Categories
Notes from Japan

Baseball and Robots

By Suzanne Kamata

When I first came to Japan from America to teach English on the Japan Exchange and Teaching (JET) Program, I had no idea how popular baseball was in this country. I quickly found out, however. I was assigned to a high school in Tokushima, on the island of Shikoku to be an assistant English teacher. It was summer, and I was immediately informed that the school’s baseball team had won the regional baseball tournament. They had gone on to the National High School Baseball Summer Tournament at Koshien stadium near Osaka.

This event is on par with the Super Bowl in the United States. The games are televised, and the entire country is riveted for the duration of the tournament. Many star players go on to play professional baseball in Japan, and later maybe even in the Major League in America. Ichiro Suzuki, Yu Darvish, and Shohei Otani are just a few players who first claimed the spotlight at Koshien.

Once classes started in September, I discovered that the baseball players were immediately recognisable by their shaved heads. I often saw them practicing on the baseball diamond very early in the morning, sometimes dragging tires yoked to their shoulders as they ran. I noticed that they were respected by the teachers. Even if they fell asleep in class, the teachers didn’t try to wake them up. When they were awake, the baseball players were very polite. They had been trained to greet their elders in a loud voice, and to bow and doff their caps.

Another thing that I quickly found out was that in Japan, baseball season is basically year-round, at least up through high school. Japanese students can choose only one sport. While in the United States, coaches often cut weaker players from their teams, in Japan anyone who wants to join a team is welcome. The team becomes a community for players of different abilities. The bonds that Japanese kids form with their teammates tend to be very strong, since they spend so much time together.

My second year in Japan, I met the man who became my husband. He was a teacher, and a baseball coach. Through him, I became even more aware of what a big deal baseball was in Japan. I also acquired a lot of insider information. I started to write a novel about an American woman married to a Japanese high school baseball coach, which I called The Baseball Widow. I asked my husband many questions while I was writing the book.

We later had twins – a daughter, who is disabled, and a son, who began to play baseball in elementary school. He devoted himself to the sport throughout high school, sometimes waking up at five o’clock in the morning on weekends for out-of-town games. He never once complained. At one point, he asked me to write a baseball story. I did. I wrote the text for a children’s picture book, Playing for Papa, which was published in Spain and is now sadly out of print. I also wrote a middle grade novel, Pop Flies, Robo-pets and Other Disasters, featuring a boy in junior high school. I read the entire novel to my son, and made some changes following his advice.

Gundam. Courtesy: Creative Commons

In addition to baseball, Japan is famous for its robots. Gundam is a well-known robot character, who first appeared in Japanese anime in 1979. Although many science fiction stories feature robots, they are increasingly becoming a part of daily life in Japan. This is partly because Japan’s population is decreasing. There are fewer and fewer young people to do necessary work, so machines are called upon to take up the slack.

Recently, the Japanese have developed robots which can help elderly people and others in many different ways. For example, there are robots which can help farmers pick fruit, as well as humanoid robots that can chat with people and ward off loneliness. Robot pets, like Paro (which became Mon-chan in The Baseball Widow), are also used to keep elderly people and children in hospitals company. There are special cafes staffed entirely by robots, including at least one at which the robots are controlled by people with disabilities. A nearby art museum has a robot guide which takes visitors on tours of exhibits. Robots in Japan have performed weddings and funerals. During the COVID-19 epidemic, one small university even used robots as avatars in a graduation ceremony.

I am fascinated by robots. They are not always what people expect. Sometimes they are soft and fuzzy. As soon as I learned of the robo-seal, I wanted to put it into a story. However, I sometimes feel uneasy about the replacement of humans by robots. Fortunately, at the moment, family bonds remain strong in Japan, with multiple generations living together and helping each other. Like the family in my book, we were three generations, living in the same house. We don’t have a robo-seal yet, but we do have a robotic vacuum cleaner.

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

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Categories
Poetry

A Homage to Yuan Zhen’s Grief of Separation

Poetry and translation by Rex Tan

A Homage to Yuan Zhen’s Grief of Separation*

Shall I compare an ocean's vastness to 
the width of the greatest river? The 
evening sky pales to the azure of the summit. 

