JOE
I hear you’re looking for Joe.
He’s not what he was, you know.
They took him away in the night.
He won’t get any worse – but he might.
All you can do is hope and pray,
for miracles do happen, they say.
But you know Joe, he never did God,
always found it all a bit odd.
‘So who made the virus?’ he’d sometimes ask.
You can’t see God’s face. He’s wearing a mask.
He’s not said a word since the ICU.
They said they’d let me know of anything new.
So here I sit; I sit by the phone.
I wait for the call he’s on his way home.
I wait; I watch the clock on the wall.
I watch the light die; and darkness fall.
I hear you’re looking for Joe.
He’s not what he was, you know.
THOUGHTS ON CORONAVIRUS
Bacteria, they say, are alive. Coronavirus, they say, is alive and, yet, not alive. Its only purpose on this Earth is to replicate itself as fast as it can. It’s so small it almost isn’t there. And, yet, it’s there. It’s everywhere. It’s very minuteness is it’s strength. It manifests a fierce impulse to survive. And to survive, it kills.
Yet it doesn’t know it kills. It doesn’t know, it doesn’t know. It doesn’t know, it doesn’t know, it doesn’t know. Deep down, deep inside our body cells, it wages sub-atomic warfare; it’s murderous motivation unfathomable. A million more – it doesn’t care. It doesn’t care, it doesn’t care. It doesn’t care, it doesn’t care, it doesn’t care.
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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Title: Whispers of the Heart – Not Just A Surgeon: An Autobiography
Author: Dr Ratna Magotra
Publisher: Konark Publishers
A noteworthy incident occurred at Northcote Nursing Home that garnered attention in my favour. Dr L.H. Hiranandani (widely known as LH), was an acclaimed head and neck surgeon. He was known internationally for his expertise in performing radical neck resections and for the remarkable speed with which he conducted surgeries. He wielded significant influence in both medical and social circles, and routinely performed surgeries on his private patients at Northcote.
One day, a highly distinguished lawyer from Madras (Chennai) underwent a neck cancer operation at Northcote, with me assisting LH during the procedure. As was his practice, LH completed the surgery swiftly and left for his clinic. Meanwhile, the patient had been transferred to his private room, while I was tending to my remaining duties on the floor. As part of my routine, I made rounds to check on the patients who had undergone surgery.
Upon entering the lawyer’s room, I was taken aback by the sight of him struggling to breathe. His hand felt cold and clammy, and his pulse was feeble. Although he remained conscious, he appeared extremely restless even as I tried to reassure him. It became evident that he was choking, and I realised that unless something was done, his life would slip away. Unfortunately, I was uncertain about the specific course of action needed to save him. While the nurse had attempted suction and increased the oxygen supply through a face mask, these measures appeared ineffective. The patient’s breathing grew shallower, and his lips and nails began to turn blue. It became increasingly obvious to me that blood clots were obstructing his airway, and simply increasing oxygen flow would not suffice. Private patients received distinct treatment compared to those in public hospitals. In this setting, resident doctors were not authorised to make decisions independently and were required to follow the consultant’s instructions.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford the delay involved in contacting the consultant, as the process would have entailed routing the call through the telephone exchange, involving operators at both ends and resulting in a significant loss of valuable time.
I recalled reading about tracheostomy (creating an opening in the windpipe) during my undergraduate studies, though I had never witnessed the procedure being done (ENT surgeons usually performed tracheostomies). Acting on instinct and without hesitation, I reached for a scalpel from the emergency tray and made a decisive incision in the middle of the patient’s neck. There were substantial blood clots surrounding and compressing the trachea. As soon as this pressure was released, there was a dramatic transformation in the patient’s condition, and his breathing improved considerably. I carefully removed the blood clots both from within and around the trachea using suction before inserting a tracheostomy tube. To my immense relief, there was significant improvement, and the patient’s lips and nails regained their natural colour. He was soon breathing comfortably, and so was I. Assured of his well-being, I promptly requested blood from the blood bank and decided it was time to inform LH, the operating surgeon.
The patient had stabilised, narrowly escaping from the clutches of death. Now, I had to confront the repercussions of my actions because I had essentially performed a minor operation without obtaining permission from the consultant. Additionally, I had neither informed the patient’s family about the procedure, nor had I obtained their written consent. The list of mistakes was growing longer, and LH’s reputation in the city was significant enough to potentially impact my future prospects in Bombay.
In the midst of this emotional turmoil, I made a call to LH. His clinic was situated near the Regal Theatre, in close proximity to Northcote. He arrived swiftly at the hospital. LH was known for his predilection for taking the stairs rather than the elevator, and I could distinctly hear his brisk footsteps and booming voice as he inquired, ‘What happened? Who did this?’ I, as the sole resident doctor and with no alibi, not that any was necessary, stood there, anxious and unsure of what would transpire next.
When LH entered the room, the lawyer, now fully conscious and aware of the ordeal he had gone through, managed a weak smile. I expected LH to explode, and I stood there with a numb mind, waiting for the inevitable. To my astonishment, LH rushed towards me and, to my surprise and that of others, nurses and hospital personnel gathered there, embraced me in his characteristic, effusive manner. He repeatedly and profusely thanked me for displaying presence of mind during the crisis, which could have cost the lawyer his life. He appreciated that his patient had been saved. Overwhelmed with relief, I could have collapsed, but there was still work to be done.
The patient was swiftly transported to the OR, where we located and ligated the bleeding vessel responsible for the incident. We also revised and secured the tracheostomy, this time by a qualified ENT surgeon, LH himself. Subsequently, the patient was shifted to his room. As he was leaving, LH discreetly handed me an envelope in my hands containing crisp currency notes. Sentimental as I was, I left the envelope and its contents untouched for several years. I knew that two lives had been saved that day!
