Categories
Slices from Life

Serve the People

By Danielle Legault Kurihara

My father-in-law’s passing, when I was pregnant with his grandson, served as a sort of personal consecration. The Japanese family entrusted me with tasks and responsibilities from the moment of his death to the moment, three days later, when we picked his bones out of the ashes. All differences of nationality and religion flew out of the window.

Being married to the third son of a Japanese family, you could say I’m very low on the totem pole. When my mother-in-law married the eldest son of this clan in 1947, she had prestige but she lived to serve. She gained some measure of glory by giving birth to all those boys in the tatami room, but she was still the last one to use the bath water after her parents-in-law, her husband and her three young sons had soaked in it. She laughs about it now but when I asked her about Great-Grandma’s antique hand-painted silk kimonos, she said she made a big bonfire in the garden after her death and burned them all.

We got the call in the middle of the night. Otoosan had passed. As soon as my mother-in-law stepped into her husband’s room at the Veterans Hospital, or Veteru as it is called in Japan, she put everybody to work. His body had to be washed and his face shaved. My husband took me to the other side of the curtain and offered a chair. “You don’t have to do this”, he said. I could hear my mother-in-law instructing her sons. They worked in silence. I sat in the dark.

Otoosan, an architect, a father of three sons and a former soldier and prisoner of war, lived the final years of his long life in the Veteran Hospital. I had only met him once before in his home where he was spending the day as an outpatient. This man, whose powerful physique held memories of a four dan black belt judoka, was strapped in a chair, being fed by his wife. My husband said in a loud voice: “Otoosan, this is my wife. She’s Canadian”. He looked up, showed no reaction on seeing my Caucasian face and the family giggled: all in a day’s work. His son, a three dan black belt himself like a chip off the old block, took over feeding his Otoosan spoonfuls of lukewarm miso soup, their knees touching, their eyes meeting.

First Task

For my first task, after the family finished taking care of Otoosan, I was asked to sit at his bedside and wait with him while the family filled out paperwork in the office. Before leaving, my mother-in-law turned to me and said gently, “He should not be alone, you understand”. They left in the wake of two black clad white-gloved funeral employees who had appeared on cue from the shadows. There we were together, and it seemed like a moment to reacquaint myself with Otoosan, now wrapped in a pristine white sheet, only his tranquil face showing. I stared at him for a long time and finally whispered domo. It can mean hello or thank you or a mix of both. I read once that this greeting was used during the Edo Period to express a feeling of confusion or unsureness about the person one was addressing.

Second Task

For my second task, to my great surprise, my mother-in-law asked me to accompany Otoosan in the van transporting him to the family home while the others went to the funeral support company. Why me, the foreign wife married to the third son?  But everybody had a part to play in this family event and at that moment, the responsibility fell to me. I climbed into the white van to do my job.

My father-in-law and I could never have imagined making this trip together. Not in our wildest dreams. Not only were we practically strangers to each other, but we came from vastly different worlds, him an elderly Japanese man and me, a thirty-something pregnant French-Canadian. Together we crisscrossed the empty streets in the cold white van, side-by-side, his body wrapped in a shroud on a futon near me. In winter, three am is a dark and deep hour but I was told Otoosan was still here among us, in the realm between two worlds. He had just begun his last pilgrimage. Knowing this, I somewhat felt less forlorn traveling through the winter night, so far away from my country and my own cultural bearings. But that’s beside the point. I had a responsibility to fulfill.

Third Task

The porch light was on, the house already wrapped in black and white stripped cloth swaying in the dark as Otoosan was carried inside his home through the front door. He was laid to rest on a futon in the tatami room, two decorative lanterns like fancy bookends framing his bed. A black-and-white photo of Otoosan looking strong and serious sat in the middle of an altar among candles, chrysanthemums and fruit. In the pale yellow light of the lanterns, we dressed him in his white pilgrim garb for his 49-day journey to the Pure Land, following a hierarchical order. His wife put a white cap on his head and rice in the small pouch hanging from his neck, his sons smoothed out the white coat folded in reverse, and I slid, as best as I could while kneeling on the tatami, white cloth slippers over his feet. This was my third and last task of the night. The wake would start tomorrow. My husband, looking sad and exhausted, said, “We will sleep here next to him. Go home to get some rest.”

Fourth Task

The next day I stepped over the rows of slippers now crowding the spotless entrance step of the family home like a military parade. My mother-in-law, in her formal black silk kimono stamped with the family crest on the back collar, glided between the tatami room and the adjoining kitchen on her blinding white tabi socks. A diminutive powerhouse, married to an eldest son. I looked down at my rather homely nondescript black maternity dress.

For my fourth task, she directed me to take down from the cupboards the fancy sets of dessert dishes and tea cups, wash them thoroughly, dry them rigorously and set them out on the table. “Don’t break anything!” she chided with a smile in her eyes. I also had to wipe clean the large decades-old bone china serving platters and stack them with oranges, the locally-grown fruit. I took a certain pleasure in displaying them in a Jackson Pollock style. One way or the other, I knew they would be rearranged.

Early evening, relatives and acquaintances arrived in black suits and dresses to whisper condolences to my mother-in-law who bowed deeply to each guest. The mourners filled the tatami room, all sitting seiza before Otoosan. Leaning in, they greeted each other quietly.

Suddenly there was a commotion. The priest strode in like the phantom of the opera, his magnificent black kimono robes and glitteringvestment swooshing around him. We snapped to attention, backs straight, holding our Buddhist rosaries between clasped hands.  He greeted us, kneeled in front of Otoosan and started chanting in a loud sonorous voice. I was sitting on a stool in the back. I could never sit seiza and being pregnant did not help my cause.

It seemed like the chanting lasted forever. Just as I started dozing off in the stuffy incense-filled tatami room, my husband began to heave. I realized with horror that he was trying to suppress what looked like a maniacal laugh. Eyes staring ahead, his mouth half-closed, he repeated several times in a strained voice, “Snoopy, look, Snoopy!”. From the ceiling lamp a small plastic Snoopy wearing a red fireman hat was dangling from a string just above the bald head of an old uncle. My husband left the room to bawl in the bathroom. I sat on my stool thinking about the Japanese character in the movie Snow Falling on Cedars, how his stereotyped stoic face had changed his fate.

Fifth Task

After the service I strolled into the kitchen to get a drink. There stood one of the elder female relatives, erect in her black kimono. She had now officially taken over duties while my mother-in-law was busy chatting with the guests. I had met her only once and this time she looked at me with what seemed like shiny panther eyes, ready to pounce. In a flash I was thrown into the deepest end of the hierarchical senior-junior relationship: Cinderella, the wife of the youngest son. Serve more tea! Boil more water! Offer sweets! Wash these dirty cups! I was learning humility on the spot, my only stunned response being a weak Hai! I began shuffling around in my black stockings, looking busy and alarmed, set on doing my duty.   A Mao slogan popped into my head: Serve the People, for I was living a cultural revolution of my own. I just could not imagine this scenario happening in my country.