The time I wandered through a familiar flower field --
I can’t be bothered to look back, partly due 
to Fate’s weaving hands, partly due to you. 

Smoking under the 
bleak wintery overcast
memories of your 
bright summery laugh dissipates 
into a fleeting mist.

Forlorn, I’m a shadow by the hills 
of a spire-filled dream.
And with a gentle flick, I cast 
the hanging memories of your sojourn 
into the wind. 

*The first two paras are a liberal translation of Yuan Zhen's "Grief of Separation". 
Yuan Zhen was a Tang dynasty poet, lived from 779 to 831 in Luoyang, China

Rex Tan is a journalist by trade and a poet at heart. As a Malaysian, he is fluent in English, Mandarin, and Malay, yet he calls none his first language.

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Categories
Review

Anime Novel Comes of Age

Book Review by Aditi Yadav

Title: She and Her Cat

Author: Makoto Shinkai and Naruki Nagakawa

Translator: Ginny Tapley Takemori

Publisher: Penguin Random House

Makoto Shinkai is a giant in the world of anime. His animated movie Kimi no Nawa (Your Name) garnered worldwide critical acclaim and commercial success. He is often hailed as the ‘next Miyazaki’ in the world of animation.  His first work as a director was a five-minute long monochrome Japanese animation movie titled Kanojo to Kanojo no Neko (She and her cat) released in 1999 which won grand prize the DoGA CG Animation Contest in 2000. In 2013, Shinkai along with Nagakawa wrote a novel under the same name, whose English translation, She and Her Cat, was released in 2022.

The novel narrates four interwoven sub-plots involving four females and their feline companions.  Shinkai weaves a rich tapestry which plays out like a movie capturing a wide spectrum of colours, sounds and emotions. The cats appear more caring and observant about their humans, while the latter often seem indifferent or distant. Nevertheless, they give each other support and much needed warmth of life.

The novels starts on a rainy day in spring, when Miyu happens to find an orphaned kitten in a carton. A chance encounter or a fated one, either way, they discover each other on a depressing spring day with dripping skies. Notwithstanding the crestfallen  hearts and morose weather, the blossom of a soulful bond springs to life.

There is a cryptic hint of shared melancholy as the kitten remarks “… her hair and my fur were heavy from the rain.” It’s like one sad heart recognising the other and finding inexplicable comfort and sense of belonging as it feels, “I was now her cat.”

Miyu names him Chobi. The novels voices alternately between felines and humans, as we get to see their respective worlds in the narration.

Chobi is a restless fur ball as he skips about in animated action to catch Miyu’s attention; and watches her all day long as she cooks, sings, washes laundry, wears makeup, and so on. He is happy in a warm, cozy world where he is cared for. He thinks of Miyu as his ‘grown-up girlfriend’. In contrast, the owner doesn’t think of it as any life changing experience. But subconsciously, she begins to change, without a trace of conscious awareness.

While Chobi goes around the neighbourhood, he makes friends with other animals. He shares an endearing relationship with an old dog named Jon. Jon has the demeanour of a stately guardian. His encouragement uplifts Chobi’s spirit making him feel a part of the world. He has interesting tales to shares about life, cosmos and philosophy. Chobi opens his heart to Jon wishing to ‘fill the gap’ in Miyu’s heart. 

Chobi also befriends a white chirpy cat. She discovers an ‘awesome’ human named Reina who doesn’t shoo her away as a stray cat. Instead, she feeds her and names her Mimi.  Reina studies art at the technical college where Miyu is an administrative officer. Mimi notices how passionate Reina is about painting and sketching and how ‘weird’ she smells –- of paints, spices, alcohol, perfume and tobacco. Despite being talented she is struggling to find her footing in the world of growp-ups.

Mimi brings back memories of the cat she owned during high school. While the adults around the adolescent Reina were critical of her talent, her feline companion gazed at her paintings with fascination. The cat’s innocent gesture had the warmth of sunshine in the winter of her troubles. Reina has a resilient personality. As Mimi was an abandoned frail kitten, she finds strength in Reina’s optimism, independence and self-confidence. There is a mutual bond that serves to fill the vacuum inside them.  