Word of the incident spread quickly to Nair Hospital, where LH held an honorary professorship in ENT surgery. Several consultants from Nair Hospital, who regularly operated at Northcote, inundated me with congratulations. I had every reason to be pleased. The incident had generated immense goodwill.
(This excerpt from Dr Ratna Magotra’s ‘Whispers of the Heart – Not Just A Surgeon: An Autobiography’ has been published with permission from Konark Publishers, New Delhi)
About the Book
This book provides a captivating glimpse into the journey of a cardiac surgeon, illuminating the story of a small-town girl who, as an outsider, struggled to get a foothold in an intensely competitive field. Her eventual triumph serves as a poignant representation of an earlier generation of Indians post-Independence, showcasing their resilience through both triumphs and tribulations.
Throughout the narrative, the author shares her personal philosophy on the practice of medicine and addresses the evolving landscape of societal norms, encouraging readers to pause and reflect. While she doesn’t make exceptions for being a female cardiac surgeon in a predominantly male speciality, her narrative serves as a powerful source of motivation for women aspiring to break barriers in any field.
This book also sheds light on the transformation of healthcare in contemporary India, with the author playing a significant role in its development. Additionally, it delves into facets of her life beyond the medical realm, including her enriching travels and impactful social activism.
About the Author
After completing her MBBS at Lady Hardinge Medical College in New Delhi, Dr Ratna Magotra pursued Master’s degrees in general surgery and cardiothoracic surgery from Bombay University (now known as University of Mumbai) while working at BYL Nair Hospital in the city. She further honed her skills through training at Guy’s Hospital in the UK and the Texas Heart Institute in Houston, USA.
Dr Magotra’s illustrious career led her to become a professor and head of the Cardiovascular and Thoracic Surgery Department at the prestigious GS Medical College and King Edward Memorial Hospital in Mumbai. Despite her demanding role, she remained committed to issues beyond medicine, both as a department head and as a practising paediatric cardiac surgeon. Her outstanding contributions to the field have earned her numerous accolades, including the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Indian Association of Cardiovascular-Thoracic Surgeons in 2017, a testament to her exceptional expertise.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Poem by Quazi Johirul Islam, translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
Perhaps you never ever noticed me
Reading this book day after day,
Or seen me looking from cover to cover
For other books in it, single-mindedly.
Tick tock the body clock kept beating.
Day would end and evening descend,
Time after time to the old page I’d return,
And yet I could never ever finish reading;
I had dipped in a river with no water at all,
I’d keep going down and down and still feel
I’d lost all sense of where I was—east or west;
This drying river would swallow me up whole!
A little later, all traces of the evening will disappear.
A shock will paralyse this desert-like land,
But the book will get stuck in the midst of the sand,
Perhaps, only for someone to lift it with his hand!
If you manage to take the book up in your hand,
No letter of the alphabet anywhere in it you’d see,
For this book full of white pages you took from the sand
Was the favourite reading matter of poet Jalal Uddin Rumi!
Quazi Johirul Islam has been writing for over 3 decades. He has published more than 90 books, 39 of them are collections of poetry. His travelogues are very popular. He has been with United Nations, has traveled all over the world, worked in conflict zones, his bag is full of colourful experiences. In 2023, Quazi was awarded Peace Run Torch Bearer Award by Sri Chinmoy Centre, New York. He has also received many awards and honours in Bangladesh, India and abroad.
Short story by S Ramakrishnan, translated from Tamil by T Santhanam
It was Malavika who sent me the video of the monk who plays guitar. Malavika is my daughter. She is pursuing fashion designing course in Kingston University, England. Her desires and interests are a puzzle to me. Some days ago, she sent a recording of a poem by William Blake in her voice. After that, she sent a photo of her carrying a placard in a demonstration against global warming. As clouds change to forms unimaginable, her interests keep on changing. After watching a butterfly, she had sent her impressions in writing. It seemed as though it was from a seasoned writer.
Children who leave home for far off places, in a sense, leave us. She was no longer the girl she was in Chennai. The new country and new environment have changed her. The changes are reflected in her appearance and deeds. My wife did not like these alterations. Below the video of the monk who played guitar, she had given the caption: “Music is Meditation”. I could not understand her. At the age of twenty-two, I thought she would be fondly giving herself to worldly pleasure. But she was immersed in meditation, agitation and museum visits.
In the video sent by Malavika, the monk must have been about thirty years old. His head was tonsured. He wore a robe coloured orange. His ears were slightly big. He had a sharp nose and small lips where a smile was frozen. It was hard to find out if he was a Nepali or a foreigner. On his left arm, was tattooed the image of Buddha.
It was funny to see a Monk with a guitar. The image we have formed about saints and the looks of current day saints are not alike. Perhaps, we refuse to update that image. Perhaps, the meaning of sainthood has changed.
The musical piece was given the title “Falling flowers”. From the way he was playing, it seemed as real as the blossomed cherry leaves falling gently. The normal rapidity and gush associated with guitar music was not there. Like an insect that moves in the water, his fingers moved on the guitar strings. Music tunes to the past more easily than photographs. A small piece of music is enough to take us back to our school days.
I saw the video once or twice. I felt the urge to listen to it again and again. While listening at night, I felt as if the fragrance of incense was wafting into the vacant spaces of my heart. I found His name was Limang Tolma while searching for his other videos. There were hundreds of musical pieces by him. All of them were only seven minutes long. Evidently, he played the guitar for only seven minutes in a day. That too under the sal tree in Coben Monastery seated on a stool. Hundreds of people from various countries pour in to listen to his performance. All this I gathered while browsing the internet. His music was melodious and sweet. Why did he play for seven minutes only at each stretch was beyond comprehension.