The wake lasted two more days. People came and went, and we ate our meals together just two meters away from Otoosan. We re-arranged flowers, sat near him and chatted. He was never alone. Some family members talked to him. On the morning of the fourth day, the family lined up from the house to the hearse. Otoosan exited his home feet last to the mournful sound of the car horn. No birds, no wind.

For the ceremony at the large funeral hall, the priest recited the sutras in front of Otoosan’s photo and a magnificent flower display. So many mourners, in slippers, paid their respect with incense and prayers at Otoosan’s casket. Each person brought incense grains three times to their forehead before finally depositing them in the incense burner. After the eldest son gave the customary speech, we lined up in order of importance to receive condolences. I was last of course but wholeheartedly included. “You must be Yoshiro’s wife,” some of Otoosan’s elderly friends exclaimed, naturally mistaking me for the second son’s spouse, the one working abroad. 

We followed the hearse to the crematorium and, huddled together in front of Otoosan, we said goodbye to his earthly envelope before he was sent off for cremation. In the meantime, we all gratefully sat down to a feast of large bento lunchboxes filled with rice balls, potato salad, fried chicken and pickles. Relatives from far and near sat close to my mother-in-law, some lay back on the tatami, some loosened their ties and belts and others had loud conversations over the long low tables. I sat on a stool devouring my food. Pregnancy made me hungry.

Sixth Task

Finally, we were called in to pick Otoosan’s bones from the ashes and transfer them to an urn. As he handed me a pair of large chopsticks, my husband said, “You don’t have to do this”. But I wanted to do it. By that time, I had had four days to acquaint myself with Otoosan and with death while going about my tasks in the living family home. The family put Otoosan’s bones in his urn in a matter-of-fact way. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

On the 7th day of his passing, a sunny winter day, we stood in front of the imposing family grave while the eldest son placed Otoosan’s urn alongside those of his forefathers, under the heavy slab of rock at the foot of the stone monument. Only first sons and their wives are included. It looks like my husband and I will have to find our own resting place in Japan. 

I think my mother-in-law worries that her eldest son’s eldest son will not be able to carry on the tradition of caring for the family grave. He doesn’t have a son to continue the lineage, only daughters. But then again, my mother-in-law stoically goes with the flow of life and change. I was part of this flow. Twenty-three years after Otoosan passed on, she apologised for imposing on me the task of riding with him from the hospital to the family home. On the contrary, it was an honour.

I fulfilled my role as the third son’s wife the best I could to assist the Japanese family mourn Otoosan. On my next trip to the home country, it wouldn’t kill me to brush leaves or snow off the headstones of my loved ones, bring flowers or have a look at their urns through the glass. I might linger and tell them about me, my son, the Japanese family. I also need to discuss my resting place among them. Who knows, maybe my husband and my son will come from Japan to help me.

Glossary

Sieza – formal Japanese sitting posture (on your knees)

Hai—Yes in Japanese.

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Danielle Legault Kurihara, a Quebecker, lives in Japan. She writes about her expat life and her bicultural son. She writes for him.

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

Categories
Poetry

Before my Curtain is Drawn

By Tasneem Hossian

Tasneem Hossian
Before my Curtain is Drawn


Do not shed tears when I am gone.
Give me a moment now, before my curtain is drawn.
Stay with me for a while,
Sit silently by my side.
Take my hands in your hands,
Let me rest on your shoulder.
Talk to me with your sweetest words.
Smile at me with your eyes, twinkling stars.
Let me listen to your whispering heart, 
Engraved will remain these moments. 

If you cry, when I am gone with
My life’s curtain already drawn,
What meaning would it hold for me?
How will I know that you cared for me?
How will I tell you what you meant to me?
Let these moments of love be an eternity.
 
Come sit beside me and love me now.
If you love me, then make me this vow:
You won’t cry when I am gone, 
For you will never be alone.
I will be with you -- very near,
Wiping away all your tears.

Do not shed tears when I am gone.
Give me a moment now, before my curtain is drawn.

Tasneem Hossain is a multilingual poet, columnist, op-ed columnist and training consultant. She is the Director of Continuing Education Centre, Bangladesh.

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

Categories
Adventures of a Backpacking Granny

Visit to Rural Baoying

In 2007, Sybil Pretious travelled to spend a night with a local family in rural China and lived in a ‘hundred-year-old home’. She writes of her experiences with photographs and aplomb.

Grand Canal, China. Courtesy: Creative Commons

“Respect is a two-way street. If you want to get it, you have to give it.”

— R G Risch

Sometimes I wonder why people travel. I especially wonder when someone travelling in a foreign land asks me the way to the nearest MacDonalds. Of course, that can be seen as being judgemental, but I don’t think of myself as over critical, because I travel to experience different cultures as they are and not as I am. When anyone asks me, which is the best country in the world my reply is simple,

“The best country in the world is wherever I am.”

Travelling alone means that I have to communicate with people. And in general, responses are kind, positive and helpful. This is just one experience I have had while living six years in China but there are many more and equally as interesting.

As I travelled home to Suzhou from Shanghai on the train, a young Chinese lady sitting next to me was laden with packages. I smiled and asked her what she had bought. She smiled and proceeded to hold up many items for my inspection telling me the miniscule prices she had paid for them and where she had bought them and then offering to take me there. The two-hour train trip passed very pleasantly.

Back in my apartment I had a phone call from Jessica, my friend from the train asking if there was anything she could do for me. As I had been unable to get plain yoghurt, I asked her if she knew where I could get some. Next morning, on my doorstep were six small yoghurts.

I found throughout my six years in China that I had nothing but kindness and people going out of their way to help, either with an explanation or an address written in Chinese to show to the taxi driver or an offer to accompany me and be my interpreter.

The friendship with Jessica progressed. She introduced me to her fiancé, Jack. Their families were good friends and the marriage seemed almost expected. Jessica was not keen but was fulfilling her family’s wishes.

After many outings with the two of them, Jessica asked me if I would like to accompany her and Jack on a weekend trip to visit her parents and grandfather in Baoying.

Before giving my answer, I enquired of the Chinese teachers at school where Baoying was and what I should expect. Baoying is a county under the administration of Yangzhou, within Jiangsu Province about 170 miles north of Suzhou where I lived. They painted a very rural picture, and I was intrigued. When would a foreigner like me ever get this chance to experience China with a family in their rural home setting? I accepted.

  • Jessica’s family
  • Grandfather
  • Me, her dad and Jessica

We travelled on a very overcrowded bus from Suzhou, me squashed in and clutching the presents I had bought for the family, mainly luxury food and special tea, on my lap, together with my backpack. It was not a comfortable position for a four-hour journey.

The bus stopped twice for toilet breaks. The toilets were the usual Asian ones, where my poor knees suffered as I bent them delicately while desperately looking round for something to hold onto so that I didn’t collapse into the deposits beneath. This is when I wish I was a man. Jessica stood guard outside to make sure I came out unharmed.