The story saunters along the neighbourhood detailing various encounters between humans and animals.

Cookie, Mimi’s kitten gets adopted by Aoi’s family. Aoi is a chronically sad girl because she carries an emotional scar in her heart. Cookie notices that permanent sadness around her and wants her to get better. As they live together, the little feral companion, thaws the frigidness inside her.

The non-human characters often give deep insights into the human world… “no human is always strong, but then no human is weak forever, either.”

Kuro, a fat old cat isn’t scared of his own death, but worried that his owner Shino would have a tough time after he departs, as he says, “humans are really frightened of death…not just of their won deaths, but of those of us dogs and cats too.” While Jon, the dog, claims he’d become eternal when he dies.

The book begins with on a wet spring and winds its way through the sound of summer cicadas and the winter snow, through life and death, to reach a bright scenery of cheerful cherry blossoms.  

Shinkai paints a multi-layered world through the eyes of humans, cats and dogs, which comes alive in Takemori’s lucid translation. It is a heartwarming and uplifting read that moves like a ‘slice-of-life’ anime and reminds you of reasons to be grateful for this life as Chobi concludes, “I love this world…with absolute clarity”.

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Aditi Yadav is a public servant from India. She is also a South Asia Speaks fellow (2023). Her works have appeared in Rain Taxi Review of books, Mint Lounge Magazine, EKL review, Usawa Literary Review, Gulmohur Quarterly, Narrow Road Journal, Borderless Journal and the Remnant Archive

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Categories
Poetry

Purple Deadnettle, at the Foot of a Failing Rockface 

By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Purple Deadnettle, at the Foot of a Failing Rockface 
 
I turn that corner, towards the galloping glue factory homestretch,  
stumble upon this wild patch of purple deadnettle,  
at the foot of a failing rockface, run calloused sweat fingers 
down the side of fresh barber craft, hair off the neck like the oily  
gallivanting gallows given a stay in the bottom of the slimy  
eleventh and the UV warnings are out in numbers  
like idiot storm troopers so that agoraphobia  
is the new 30 – 
the bugs don't bite any more than the relentless taxman  
and everything leaves its mark if we are honest, 
which of course we are not, so that the lie is fed and grows 
large as some less than panicked Godzilla-stomped city  
taken right out of the movies and given some sorry phonebook  
name that anyone could call by mistake, so that fear is the crutch  
of the dreaming bed head Man brought to wake.

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

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Categories
Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

Do It Yourself Nonsense Poem

Nonsense poems consist of nonsense without choice. You may choose to read or not read them, true enough, but once you have embarked on the journey you are helpless in the rushing of the raging word-torrent. Your reading mind becomes a canoe, sturdy enough but lacking a rudder or paddle. There are no alternatives to the direction in which you are rushing. You are committed, at least as much as the writer of the poem was, and the act of abandoning the work is equivalent to throwing yourself out of the canoe, immersing yourself in the foaming liquid, scraping your soul on the submerged rocks of the dangerous passage. Your inner being will experience this, even if it appears on the surface that you have simply ceased reading a few bewildering verses.

Therefore, I have decided, with some rhymes and a little reason, to create a nonsense poem that gives the reader rather more latitude in the way it develops. As an absurdist piece, the freedom of choice is limited to different meaningless outcomes, but my hope is that some of the permutations will be musical enough and sufficiently evocative to make the procedure worthwhile. The total number of combinations of lines is astronomical. This means that a reader who chooses a particular path through the poem will probably be the first to have done so. It is also likely he or she will be the last. The chances of someone else choosing the same route are vanishingly small. It can therefore be said that the poem was written entirely for you and nobody else. To navigate this ‘Do It Yourself Nonsense Poem’ simply choose a first line from the first grid, followed by a second line from the second grid, then a third line from the third grid, a fourth line from the fourth grid, and so on. There are twelve grids. The end result, if you persist, will be a twelve-line nonsense poem. It might be the case that a poem produced using this method makes some sort of sense. If this happens, I will be happy to offer you my condolences. But I think it is very unlikely a sensible poem will be found from this exercise, even if one really is hiding within the combined grids.