To know more about Limang Dolma, I called Malavika on her mobile. She sent a message that she was observing silence for the past five days. Why this silence? Tongue can be tied down. But the mind?
I told my wife. She responded that she had scolded Malavika and that was why she was doing this.
I could not understand. What was the skirmish between mother and daughter? I sent a message to Malavika asking her how long her silence would continue. “God only knows,” was her reply.
As I am a senior executive in an automobile company, I had to conduct two to three meetings in a day. My blood pressure sometimes would rise after returning from these meetings.Sometimes, I would have a headache too. At times, the meetings would last for ten hours. After the meeting, I would feel as if somebody has placed a pile of iron on my shoulders. I would feel sick, wondering why we could not conduct our work without talking, discussing or fighting.
One day, before the commencement of the meeting, I started to listen to the monk’s guitar music from my cell phone rather impulsively. I closed my eyes for seven minutes as though I was in a deep meditation. It was as pleasant a feeling as a moist breeze caressing my body. There was peace in my heart and an exhilaration I had never known before. On that day, I could sense the change in my voice and the way I was moving towards a solution. Somehow the officials of the sales department seemed to understand this. After the conclusion of the meeting while coming down in the lift, Amarnath said, “There was something new in your speech today. You spoke like a Zen Master.”
“Yes” I nodded approvingly with a smile. I was just wondering how a small piece of music could bring such a tremendous change in me.
I wanted to know more about Limang Dolma. Searching through the internet I was more and more astonished. The real name of Limang Dolma is Christopher Cane. He was born in Milan. He had pursued Anthropology. After coming into contact with a Buddhist monk, he has embraced Buddhism and become a monk in the Buddhist Monastery. He plays the guitar only under the tree of the monastery and nowhere else. Young people throng to him. They listen to his music. Some of them stay there for days together to savour his music. They wear T-shirts bearing his image with the words, “Buddha plays Guitar”. In an interview, a young lady asks him. “All saints in India hold one or other instruments. Why does Buddha not play any instrument nor is seen holding one?”
“He himself is a musical instrument. One who knows how to tune himself finds no need for a musical instrument. In the same way, Nature tunes itself. Is there any tune better than what the water plays?”
“Why do you play only for seven minutes?”
“Seven is the symbol of consciousness in Buddhism.”
“Seven minutes is not enough for us. Can’t you play more?”
“Will you take honey in a gulp? Is a spoonful not enough?” he asks.
I admired Limong Dolma fo his speech, poise and the way he handled guitar. I too felt like wearing a T-shirt bearing his image. I sent the video of Limang Dolma to some of my friends asking them to listen to his music. Only Mohan Muralidharan, a neurologist and my school mate, sent a reply saying that a man from Turkey played better than the monk and shared the video. Why should one musician be compared to another? Can’t this foolishness be avoided?
I called Mohan and blurted out my irritation. He said in a mocking tone, “You’re aging. That is why you listen to a monk playing the guitar. Music should make us feel young. It should twinge our nerves. You have never touched a musical instrument in your entire life. Can you whistle atleast?”
Mohan was right. I haven’t even played the mouth organ which many played during my school days.
I felt like owning a guitar. The same evening, I went to a musical store in Leo mall. I showed the video of Limang Dolma and asked for a guitar like the one in the video. The face of the girl at the counter brightened. “Limang Dolma?” she asked. I felt glad that she too has listened to the music. She brought a guitar from inside. I told her, ” I don’t know how to play guitar. This is for my daughter.”
The girl told with a smile, “Limang Dolma was a thief. He was in prison. After his release, he became a Monk. People say he speaks to Buddha through his music.”
“Really!”
“I overheard two girls talk of it when they came to purchase a guitar.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe it partially.”
“Which part?”
“That he speaks to Buddha,” she smiled.
She looked like my daughter when she smiled. Perhaps for young girls Buddha is a different personality. May be, the Buddha known by the ones who have crossed fifty years like me and the Buddha these young girls adore are not the same.
When I brought guitar home, my wife chided me.
“Why have you brought this? Who will play?”
“Just let it be,” I responded.
“Is it a show piece to be kept just like that?” she asked.
I did not reply.
I placed the guitar in Malavika’s room close to her bed. I had a feeling that Malavika had returned. I sent that night the picture of guitar to Malavika by WhatsApp. She sent an emoji of two clapping hands. Also, she sent a message “We are going to visit Limang Dolma.”
Though I felt happy, I was eager to know who was the other in the ‘We’. I did not venture to ask Malavika. Instead, I asked, “When?” She did not respond.
After five days, she sent a picture to me. She was among the hundreds of youngsters before Limang Dolma, as he was playing the guitar. My eyes were cast on a young man with long hair, not on Limang Dolma. The young man hung his arms around Malavika’s shoulder.
Who was this fellow? How long had she known him? I could not see his face properly. I widened the image. An European face. Perhaps was he also a musician? I thought of asking Malaviika. But I curbed that thought and went on to ask about the musical event, as I called her. She was full of cheer. She told me,” Listening to Dolma’s music, one feels like a kite fluttering in the air. I do not know what to say. Flying to heaven.”
“I read somewhere that he was a thief,” I said.
” Oh, that’s a myth constructed by magazines. When asked about this, Dolma says raindrops do not have a past. Jonah and myself were in the Monastery for three days. Wonderful experience!”
A question arose on my mind as to who Jonah was. I was not sure whether to ask her or not. Why wouldn’t she talk about him?
I asked, “Is Jonah a musician?”