The roads, all beautifully tarred and lined with lovely trees were not what I had expected out in the country. When we finally arrived at the bus station in Yangzhou, we were met by Jessica’s father who had borrowed the second uncle’s car. Her second uncle owned a construction firm and he appeared to have Government contracts for the construction of offices — hence the smart car. Jessica’s father was slim, with startlingly fine features and a ‘naughty boy’ look about him. Her mother was more solidly built with a kindly, patient demeanour and slightly protruding front teeth.

I was thoroughly welcomed by the two of them with the double hand clasp. We proceeded to an unpretentious restaurant, up the stairs and into a room where a round table with the usual round swivel in the centre, was set. I was welcomed into the seat of honour. That means you get to sit in the chair that directly faces the door – possibly to detect if unwanted guests might enter.  And of course, I was introduced to the one rule of dining that embarrassed me – I, as the honoured guest, had to take the first taste of special dishes before anyone else.

As is usual with Chinese meals, dishes were brought out in endless succession – vegetables, salads and meat. Chicken soup in an enormous pot had every part of the chicken in it, including heads and feet. I tasted everything and really enjoyed it all, especially some of the fish dishes. I was complimented on my adeptness with chopsticks and was happy to use my fingers as well. Lots of lovely slurping sounds signalled appreciation of the meal. Bones, skins and other inedible bits were just put in a pile on the table next to you, to be cleared away later.

There was one whole fish, and I was told the eyes were the best part and naturally as the honoured guest I got to eat them. I tried to look delighted. I ate them when they were offered – well I think I swallowed them whole and tried not to think of what I was consuming! I said they were very tasty, and they might well have been.

Second and third uncles and aunts were there to greet me. Grandfather was there as well. He was a very distinguished looking old man who reminded me of Paul Newman, one of my favourite actors, though I never thought that Paul looked Asian.

Throughout the meal everyone toasted everyone else with much back slapping and laughter, shouting, “Ganbei”, especially every time grandfather drank or smoked.

As a mark of respect, you had to imitate what grandfather did. The men drank wine and beer while the women only drank orange squash. I got to drink a small glass of beer. It pays to be the honoured guest.

Jessica was really mad with Jack who seemed to be involved in more toasts than anyone else. She said he was saying all the wrong things.

 Everyone smoked endlessly but I tried not to cover my face. Smoking in China was very popular at that time and was only banned in stages. In 2009, it was announced that there would be no smoking in all health care facilities by 2011. At that time, there were 350 million smokers in China.

Throughout the time since we had left Suzhou, I had not seen another European, nor had I heard any English apart from what was spoken to me by Jessica and Jack. Many people stared and of course the kids were really curious about me, hiding behind their mothers and peeping out. I just made funny faces and hid my face behind my hand which made them laugh. My Chinese friends could not understand how I got around China without speaking Mandarin! My communication, however, is not always with words. The body and especially the hands perform wonders of enlightenment in many different languages.

Time to get into the car again — four of us squashed in the back to go to view the new Government buildings built by uncle’s construction firm — very big, modern and impressive they were too.

I noticed that the family had been chatting and gesturing animatedly amongst themselves and looking at me whilst doing so. Eventually, Jessica asked me if I would like to stay in a hotel or stay in their home. No contest. I asked to stay with them. I was here for new experiences.

At last, we were on the road where the countryside borders on the Grand Canal.

The Grand Canal from the road

 This canal runs from Beijing to Hangzhou, a distance of 1776km and the oldest part of it was started in fifth century BC. It has twenty-four locks and sixty bridges.

“Don’t these people build anything small?” I wondered to myself.

On the canal, great barges plied back and forth carrying sand, pebbles and rocks used in construction. Beside the canal were great heaps of rock and stone.

Then came the best part of the adventure, the China that my family had thought I had come to. We turned onto a narrow concrete road (one car width and not another car in sight) with narrow water filled furrows alongside and fields of ripened wheat yellow waving beyond them.

  • Wheat Fields
  • A grandmother placing fishing nets

This was the season of wheat. After it is harvested, they would plant rice which would be reaped in October — fertile land indeed. Jack informed me that the Government instructed the farmers what they should plant each season.

We turned down an even narrower road made of red bricks and later just sand. Melons growing in greenhouses covered in plastic on one side and further along the road a put-putting pump engine, which was moving water from one canal to another, blocked our way. Jessica’s father eventually called the owner and together they moved it and we squeezed past, a hair’s breadth from falling into the furrow below.

Finally, we arrived at Jessica’s parent’s house in the country.

  • Entrance to Jessica’s parents house
  • The bedroom

I was told it was over 100 years old. It was quite basic, with rough pealing, painted walls and an entrance arch with old roses on either side. This led into an open courtyard with a clean concrete floor. Up some steps and inside were three identical rooms connected by a passageway in the front. Plain concrete floors and odd furniture as well as suitcases and cases of drinks and duvets all piled on the sides against the walls. Jessica said that her parents did not often use the house. They usually stayed with grandfather and his new wife just down the road.

I really needed to stretch my legs while Jack and Jessica had a sleep. They were both very tired as they worked long hours. I was happy to go alone and set forth with a fresh breeze brushing my cheeks and unpolluted air drawn into my lungs. The narrow walkways, with ducks and geese paddling furiously in shallow furrows were a lovely respite from the tarred roads and manicured gardens of Suzhou. This all took me way back to early childhood memories of farms in Rhodesia.

 I soon had that feeling of being followed, and realised Jack was wearily walking some way behind me. I felt guilty, having deprived him of his sleep but I appreciated his caring. So often I had occasion to feel this towards my Chinese friends. I apologized and walked back with him.

There was no bathroom in the house and in the evening, I was taken next door to another aunt whose home had a shower.

Hmmmm, yes, a shower? It was like an attic room on the ground floor with a really low ceiling and a bath/shower that I couldn’t possibly get into without bumping my head! So I just used the loose shower head to vaguely water myself, bending double to soap and wash the nether parts. I then dried with a tiny towel I had remembered to bring with me. Finally I tried getting into my pyjamas which was even worse as I couldn’t stand up. In the middle of it all, with the bottom half of my pyjamas round my ankles, Jessica popped her head in to see how was doing – me in the dripping half nude and trying to point my foot in the right direction to get it into the leg part.

 “Um, okay,” I mumbled, trying to place the small towel strategically over the parts that hadn’t got into the pyjamas yet.

Finally, I stepped out and feeling somewhat strange I put a jacket over the pyjamas as I still had to walk out into the road to get back to the house! The fact that, in China, many people walk round in their pyjamas even in Shanghai streets escaped me at that moment.   One of the aunts walking with us stroked my tanned, freckled arm and asked Jessica what was wrong with my skin.

In the evening, we sat in one of the rooms which doubles as a bedroom/lounge watching TV all in Chinese and everyone chatting in Chinese. It was interesting to observe the interactions.