Among the multitude of poems that can be generated using these grids, one of them will be the best of all, and another one must be the worst, but it is simply unfeasible to work out which those are. The number of combinations is so high that the best will surely remain secret forever, and the same is true of the worst. This does not logically mean that the best is magnificent and the worst terrible. The difference between the best and worst might be very minor. But the grids are finished and I am the first reader of the work as well as its writer, so I felt entitled to find my own way through the grids. My random path led me to the following. After reading it through, my mind wanted to add the words ‘Well, wouldn’t you?’ to the end of the poem, but that is cheating. Attempts to twist nonsense into sense must be discouraged.

After cooking beans on the green platform the yeti mends a net
but never moon mice smell a rose inside my clothes
if singing a duet. The fanciest dress was bought new
thanks to rubber bones yet bedsteads gleam in smug dry streams
both to left and right. And why do butter puppets stutter on the stage?
The tangent was once unexplained, I guess, in situational anxiety
and so, aghast, four wise moons break a chair cogitating fruit.
The scholarly fruit trees rhyme badly, every day, or chatter with bees
greedily, noisily, sadly. And what of the butler? He loves all the clutter
under duress, he wonders while hissing, beautifully nonetheless.
And so the man blundered badly near a cockatoo but crystallised
and broke the cloud in the dusk to shun the vanilla fruit flies.

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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Categories
Poetry

Letter

By Pramod Rastogi

Courtesy: Creative Commons
LETTER

The postman has passed by my house.
The news is out, and joy is in the air.
The letter is from my beloved mother 
Who lives on the other side of the globe.

People, curious, wait outside my house,
Waiting for me to unveil the letter’s content.
Winged with cheer, I run around the house,
Ecstatic to have a letter from my mother.

Age seems to have overtaken my mother,
She cannot travel nimbly so far by a flight.
Rain is unsubdued and the wind crackles, 
Yet people wait to know how she is.

Loving bonds are what connect us at heart.
Trees have lost most of their golden leaves.
Autumnal wind makes me think of heaven.
Words afloat tell me she lives no more.

Pramod Rastogi is an Emeritus Professor at the EPFL, Switzerland. He is a poet, academician, researcher, author of nine scientific books, and a former Editor-in-chief (1999-2019) of the international scientific journal “Optics and Lasers in Engineering”. He has published over ninety poems in international literary journals.

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Categories
Slices from Life

Kardang Monastery: A Traveller’s High in Lahaul

Narrative and photographs by Sayani De

I sipped on my cup of piping hot, sugary tea at Kardang monastery, twelve thousand feet above sea level. The chomo who prepared it chatted away the details of the snow festival that happened a few months ago. The edges of her maroon robes fluttered in the wind. ‘Chomo’ — I learned a new word that day – in Tibetan, it means a female Buddhist monk.

The monastery is an important one of Drukpa lineage[1] built in the twelfth century. The beautiful white facade with gold details gleamed in the sunlight. Intricate thangka paintings adorned the walls and ceiling of the monastery. It was perched on the barren mountain of Lahaul with multi-coloured Buddhist flags swaying in the wind. An imposing statue of Lord Buddha sat in the courtyard, looking over the whole valley. There was still some snow on the mountain tops, spring had just set in.

The chanting of the lamas filled the air. It was part of the evening ritual. Gentle drum beats punctuated the chanting. I felt fortunate to be in such a tranquil space. It was a happy concoction of the high altitude, the rhythmic rituals, and the lack of human habitation around the monastery that left me in a self-contained peace bubble.

A thangka painting

“How did you know about this place? Not a lot of tourists come here,” the chomo asked me with a twinkle in her eyes. My mind browsed through the incidents that led me here. 

It all started two years ago. My penchant for zoning out to Tibetan chanting mantras on YouTube, and love for off-beat places in the Himalayas led me to some serious research. Lahaul district in Himachal seemed to fit the bill perfectly to get a taste of both. It was easily approachable from Manali, where my family could stay with all creature comforts. Our travel group included our one-year-old son and elderly parents.

