A few years ago, upon the insistence of an old friend, my wife and I decided to visit her new home. She and her husband had designed and built a house on a vacant piece of land that they had bought.
They showed us around their labour of love. We were later taken aback when we were told that their live-in helper was occupying the master bedroom while they occupied her quarters. This strange arrangement came about when my friend had called in another friend, a vastu[1] specialist, for a casual visit. The visitor went beyond his call of duty to give his two cents’ worth of opinion. He asserted that the location of the master bedroom is wrong in a vashtu sense and would lead to marital disharmony. So, there went the hundred man-hours of planning to reward their marital union.
Just about that time, too, I was waiting for Malaysia’s number Uno feng shui master, who was about to share his outlook[2] for the year 2020, the year of the Metal Rat in the Chinese zodiac. It was an unremarkable report with the usual plus points in some areas and caution in others. Nowhere in his or other masters’ reports was there a tiny inkling of what Malaysians were heading into. It was the years when citizens were barbed-wired, quarantined, QR-coded, children missing the funerals of their parents who were afflicted with the Covid-19 virus and had their people flying white flags pleading for food and mercy.
That is the thing that has integrated humans from time immemorial. The desire to be in charge of their destiny and to understand this rudderless journey of life has got people believing all kinds of snake oil salesmen and fake gurus while losing their life savings doing that. And we are still struggling through this, clutching at straws.
It is intriguing that after major events, be it the 2001 tsunami, 2011 9/11 or Covid-19, some smart Alec would tell us that we had everything written in the past. They would refer to the Book of Prophecies and Nostradamus’s predictions, published in 1555. Again, all these become clear after the fact, as these predictions are in cryptic poems, subject to interpretation. Why is it that no experts decipher and decode all that is written there for the betterment of mankind?
So do the Vastu practitioners and Feng Shui sifu[3] who would tell us the obvious, like one should not buy a house at a T-junction. Of course not. The owners would risk being hit by stray cars driven by incompetent drivers or having difficulty exiting their compound. After a landslide, the know-it-all will state the obvious that it is bad Feng Shui to have a house facing a very steep hill.
Another thing that caught my mind recently is the animated TV series, The Simpsons, which has aired 37 seasons and over 800 episodes since 1989. In its half-hour cartoon, it managed to cover innumerable topics that affect the average middle-class American family: politics, pop culture and science. The interesting thing is that many of its outlandish stories appear to have ‘materialised’ from real life. Conspiracy theorists insist that those who witnessed the 2021 US Capitol Riot experienced a sense of deja vu, swearing they had seen a similar[4] situation in a 1996 episode of The Simpsons. Then the iconic photograph of President Trump, Saudi King Salman and President El-Sisi of Egypt holding a glowing orb in Riyadh in 2017. Again, this was a mirror image[5] of another 2002 episode of The Simpsons.
Do the scriptwriters have some kind of crystal ball that they can foresee future events? Of course not. Some researchers (whom others call conspiracy theorists) assert that it is part of predictive planning[6]. This psychological tool is to soften the societal changes in a pre-programmed future as decided by the powers-that-be. This psychological blueprint is also seen in movies like The Truman Show, The Matrix, Black Mirror and Westworld, which all depict dystopian futures.
Devices used by characters in the famous sci-fi TV series of the late 60s, Star Trek, have slowly been making their presence in the real world since the late 20th century. Handheld communicators (Video conferencing) and translation devices (Google Translate) are no longer alien tools. Next in line would be a teleportation kit. Were the storytellers here visionary, or did this series merely spur the younger generation to work toward this end?
Jules Verne, the French ‘prophet’ of science fiction, is credited for making many valid scientific predictions. He has been credited for being the second most translated writer in the world, after Agatha Christie. At a time when submarines were dangerous contraptions, he imagined Nautilus, an electric-powered submarine in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (1869), which resembles present-day diesel- or nuclear-powered ones. Not to forget Captain Nemo’s underwater breathing suit, which was the nidus[7] for SCUBA (Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus).
In TheMoon-Voyage (1858), Verne correctly predicted Florida as the best launchpad for a Moon Mission, a conical space capsule and even the usage of a solar sail.
Maybe it is not all hocus pocus. Even 14 years before the ‘unsinkable’ Titanic sank on its maiden voyage, in 1898, Morgan Robertson wrote about a British liner named ‘Titan’ which went down after hitting an iceberg in his book Futility. Did the shipowners mastermind the disaster and copy the storyline to seek financial gain, as conspiracy theorists claim? Is this what they mean when they say that truth is stranger than fiction?
Other authors predicted the future [8] too. George Orwell in 1984 (1949) wrote about a world under constant government surveillance. Aldous Huxley, in the Brave New World (1931), showcased a time when antidepressants were widespread. John Brunner predicted school shootings, electric cars and hookup culture in his book, Stand on Zanzibar (1969).
These people were not magicians. They merely paid attention to their surroundings, read widely and believed in valid scientific evolution.
In the meantime, the rest of the population is stuck in their comfort zone. Still struggling with their bearings, running around like headless chickens, most stare in awe of all the things around them, confused. Like an ant perched on a leaf that is floating along a river aimlessly to the whims of the wind, these futuristic writers are trying to understand the head and tails of things.
Meanwhile, the simple man finds solace in knowing what lies ahead through palmistry, numerology, and reading olai palm leaves (Olai Chuvadi), believing that his path into the future will be smooth.
[1]Vastu shastra or feng shui is the science of making the best of the home by placing objects in the right place.
Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The blazing summer sun pours down fiercely so that sweat streams from our bodies and our faces grow dark with tan.
When sweat pours down, it tells us to stand in the breeze; when our faces are darkened by the sun, it tells us to rest in the shade. The blazing sun keeps calling us outside.
It calls everyone out to see the rice thriving in the paddies, the beans flourishing in the bean fields, growing stronger day by day.
To see the potatoes in the potato patch, the sorghum in the sorghum field, waving and growing tall—
the blazing summer sun shines down throughout the whole of midsummer.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
“Dadababu[1], another tutor has come to meet you.”
Pralay looked up from the Sunday Times with an exasperated expression on his face.
“It’s not even 8 in the morning!” He grumbled.