“Dad, how do you know? Indeed, he is. He plays the guitar well. It was he who introduced me to Dolma’s music.”
“Is Jonah your classmate?”
“No, he works in a bar where I hold a part time job.”
“You didn’t tell me,” I pretended to be angry.
“Dad, don’t tell Mom about this.”
“About your working in bar?” I asked deliberately.
“About Jonah too?” she laughed. As she was so laughing, she seemed to be some other young girl. After she hung up, I was thinking about Jonah. Was he a good person or bad? Was he also a thief earlier? Or could he be a drug addict? Who were his parents? Was he in love with Malavika? Had I become old? Was Mohan right? I
admired a Monk playing guitar somewhere. But I do not like Jonah who also plays guitar. Why? I was perplexed. Suppose if Limong Dolma put his arm around the shoulder of my daughter, would I dislike him too? I was confused.
Two days later, Malavika forwarded a video of Limang Dolma downloaded in her phone. Limong Dolma walked as though he was floating in the air. He sat under the tree. Peace was on his face as he tuned the guitar — the same music that I savoured earlier. No longer did I feel close to that music. Somehow, instead of Limang, Jonah’s face came before me. I felt as if a bitterness had settled down on my tongue.
The same night, Malavika called me. Before my asking anything, she said, ” After visiting Limang Dolma, I do not feel like listening to his music again”
“Why?” I asked as if I did not know anything.
“I do not like it any more just the way I suddenly liked it before.”
“How is Jonah?” I asked intentionally.
“Do not talk about him. I hate him. I hate whatever he introduced to me.”
Inwardly I was happy.
” Any problem? Shall I talk to Jonah?”
“Why should you talk to him? The days I moved with him, it was a nightmare. Daddy, why do you not rebuke me?”
“You are not a kid, after all.”
“But you think of me as a kid only. You don’t know me as Mom does.”
I was flummoxed. I could hear Malavika sobbing for the first time ever. I did not know how to console her. I hurriedly gave the phone to my wife. She started walking towards the kitchen with her words of consolation. What has transpired between her and Jonah? Why was she weeping? I could not make out. At the same time, I was happy that she disliked the world she created for herself and moved back towards my world. A thought arose that she was coming home. I asked my wife what Malavika had said.
“That boy is not good. I told her from the beginning itself. But she did not pay heed.”
“Did you know about Jonah before?”
“She told me six months back. I scolded her saying that your Dad will not like this. I have spoken to Jonah also.”
“To Jonah? You?”
“Yes, I could not understand a bit of what he spoke.”
“What is the problem now?”
“It’s over. No use talking about it!”
I could not understand what happened. But Malavika had been closer to her mother than to me. She had shared everything with her mother. I was pained at this. Why then did she asked me not to tell her mother? Why this drama? Children after growing up, treat their father as a plaything. The daughter I know is now the girl I do not know. I could not reconcile myself to this.
I heard the guitar music of the monk that night. I was more attracted to the tree than to the music.
Leaves do not stay on the tree for long. When a leaf falls, the tree does not reach out to catch it. When falling leaves sail along the wind, the trees can do nothing but look at them in silence. Somehow, the music stirred a grief in me.
As I prepared to leave for office next morning, I saw my wife keeping the guitar next to dustbin. What was the fault of the guitar after all?
” What are you going to do with this?” I asked.
“Anish told me, he will take it. What do we do with this? Malavika does not want it any more.”
I nodded giving the impression that she was right. But I felt sorry while doing that.
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S. Ramakrishnan is an eminent Tamil writer who has won the Sahitya Akademi Award in the Tamil Language category in 2018. He has published 10 novels, 20 collections of short stories, 75 collections of essays, 15 books for children, 3 books of translation and 9 plays. He also has a collection of interviews to his credit. His short stories are noted for their modern story-telling style in Tamil and have been translated and published in English, Malayalam, Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, Kannada and French.
T Santhanam is a retired Bank Executive in Bangalore, India. He has a passion for literature with a special affinity for poetry. He writes poetry in Tamil. He is also a blogger.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.*
So, you again want to walk
In these streets of powdered chalk,
Where nothing more than old trees
With ripened fruits lie in the winter freeze?
Do I know... Do I know
What lies here below the snow?
There is still time for the yellow walls,
The office shawls, and the colourful balls,
To close for the day and open tomorrow
When the lights come back from sorrow.
There are people on these tables
Beside the stables and mighty fables
Watching us through the crooked panes;
Let us walk away before they come again.
Do I know... Do I know
What lies here below the snow?
The legs, the hands, the mouth
The nose, the crimson rose,
The sound of lightning bows,
Everything's a dream, I suppose.
Perhaps I'd been better at home
Taking to my hair with that wooden comb.
I am done now... Sitting at the balcony
Watching the stars and people in myriad bars.
I'm not Diomedes or Odysseus,
Or Apollo stopping the charge of bows.
I'm Dolan, sitting on this table,
Amidst the foul winds, and living in a fable.
Do I know... Do I know
What lies here below the snow?
Perhaps I am better with this spoon
Whirling, Twirling, and Swirling the coffee
Till the last cube of life leaves me.
Do you still want to walk
In these streets of powdered chalk,
Where nothing more than old trees
With ripened fruits lie in the winter freeze?
Let us go then walking, talking
About Dolan, and not Odysseus,
About Hector, and not Achilles,
About me, and not you,
Before he comes by and kills us.