The beautiful monasteries in dramatic mountainous settings were as much a reason to visit Lahaul as the adventure to travel to such harsh terrains. We based ourselves in Manali and acclimatised ourselves for a few days before climbing to twelve thousand feet. We hired a local car and driver to visit the Lahaul district. When we told our local driver that we wanted to go to the Kardang monastery, he looked at us blankly. It dawned upon me that it was even more remote than I had realised. 

We started from Manali towards the Atal tunnel, a nine-kilometre-long highway underpass in the Pir Panjal range of Himalayas, on the Manali- Leh highway that connects two districts of Himachal. The Atal tunnel was opened in October 2020 after several years of work and today connects the remote Lahaul district with the rest of Himachal. 

We left the verdant coniferous forests and mountains with gushing streams on one side of the tunnel and gaped at the dry snowy mountains with freshly sowed fields at the base of the mountains of Lahaul on the other side. It was a dry desert with farming done in little patches at the base of the mountains. The difference was stark.

We stopped at the helipad by the Sissu waterfall in Lahaul district, to recharge ourselves with tea and steaming momos. I saw my father-in-law skip around like a little boy, his jaws dropping every time he looked at the waterfall coming straight out of the glacier that cradled it. It was his first time being in such a terrain. All of us, including my one-year-old son, seemed to be breathing fine and enjoying ourselves, in spite of the sudden gain of altitude to eleven thousand feet. I sighed in relief; no acute mountain sickness (AMS) for us.

We set out to the monastery following google maps and stopped for lunch on the way. After some conversation, the restaurant folks told us that we were going in the wrong direction. Apparently, google maps didn’t work very well in this region beyond the well-travelled tourist circuit. They told us how to reach and from the sound of it would involve off-roading. After losing our way twice, we finally discovered a bumpy path that led to the monastery. We found out later that the best option was to take the mud road on the right after the lone petrol pump in Sissu.

The bumpy mud road that we took instead was devoid of human habitation or road signs till the Kardang village. On each serpentine turn, I could see my travel companions digging their fingers deep into the seat in anxiety. On some stretches, there were walls of ice on the mountain side and the car had to cross the several streams that these walls caused. Later, we all laughed about how each of us was praying for dear life during that treacherous journey.

After a good thirty-minute climb we finally reached the Kardang village and the metalled road was in sight. The Kardang village had a few homestay signposts but none were open in spring. Soon we crossed the signs of the pilgrimage trek of Mt. Drilbu Ri and we were at the gate of the monastery. The short walk to the monastery was nice but we did it slowly as the lack of oxygen was palpable. Kardang monastery is nestled in the ridge below the fifteen thousand feet Rangcha peak. Kardang is the starting point for the Buddhist pilgrimage of Mt. Drilbu Ri. 

Upon reaching, we found the door of the monastery closed. Soon we were greeted with the Tibetan greeting ‘Juley Juley’ by a smiling monk who opened the door for us. His name was Sonam Dawa. He was happy to show us around and answer our questions about the prolific thangka paintings on the walls and ceiling of the monastery, on Buddha’s life, dakinis [woman spiritualists], and other important figures of Tibetan Buddhism. Tibetan Buddhism with its characteristic animism and symbolism of Bon culture is a hallmark of this Lahauli monastery. A few lamas and chomos joined us and offered us tea. We were touched by their warmth. They played with my son, told us a lot about the snow festival that happens every February and asked us to come back during the celebration.

To this day I am not sure if it was the high altitude, the aromatic incense, or the space itself that made it feel so special. I remembered the chant on Youtube that started this journey for me and am glad I followed that instinct.

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[1] The Drupka lineage of Tibetan Buddhism dates back to the twelfth century.

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Sayani De is a bibliophile, compulsive traveller and sustainability enthusiast.  Her work has been featured on Women’s Web and  been selected for publication at Muse India for its May-June issue. 

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Categories
Poetry

As the City Sleeps

By Tohm Bakelas

as the city sleeps

Four months from today
I’ll be 34, my hands have 
been trembling for some 
time. Sleep hasn’t been too 
good these days, exhaustion 
and boredom overwhelm me. 
I fiddle with death thoughts 
while microwaving leftover 
food and wonder why I am 
the way that I am. Long gone 
are the days where uncertainty 
meant absolute freedom. These, 
days, every day is predetermined 
by responsibilities to myself, my
job, and my children. Going 
through life afraid of shadows 
once had its appeal, but now, 
as the city sleeps, I dwell in 
shadows, I am a shadow. 

Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. He is the author of twenty-five chapbooks and several collections of poetry, including “Cleaning the Gutters of Hell” (Zeitgeist Press, 2023).  

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Categories
Review

Won’t You Stay, Radhika?

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: Won’t You Stay, Radhika?

Author: Usha Priyamvada

Translator: Daisy Rockwell

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

In an essay written several years ago, the India-born Canadian author Uma Parameswaran had defined the plight of diasporic people by using the mythic metaphor of ‘Trishanku’ borrowed from the Ramayana where this character wanted to go to heaven alive but denied entry there, he was sent back and since then resided neither on earth nor in heaven but was suspended forever in an illusory middle space in-between. The state of diasporic individuals is somewhat similar; they are neither here nor there, and the present novel under review, published way back in 1967, brings out the angst of one such individual who, like the author Usha Priyamvada, herself went for higher studies to the United States and became the usual victim of culture shock. The only difference is that in real life Priyamvada stayed back in America and spent her long teaching career in universities there, whereas the protagonist of her novel Won’t You Stay, Radhika? went there only for a couple of years.

The storyline of the novel, originally written in Hindi, is rather simple. After her widowed father marries a younger woman called Vidya, Radhika’s world falls apart. She feels betrayed—the emotional and intellectual bond that she had forged with her father since the early death of her mother breaks with that sudden marriage. This is because their bond was not just emotional, but intellectual, as Radhika helped her father with his art history writing. To escape the unbearable situation at home—the growing rift between her and her father—Radhika fought for her personal freedom. Finding a simple way to avenge her father, she moved to Chicago along with an American teacher called Dan to pursue her master’s in fine arts. By leaving her father and going to live with Dan, Radhika had acquired several years of experience and matured quickly. But her living with Dan had only been a means to an end.

She returned to India two years later, burdened by a sense of alienation and homesickness, only to realise that while nothing had changed in her country, everything had. A growing sense of despair engulfed her. She started wondering whether she had a home anywhere. The family that she had longed to be reunited with barely acknowledged her arrival. The sense of belonging was missing, leaving her in ‘an emotional state of in-between-ness, of universal unbelonging’. As days pass, Radhika is paralysed with ennui, which is not just boredom. She avoids people, romance, family, as she lies still, or wanders listlessly through her neighbourhood. This sense of unbelonging tinges all her relationships—romantic or filial. So, she lies listlessly on her takht[1], bored, immobile, and uninspired.

This is not to say that Radhika is without love interests in the novel; after all there are three men in her life. She does not always feel detached from these men; there are many situations in the novel when we as readers feel that she has overcome her ambivalence or boredom or ennui, that she will start living a more meaningful life, but nothing positive takes place in the end. She seems to jell well with Akshay for a while and thinks probably she might marry him as there is no room in her life for a playboy. She wants a partner, someone steady, generous, someone who will accept her with all her flaws. But though she has great respect for him, she finally decides not to fall into the traditional trap of marriage. Akshay, like a traditional Indian male, also cannot subconsciously stop thinking about Radhika’s past. He feels confused as the more he wants to steer clear of Radhika, the more he feels she looms over his life. He also keeps on thinking about her past affairs with other men.

The other gentleman with whom Radhika had developed a relationship was Manish, who was diametrically opposite in nature to Akshay. They knew each other for a long time in many different contexts. Manish had also desired her, but Radhika had kept him at a distance. After several indecisive moments, she openly turned down his marriage proposal too, stating that she didn’t want to get involved again. Though she felt warmed by Manish’s touch, she did not turn to look at him. But Manish decided to wait till such time she changed her mind and voluntarily went to him. This ambivalence continues till the end of the novel, which Priyamvada leaves rather open-ended.

Though the title of the novel refers to a particular scene in the end when Radhika goes to meet her father once again and he wants his daughter to stay with him like before, that question mark hovers over the entire work: What will you do Radhika? Will you get up off the takht? Will this ennui ever come to an end? She was surprised at how her emotions had become so dull that she felt very little at all.