Then, looking at Putiram – their household help who had brought the news to him – he said in a domineering voice, “Bring him in and take him into the living room. I’ll be down shortly.”
“Okay, Dadababu,” Putiram nodded respectfully and turned to leave.
“Oh, Putiram, one more thing,” Pralay called him back. “Ask if he’ll have some tea and snacks.”
With another nod of his head, Putiram left silently with his orders.
One week earlier, Pralay Samaddar had circulated an advertisement in many of the well-known English and Bengali newspapers in Kolkata. Part of the ad, in English, ran as follows:
Wanted: Private Tutor for Mathematics
A knowledgeable tutor is needed for the purpose of teaching basic and advanced concepts of mathematics to a class 5 ICSE student. Candidates with prior teaching experience are preferred. Classes will have to be taken twice a week, three hours per class. Salary’s negotiable and not a constraint if a suitable candidate is found. Interested people can come to the address given below with proper documents and a cut-out of this advertisement on the following weekend after 8am.
The tutor, of course, was for Pralay’s son, Rana.
Although Pralay himself had been teaching maths to his son till then, it had started becoming more difficult of late with his increased work pressure. After consulting with his wife Soumi, he had resolved to circulate this ad in the papers.
The advertisement had appeared in the papers on Thursday, and throughout the next weekend, his house was frequented by no less than a dozen interested candidates.
Pralay – who was very fastidious about all his endeavours – went through each application meticulously, looked at every degree certificate with care, and interacted with all the candidates thoroughly. He even had his son interact with the candidates to get a sense of the teacher-student chemistry.
And yet, twelve candidates and 48 hours later, he still wasn’t able to select a suitable tutor. They all lacked one thing or the other. While most of them had admirable qualifications, some asked for too much money, some appeared too casual, some wanted to reduce the tuition hours, and some barely knew how to interact with a class 5 student one-to-one.
He had informed all the candidates that he would contact the selected person within a week or so, but even after seven days, he was as indecisive as before.
So naturally, when he was informed by Putiram that another candidate had appeared to try his luck, two distinct thoughts ran through his mind. First, that it was one week too late, and second, that it was before the prescribed time.
Putting down the unfinished newspaper on the sofa, Pralay slowly made his way downstairs with an air of dissatisfaction as the clock struck eight that morning.
He found a middle-aged man dressed in a white kurta and white pyjamas sitting rigidly in one corner of the living room sofa. His hair – completely white – was parted neatly down the middle, and he had a tired look on his face. A worn-out sling bag lay across his lap, and a crumpled newspaper cutout stuck out of his left hand. A cup of hot tea and a couple of Marie biscuits were placed on the centre table in front of the man, but he had not touched them yet.
As the man became aware of his presence, he stood up curtly and with folded hands wished him a polite good morning with a mixture of apology and eagerness in his tone.
Upon coming face to face with the visitor, a strange sensation swept over Pralay. It felt like he was in the presence of someone he had already known for a long time – someone reliable, amicable, and very close to his heart. However, he couldn’t quite recognise the person who stood with patient anticipation just an arm’s length away from him.
Perplexed at this strange emotion that was stirring in his heart, Pralay returned the man’s greeting almost mechanically, motioned him to sit, and threw a questioning glance in his direction.
“Pralay babu,” the man spoke softly. His voice was anxious, but controlled. “I am Nirendranath Ghosal.”
The name, although not known to Pralay, struck a few subconscious chords in his distant memory. But he still couldn’t figure out the person’s identity.
“I apologise for disturbing you so early in the morning,” Nirendranath continued.
“I don’t read the newspaper every day, so I missed your advertisement initially. But last evening, I was drinking tea in a shop near my locality and found a week-old Bengali paper with the ad page lying face up on the table. That’s when I got to know about your requirement.”
Nirendranath momentarily stopped and hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “I know I’m a week too late. But…umm…is the job still available?”
Pralay had been studying his guest intensely throughout his speech, and silently nodded his head in answer to his final question.
A wave of relief washed over Nirendranath’s face, and he heaved a sigh of relief.
“Thank God,” he uttered softly, and putting his hand inside his sling bag, took out a bunch of documents. Arranging them in order, he passed them onto the outstretched arm of his host.
Pralay went over each document carefully, forming a mental picture of the career progression of his guest. Nirendranath had gotten slightly above-average marks in his 10th and 12th class examinations. He had done a B. Ed and had been associated with three schools in the last three decades. He was, however, jobless at present. His last school had terminated his contract a few months ago. His profile was average and far behind some of the candidates who had already applied for the position.
And yet, for some reason unknown even to himself, Pralay didn’t give up hope yet.
“Why did your school terminate your contract, Niren babu?” He found himself saying.
“Well,” Nirendranath spoke softly. “My father was suffering quite a lot for the last couple of months, so I had to take a lot of leave to take him to and from the hospital. But towards the end, the school found it inexcusable and let me go.”
“I-I’m sorry to hear that,” Pralay said in a compassionate tone.
“I don’t really have a family,” he continued. “So, whatever money I had saved till this point would’ve been enough to see me through this life. But my father’s illness cost a lot, and I need a job, no matter how little the pay, to live out the rest of my days respectfully.”
The room remained silent for quite some time, and Pralay couldn’t find the right words to console his guest. The silence was finally broken when Rana suddenly entered the room with a broad smile on his face.
“Hello, kaku,” He greeted Nirendranath warmly. “Are you going to be my new teacher?”
Rana’s arrival felt like a gust of fresh breeze, and both the occupants of the room took the opportunity to lighten the mood.
“Hello, chotobabu[2],” Nirendranath greeted Rana with the same energy. “Would you like to learn some maths from me?”
“Can you teach me simplification?” Rana asked curiously. “I have a lot of problems with those sums.”
For the next half an hour, under Pralay’s watchful eyes, the teacher-student duo tackled a plethora of simplification problems.
Nirendranath faltered a few times, but always arrived at the correct solution eventually. The methods he employed to handle the problems were inefficient at times, and many of the past candidates far exceeded his mathematical skills.
But there was one thing that he was very good at – keeping his student engaged. His chemistry with Rana was off the charts, and the boy hung on his every word and laughed at his every mistake. It seemed like he had known his teacher for a long time and was quite used to interacting with him regularly.