* ‘Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven’ by WB Yeats (1865 – 1939)
Padmanabha Reddy is a postgraduate student of English at Delhi University. He has a self-published novel, titled I Heard an Owl Scream. that has been felicitated by the Department of Language and Culture, Government of Telangana.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Most passengers got down from the bus at Alor Setar, Kedah, north Malaysia. Binaya, my travel companion, shifted to the front seat of the double decker and later I followed him. It was after eight thirty in the evening and the road had become narrower. After driving on the six lane E1 expressway for most of the day, the narrower road looked confining. Traffic had also reduced. We got an excellent driver’s eye view of the road. One of the benefits of a double decker is the opportunity that you can pretend to be the driver. Malaysia’s northern most state of Perlis seemed different from the larger ones to the South. It was around nine-thirty at night when we reached the Kuala Perlis bus terminal. It was a short walk to our hotel near the jetty.
The Deepavali holidays had just begun and the exodus from Kuala Lumpur to various hometowns was in full swing. The expressway was packed with cars and our drive north was a slow crawl. The InterCity bus service (a private bus operator) used a double decker for this trip though the lower deck had been stripped of seats and used only for luggage and cargo. The seats were comfortable and the drive smooth though extremely slow due to the traffic.
Next morning, we had a traditional Malay breakfast of nasi lemak (rice cooked in coconut milk), fried anchovies and kueh (traditional cakes) along with teh tarikh (boiled and frothed tea). Pouring tea from a great height from one mug to another is a traditional South Indian way of cooling the drink and generating a thick head of foam. Tea shops do this with an extravagant flourish. We walked around the jetty and waited for our midday ferry to Langkawi.
The process of boarding the ferry was smooth and organised. We were seated right at the front. Roro ferries that could carry cars were approaching Kuala Perlis from Langkawi. The sea was calm, and the islands of Langkawi appeared after half an hour. The ferry went round the island and eventually approached the town of Kuah. Kuah is the district headquarters of Langkawi. There is the iconic Langkwai eagle statue near the jetty. The jetty was modern, and we took a taxi to our hotel located near Cenang Beach (Pantai Cenang in Malay).
Cenang Beach
The main island of Langkawi is surprisingly large, and taxis are the main means of transport. Cenang beach is popular with travellers. We were staying at the Cenang Langkwai House near Cenang beach. The room was spacious and well-equipped. Considerable thought had gone into the arrangements, and we had a pleasant stay. The first day I had noodles with prawns for lunch, and I was pleasantly surprised by their freshness and taste. Sea food was plentiful and enjoyable. Binaya was not comfortable with sea fish and preferred freshwater delicacies. I could understand his perspective as I always preferred sea fish and found freshwater fishes not very much to my liking. We dined in a large restaurant that was a few minutes’ walk from our hotel. One evening I tried mussels (delicious) while on another occasion I had laksa (Laksa is a spicy noodle dish popular in Southeast Asia. Laksa consists of various types of noodles, most commonly thick rice noodles, with toppings such as chicken, prawn, or fish).
My good friends, Naveen and Sunil, had recommended that we take the island-hopping tour. We booked the tour for the next morning. Langkawi is also famous for duty-free shopping and Binaya wanted to purchase a suitcase. The prices, however, were not lower than those in KL. Eventually I ended up purchasing some excellent chocolates at the Cenang Mall. Our stay was made sweeter!
Early next morning we walked down to the main thoroughfare to have roti canai is a South Indian flatbread dish popular in Malaysia). We waited on the white sands of Cenang Beach for our transportation to the tour jetty. Each boat had about 24 passengers and was well organised. Everyone had to wear life jackets while on the boat. We had our photos taken and this was our introduction to this Langkawi custom. The tour lasts for around four hours and covers three main islands south of the main island. Our first stop was the Pulau Dayang Bunting, where we entered a geopark to hike up the hills to a lake. The trail was well maintained. Humidity was the main problem. After the mandatory photo, we continued to the lake. The tiles on the water, like elsewhere in Langkawi, were made of a floating material stays afloat on lakes and seas but depresses slightly under your weight. Both of us were quiet and we were missing the energy and dash of Sunil, our friend from Monash University, Malaysia.
Island Hopping
We continued to Pulau Singa Besar to watch eagles feed from boats. Pulau means island in Malay though it brought images of the fragrant rice dish to our minds. We continued to Pulau Beras Basah and the sandy beaches and the turquoise waters took me back in time to one happy island, Aruba. There were colourful beach huts and paragliding was available for more adventurous souls. The ride back to the main island was short and we could see a docked cruise ship in the distance. Our photo had been converted into a souvenir (a small plate on which the photo was printed). We had lunch at our morning restaurant. Binaya had nasi goreng (fried rice) while I had the all-day breakfast. This was a good deal and consisted of two pieces of toast with butter, two fried eggs, a chicken sausage, and baked beans. Binaya tried out different geographical varieties of nasi goreng from Pattaya to Cina to USA.
After lunch we went to the Underwater World. The aquarium has themed sections like tropical rain forest, subantarctic climate, and marine life sections among others. The main attractions were the seal show and the penguins. The seal performed a variety of tasks and received a treat after completing each successful task. This is mentioned as the largest aquarium in Malaysia. The one at KL has a spectacular underwater tunnel and you can watch marine life swim by all around you.
Langkawi means reddish brown eagle in the Malay language and is believed to be the place of Garuda. The islands have been a part of the Kedah sultanate for over two millennia. The islands have a geological history going back to over 550 million years. Langkawi is thought to have been cursed for seven generations in the early 18th century by Mahsuri, a woman who was falsely accused of adultery and executed unjustly. Langkawi was occupied by the Kingdom of Siam and became a part of Malaysia after the Anglo-Siam treaty. The islands were a sleepy backwater and were developed into a major tourist destination by Dr Mahathir Mohamed.