A light supper of rice porridge and beans was served which was very pleasant. Jessica asked me if I minded sharing a double bed with her. No problem. Before bed I had to go to the toilet. She apologized and brought out a cute china potty with a lid.  I did my bit in that and she carted it away for me – shades of my early childhood in Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) again! The bed was a typical hard Chinese one with one thick quilt each. I snuggled in and I was surprised at how well I slept – not even the slightest backache.

However, before we nodded off, I became Jessica’s confidante as she told me of her love problems and asked my advice. I was mostly at a loss to advise her as I was not really well versed in Chinese customs, but she seemed happy to listen to what I had to say. Maybe my voice was consoling, and she didn’t really have anyone else to tell. I was woken at 5am, not to the song of birds or a cock’s crow but to a loud caterwauling which apparently signalled all the workers to begin their day!

Later I rose and went to wash my teeth in the kitchen sink and then off to the toilet.  Oh dear! Outside in the courtyard an opening into a room with no door and  a rectangular sloping away pit of which  the bottom slush was visible. I got in and out of there really quickly.

Breakfast was simple and included fascinating rice wrapped in cane leaves to look like an ice cream – delicious.

Lunch is always the main meal and that morning Jessica’s mother had got up at five to go to the market to purchase a duck, fresh fish, prawns and vegetables. There were strange looking creatures that looked like great big cockroaches. They were alive and kicking. The fish were swimming around in a bowl.  All the vegetables – eggplant, Chinese cabbage, other greens and beans were being meticulously prepared on the pristine concrete floor of the courtyard. Five relatives/friends had come to help. One lady was cutting off the legs of the still kicking ‘cockroaches, a goose was also being prepared – I didn’t view the slaughter or de-feathering of that. The ingredients for the meal were definitely as fresh as you could get.

During the morning I was taken to pick my own watermelons, round and green striped, but when broken open were yellow, not pink. Sweet and juicy, six of them were boxed on the spot for me to take home as a present.

During lunch time I was surrounded by ten men (Jessica’s father had invited all his work mates) and Jessica sat beside me. Her mother and the other ladies, who had toiled all morning, did not take part in eating the meal. We drank and ate and went through numerous toasts. I was allowed some rice wine, and everyone wanted to toast me with, “Ganbei” and bottoms up! It seems that I was accepted as ‘one of the boys’ for the moment.

  • Jessica’s mother setting the table at which she would not eat
  • A wonderful celebratory meal

Finally after relaxing, we were driven in yet another car belonging to Jessica’s uncle and we made our way back to catch the bus and to take the four hour return journey to Suzhou.

My chance to repay Jessica’s kindness came a couple of weeks later. I was going to be away for a weekend, and she asked me if it would be possible for a couple of her relatives to stay in my apartment for that weekend. She had many visitors arriving to plan her wedding and not enough accommodation. Of course, I was delighted to oblige. Some of my colleagues were sceptical about the idea. I ignored them.

I felt blessed to be accepted as part of the family and I knew that being on my own was a distinct advantage. If I had been on that train initially with many friends, I would not have started the conversation with Jessica or uniquely experienced rural Baoying.

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Sybil Pretious writes mainly memoir pieces reflecting her varied life in many countries. Lessons in life are woven into her writing encouraging risk-taking and an appreciation of different cultures.

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

Categories
Poetry

Summer Travels

By Mathew James Friday

The Cherry Tree

We pick cherries from a tree in Unterback*.
A silent local watches us, arms on hips,
but there’s no fence, just wild grass.

We pluck the cherries in bloody handfuls,
warning each other about staining juice,
giddy with the Biblical bounty. So many

clusters of fruit when you look up at the sky,
red-shifting to purple stars. We only take
a tiny portion of what the tree tempts.

The rest if left to hang too high, rot,
or be gathered by the lucky locals,
if they can take their hands off their hips.

*Unterback is in Switzerland 


The Cuckoo Stopped Singing

Early July and I am stunned 
by the emptiness of the air. 

I suddenly miss his bell ringing, 
reminder that nature persists 

despite our best efforts. He started 
in early May, that unmistakable 

nursery rhyme song postering
in the tree-dressed stage of our 

Montagnola apartment block.
He sang me back to boyhood,

to Epsom Common woods,
where cuckoos were a distant 

promise of fleeting residency, 
the temporary in the seasons,

calling a partner in crime to lay
an egg patterned with our nature,

displacing the righteous, leaving
open mouths, always hungry.

Rightly secretive these tricksters,
afraid to be uncloaked, the confidence 

scam revealed.  I caught a glimpse
in late May as he bolted past, fleeing

to other haunts where I hear him: 
the High Alps, the lips of Italian lakes,

the confusions of teenage heat.
He seems loudest in lazy mid-

summer evenings of exposed moons,
nostalgic pangs even before leaving. 

Later in summer, I am saddened by
the need to wait until another April.


Dreams of Lake Como

I dream of your ripples on the lakeshore, 
ripples of golden waves over golden rocks. 
Like an Arthurian knight, I am drawn 
to your waters and hear the Lady chanting
in Italian, grail promises of healing, cleansing 
siren drawing me into your turquoise depths. 
Fish flit at your hem, some big and unhurried.

In some dreams the lake hazes with mist.
Your mountains become rumours, your far 
shore a blur and your ballad takes me back 
to childhood: playing in moorland rivers 
and coastal rock pools. Time is upturned 
in your glacial heart. The waves giggle over
rocks and sadness in the polished stones.

In other dreams you dress in your jewels:
orange and cream roofed villages piercing
tiny ears of land, the isthmus hand of Bellagio 
dressed in lace strips, steep pearl-topped 
mountain crows. This is something beyond art,
rounder than tabled intentions, deeper 
than stone worship. What do you think of me?

Lucky atoms as near to nothing as can be,
an organic moment of punctuation in time’s 
long sentences. Your eroded indifference is all 
the more beautiful. My prayers are answered 
in reflection. Long after I am gone, you will still 
be Lake Como, but for these dreamy moments, 
we drink wine from the same earthen Grail

Matthew James Friday has had poems published in numerous international magazines and journals, including, recently: All the Sins (UK), The Blue Nib (Ireland), Acta Victoriana (Canada), and Into the Void (Canada). The mini-chapbooks All the Ways to Love, Waters of Oregon and The Words Unsaid were published by the Origami Poems Project (USA).

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

Categories
Poetry

Waiting for Godot by Akbar Barakzai

Akbar Barakzai was born in Shikarpur, Sindh in 1939. He is ranked amongst the proponents of modern Balochi literature. His poetry reflects the objective realities of life. Love for motherland, peace and prosperity and dignity of a man are the recurrent themes of his poetry. His love for human dignity transcends all geographical and cultural frontiers. Barakzai is not a prolific poet. In a literary career which spans over half a century, Barakzai has managed to bring out just two anthologies of his poems, but his poetry has depth and reaches out to human hearts with its profundity. Last year, Barakzai rejected the Pakistan Academy of Letters (PAL) award, quoting  the oppressive policies meted out to his region by the government as the reason.

