achievements in China was to cycle from Lijiang across Tibet to Lhasa and onto Mt Kailas, a feat made more incredible by the challenges and dynamics of a group ride (participants from several countries included Elvis), and then the breakaway split by some cyclists which jeopardized the whole mission. I helped with some of the logistics during the year-long adventure, but am still in awe of anyone who can cycle for weeks at altitudes over 4,000 metres across the Tibetan plateau. The tale of the 70-year-old American who cycled across China to Tibet made newspaper headlines, and he featured on the front cover of cycling and outdoor magazines. We gave him a hero’s welcome when he returned to Lijiang, his story still told by expats and locals living in north-west Yunnan.
As well as his cycling pilgrimage to the holy mountain of Tibet, we worked on a housing project for small Tibetan-style eco-houses with wind and solar energy made for US$10,000. In Lijiang, he helped his friend Irlin set up a small eatery (possibly to ensure he had a reliable supply of Western food), and he was a regular visitor to my café, ‘Lijiang Millionaire’s Club’, and the crosstown cafe (and tango dance studio), ‘Over the Bridge’, run by fellow New Zealander, Stephen Dalley.
After Hutch’s years in China, he was ready for a change. Increasingly worried about the Chinese government’s clampdowns on freedom of speech, his frustrations spilled over from the anonymous government to the Chinese people. He often carried a green canvas shoulder bag with the words in Mandarin of Chairman Mao ‘Serve the People’ — and found occasion to show that to shopkeepers, bank clerks, ticket sellers or government officers — anyone who was stonewalling him or telling him ‘mei you’ (don’t have).
Perhaps inspired by the practical and easy-going nature of Kiwis, Hutch was looking forward to heading to New Zealand, where he already had a number of contacts. After Lijiang, he went to Australia, New Zealand, and then to South America, before moving to Europe a few years ago to live in Spain, Germany and Greece.
He was on a personal crusade, to promote peace and understanding, and wanted to get more people on bicycles, by holding inclusive, inexpensive cycle tours. “One of our slogans, Burn Fat, Not Oil,” he wrote.
One of Hutch’s key talents was to enlist others to join, and get them working together, even though he admitted he didn’t like groups. However, the laziness or greediness of others sometimes meant that his efforts floundered into anarchy and stagnation.
While often on the move, Hutch wasn’t a ‘rolling stone gathering no moss’ kind of person. Instead, he acquired more friends everywhere he went. I never saw him play the age card, but enjoyed hearing his wisdom acquired from a long and interesting life. He had some strong opinions on various subjects. Once you met Hutch and he got your contact details, it was like being on an email subscription list you could not get off. A few times I got fed up with the email exchanges, not so much from Hutch, but from some of his old American friends, and despite requests to opt out, found myself back on the list a few months later.
Taoist Hutch believed we needed to change the world, and to change ourselves. He quoted Mahatma Gandhi on his site: “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.”
He rallied against capitalism, materialism, money and greed. He complained about how money was god, the world was going mad, and against the failures of democracy with widespread corruption of its leaders. One year his favourite slogan was, “We have met the enemy, and he/she is us.”
Hutch urged ‘women of the world to unite’. He was impressed by former New Zealand prime minister Jacinda Ardern, often sending me links to news articles about her, but he was not so favourable about Myanmar’s leader Aung Sun Suu Kyi and her lack of response to ethnic cleansing, telling me, “I am starting to really dislike this woman.”
He called for urgent measures to address what he saw as the biggest and most unrecognised problem facing the human race: over-population. Each day he posted comments with news articles under the title ‘Pathology in America’, or with his take on issues, written in upper case: SLEAZE-BAG TRUMP’S AMERICA. He cursed wrongdoers, and hoped they would face the consequences. ‘WOE BE UNTO TRUMP FO ALL THIS! MAY ALL THE 7 DEPREDATIONS, FULL UPON HIM AND HIS CHILDREN’S CHILDREN, FOR 7 GENERATIONS’1, he penned recently after a second child died in government custody at the US border.
Sometimes his missives were written as poems or as cryptic riddles. Likewise, he was prepared to consider other views, new information or the different opinions of those better informed, and he would figuratively smoke the peace pipe.
Hutch did occasionally like to smoke a pipe, not with tobacco but with the ‘happy baccy’. (Indeed, today there’s an article in Scientific American suggesting THC in marijuana may boost rather than dull the elderly brain).
“As I get older, I seek peace and tranquillity,” he wrote in one of his emails to me. “What has been important to me is a different life, one seeking answers to the riddle of life.” In another he sent last year, he said he was getting closer. “Closer to what? The peace of mind of having overcome materialism.” In another email he wrote “at this age, we take life one day at a time”.
He wrote latterly that he had wanted to live in Meteora in Greece, having fantasised about it while in Germany, visiting his long-time friend and patron, Rucha. The rock formation in central Greece has a stunning hillside Eastern Orthodox monastery, second in importance only to Mount Athos. Almost prophetically, he said recently, “We never know when our time has come, so better to act Now!”
On Christmas Eve last year, after a good day out cycling around Meteora, the 78-year-old wrote a poem which started:
What a cycling day this has been, What a rare mood I’m in Being the Light Screaming Delight. . . .
It was in the small town of Kalampaka near Meteora where Hutch died, around 2 January 2019 — according to his close friend Xu Tan — after coming down with a bad cold a few days before. He was cremated at the base of the Meteora rocks.