The next morning, we travelled to the cable car toward the north of the island. The Deepavali holidays brought many to the island. The tourist infrastructure’s good, and we did not experience crowds and long waiting times. The Langkawi sky cab provides an aerial link from the Oriental Village at Teluk Burau to the peak of Gunung Machinchang, which is the location of the Langkawi Sky Bridge. The total length is 2.2 km, with a journey time from the base to the top of around 15 minutes. It was officially opened in 2003. We were comparing this to the Manakamana cable car in Nepal. This one is longer and steeper. The elevation between the base and the middle station is said to be the steepest in the world. There were delightful views of the bay and the surrounding islands as we moved slowly toward the top. The Skybridge is a major attraction and is among the longest free span and curved bridge in the world. There are a few glass sections that allow you to look down into the valley. The views were majestic, and the bridge is around 660m above sea level. There is also a sky glide option with a comfortable cabin style vehicle that carries visitors from the top station to the sky bridge.
We took a taxi to the Langkawi Wildlife Park. Malaysia has some delightful animal parks and the one at Langkawi offers close encounters with animals. The animals are used to visitors and there are plenty of opportunities to touch, pet and feed them. Trained handlers were at hand. I was reminded of ‘Farm in the City’ at KL constructed around a similar theme. The covered walking path meanders through animal enclosures and the peafowls reminded me of the KL Bird Park. Feeding the small birds, the tortoises, deer, and the rabbits is a highlight of the visit. Like at other attractions there is a mandatory photo, and the exit is always through a duty-free shopping complex. That evening we had a spectacular thunderstorm. Being to the north the rains may be more seasonal at this tropical paradise.
The next morning, we had to depart back to routine life. We reached very early for our flight back to KL. We watched passengers boarding Air Asia, Malaysian Airlines and Scoot flights to Penang, KL and Singapore. Air Asia is a dominant player in the Southeast Asian market. The flights are cheap and usually fly on time. The aircrafts, however, may be older and the leg space is limited.
We had a pleasant break at one of Malaysia’s major tourist destinations. There are many attractions here that we are yet to experience. Time was limited and we did not want to rush ourselves from attraction to attraction during a leisurely break. We plan to return one day to the oldest land in Malaysia, 550 million years in the making as proudly proclaimed by the site Naturally Langkawi!
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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A DREAM
'How are
Your In-laws, Husband,
Parents, Children, Home and You? '
He asked in a cascade.
If he had
Put me first in the list,
I would have forgotten myself
When he came to the end
Of his long inquiry
That drills into my life.
I hardly know him,
Going by the number of words
Exchanged between us.
He is not close enough to me to ask me anything more than,
'How are you? '
Everyone has parents.
But he just assumes
That I have in-laws,
a husband, children and home!
He has a weakness
for assuming.
He was a stranger
But he felt intimate.
And I told him about
My dream.
It was a modest dream,
Almost trivial as dreams go,
But precious to me
Nonetheless.
Most dreams
Are like bubbles.
They burst
After floating for a while.
Only a few
Are like drops of rain
That make it to the ground
On the sands in a desert.
I assume
He wanted to ask me
About my dream.
If he had
The courage to ask,
I would have told him,
My dream was
Like that drop of rain.
Kumar Bhatt is a retired professor of Physics interested in everything in general. After retirement in 2002, he has been trying to learn to write. He lives in Ahmedabad.
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The big day will be here soon, tomorrow, to be exact. School life had been going on, dragging its feet. They say time flies when you are having fun. I do not remember having any fun, but it flew by anyway. Whenever I start thinking of the future, time seems to be ticking like a time bomb. There is so much uncertainty, and so much can happen. So, I tell myself to tread one day at a time. The best thing to do is not to think too far ahead. But then, that would make me no different from my father, would it not? Enjoy today of what is uncertain tomorrow.
Today is Sunday. The restaurant is closed after lunch. I have been helping out at an Indian restaurant near my house to earn some extra cash to pay for my school fees, the fees that my father refuses to pay. In his eyes, I am old enough to earn for the family, not draining from it. Money is always not enough.
I have some free time. As promised, I decide to meet up with Johnny to discuss some matters about the coming examination. I have not been feeling well for the past few days, with constant lethargy, malaise, body itch and muscle aches. I passed it off as the stress of facing one of my biggest challenges in life, the Middle Certificate Examinations.
As I walk towards Johnny’s house, I run my hand over the back of my neck to scratch. I thought I felt a small globule there.
“Oh no, is that something serious?” I ask myself. “Maybe Johnny can examine it for me.”
Johnny runs his hand over the area.
“Thamby, you have many spots like that over the neck and back. It could be smallpox that they are saying on the radio,” he says, “I think we better see our schoolmaster, Mr Peter. I know his house. He stays in the school compound. Let’s go.”
We race to our school master’s house. In no time, we are banging on Mr Peter Tan’s gate. Standing on his balcony, he acknowledges our presence. “Boys, what are you all doing here?” he says. “Johnny, your father isworried about your examinations. You better be at home, studying.”
“Sorry, sir,” I interject. “Mr Tan, I want to tell you something. I think I have smallpox.”
“What? Smallpox?” he implodes. “Thamby, you better go to the hospital and get yourself admitted. You cannot be walking around spreading the illness to every Tom, Dick and Harry that you see on the street!” he starts preaching. “You can sit for the exams next year, not this year, no way.”
“But, sir, I am all ready for the exams.” I object. “It’s not fair.”
The first thing that goes through my mind is working for another whole year all over again to pay another year’s school fees. I had to think of another way to sit for the public examinations I had been waiting for so long.
“I tell you what,” Mr Tan continues, “you check yourself into the General Hospital. I will talk to the Headmaster to get a refund for you. You go now.”
I am not going to throw in the towel so easily.
“Sir, can I sit for the test in the hospital?”