After nearly forty minutes, Pralay intervened and put an end to the class. Rana went away to his mother, and Nirendranath started packing his things.
“If you are selected, how much would you want for your monthly salary?” Pralay finally enquired.
“That is up to you, Pralay babu,” Nirendranath smiled.
“And you have no problem with the duration and frequency of the classes?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Okay. I will contact you if we decide to employ you.”
“Good day, babu,” Nirendranath folded his hands and offered a final greeting before his departure.
Pralay sat down on the sofa, lost in thought. He was still unable to pinpoint the source of his unusual feeling ever since he had laid eyes on Nirendranath, and he grew quite frustrated.
The rest of the day passed quite uneventfully, and soon it was time for the Samaddar household to go to bed.
“Have you made up your mind about the tutor business?” Soumi put forth the question while tucking herself in bed beside her husband.
“I don’t know,” Pralay replied stoically.
“What did you think about Nirendranath babu?” Soumi fired her second question.
“He lacks the expert’s touch, although he eventually gets the answers correct,” Pralay remarked.
“But he sure does know how to keep his student engaged, doesn’t he?” Soumi spoke admiringly.
“That’s true,” Pralay nodded. “But the question is, is that enough?”
“Oh, by the way,” Soumi suddenly remembered something she’d been meaning to say for quite some time. “A very old school friend called me today, you know?” She continued enthusiastically. “We’re having a reunion next Sunday. She said one of our teachers had informed her. I feel so excited about it! I haven’t seen everyone in decades!”
But Pralay didn’t even hear the last sentence. He had sprung out of bed and started running like a maniac towards the door.
“Hey! Where are you going? What happened?” Soumi shouted after him in bewilderment.
“Go to sleep, darling. There’s something I must do!” Pralay exclaimed excitedly.
*
Nirendranath Ghoshal was more surprised than pleased when he got the news that he had been selected as a private tutor, and the following Sunday, he found himself sitting at the exact spot he had chosen last week.
This time, however, Putiram had placed two slices of cake and a couple of very expensive sweets in addition to the cup of tea and two Marie biscuits on the centre table in front of him.
Pralay was sitting across the table with a warm smile on his face. In his hand – very close to his chest – he held an old, worn-out picture book.
“Please, drink your tea,” He motioned towards the untouched cup.
As Nirendranath sipped his tea with a puzzling expression on his face, Pralay started turning the pages of the picture book. When the tea was almost finished, he put the book on the table with his index finger pointing towards a particular photo.
“Niren babu,” he continued inquisitively. “Do you recognise the man in this picture?”
Nirendranath focused on the picture in question.
It was a decades-old school photo.
There was a middle-aged teacher sitting near the front with white kurtas and white pyjamas, flanked by students on all his sides. All the students were smiling joyfully, and the teacher had a calm and soothing expression on his face.
Pralay’s finger was hovering over the teacher, and he waited expectantly for his guest’s answer.
“Why of course I know this person!” Nirendranath exclaimed with surprise. “It’s my father!”
“But what’s the meaning of this?” He continued in astonishment, “Were you one of his students in school?”
Pralay smiled triumphantly.
“When we were in class 5,” he spoke with enthusiasm. “Surendranath sir, or Suren sir as we called him lovingly, became our class teacher.”
“In all my years on this planet, I have never found a more efficient and loving teacher than your father. He was our friend, philosopher, and guide. We could go to him with any problem, and he always heard us out and pointed us towards a solution. I now remember that I literally cried on the last day of class 5 because he would not be our class teacher the next year.”
Pralay paused. His eyes were glistening, and his mind was filled with fond recollection.
Nirendranath, by that time, had also taken out his handkerchief and was busy rubbing his eyes.
“Last week when I saw you,” Pralay continued with warmth, “It immediately struck a chord in my memory. But I couldn’t quite figure out why you looked so familiar.”
“That night, my wife mentioned something about school, and suddenly, the memory of Suren sir jumped out from my subconscious and entered my consciousness. I had always remembered him, but had forgotten his entire name and the way he looked.”
“As I went through my childhood albums one by one, I finally found what I was looking for. I don’t know if you know this, but you look exactly like Suren sir now.”
Nirendranath smiled.
“Yes, I have noticed that as well,” He replied softly.
“Your father played an important role in my childhood, Niren babu, and I am deeply saddened to hear of his passing. But I believe he is in heaven now, teaching the kids and mentoring them in the presence of God.”
Nirendranath sat with his head bent, and his eyes wandered off into the distance. Countless memories of his beloved father had started flooding his memory again.
But his chain of thought was interrupted by Pralay’s voice.
“Suren sir helped us in our times of need,” he was saying. “And now it is time for me to return the favour.”
“When can you start the classes, Niren babu?”
“I can start from today, if you want,” Nirendranath smiled.
Pralay nodded in approval.
“You know, the most incredible part is that Suren sir had come into my life when I was in class 5, and now, you – his son – have come into my life again when my own son is in class 5. Isn’t that astounding?”
“God works in mysterious ways, Pralay babu,” Nirendranath remarked with reverence. “This is merely one of His whims.”
“Yeah,” Pralay agreed. “It seems like life has come full circle!”
.
[1] Literally means elder brother, technically “Sir” in this situation as it is used by the household help
Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
according to somebody, AI is supposed to do something great for me… the trick, I think, is to get it to think like a person… so far, that does not seem to be working out so well… but soon, AI will be able to do everything I do only better and faster… eventually, it will think my thoughts for me, though, I will be dead by then, so, I guess that will be your problem…
WALKING TO THE BUS STOP
walking along McKnight Road, I can see Orion doing flip flops in the early morning sky… while I have my hands full with getting to the bus on time, keeping sane enough to do my insane job and wishing for more starlight…
the road glows grey and black with sparkles of broken glass…
I am the starting pitcher and the broken glass… my eyes itch… there is a chill, so I am glad for my winter coat… in the background, Beaver Lake is cool as beet juice in a mini fridge…
IMAGE POEM #27
the apple blossoms are pink and white against the early summer screen of sickening green… I sit here in my heavy jacket sipping diet soda through a red striped straw…
insane robots with porcelain eyes are dancing across the patio looking for me…
my jewelry clicks against the spruce top of my ridiculous guitar and I wonder where this chill wind is coming from…
Norman J. Olson is a small press poet and artist living in Maplewood, Minnesota. Since his first acceptances in the early 1970s, he has published hundreds of poems, prose pieces and artworks in 15 countries and all over the USA. Website: https://normanjolson.com/ .