Waiting For Godot. Courtesy: Creative Commons
Waiting for Godot

Arise! O friends from this deep slumber
Godot will not, will never show up

Godot is the  prophet of slumberous wakefulness
He's a messenger with a black scripture to misguide
the ignorant, halfwits and simpletons

O friends and pals! In your hearts and mind
and in every bone and vein of your body
The poison of slumberous wakefulness
Sprouted into toxic mushrooms
Pray tell me why do you want to waste yourselves
Why  do you want to rob your mind of wisdom and reason

O friends! Much desired is the dark tunnel of death
Than the curse of slumberous consciousness
Either sleep eternally like a rock
Or like the sea stay awake for evermore
Either imbibe the poisonous chalice of death
Or reap the treasured harvest of life

The poison of slumberous wakefulness is evermore feared
Than the murderer's deadly sword
The murderer's sword puts an instant end to life
Liberates one from all worries and woes
The curse of slumberous wakefulness
Neither lets you die in peace
Nor breathe in life's gentle breeze


Dear friends and comrades rest assured
Godot will not, will never show up
Setting our eyes on Godot's trail
We shall surely lose our vision
And the wealth of wisdom
We shall squander away forever

Arise my pals and companions
Pray cast off the snare of death
Liberate yourselves
From this slumberous consciousness
Set your brilliant minds free
From the fetters of indolence
For the hope of a mirthful spring
Together with your mates
Gulp down the potent liquor of death

O friends and comrades!
Betray not yourselves any more
Godot will not, will never show up

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights to Barakzai’s works and is in the process of bringing them out as a book.

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Categories
Stories

If at all

By Shobha Nandavar

The purple Jacaranda flower perched on his snout did not arouse the familiar playful instinct. A friendly woof from his Doberman buddy was greeted with little cheer. It was straight third day Mani was looking for his lost master in vain at the open-air crematorium.

Abhay, a blue-eyed college going lad was my parent. He was living with his mother in an upscale Sadashivanagar apartment in Bangalore. Two years ago, he adopted me, a sprightly, cute, brown little Mani, as they called me. His mother a lady of few words, in her fifties was a  good – natured home maker. Amma was fearful of dogs though. After much cajoling, Abhay was permitted to bring me home. I was allotted a separate room, and was allowed only into Abhay’s room. Amma remained aloof and was not happy about the non-vegetarian dog feeds brought for me, as she was a vegan.

My ears could hear Abhay’s KTM bike from quite a distance when he returned home from college. I would hide behind the door and pounce on Abhay and lick him, unable to control my excitement, at his arrival. I liked his soft hand caressing my forehead. I would close my eyes and daydream on his lap.

Fast forward one year, Abhay landed a plum job, was seeing his highschool sweetheart Anju. Amma liked Anju as she was a fine blend of the traditional and modern. Anju looked adorable to my doggy eyes too. The moment she entered the house, it was as if a thousand diyas (lamps) were lit. The house became a home filled with much joy and warmth. She would ask for me if I was not around. The invite was enough for me to catapult into her arms and cuddle up to the exotic fragrance of Miss Dior.

I always looked forward to Sundays when Abhay and Anju took me out for long walks. The Naagasampige flower was Anju’s favourite. Abhay would pluck and tuck it into her long hair. It was very enticing for me to prance around Anju and prey on the undulating, heavily scented Naagasampige in her hair. But I remembered Abhay admonishing me in the past, when I tried to hang on to Anju’s long plait which tantalizingly oscillated like a pendulum while she walked.

  • Tabebuia
  • Naagasampige
  • Gulmohar
Courtesy: Creative Commons

The stroll under the canopy of pink Tabebuia and the scarlet Gulmohar looked surreal and culminated in  a stop at the Baskin Robbins for ice creams. I was fed with ‘strawberry jelly paradise’ by my pet parents against a backdrop of Alan Walker’s ‘End of time’ number. Time stands still….

And then there was Vishu, the new year. They were in two minds about celebrating Vishu. The Covid forecast for the upcoming months for Bangalore was grim. Nonetheless they decided to go ahead with the celebrations as a small family affair. Four of Abhay’s friends, Anju and an aunt with family were invited for the calebrations.

 Although they lived in Bangalore for long and even spoke the local language Kannada, the culture and traditions of Kerala, their ancestral state were followed. Their home was a melting pot, the true spirit of contemporary India. Vishu was the time when the sun enterd the tropic of cancer. Mythology tells us the festival commemorates the day when Krishna killed Narakasura, the demon. The  ‘Vishu Kani’ , an auspicious bowl which has to be the object that needs to be seen first on waking up to herald a good year, was placed by Amma the night before, after all the guests and Abhay went to bed. A shallow bell metal vessel was filled with rice, fruits. The photo of Krishna was adorned with flowers. The arrangement was replete with auspicious articles like mirrors, combs, gold coins, new dresses, betel leaves.

  • Vishu Kani
  • Vishu Sadhya
  • Nilavilakku
Courtesy: Creative Commons

Waking up at 3 AM, they walked blindfolded to the prayer room and saw the kani first for a propitious new year. All of them received kaineettam, the first gift of the year given to the children. Nilavilakku, the bronze oil lamp dispelled the darkness and gave a golden yellow tinge to the ambience and everything around took on a divine hue. A couple of devotional songs by Anju added to the ethereal quotient of the unearthly hour. The day unfurled with pooja and was followed by the sumptuous Vishu Sadhya for lunch. Suddenly I could smell millions of particles twirling around and they were precariously moving around in the hall and entangling all the guests, while they were busy with the various board games. None of them were masked; all caution had been abandoned. I tried to warn them by bawling in a different manner to catch their attention. Alas, they mistook it for hunger and started feeding me!  I could sense something amiss, but the group unmindful of this, happily had more fun and frolic and rounded off the day with masala tea and pakodas or fried fritters.

Three days later, Amma developed fever and cough. Abhay attributed it to the evening showers. Nevertheless I could sense imminent danger. I had never entered Amma’s room before. Today I felt a strong urge to get into her room and inform her of the dark shadow looming large and I howled. A petrified Amma shooed me away and tried to thrash me for misbehaving. I was duty-bound to inform them that I could smell something ominous, the same smell which emanated from a neighbour who was ushered into an ambulance and never made it!

Early next morning Amma fell unconscious in the washroom. Abhay panicked, picked her up, carried her in his arms like a baby and rushed to the hospital in his car. The telephone rang unabatedly, if at all I could pick up the receiver and reciprocate! Hours dragged on and I trudged across the empty house. It was dusk; I was hungry and decided to feed on the milk packet left at the door by the milkman.

I was never left alone this long ever since my arrival into this house as a pup. I meandered into the grilled balcony. The neon street lights shone bright on the deserted road below. Overnight the garden city had been transformed into a graveyard. Ambulance sirens ruled the roost. Roads wore a solemn look.