“No way, boy,” he exclaims. “In my ten years of experience, I have never heard of such a thing. If you are sick, especially with pox, nobody would dare come near you. Sorry, I can’t do anything!”
By now, I must be appearing like a nagging pain in the neck to my teacher, but like a rabid dog, I do not seem to let him go.
Upon my insistence, he tells me, “I tell you what. Try the good offices of the Director of Schools of Penang Island, Mr Ingram Bell.”
He, however, quickly adds, “He stays just around the corner, but don’t keep your hopes too high.”
With a heavy heart, I drag my feet to the living quarters of Mr Bell. Johnny and I stood at the gate after ringing the bell hanging in the corner. A thin and tall, moustachioed Indian man, who must be his servant, starts shooing us away from the premises. Our attires and appearances must have been out of character from the government quarters and its whitewashed walls.
In between the shenanigan of the coolie telling his employer that just some uninvited pests had shown up at the premises and his trying to get us just to buzz off, a muscular man with a build of a pugilist appears.
“What is happening here?” he asks as he looks toward us. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
Before the coolie could utter another sentence, I rushed in, “Sir, I am supposed to be sitting for my MCE tomorrow. They tell me I can’t sit for it tomorrow. They say I have to sit for it next year. I am from a poor family. I cannot afford to pay another year’s school fees…” I rattle on without catching a breath.
“Hold, hold on to your horses, young man,” he says. “Come in.”
“Mani, open the gate, let them in. And get some juices.”
He invites us to sit at the verandah. I tell him my whole life story in a single breath and end it with my dire straits of affairs. Mr Bell listens to the saga intently and looks up at the ceiling as I finish my story in a time that appears forever. Then, like looking for a flower to blossom, I waited with bated breath for his words of wisdom. Time stands still. I can hear my heart pounding. I think I heard a gecko chirping.
“Tambi, listen to what I have to say.” he finally vocalises. “You get admitted now. Take the treatment. Come tomorrow, I will make sure that you can sit for the examination. Trust me!”
With a heavy heart, I admit myself to the Penang General Hospital. Luckily, I have chickenpox, not smallpox, as I had dreaded. I have to be hospitalised anyway as per orders of the State Director of Schools. (gulp…!)
The night proves to be a very long one. The uncertainty of events of tomorrow and the febrility of the illness kept me wide awake. I did not want to be the one who slept through the examinations, though.
“Why me? Why now?” I keep asking myself. “Did I incur the wrath of Goddess Mariamman, the guardian of pox illnesses?”
Maybe the Gods are angry with me for not paying my respects to the Divine forces since Ma passed away. I have not gone to the temples for so long. But then, Ma used to be a loyal temple-going devotee who never missed her chance to perform penance, fasts and rituals. See how she turned out — stripped of her lifelong dreams of self-empowerment, entrapped in an awkward, unhappy marriage, afflicted with a deadly disease at a young age, suffering and dying in a gruesome manner, not seeing her offspring blossom to adulthood.
“Shouldn’t the divine powers at the level of a Creator, from the status of a Mother or Father, be protective, not vindictive, not demanding salutations and showing narcissistic tendencies to gloat in the joy of being feted by His parishioners?” I wonder sometimes.
Slowly, I conclude that I decide my fate, not the intergalactic planetary constellations of the stars. The philosophical labyrinth were so exhausting that I doze off eventually.
Dawn comes with the murmur of the hospital attendants and their paraphernalia. I wake up in a daze. I soon remember the events of the day before: the admission, the chicken pox and … Oh no! Today is examination day. My pulse raced. I run my hand over my neck, and I feel scores of fluid-filled blisters, many more than I had felt yesterday.
It had spread downward to my back and my limbs. I have an intense desire to scratch the lesions, but I know I am not supposed to do that. And the body aches and the fever have not subsided. I shower, pop in two Aspro fever tablets, eat the hospital breakfast and wait.
Is the Director of Secondary School going to live up to his words, or
were his words mere rhetorics to get rid of me and my poxed-self from his abode? I glance at the large Smith clock with the Roman numeral on the ward wall. It is 7 am. The first paper is due to start in two hours. What is it going to be? Am I going to sit for the test, or will it be another disappointment, just like the many uncertainties that had plagued my family? Every turn in my life seems to hit a dead end. Is there no future for me?
I decide to have a last-minute glance at my books before the reckoning, but it is only an attempt at futility. The butterflies in my tummy and the pulsatile gush of blood to my head are too disturbing. I keep glancing at the clock. Time ticks slowly. It is fifteen minutes before nine. The background murmur of the ward suddenly comes to a halt. Piercing the silence is the sound, rapid staccato of heels. I rush out of my quarantine.
The scene of neatly dressed shirt-and-tie-donning men walking across the medical ward is a sight for sore-eyes. They must be the education officers that Mr Bell had promised. I give out a sigh of relief. I feel like I have already done and passed the examinations. And guess who is moving in with them? It is none other than the pessimistic Mr Peter Tan who told me, in not so many words, to go back home and sleep off my chicken pox away and kiss my exams bye-bye. What is he doing here? He looks pretty pleased with himself, gleaming from ear to ear like Punch and walking in long strides to keep pace with a Caucasian man, probably an Education Department staff.
As if the wards are devoid of action-packed activities, everyone, the nurses, ancillary workers, and even patients, stop whatever they are doing to give full attention to the visitors who seem to walk in boldly even though it is not visiting hours. They must have been wondering what was about to happen. The Caucasian man stops in my room to ask, “Young man, are Nalla Thamby?”
I tried to vocalise, but my voice seems stuck. I clear my throat to give out a feeble whisper, “Yes, I am, sir.”