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Call me simple, call me old-fashioned, but I often find myself yearning for the days of on-and-off buttons, the getting out of one’s chair to change the channel, the times before remote controls were scattered throughout my house.
Most evenings, my husband and I convene in the living room to watch TV. Most evenings, it seems, we have the same conversation.
“Where is that (grumble grumble) remote control?” he asks.
I look at the remote control caddy next to the TV. Of course it’s empty.
“Here it is!” I say, pointing to the coffee table.
“That’s not it. That’s the one for the ceiling fan.”
We look under the sofa, on the bookshelves, and beneath the TV. We search between the sofa cushions, and under the pile of newspapers.
Finally, one of us finds it in some unlikely place – on the kitchen counter, or maybe next to the telephone.
My husband presses a button. “It’s not working.”
“I guess it needs new batteries,” I say.
We change the batteries. Finally, ten minutes after our initial search, we are ready to watch TV.
Of course the complications of TV remote controls are not unique to Japan. On a recent visit to a friend’s apartment in the States, we were told, “If you want to watch TV, push this button on this remote control, and then this button on this remote control, but whatever you do, don’t push this one!” Someone, please, invent an easier way for accessing cable TV channels!
It might not be so bad if the TV remote controls were the only ones in our lives, but here in high-tech Japan, every electronic device seems to come with one of those gadgets. I can appreciate having a remote control device to unlock the car when rain is pouring down and I need to dash from my porch to my hatchback, but do I really need one to operate my portable radio? Or my desk top computer?
And where is the sense in using a remote control to turn the lights on and off instead of flicking a switch? The light fixture we recently installed in my son’s room, a small space which can be crossed in three big steps, came with a remote control. This means that when I enter his room at night, to, say, put his clean socks in the drawer, I often find myself stumbling around in the dark, trying to find that darned remocon so I can see what I’m doing.
Perhaps remote controls are part of an interim phase. It’s conceivable that someday all of our appliances will be voice activated or will turn on and off in response to brain waves. In the meantime, I remind myself of something that my family members are apt to forget. There’s a little button in the back of the television. With just a push, the screen comes to life.
Suzanne Kamatawas 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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Why do they evaporate when they were just there, those moments before I woke when I can sense I was just with you, when time held no relevance, but now I can’t remember a thing?
Why can’t I remember the sounds we just shared and why do I sense they’re still waiting as if behind some thin door when in the morning darkness, I can still hear the sound of steady rain and its slowed dripping when stopping?
I lie here listening, but wonder: is this forgetfulness a kind of hardened armour—a line blocked from crossing, a mental habit keeping me from further harm?
And in these empty moments, am I to accept that real-life is all I’ll know—that dreams will forever end in nothing? Or is the lost recall not a protective shield, but safe-place built-in: a dream not really a dream, just a limit to what goes on living?
SR (Salvatore Richard) Inciardi was born in New York City and attended Brooklyn College and New York University. SR Inciardi’s poetry has appeared in in various online and print magazines including Green Ink Poetry, Harrow House Journal, Front Porch Review, Grey-Sparrow Journal, Borderless Journal, Written Tales among others. He was a contributor to Green Ink Poetry for their publication on Kennings: Equinox Collections: Autumn released on Amazon in October 2024. SR Inciardi currently has two books of poetry on Amazon that speak to loss and navigating grief.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Angel Ramon is best known for his B-movie horror books. The Frogmaster, as he is called because he unleashed a whole swarm of killer frogs onto the zombie genre, is quite popular in the independent horror community.
With Requiem of a Lost Nation, however, he takes a completely different path. Instead of entertaining B-movie horror, he explores his own family history and the generational trauma caused by the Salvadoran Civil War. Loosely based on the life of his beloved mother, the novel follows Otilia, who, after emigrating to the United States, returns to El Salvador to come to terms with her harrowing experiences during the Civil War that lasted from 1979 to 1992.
This is done in a rather interesting way, as the novel alternates between chapters set in the present day (2019) and chapters depicting Otilia’s childhood, particularly the events during the outset of the Civil War atrocities 1980-1982. Together with diary entries and reports by British journalist Jon Snow—whose original reports can actually still be found on streaming services—the book leads us into the complexities of Salvadoran culture and politics. We learn about the country’s social divide, its invisible walls, and the Red Scare.
What makes this especially interesting is that Otilia—just like the author—comes from a very conservative background. Raised in a wealthy household, she was heavily influenced by her father, whose hatred of the communist rebels shaped her worldview. Looking back, however, she revises many of these beliefs and arrives at a more balanced perspective. That saves the novel from descending into one-sided accusations. In the end, it boils down to the idea that “both sides were to blame,” or, more poetically: “War was a demon indeed. It didn’t care who got hurt.”
Talking about demons: just to be clear, despite the monster on the cover, this is not a horror novel. It certainly deals with the horrors of war, which can easily be described as demonic, but there are no supernatural elements. More importantly, it isn’t about suspense or the specific atmosphere of dread that Lovecraft once described as essential to horror fiction. Requiem of a Lost Nation is best described as historical fiction.
Especially during the first quarter of the book, I learned a great deal about Salvadoran culture, its social structure, and the causes of the Civil War. Unfortunately, from that point on, it falls a little short. This is mostly due to its rather limited level of analysis. Ultimately, the novel tells us that both sides share responsibility and that war and forced migration can result in identity crises and generational trauma.
My overall impression is mixed though, because the novel uses some rather obvious foreshadowing, and for a historical novel there are simply a few too many convenient coincidences to remain believable. On the other hand, the integration of Spanish dialogue works very well. The passages are paraphrased seamlessly, so readers who don’t understand Spanish won’t miss any important information, while the original dialogue adds considerably to the atmosphere. Unfortunately, such strengths are offset by a handful of odd sentence constructions. Besides these criticisms, I am always appreciative when genre authors step outside their comfort zone. Ramon certainly deserves credit for taking such a personal path and writing the book he clearly felt he had to write.