An extraordinary chronicler of the inner lives of the urban Indian woman, Usha Priyamvada is a pioneering figure in modern Hindi literature. Won’t You Stay, Radhika? written so many years ago, expertly explores the stifling and narrow-minded social ideals that continue to trap so many Indian women in the complex web of individual freedom, and social and familial obligation. A sense of alienation is also famous not only as a hallmark of Hindi literature of the 1960s, where it is usually traced to urbanization and the breakdown of traditional family structures, but also finds representation in Indian English novels too. Here one is reminded of Anita Desai’s famous novel Cry, the Peacock, published in 1963, that also delves deep into human emotion by focusing on topics like existential depression, psychological discontent, and the fragility of sanity as expressed through the female protagonist Maya. Though the theme of incompatibility and lack of understanding in marital life is one of the main themes of Desai’s novel, one notices a similarity of dealing with trapped feminine psyche in both the novels. Of course, reading the story of Priyamvada so many decades later, it seems nothing has changed in the Indian context and the situation in which the characters find themselves is equally true even today.

Before concluding, one must specifically put in a word of appreciation for the translation as well as the translator. On the first impression one is surely bound to think whether an American writer is the appropriate choice for translating a novel in Hindi. Apart from holding a PhD in South Asian literature from the University of Chicago and writing her doctoral dissertation on the Hindi author Upendranath Ashk, Daisy Rockwell has over the years to her credit translations of several Hindi authors including Usha Priyamvada’s debut novel Fifty-five Pillars, Red Walls (2021). But what brought her into limelight was her translation of Geetanjali Shree’s Tomb of Sand (2018) which became the first novel translated from an Indian language to win the International Booker Prize in 2022.  Thus, apart from bringing this poignant Hindi novel to a new set of readers fifty-five years later, Rockwell’s expertise in translation makes one feel that this is not translated text at all. Though not a mystery thriller, her narrative skill makes the novel a definite page-turner and one will surely be tempted to finish reading it as fast as possible.

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[1] Bed

Somdatta Mandal, an academic critic and a translator, is a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Gopal Lahiri

Courtesy: Creative Commons
CELEBRATION

This morning there is a celebration in the prettiest world.
A tiny bird starts singing and then swings over the lake.

Imagine lifting the water jug and finding it empty
in the monsoon; it’s only dry winds blowing all seasons.

Fairy lights dance on the yellow grass, the avian world
knows there is less rain, roots die deep within.

Somewhere at the corner of the sky, grey clouds build up
and now other birds join singing in the curtains of leaves.

How important it is to stay together, looking at everything,
then fly away drawing a great circle over and above!

They whistle and show how happy they are in unison,
their small ecstatic faces shine under the moist sky.

The trees, the oak leaves on the water’s edge and
those yellow reeds clap as the birds’ rest on the pine top.

RESISTANCE

You can’t tell a nest from a tangle of jasmines,
can’t tell a snake shedding its skin.

At times rocks meet, strike, roll together 
to the first obstacle or the end of the slope.

You can’t tell hands from ivy choking in a fence.
beyond the split windows of the room,

can’t recognise a man who lives in my very own clothes,
my mirror notes only the geranium and growing pains.

You take steps to the place where you begin to vanish
until you go back and wait under the shadow,

like an inheritance, like land surfacing
a morning halved by grey and white clouds.

Some space to breathe, but just enough --
I must find myself in the wind’s swelling lung.

WONDROUS THING 

Perhaps they are mother and daughter
still together from last year’s final clutch.
I keep waiting for one of them to start a nest
out in the marshy woods, the great blue
robin rookery is in full swing --
building four nests in the still leafless sycamore
each in full view of the bold eagles.

The forest is cooler and shadier than my yard.
Spring ephemerals are just emerging --
little strands of stalkless flowers
and pepper root toothwort that I look for.
Happy still to see that spring
seems a bit slower to arrive at the woods.
In their eyes, it remains a wondrous thing.

Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 29 books published, including eight solo/jointly edited books. His poetry and prose in Bengali and English are published across various anthologies globally. His poems has been translated into 16 languages.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International