“We are from the State Education Department,” he rattled on. “We are here to supervise your MCE examinations in this hospital.”
A trail of busybodies flock around my room to quell their sense of curiosity. They must be wondering who in the devil’s name is this unassuming young boy who gets visits from Government officials! Pretty soon, they understand what is happening with all the desk arrangement, clocks, papers, ‘Exams in progress’ notices and the flashing of cameras by photographers. The tests progress without much fanfare.
The most amusing thing about this fiasco is what is reported in the next day’s newspaper. Mr Tan is pictured patting me on my shoulder, no more the persona of the day previously who shooed me like a bug from his compound. He is seen patting me in the part most visibly infected with pox vesicles, ironically. In his interview, he mentioned that he was instrumental in ensuring that I did not miss my papers, and it is unfortunate that I should be inflicted with this illness at such a wrong time. He boasted that he knew about my true potential and that I would turn out tops in the examinations. I also found out later that my seating of the Senior Cambridge examination in the hospitals was the first of its kind in the history of the state, and Mr Tan took all credit!
I smile to myself. It does not matter who takes the credit. The important thing is that I completed the examinations. Like what Mr Tan had predicted, the examination results proved to be in my favour. I was successful. The vesicles dried up fast enough but not the memory of this whole brouhaha and all. One thing that I learnt through this debacle is that you hold the reign to your future. Nobody owes you a living. What you want, you have to search for it. Perhaps the guardian angels are there to help me to think out the correct things at the fastest of times. Maybe all of Ma’s prayers played a role too.
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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 seek refuge from the grief of your memory,
But Grief replies,
‘Hear me and rejoice.’
I run from the longing
To erase your name,
But it holds me all the same.
Hence, I write a poem to send you.
But by self-inflicted fate,
I am a hundred and seven days too late.
You will receive my poem when I am far away.
And I will think to myself,
Somewhere in the heatstroke of summer,
Amidst the crowds of people you know,
You must remember me.
Somewhere along the lonely nights,
Amidst the memories you wish to relive,
You must be taking my name.
Hamza Azhar is a student of Public Administration, and an aspiring poet who writes on themes of grief, friendship, betrayal and unidentified longing. Find him on Instagram @_hamza.azhar
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The world ball dance was held on 25th December. It was the last time that Jay and Poulomi had agreed to meet each other with the tag of being lovers. The ballroom was majestic with a long winding staircase – the magnificent staircase was adorned with Christmas Mistletoe plants. Jay could not help but stare at Poulomi in her maroon ballroom dress and with her maroon lipstick making her lips seem more protruded than ever.
The song ‘Maroon’ by Taylor Swift was playing in the background.
The ballroom ceiling was full of sparkling chandeliers which glimmered with golden light. The golden rays of the daytime sunshine lit up the ballroom with a soft glow, as they passed through the crystal clear huge glass windows. Each of the windows had maroon curtains which were shifted to the side to let the daylight in.
As the day approached late evening, the curtains were closed and the ballroom still had the soft golden glow – this time it was because of candlelight lamps.
In this glorious ballroom, Agatha was playing the instrumental version of the song ‘Maroon’ on piano with the grandeur of royalty, for the piano was gifted by the Princess of England, Agatha could not feel more proud of her musical skills.
For a while, Agatha kept looking at Poulomi and Jay now and then. Poulomi’s maroon dress had golden belt and golden buttons, and Poulomi was wearing a necklace studded with golden star shaped diamond-like stones. She was carrying a golden purse with her and as she walked down the staircase, she seemed like the very Queen of England.
In the middle of the dance with Jay, Poulomi excused herself and went to Agatha. She exchanged a few words with Agatha and when she returned to the dance floor, Jay was nowhere to be found. Jay had disappeared.
Agatha came running and said, “Poulomi, you must confront Jay. This act of disappearance is no way justified”.
“Agatha, is Jay a real person? Or is he a hallucination of mine?” asked Poulomi, being well aware of her own mental health condition. And Poulomi ran towards the veranda and gazed at the maroon night sky glittering with silver stars.
Agatha followed her and said, “Well, at least, the sky and the stars are for real.”
About the Book:
The novella, titled The Ocean is Her Title, is an exploration of a fractured existence of the central character Poulomi “struggling through a welter of feelings, incapacities, and anxieties to shore up her beleaguered existential coherence”. In the words of Mark P Lynn, noted journalist at Doordarshan, “the novella is rich in self discovery monologue and dialogue and moves from literature to the philosophical realm and back. The internal monologue takes the form of a conversation with real characters who are fictionalized from the author’s love for Harry Potter, Taylor Swift, Wonder Woman, and the heartfelt support structure provided by a father who tends to a child with bipolar disorder.” In the words of renowned journalist and author Jitendra Dixit, “The Ocean Is Her Title, the readers are invited to embark on an emotionally charged novella that weaves together the dreams and struggles of a young Delhi girl, Poulomi, whose life takes an unexpected turn when she is abducted and transported to a place she could never have imagined – the Ocean Hospital. This novella, authored by Manjima Misra, is a poignant exploration of identity, resilience, and the complexities of modern womanhood.”
About the Author:
Manjima Misra is a writer based in Delhi. She has written three published books previously which are titled Indian Feminine Fury, Unapologetically Mad, and The Ocean is Her Title. Her opinion articles have been published in The Indian Express, The Quint, Outlook India, Deccan Herald, Newslaundry, and Firstpost. She has previously worked as a writer with the Education Desk at The Indian Express and as an educator with Teach For India.
She has a Master’s degree in English literature from the University of Delhi and a Postgraduate Certificate in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages (TESOL) from the University of St Andrews, Scotland.
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Borderless 