This requiem is not over yet. While the novel reaches a natural stopping point, it leaves several plot threads and foreshadowed events unresolved. A second volume is planned for late 2027 and will presumably focus on Otilia’s life in the United States.
Andreas Giesbert is a reviewer of speculative fiction, board games and more based in the Ruhr Valley. He mostly writes for online magazines such as www.zauberwelten-online.de, or Ginger Nuts of Horror.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Mohammad Hussain Anqa (1907–1977) was a poet, historian, journalist, and political activist. He spent a significant portion of his life in prison because of his dissenting political views, an experience that is reflected throughout his poetry. Anqa’s most important contribution to Balochi literature was the introduction of a modern aesthetic sensibility into the Balochi ghazal. The selected fragments are drawn from various couplets in his ghazals, collected in Roken Poll (The Glowing Flower), a volume of his poetry published by the Balochi Academy in 2007.
(1)
Drop by drop, celestial honey flows into my ears— In midnight hours, when the chime of your bangles fills the air, I wonder whence the angels brought you this grace and modesty; No moon glows so purely, no blossom blooms so fair.
(2)
Whenever, in prayer, I lifted my hands, they were scorched. Like ember smouldering beneath ash was the sky. Tyranny's flames sear the earth like a griddle. I seek to rest a little while, but tell me, how could I?
(3)
If it bears not the fragrance of her perfumed tresses, Let this callous breeze fall dead — I do not care. In quest of my heart, I seek you — but you’re nowhere, My heart—may it lie tangled in a knot of your hair.
(4)
If you have seized my forbearance, along with your grace, The joy of love and longing will fade, you must know. At dawn, Anqa whispered to the nightingale in the cage: “Most of my captive days are gone, just a few left to go.”
(5)
The cloud burst forth and showed you — Ask your tresses how blessings are bestowed. A home is where the heart finds peace, Cots and couches alone make no abode.
(6)
I know not by what mysterious fashion, the Creator shaped this world— The shepherd dreads the wolf; the wolf fears the shepherd’s wrath. Anqa! I spilled my blood so blossoms might grace every garden in the land; Yet never once did I dive for pearls beneath the ocean’s path.
(7)
They crushed the only blossom I called my own May every garden wither, far and nigh. They show me not the path unto her abode May God rend every star out of the sky.
(8)
He rends the garment, only to mend it whole again. How artful this madness proves itself to be. Why does autumn fall to me, while spring blossoms for you, If from the selfsame clay are fashioned both you and me?
(9)
Like a night flower's fragrance adrift through the eerie darkness, O butterfly of my love, when will you come to me silently? Beside my pillow, there shimmered your outstretched hand. I reached to steal a kiss, but the sword cut through me.
.
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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Statue of Vel Pari Giving His Chariot to the Jasmine Creeper at Kodunkundreeswarar Temple, Tamil Nadu. Photo provided by Ravi Varmman K. Kaniappan
There are kings remembered for the size of their empires, and there are kings remembered because people loved them long after the drums of war went silent. Vel Pari belonged to the second kind. He was not the ruler of some vast empire stretching across oceans, nor did he command endless armies that darkened the horizon. He ruled Parambu Nadu, a mountain kingdom wrapped in forests, waterfalls, fertile valleys, bamboo groves, and wild jasmine creepers that climbed the stones after the rain. Yet in the hearts of the Tamil people, Pari stood taller than the crowned emperors of the age.
The poem on Vel Pari by poet Kabilar in the Purananuru, the Sangam period literature (300BCE to 300CE) is another gem that resonates with modern day geopolitics.
The old bards sang of him not merely as a ruler, but as a man whose generosity moved beyond human beings and reached even the smallest living things. The story that survives centuries like a flame protected from the wind is the tale of the mullai (jasmine) creeper. One day Pari saw a delicate jasmine vine struggling along the ground with nothing to climb upon. Any other king would have passed by it without a thought. Pari stopped his royal chariot, stepped down, and offered the golden vehicle to the plant so it could rise upward toward the light. To many, it will sound absurd. To the Tamil poets, it revealed the soul of the man. A ruler who could bend before a helpless vine would never allow his people to suffer under cruelty.
Parambu Nadu itself reflected its King. The land was rich not because of conquest, but because nature and people lived together without violence against one another. The hills yielded jackfruit, bamboo rice, roots, honey, sweet water springs, and fertile soil. Hunters, farmers, poets, wandering musicians, and tribal clans lived under Pari’s protection with dignity. Travelers knew that no bard would ever leave Pari’s court empty handed. If a singer arrived with tired feet and a hungry stomach, the king fed him. If a poet carried sorrow in his heart, Pari listened. If someone came seeking shelter, the mountain welcomed them.
Among all who stood beside him, none was closer than the great poet Kabilar. Their friendship became one of the immortal bonds of Sangam history. Kabilar did not praise Pari out of duty like a court flatterer. He loved him deeply, like a brother born in another body. Through the verses of the Purananuru, Kabilar preserved not just the image of a King, but the spirit of an entire world that was slowly being swallowed by imperial ambition. When Kabilar spoke of Pari, his words carried both admiration and grief, as though he already sensed that such goodness could not survive in an age ruled by pride and conquest.
And pride was precisely what brought doom to Parambu Nadu.
The Chera, Chola, and Pandya kings, who were often referred as the mighty Moovendar (the Three Crowned Kings) of Tamilakam, looked upon Pari with growing bitterness. Individually, none could conquer him. His mountain fortress was naturally defended by cliffs, forests, and loyal warriors who knew every hidden path. But the real reason they feared him was not military strength. It was love. Pari was loved more deeply by poets, common folk, wandering clans, and artists than the emperors themselves. His fame spread across Tamilakam until even the crowned kings found themselves standing in the shadow of a tribal chieftain.
So, the three ancient rivals united for the first time, not for honour, not for justice, but to bring down one man.
Their armies surrounded Parambu Nadu for years. War drums echoed through the hills. Spears glittered beneath the sun. Yet the mountain kingdom did not fall. The land sustained its people. Springs still flowed. Bamboo rice still grew. The forests still fed the hungry. Inside the siege, Pari’s people endured. Outside the siege, the Moovendar grew increasingly humiliated that even their combined might could not break a small mountain kingdom.