My heart skipped a beat, when I saw Abhay’s black Scorpio in the driveway. He dashed in and left the main door ajar and slumped into the sofa sobbing. He was oblivious of my presence or whimpers. He made hasty calls to Anju, his voice quivering. I could not make head or tail of things. I stood at the doorway awaiting Amma.

I could smell the same, strange, noxious smell, time and again, the COVID smell in human parlance. It was unmistakable. Abhay soon slipped into a deep slumber. I had to alert my hero. I paced up and down the room, I licked his childlike face and tried to open his eyes, but of no avail. Abhay was getting breathless, flinging his limbs violently; he was making a desperate attempt to breathe. The Covid stink was getting stronger and more and more dangerous. My pet parent became livid and limp.  I wailed, yowled and yelped. My leader was sinking and something sinister was on cards.

A vigilant good Samaritan walked in and took charge of the situation. An ambulance was summoned. Anju hastily arrived, her heart pounding. The medical crew examined Abhay and declared him dead! It was a bolt from the blue. The life saving ambulance sped away to make way for the hearse..

Anju was shocked beyond words. She swooned. She woke up and walked around as if in a trance. She looked aghast, lost and turned into a stone. Tears flowed incessantly.

I was not allowed into the hearse. I ran after it until my legs gave way, possibly a kilometre or so.

If at all, I could speak…

If at all, my master had heeded my advice….

If at all, humans had acknowledged my olfactory prowess, which was easily fifty times theirs..

Here I lie down on the green grass, which smells sweet no more.

The moonlit night without Abhay and Anju in tow, has lost meaning. I fall asleep, subdued, to the distant lullaby of “Diamond Heart” by Alan Walker….         

Courtesy: Creative Commons

Shobha Nandavar is a Neurologist and Stroke Physician based in Bangalore. She writes during her leisure hours. She has about 40 publications in medical journals. She has contributed articles to Deccan Herald, Live Wire and Indus Women Writing.

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Categories
Poetry

Malayalam Poetry in Translation

Aditya Shankar translates Sujith Kumar‘s Ottakkirikumbol

Sujith Kumar
Solus

Is being in solus
Spotting the droplet
That doesn’t flow over?

While forlorn,
He is not seen.

While forlorn,
It seems
He is another.
A multitude.
In absentia.
 
At times,
The tiny chirping bird
That sheds music
Seems to be
Singing his heart.
 
He turns out to be
So unlike him,
So full of him.
 
He turns out to
Be exactly that.
 
Is being in solus
Spotting the droplet
That doesn’t flow over?

Sujith Kumar is a poet and editor. He has served as the executive editor of Omega: Indian Journal of Science and Religion and also as the sub-editor of the magazines, Madhyamam and Ezhuthu.

Aditya Shankar is an Indian poet, flash fiction author, and translator. His work has appeared in international journals and anthologies of repute and translated into Malayalam and Arabic. Books: After Seeing (2006), Party Poopers (2014), and XXL (Dhauli Books, 2018). He lives in Bangalore, India.

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Categories
Essay

Can Songs be the Musical Conscience of a Film?

Prithvijeet Sinha uses Gaman (Departure), a Hindi movie around the pain of migrant workers, as a case study to highlight his contention that lyrics and songs convey much in Indian films.

 As my essay dives into the realm of the personal intermingling with the universal, I have found that the quintessential point of a space, definitive of our existences and livelihood, flows seamlessly in our lives. A collective omnibus houses our private churnings, moving from one point to another as life scripts new adventures of the mind and the spirit to discover valuable assets and find that sacred space — a home to give refuge to our true and innate selfhoods. The idea of the heart as home of our fiercely personal torrents of thoughts is something I adhere to. As such, the heart is a lonely island and much as personal journals and diaries have a secretly lush inner world to communicate, the subtle and implicit art of songwriting is the external synonym and outlet that universally connects our inner world with the outside.

 The functional meaning of a song is actually born out of the discerning of listeners. Khairun, the lonely young woman at the heart of the film, Gaman (1978), is one such example in a sea of millions around the world, one of countless women left to tend to the hearth while the responsibility of corralling finances snatches their men away from them prematurely. Such is the dilemma that a newly annointed marital union becomes essentially a platonic one, testing the sombre beginnings of this lifelong intertwining of two strangers. As if it’s a rite of passage for their individual selves after they have taken their vows in the public eye and been pronounced as man and wife. They burn for that warmth and familial touch of companionship with these songs sung by playback artistes (conveying from the prism of Khairun) becoming spiritual constants when the physical reality of them staying together is rendered impossible. Through her fortitude and its equal mirroring in her husband’s predicament in the city, we find the power of this union to sustain itself in two different places. Their mindscapes merge and Khairun is a conduit for this film’s portrayal of pain of separation and social anxiety. As if she has a telepathic connect with her beloved as when, through voice-overs, we find her letters informing Ghulam of her own angst and her brooding face and eyes loom over Bombay’s skyline.

 It’s the language of our soul or Aatma as we call it in Indian canon.  We are not alone then. There is no conflict in this union and the words, it seems, flow out of our own being.  The beauty, melancholy and dignified distance invested in them bring the pining heart and the hopeful soul together in perfect tandem.

In Gaman, both protagonists live in the shadows of crumbling aristocracy, in a village in North India where the present is bleak and like a ghost informs the poor population about its impending desolation. In a post-colonial nation, the humbler occupants of this social compartment still have survival to contemplate upon and their lands and farming have given them no respite from debts. As the central characters are Khairun (the iconic actress, Smita Patil) and Ghulam Hasan (another stalwart actor, Farooq Sheikh), the film shot in the erstwhile Muslim and predominantly secular princely state of Kotwara, could be reflective of the dilapidated shells of a centuries old lineage which may have had connections in the past and seen better days. But rampant unemployment, educational lacuna and a hand-to-mouth existence contextualize a move to the big city for the man. The name Khairun itself has a certain melancholic ring to it, I think and Ghulam as his name goes becomes a slave of his fated new beginnings.  Their taciturn marital bond is presented in brief moments together.

 In simple but rousing poetry, the real challenge of moving ahead in the big city while leaving behind the rustic stronghold and a real home is poignantly conveyed.  Identities are at stake and have to find a home, even if it is the most modest resort of reassurance. The womenfolk have no real say or stake in this scenario and Khairun’s silence is a witness to that. The song then that appears is ‘Aap ki yaad aati hai raat bhar’ (Your memories were all that remained all night long).