“I’m not much big on ‘goodbyes’,” Hutch posted as he left Australia in late 2011 on his way to New Zealand. “I usually slip out the back, Jack . . . get a new plan, Stan — and basically get myself down the road.”
“There is no reason to be sad when someone dies and sheds their body,” he said. “In fact, we should celebrate such a transition.”
After learning of his death, many candles were lit in memory of Hutch, in China, Australia, New Zealand, South America, in Europe, in the USA — all around the world, a remembrance and celebration of that cranky, freewheeling legend, as he cycled over the hill into the sunset, and into a brand new dawn.
And five years later, we still remember the man and his message.
Photo provided by Keith Lyons
These are authorial comments retained for colour but do not reflect the stand of Borderless Journal ↩︎
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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O faithful one, say your prayers in my house today;
Below your feet I spread the jainamaz* of my heart.
I am a careless sinner,
Find no time to pray;
Touching your feet, may my sinful head be raised.
Wipe your ablution water with my garments,
Turn my house into a mosque by your touch today.
The Devil, through whose wiles
I do not find time to call upon God,
Will flee, hearing your call to pray.
*Jainamaz: A Prayer rug
The Passing of the Prophet
What an amazing scene is this! Even Azrael’s eyes well with tears.
His merciless heart trembles as at the onset of fever.
His stony fist, quick to kill, is still today.
His grasp is weak, his heart pierced,
His blue crown kisses the dust.
Gabriel’s fiery wings have shattered to pieces.
The world’s debt has been paid, but the heart is still in pain.
Mikhail ceaselessly pours
The salt water of the rivers
On all the lands; in the dark night, the pines sway.
Is this the same moon of the twelfth night?
The same Rabiul Awwal*?
In the north-east a dark flag flutters.
Israfil’s trumpet of destruction
Also sounds feeble today. The breast-shattering lightning weeps inconsolably.
Why does the devil Azazel stand at the Prophet’s door?
From his breast too tears flow, flooding the plains of Madina.
Borak raises his hooves above his head,
Tears through heaven and earth.
He weeps aloud, and, looking up towards
Heaven, neighs loudly.
Houris and fairies grieve,
Their eyes sparkling with tears.
Today the flaming rivers of hell have turned to water;
The narcissus and poppies of Paradise shed countless tears.
Mother Earth weeps, clasping the corpse of her son to her breast.
She carries the bier of her son, her body racked with sighs.
In the cave of hell, the jinns weep.
Will Solomon die a second death?
The doe forgets to nurse her young;
The sorrowful bird forgets to sing.
Flowers and leaves fall, a cold north wind blows.
The life of the earth is ebbing, her veins and arteries rent.
There is no end to mourning
In Makkah and Madina
It is the field of the Day of Judgement;
Everyone rushes about madly.
The Ka’aba trembles, and all Creation seems to gasp its last breath.
The herald’s bugle sounds sadly today.
Whose sharp sword slashes again and again at the distant moon?
Abu Bakr’s tears flow in an endless stream,
Mother Ayesha’s cries cause the heavenly stars to grow faint.
Maddened with grief, Omar violently twirls his dagger,
“I shall beat the life out of God,
I shall not spare Him today.”
The hero roars again and again,
“I will slash off the head of any one who dares to say
That the Prophet is no more – of anyone who tries to take him to the graveyard.”
In his mighty hand, his sword he whirls.
Who is that weeping inconsolably in every mosque today?
The grief-stricken muezzin’s call is faint;
There is no strength in him, in his empty heart.
Bilal’s voice breaks and falters as he calls the azan.
Who recites the heart-wrenching call for the funeral prayer?
Osman swoons, racked with pain, foam on his lips;
The brave Ali Haider has been subjugated by his grief;
His double-edged Zulfiqar
Is blunt with sorrow.
Alas, the Prophet’s beloved daughter Fatima weeps.
“Where are you, father,” she cries, her hair dishevelled and unbound.
Hasan and Husain writhe on the ground like slaughtered doves.
“Where are you, Nana?” they call and search for him everywhere.
The light of the day has gone out,
The moon and stars have faded.
The world has grown dark,
Every eye sheds drops of blood.
The seas crest and foam to drown the skies above,
Except for their salty tears, they will leave nothing behind on earth.
God Himself is helpless,
His seat itself has shattered.
He wishes to clasp His friend to His bosom,
But how can He wrench away the one for whom all creation weeps?
There is great festivity in Paradise today, great rejoicing.
The houris and angels sing in unison, “Sallallaho aleihe sallam*”.
Standing in rows, they sing praises of the Prophet.
Mother Earth weeps, unable to keep her son.
“Have Amina and Abdullah come? Is the virtuous Khadija here?”
Seeing the joy on the mother’s face as she sees her long-lost son,
The Lord of the Universe laughs.
“God, what injustice is this?”
Cry the children of the earth.
Today the bright lights of heaven grow brighter still;
There is increasing happy laughter there.
Only the light of Mother Earth is dimmed and darkness reigns.
The laughter of the heavens rings out above the tears of earth,
And from everywhere echoes the cry “Sallallaho aleihe sallam".
* Rabiul Awwal : The third month of the Islamic calendar * Sallallaho aleihe sallam : May Allah honour him and grant him peace
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
Niaz Zaman is an academic, writer and translator from Bangladesh. She has published a selection of Kazi Nazrul Islam’s work in the two-volume Kazi Nazrul Islam: Selections. In 2016, she received the Bangla Academy Award for Translation. This translation was first published in Kazi Nazrul Islam Selections 1, edited by the translator and published by writers.ink in 2020.
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