The siege slowly became psychological warfare. The three King’s hoped exhaustion would crush Pari’s spirit. They wanted him to watch his people live under constant fear, to see freedom slowly strangled by endless encirclement. Yet Pari refused to surrender.
Then came the cruelty that stained their legacy forever.
Kabilar had once mocked the besieging kings openly. He told them they would never conquer Parambu Nadu with elephants, swords, or armies. But he also revealed something dangerous, he said, if poets, singers, and dancers approached Pari with songs of praise, the king would give away anything, even his kingdom itself. For Pari believed hospitality toward artists was sacred.
The Moovendar listened carefully.
Waiting until Kabilar was away from court, they sent assassins disguised as wandering bards and performers into Parambu Nadu. Dressed in the robes of artists, carrying the appearance of harmless travellers, they entered under the ancient Tamil code of hospitality. Pari welcomed them without suspicion. No guards searched them. No weapons were expected among poets.
Inside the safety of his chambers, the false bards dropped their disguises, drew hidden weapons, and murdered the king by treachery.
That was the deepest wound of all. Vel Pari was not slain gloriously on the battlefield with drums roaring around him. He was killed while extending kindness. His generosity became the blade used against him. In Tamil memory, this was not simply political conquest. It was the violation of Aram (virtue, morality and righteousness) itself, the sacred moral order.
But the cruelty did not end with his death.
The Moovendar dismantled Parambu Nadu piece by piece so it could never rise again as an independent tribal land. They divided the mountain among themselves like scavengers fighting over the remains of a lion. Worse still, they sought to erase Pari’s lineage entirely. His daughters, Angavai and Sangavai, were left orphaned and politically untouchable. The great empires made it known that any ruler who sheltered or married Pari’s daughters would invite the wrath of the three crowned kings. The princesses, who once walked among mountain flowers, were reduced to wandering in uncertainty, carrying the burden of their father’s name.
And beside them walked Kabilar, heartbroken beyond repair.
The poet who once sang proudly in royal halls now wandered from kingdom to kingdom seeking protection and marriage alliances for the daughters of his fallen friend. Again and again, rulers hesitated out of fear of the Moovendar. Kabilar watched the world betray Pari even after death. The man who had immortalised Tamil valour found himself crushed beneath grief and helplessness.
Though he eventually succeeded in securing the future of Angavai and Sangavai, something inside him had already died. Unable to bear the destruction of the world he loved, Kabilar finally chose Vadakiruthal, the ancient Tamil act of fasting unto death while facing north. It was not merely suicide. It was a final protest against a world where righteousness had been murdered by envy.
And yet, despite everything the Moovendar attempted, they failed in the one thing they truly desired.
They could conquer Pari’s land, but they could not erase him.
The fall of Vel Pari and the dismantling of Parambu Nadu resonate with several modern historical events where a smaller, culturally distinct, or morally symbolic community was systematically crushed by larger powers, not merely for territory, but because its existence challenged imperial authority, political legitimacy, or ideological control.
A significant parallel in later period is the destruction of indigenous tribal sovereignties during the expansion of colonial empires in the Americas and Australia. The systematic breaking of Native Nations such as the Lakota Nation or the displacement of Aboriginal communities was often accompanied by attempts to erase memory, culture, language, and lineage. Leaders who symbolised resistance were targeted not only militarily but psychologically. Like Pari’s daughters being politically isolated, indigenous heirs and communities were often cut off from land, legitimacy, and continuity.
The betrayal aspect of Pari’s death also resembles events such as the assassination of Patrice Lumumba during the Congo Crisis. Lumumba was enormously loved by ordinary people and represented an independent political future that threatened larger geopolitical powers. His removal was not simply about governance, but it was about preventing a charismatic symbol from inspiring broader resistance. Like Pari, Lumumba became more powerful in memory after his death in 1961, than the many who orchestrated his downfall.
There are also echoes in the defeat of Toussaint Louverture during the Haitian Revolution. Though Haiti ultimately won independence, Louverture himself was deceived, captured through manipulation rather than open battlefield victory, and removed because imperial powers feared the symbolic power of a free Black republic, where he later died in a freezing French prison cell in 1803. The anxiety of larger empires toward a smaller but morally resonant state mirrors the fear the Moovendar held toward Pari’s reputation.
From a South Asian perspective, one could even compare Pari’s downfall to the gradual dismantling of many tribal and princely states under the British Raj. The British frequently used diplomacy, betrayal, economic strangulation, alliances, and internal manipulation rather than direct warfare alone. Leaders who inspired emotional loyalty among local populations were often isolated politically before being removed. The destruction was not only territorial; it was cultural and psychological.
A darker modern comparison is the breakup and destruction of indigenous Tamil leadership structures during the final phase of the Sri Lankan Civil War. Regardless of political perspective, many Tamils interpret the end of the war not merely as a military defeat, but as the crushing of a collective identity, memory, and homeland aspiration through overwhelming force. The emotional memory of siege, encirclement, civilian suffering, and postwar dismantling creates parallels in how communities narrate trauma and loss.
What makes Vel Pari’s story unique, however, is that Sangam literature frames the tragedy less as a military defeat and more as a moral failure of civilisation itself. The central horror was not that a king died in war, as kings always die in war, but that hospitality, poetry, generosity, and sacred trust were weaponised against him. In modern language, Pari’s story is about how empires sometimes fear moral legitimacy more than military strength, and how systems of power often seek not merely to conquer resistant communities, but to humiliate and erase the memory of alternatives to their rule.
The crowned kings survive in inscriptions and dynasties, but Vel Pari survives in the human heart. He lives whenever generosity triumphs over greed, whenever a ruler protects dignity over power, whenever poetry remembers the forgotten, and whenever someone tells the story of the king who gave his chariot to a jasmine creeper because he believed even a fragile plant deserved support.
The story of Vel Pari, like those of Toussaint Louverture, Patrice Lumumba, and many others, illustrates a phenomenon that extends beyond military defeat or political repression. Modern political psychology describes it as a form of cultural-psychological annihilation, the attempt to destroy not only a people’s leaders but also their identity, memory, dignity, and capacity for collective continuity. The objective is not merely to win power, but to ensure that the defeated can no longer serve as a symbol of resistance, legitimacy, or alternative political imagination.