Composed by Jaidev, written by Makhdoom Mohiuddin and sung iconically by Chaya Ganguly, who won the prestigious National Award for playback singing, love and longing are two sides of the same coin. When I heard this song few years back, it came like a lilt from beyond, the central melody captivated me and made me croon its perfectly structured lines. There was a distinct local character to it and the realism of the situations converged with the romanticism of natural images. These images were stages in their marked separation and the passage of time was invoked. The opening lines translated are, “Your memories were all that remained all night long, moist eyes kept smiling all night long.”  The stoic quality of internalization is very succinct here. “Muskurati Rahi”( a smiling wayfarer) in feminine form reflects the mindset of Khairun, the young bride and woman. There is a brevity of conveying the lull within the heart’s storm. A pensive directness addressed to oneself in isolation and to the beloved is like a pithy interior monologue; a missive to the one who yearns for an established bond.

The song is unique as it’s one of the few ones to begin with the chorus or central refrain which clearly elucidates its personal nature of pathos. The first verse continues with the imagery of the still night and dark, private chambers of the heart where longing is given rest and an assured hand. It goes like, “the flames of pain were burning/alighted all night long /melancholy’s flicker was trembling throughout.”

 The fickle spirit is putting up a brave front and is vulnerable, spending its time in contemplation. From the opening plucking of strings, which I think is the instrument santoor and burgeoning flutes, the intimate incandescence of the couple is set into motion in a composition set in the pure classical mold. Khairun’s dialogue travels all the way to us. There is a shine to their passion for each other which refuses to interfere with their earnest pursuits. 

The second verse is more tilted towards romanticism. Its mesmerising notes are referenced with the flute to symbolise love and its dimensions. In Indian lore, Krishna played the flute for self-definition and courtship. Here, its transcendental spell is cast on a lonely soul as attested in the lyrics, “the tuneful, charming notes of the flute/come as reminders of memories all night long.” The speaker is in third person and omnipresent thus the personal becomes the universal and the use of night imagery can make it the last moorings of an individual before sleep gets the better of her/him and every recollection is committed to memory’s animated storehouse. The invocation of the flute is a sweet token for the promise of every stable relationship. The foundation has to be lovely and full of warmth even though it is an ephemeral ideal.

The talent of the lyricist here is that these escape from falling into a basket of random cliches as its essence is in Urdu poetic tradition.  Look at those plangent eyes of Khairun, deep vessels of wait and ceaseless langour, akin to an Amrita Shergill paintings.  

The mystery of the night has direct approximation in the next verse, “the night moon entered depths of the heart/ its glow illuminated the night.”  The moon is a personal symbol as it’s cast in the image of Ghulam for Khairun and vice versa. The unattainable height of its location is related to the profound number of miles separating husband and wife. Its dim light is the only source of illumination thus hope is enshrined in these lines for the little kernel of happiness that may bless them sooner or later.  The desire for union is prevalent here. In the video of the song, notice how the lyrics pertaining to moonlight are juxtaposed with streetlights and neon lights of Bombay where Ghulam drives a taxi for a living and Khairun tends to the household lighted by a dim bulb. Light plays a crucial role in their overlapping narratives. Winter has set in the village and Bombay is the metropolis on whose streets Ghulam has to ply his cab. 

Finally the gypsy heart that celebrates isolation and is detached from unnecessary expectations finds its way in the final verse, “a lover wanders around lanes/ a voice echoes all night long”

 This is not the blabbering of a madman but the deep call of the soul’s recesses. Should both Khairun and Ghulam adopt detachment till they are united or celebrate their individual and in a larger sense collective isolation? Their private musings do their bidding for the heart. The head and heart dilemma is hence paramount.  The lover’s wandering minstrel like ways approximate the private reserves of love and longing. Dual interplay of inner and outer personas match wits and still lucidity is sought and achieved in the quietude of this composition via slender, elegant employment of guitar, drums and flutes.

 Chaya Ganguly’s voice dominates the sway of restrained pathos and hope here while Smita Patil’s eyes and Farooq Sheikh’s stoicism endure as he posts letters and Khairun holds them. ‘Seene Mein Jalan, Aankhon Mein Toofaan’ (A burn in the chest/ a storm in the breath) captures the rush and milling crowds of big cities where individuality hankers for identity while ‘Ras ke bhare tore Nain’ (your eyes are full to the brim) addresses the aesthetics of longing from the same soundtrack. The playbacks by Suresh Wadkar and Hira Devi Mishra respectively are pitch perfect.  The panorama of humanism under duress finds its true form and content in the direction of Muzaffar Ali (auteur of iconic Umrao Jaan), cinematography of Nadeem Khan, lyrics by Shahryar, writer Hriday Lani and crisp editing by Jethu Mundul.

The music of Gaman won Jaidev a National Award too for best music and deservedly so. The film also won a special mention accolade.

Gaman in Urdu signifies transit, passage, migration, departure or movement but I was surprised by how according to Zen Buddhist currency in Japanese, it is an equivalent of stoic endurance and patience. These markers ultimately are a natural corollary of movement of any kind. The music of Gaman is a perfect amalgamation of the personal and universal and devolves meaning to the idea of distance. Timeless musical exemplifications like these simply don’t exist anymore. It is the soul of Khairun that ultimately guides us to that point of personal transit.

Prithvijeet Sinha has been prolifically publishing works of various hues in journals and magazines like   Cafe Dissensus, Confluence, The Medley, Borderless, Wilda Morris’ Poetry Blog, Screen Queens, Rhetorica Quarterly, Lothlorien, Chamber Magazine, Livewire  among others. He believes writing to be the true music of the soul.

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Categories
Pirate Poems

Pirate Blacktarn meets the Siren

A strange tale in verse by Jay Nicholls

Courtesy: Creative Commons
PIRATE BLACKTARN MEETS THE SIREN

Pirate Blacktarn was sailing around
When all of a sudden, he heard a sweet sound,
A marvellous melody, wafting on the sea.
“Let’s go and see what that sound can be.”
“No you can’t,” said Tim Parrot anxiously,
“That’s the Siren’s song, turn back quickly.”

“Nonsense Tim, don’t be such a bore
Full sail ahead, I want to hear more.”

“No, no,” said Tim, “the Siren’s song’s a trap.
She’ll sing and tell tales till you doze and nap.
And at last you’ll fall asleep and never wake again.
Don’t you know the Siren makes statues of men?”

“Rubbish, don’t make a fuss, we’re brave and tough
And we’re not afraid of Sirens,” said Blacktarn in a huff.

So they sailed at speed to the Siren’s shores
Following her enchanted music’s lures.
“Welcome,” called the Siren as they finally came near,
“I have a tale or two, perhaps you’d like to hear?”

Her hair was shining silver and her eyes were glinting green,
The most amazing creature they’d ever seen.
Her lilting, laughing voice was rich and sweet as honey.
Mysterious and serious, fantastical and funny.

“Don’t listen,” cried Tim, flapping his wings with worry.
“Oh be quiet Tim, we’re not in a hurry,
“We can surely stay for just a little while.
Pleased to meet you Siren,” said Blacktarn with a smile.

Then the Siren gave them all a potion to drink
And they drank and drank and forgot to think.