Several behavioural concepts help explain this process, for example, identity decapitation involves removing charismatic leaders and cultural figures who embody a community’s aspirations. Demoralisation strategies seek to break collective morale through prolonged pressure, isolation, and humiliation, fostering a sense of helplessness. Moral injury emerges when betrayal, injustice, or violations of deeply held ethical norms shatter a community’s faith in the moral order. Together, these mechanisms inflict damage not only on institutions and lives but also on the psychological foundations that sustain a people.
At its deepest level, this process becomes memoricide, the erasure of historical memory itself. The goal is to sever the connection between past, present, and future so that a people lose the symbols, stories, and leaders around which collective identity is formed. Whether in Parambu Nadu after Pari’s death, Haiti after Louverture, or Congo after Lumumba, the struggle is often not only over territory or power, but over who has the right to be remembered and to endure in history.
The modern lesson from the tragedy of Vel Pari is that a just society cannot be built merely on economic strength, military power, or political dominance. A truly just civilisation is measured by how it protects dignity, moral trust, cultural memory, and the weak, especially when doing so offers no immediate advantage. The downfall of Parambu Nadu shows what happens when power becomes insecure, it stops seeking justice and begins seeking humiliation, erasure, and control.
One of the greatest warnings hidden inside Pari’s story is that societies collapse morally long before they collapse politically. The Moovendar won the land, but in the literary memory of Tamil civilisation, they lost moral legitimacy because they abandoned Aram, righteous conduct. They weaponised hospitality, manipulated trust, isolated orphaned daughters, and sought to erase a people’s identity out of wounded pride. In modern terms, this teaches us that institutions without ethics eventually become engines of domination rather than guardians of civilisation.
A just society today therefore requires more than laws. It requires moral restraint in the use of power. It requires protecting minorities, preserving indigenous identities, respecting cultural memory, and ensuring that disagreement or independence is not treated as disloyalty. It also means refusing to destroy people psychologically in the pursuit of victory, whether in politics, religion, race, class, or nationalism.
This is precisely why the wisdom of the Thirukkural remains timeless. Thiruvalluvar warns that the strength of a ruler is not cruelty, but justice rooted in compassion.
“Wealth and power must stand with righteousness and fairness; without them, greatness is empty despite outward success.” — Kural 221
The story of Vel Pari, read alongside the wisdom of the Thirukkural, reveals a timeless political and moral truth where societies endure not because they are feared, but because they are trusted. Power can command obedience and military strength can secure victory, but neither can create the legitimacy that sustains a civilisation across generations. Trust, built through justice, integrity, and respect for human dignity, is the foundation of a strong social order.
This lesson remains deeply relevant today. A just society is not measured solely by its wealth, military capability, or political influence. It is measured by its willingness to make power accountable, protect cultural identity, tolerate dissent, and uphold the dignity of all people. When criticism is suppressed, hospitality is exploited, or communities are stripped of their history and identity, the bonds of trust begin to weaken. History repeatedly demonstrates that fear may achieve compliance, but it rarely produces enduring loyalty.
Vel Pari’s legacy offers an alternative vision of leadership. He is remembered not for imperial conquest or political dominance, but for the values he embodied. His generosity was not a strategy for influence, his compassion was not a sign of weakness, and his humanity did not diminish his authority. Instead, these qualities became the source of his legitimacy. In a world where power is often equated with control, Pari represented the possibility that strength and virtue could coexist.
More than two thousand years after his death, Pari remains alive in collective memory because he symbolised an ethical ideal that transcends his time. His story reminds us that the true measure of leadership is not the ability to conquer, but the ability to inspire trust, preserve dignity, and act with moral purpose.
Ultimately, civilisations are remembered not for the power they wielded, but for the values they chose to uphold. In that sense, Vel Pari is not merely a figure of history, but he remains a compelling model for the kind of society and leadership the modern world continues to seek.
Glossary:
Malai – Hill
Purananuru – Purananuru originated during South India’s Sangam era (circa 300 BCE–300 CE). This 400-poem anthology is significant for documenting ancient Tamil warfare, heroic codes, governance, and secular societal values.
Sangam – The Sangam period originated from ancient Tamil academies (Sangams) in South India (300 BCE–300 CE). It is significant for producing remarkable secular literature detailing early Tamil culture, trade, and governance
Kabilar – Was a prolific Sangam-era poet originating from Thiruvatavur, Tamil Nadu (circa 1st–2nd century CE). He is significant for mastering love poetry (Kuruntokai) and immortalizing the generous King Vel Pari.
Tamilakam – Originated as the ancient homeland of Tamil speakers, covering modern Tamil Nadu, Kerala, and parts of neighboring states. It is significant for pioneering early maritime trade and distinct Sangam culture.
Moovendar – Three Crowned Kings originated during the ancient Sangam era in Tamilakam. They comprised the Chera, Chola, and Pandya dynasties. Their significance lies in establishing powerful, centralized governance, controlling lucrative maritime trade with Rome and Egypt, and heavily patronizing Tamil literature, arts, and the legendary Sangam academies.
Thirukural – Originated in ancient Tamilakam, authored by the sage Thiruvalluvar (circa 5th century CE or earlier). It is globally significant as a universal guide to secular ethics, virtue, and governance.
Saravanan, G., & Selvaraju, R. (2022). Generosity and kindness of Vaelpaari in Sangam literature. International Research Journal of Tamil, 4(1).
Ambikadevi, D. (2022). Sangam period: Literary and historical significance for southern India. International Journal of Research and Analytical Reviews.
P Marudanayagam, (2021), Purananuru, Text, Transliteration and Translation in English Verse and Prose, Central Institute of Classical Tamil, Chennai. (Poem 105 – 120)
J Narayana, (2019), Thirukkural, Transliteration and Translation, Sura Books Pvt Ltd, (Use a specific translation if applied: e.g., Drew & Lazarus, or modern editions.)
Arivazhagan, V. (2023). Thirukkural’s life ethics. Shanlax International Journal of Tamil Research, 7(3), 29–33.
Webster, S. (2024). Revisiting memoricide: The everyday killing of memory. Memory Studies, 17(6), 1408–1428.
Voskanyan, H. (2025). Memoricide as post-conflict violence: The erasure of Armenian cultural heritage. European Master’s Programme in Human Rights and Democratisation.
Ravi Varmman explores leadership, culture, and self-inquiry through a philosophical lens, weaving management insight with human experience to illuminate resilience, ethical living, and reflective growth in an ever shifting world today.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Persistent rain soaks my senses, the lively past’s good fortune knocking on memory’s door, or is that just the beating of my heart? Does being surrounded all night by an alluvial tattoo promote this hearkening back? Beckoned as if by a distant porch light when lost in a storm, I embraced rites from times swept by in the long steady dying since Gloucestershire when, open-eyed, I took it all in. An exhilarating melancholy floods me recalling standing inside a Norman chapel in the Cotswolds’ slanting light. I breathed ancient mortar’s microbial odour, imagining a careful congregation in the Middle Ages, rough-sculpted, their murmuring voices long gone into the cold earth, willowherb and meadowsweet dormant. That winter of my naïve yearning, fields of frost under a murderous owl’s moon, I shucked the duvet to fill pages rearranging words. Trying to make sense of life’s stampede instead of slouching off early to work as I had in Australia since I was thirteen, was life changing?
If possible before final darkness, I still want to picture our quaint haven with the snugly warm smoky pub where I bumped my head in the low doorway, and we won a Christmas raffle. I yearn for embedded images of that ilk to which I cling. Yet to discover Edward Thomas’s poem about Adlestrop station written after his friendship with Robert Frost began — I didn’t know that — bereft of trains and poems, it slept nearby. The poem was published days after his death in action. With an adventurous partner, wind and rain rattling our sanctuary, ruffling rooks perched high above the tennis courts, horses sheltering in Larkin’s ‘cold shade’, my blood quickened. Our first bus trip for shopping, the route wending through golden villages of stone between hedgerows hemming narrow roads, was studded with stops. Women wearing hats, carrying baskets, and elderly couples sticking together, filled the bus with their soft, cidery accent. Spotting travellers’ colourful caravans before reaching Moreton-in-Marsh, we messaged with our eyes to attract each other’s discreet attention.
Part-time servants, our Upstairs, Downstairs situation inverted, we hauled backpacks up flights of stairs. In our bower we scrubbed greasy gunk from the stove and bathed in several inches of costly hot water in an antiquated iron bathtub. I blue-tacked maps of our travels to damp walls under the roof where, on hushed evenings, dark so early, we read by lamplight. Borrowing a gas heater on castors, I decorated it with an Olympic pattern of coffee mug rings, starting my blind attempts at a writing apprenticeship. Each lunchtime, my bedmate, younger than me, living her antipodean dream, glowing after exercising hunters across frosted terrain listening to Ted Hughes’ ‘quake of hooves’, listened to me read what I, laughing at my own jokes, had written. She astonished her workmates once, choosing not to hang around after work to see a future king of England ride one of their horses, coming home to my self-congratulatory words instead. At other times she crossed her fingers for Reynard whenever we heard the hunting horn.
Born in England, an early boyhood memory was the story of my missing aunt. My father’s last sighting of his runaway sister was from the bus he was driving. For years I pictured this as a cinematic scene in monochrome with a grainy film-noir quality. A brave woman pushing a pram flees along a street, wet, like the beginning of this piece. Dim lighting casts shadows as she glances over her shoulder (a close-up). She has no-one to defend her, to help. Saddled with this unfinished business of finding her, Births, Marriages, and Deaths became my gripping reading. We bought a cheap, used car with a good heater. London’s records led to Liverpool, a city recently battered by riots. By simply driving there from the Cotswolds we transitioned from poor to posh. Absorbed, I accrued and sorted all this marvellous new material. Gold.
Neither of us adequately masked our scorn of protocol’s scripture, smirking at our employers’ gross snobbery undercut by their practical helplessness. Exacerbating this was my partner’s rising popularity among the local casual workforce, and our now interesting missing person sleuthing. Irked by supercilious nonsense early, ad-libbing po-faced about the difficulty of finding decent racing saddles for kangaroos, my ludicrous irony had been taken as authentic. I believed my Aussie bullshit humour leading the snobs from attempted humiliation to pathos was forever unforgiven. Perhaps it was my multiple errant triggering of their burglar alarms. That magical Christmas Eve, my birthday, befriended villagers invited us for carol-singing by flickering lantern lights from mansion to mansion for charity. The ethereal beginning of We Three Kings was a goosebumps highlight, my missing aunt never far from my thoughts. We also attended a pantomime at Chipping Norton, Jack and the Beanstalk, where I wondered what the Hooray Henrys might have made of this bewitchment.
For a joke when she who still dogs my dreams visits, I squeeze into my naval pea-jacket worn everywhere those years ago. Finger-fiddling a never used spare button in its silken pocket solicits past voices. I could display other memorabilia from then though she sternly advises just sticking to writing in the past tense. My lightweight phone speedily locates those places we slowly discovered, their wonderful names – Bourton-on-the-Water – biro-circled in a bottom drawer heavy with old maps I sometimes sniff to transport me. From there we journeyed all the way across another ocean, and prairies, the sky storybook-sized, hitchhiking to Alaska, sometimes at the edge of danger. And there was more, much more, but it is to that soft privileged borough, despite the more dramatic, risk-laden zones of our sojourns, that my mind constantly returns.
My phone can also conjure up the television programme episode we researched, resulting in a moving family reunion watched from the Green Room. It can’t locate the snappy words my partner exchanged with the famous ex-pop star presenter who complained about people fuddled with age after the show when she entered our descending lift in the studio. I want to grasp the smells, sights, and sounds of where this all began that lure me like a secret love. Time-travelling, from our attic window, transposed unscathed by age’s scourge – that raw cold would fell me now – breath fogging like the future we cannot see, I would gaze lingeringly once more on what shall be lost, therefore precious.
.
Ian C Smith’s work has been published in BBC Radio 4 Sounds, Cable Street, Griffith Review, North of Oxford, Rundelania, The Spadina Literary Review, Stand, & Westerly. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