“I see you pirates have come a long, long way,
You must stay here and rest,” they heard the Siren say.
Then she told them tales of the people of Mer
And of sunken ships full of long-lost treasure,
And the terrible battles of the squids and the whales
And the shining sea fire that never ever fails,
And the undersea caves that glitter with diamonds
And the eels that weave through the waving fern fronds,
And the ghosts of dead pirates all shivering and cold
Still seeking their hoards of silver and gold.

Their heads began to nod and their eyes began to close
And one by one they fell into a deep enchanted doze.
They hardly knew if they were waking or dreaming
For all was hazy and magical seeming.
Blacktarn’s mouth opened wider and wider
And he didn’t even notice when in jumped a spider.

“Wake up! Wake up!” cried Tim in agitation,
But the pirates were lost in their imagination.
“Time for drastic action,” thought Tim, very worried,
And away to his friends the seagulls, he hurried.

“Help me, please help me, I don’t know what to do,
The Siren’s enchanted Blacktarn and all his crew.”

Then the Lord of the Seagulls held a meeting of his flock,
They all gathered together on his great grey rock.
They didn’t like the Siren, she turned birds into stone
And wore necklaces and rings made of seagulls’ bones.

“What we’ll do is hold a seagull’s chorus,”
The Great Gull decided, “and we’ll make such a fuss
That the Siren’s voice will be silenced and unheard,
Then the pirates will wake,” announced the Great Bird.
The gulls all agreed this was a very good idea
For a certain sort of seagull screech is hideous to hear.
So away they flew to the Siren’s shores
And saw the pirates and heard their snores.
The Great Gull himself let out a wild cry
Then the seagull chorus screamed through the sky.
The din they made echoed round and round
Till the Siren’s voice was completely drowned.

“Wake up Blacktarn,” called all the birds,
“Wake up, don’t listen to the Siren’s words.
Wake up Mick and Bob, wake Stowaway Fay
Wake, if you want to live another day.”

Tim went round pecking at the dozy crew.
“Wake up Captain and Rakesh and you and you.”
Then the crew stopped hearing the Siren’s voice.
They only heard the gulls, they didn’t have a choice.
“I must have been napping,” said Bob opening his eyes,
“I’ve had some strange dreams,” said Mick in surprise.

Then they stared at the Siren in horror and dismay
She’d turned purple with rage, now she couldn’t get her way.
She frothed at the mouth and her eyes went red
And writhing snakes twisted round her head.

“Run,” yelled Fay and at top speed they fled,
And didn’t dare stop, they were so filled with dread.
At last they reached the ship and sighed with relief.
That was an adventure quite beyond belief!”

“I wish I could remember the stories she told,
 I wanted to hear those magic tales unfold,”
Said Stowaway Fay, with a rather sad sigh.
“Me too,” said Bob. “Yes” said Mick, “so did I.”
“You be grateful you haven’t been turned to stone,”
Said Parrot Tim crossly, “then you’d really moan.
If it wasn’t for the help of the gulls of the air
You’d be trapped forever in the Siren’s snare.”

“Nonsense,” said Blacktarn, “we were dozing a while,
We weren’t caught up in the Siren’s guile.
I told you no Siren would get the better of me,
Now come on crew, get sailing, across the Lemon Sea.”

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Note: The ‘Pirate Blacktarn’ poems were written in the early 1990s but were never submitted anywhere or shown to anyone. By lucky chance they were recently rescued from a floppy disc that had lain in the bottom of a box for almost thirty years. There are twelve poems in the series but no indication as to what order they were written in and the author no longer remembers. However, they seem to work well when read in any order. They all feature the same cast of characters, the eponymous pirate and his crew, including a stowaway and an intelligent parrot. The stories told by the poems are set on a fictional body of water named the Lemon Sea. (Dug up by Rhys Hughes from the bottom of an abandoned treasure chest).

Jay Nicholls was born in England and graduated with a degree in English Literature. She has worked in academia for many years in various student support roles, including counselling and careers. She has written poetry most of her life but has rarely submitted it for publication.

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Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Nations Without the Nobel

Devraj Singh Kalsi takes a fresh look at national pride with a soupçon of sarcasm and humour

Many nations have not produced a single Nobel Laureate. Many have not produced a Nobel Winner in all the categories. Many have a solitary winner in over a century. Many keep winning the prize year after year in some category or the other. Such countries appear blessed with prodigious people who are rare to find like platinum and gold.  

The sorrow of not winning a single medal goes deep for a country as it cannot do anything about it – only a citizen can make the nation proud with his powerhouse talent. A nation can only encourage talented citizens to keep their intellectual pursuits alive. Two categories – literature and peace – hold promise and raise big hopes as these are related to creativity and noble deeds to make the world a better place.  

Imagine what happens to a country or a community if there is no Nobel Winner in literature from its soil. The sentiments of a nation that won a Nobel once in a century deserve to be felt. Such nations and communities end up deifying the solitary winners. This poses a formidable challenge to other people who feel threatened under their aura and remain insecure about the potential to repeat such a feat.  

Where winning becomes a habit, the nations feel proud to have the best minds. The common people surge with collective pride in their genetic superiority and celebrate the presence of the Nobel winners as a divine gift. When great talent is ignored, there is a groundswell of suspicion that these global honours are discriminatory. It opens debates and people start scrutinising their work in great detail. Perhaps there is merit in the contention that the winner did not deserve it, but the choice is a reality to be accepted with a heavy heart. The intellectual fraternity finds the time to run a complete scan and critical write-ups appear in the newspapers for some days after the big announcement is made. 

Just one Nobel Laureate for Literature in more than a century is not an impressive score for a nation that boasts of a rich cultural heritage much before the Nobel came into existence. Once there is a winner, there should be a crop of successive winners to keep alive the tradition of winning. Otherwise, the collective respect for the single winner becomes so overwhelming that the community and the nation edify the achiever and criticism becomes unacceptable. If the stream of Nobel winners keeps flowing, with at least half a dozen winners in a century, there are more claimants for veneration. The respect accumulated for the winners gets divided and the process of deification of a solitary winner gets derailed. 

You become aware that with so many Nobel laureates, you have to respect them all, read them all, and assess them all. The judgment of the Nobel panel has placed them at par, but the judgment of readers is supreme. The people from the North join in to celebrate the winner from their region while the people from the South start worshipping the winner from their region. Since the winner hails from the same region, they feel closer to his identity than his work. There is a sense of appropriation as they want to have a winner from their community to be lauded more.  

With multiple winners, there are more claimants to excellence and devoted readers with their strong biases critique them or compare them the way they like. If there is a single winner, the status of the sole winner gets further uplifted. If there are no repeat winners with time, it makes the people of the country feel what they are currently producing is not worth any award. They revisit the past and try to emulate the winner. If a nature poet who won, they try to become clones and find success in the same category to prove they are not bad nature poets. 

Nations erupt in joy to feel elated. But the intellectual talent is global. Art created in a country is a global asset. Perhaps we are still immature as we are less enthusiastic about the work and more focused on the Nobel winner and his race, nationality, and identity.  

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  


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