Categories
Editorial

Spring in Winter?

Painting by Claude Monet (1840-1926)
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

'Ode to the West Wind', Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 -1822)

The idea of spring heralds hope even when it’s deep winter. The colours of spring bring variety along with an assurance of contentment and peace. While wars and climate disasters rage around the world, peace can be found in places like the cloistered walls of Sistine Chapel where conflicts exist only in art. Sometimes, we get a glimpse of peace within ourselves as we gaze at the snowy splendour of Himalayas and sometimes, in smaller things… like a vernal flower or the smile of a young child. Inner peace can at times lead to great art forms as can conflicts where people react with the power of words or visual art. But perhaps, what is most important is the moment of quietness that helps us get in touch with that inner voice giving out words that can change lives. Can written words inspire change?

Our featured bookstore’s owner from Bangladesh, Amina Rahman, thinks it can. Rahman of Bookworm, has a unique perspective for she claims, “A lot of people mistake success with earning huge profits… I get fulfilment out of other things –- community health and happiness and… just interaction.” She provides books from across the world and more while trying to create an oasis of quietude in the busy city of Dhaka. It was wonderful listening to her views — they sounded almost utopian… and perhaps, therefore, so much more in synch with the ideas we host in these pages.

Our content this month are like the colours of the rainbow — varied and from many countries. They ring out in different colours and tones, capturing the multiplicity of human existence. The translations start with Professor Fakrul Alam’s transcreation of Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics in quest of the intangible. Isa Kamari translates four of his own Malay poems on spiritual quest, while from Balochi, Fazal Baloch bring us Munir Momin’s esoteric verses in English. Snehprava Das’s translation of Rohini K.Mukherjee poetry from Odia and S.Ramakrishnan’s story translated from Tamil by B.Chandramouli also have the same transcendental notes. Tagore’s playful poem on winter (Sheeth) mingles a bit for spring, the season welcomed by all creatures great and small.

John Valentine brings us poetry that transcends to the realms of Buddha, while Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Ron Pickett and Saranyan BV use avians in varied ways… each associating the birds with their own lores. George Freek gives us poignant poetry using autumn while Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal expresses different yearnings that beset him in the season. Snehaprava Das and Usha Kishore write to express a sense of identity, though the latter clearly identifies herself as a migrant. Young Debadrita Paul writes poignant lines embracing the darkness of human existence. Joseph C. Ogbonna and Raiyan Rashky write cheeky lines, they say, on love. Mohit Saini interestingly protests patriarchal expectations that rituals of life impose on men. We have more variety in poetry from William Doreski, Rex Tan, Shivani Shrivastav and John Grey. Rhys Hughes in his column shares with us what he calls “A Poem Of Unsuccessful Excess” which includes, Ogden Nash, okras, Atilla the Hun, Ulysees, turmeric and many more spices and names knitting them into a unique ‘Hughesque’ narrative.

Our fiction travels from Argentina with Fabiana Elisa Martínez to light pieces by Deborah Blenkhorn and Priyanjana Pramanik, who shares a fun sketch of a nonagenarian grandma. Sreenath Nagireddy addresses migrant lores while Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a story set in a village in Andhra Pradesh.

We have non-fiction from around the world. Farouk Gulsara brings us an unusual perspective on festive eating while Odbayar Dorj celebrates festivals of learning in Mongolia. Satyarth Pandita introduces us to Emil Cioran, a twentieth century philosopher and Bhaskar Parichha pays a tribute to Professor Sarbeswar Das.  Meredith Stephens talks of her first-hand experience of a boat wreck and Prithvijeet Sinha takes us to the tomb of Sadaat Ali Khan. Ahmad Rayees muses on the deaths and darkness in Kashmir that haunt him. Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in a sense of lightness with a soupçon of humour and dreams of being a fruit seller. Suzanne Kamata revisits a museum in Naoshima in Japan.

Our book excerpts are from Anuradha Kumar’s sequel to The Kidnapping of Mark Twain, Love and Crime in the Time of Plague: A Bombay Mystery and Wayne F Burke’s Theodore Dreiser – The Giant, a literary non-fiction. Our reviews homes Somdatta Mandal discussion on M.A.Aldrich’s Old Lhasa: A Biography while Satya Narayan Misra writes an in-depth piece on Amal Allana’s Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive. Anita Balakrishnan weaves poetry into this section with her analysis of Silver Years: Senior Contemporary Indian Women’s Poetry edited by Sanjukta Dasgupta, Malashri Lal and Anita Nahal. And Parichha reviews Diya Gupta’s India in the Second World War: An Emotional History, a book that looks at the history of the life of common people during a war where soldiers were all paid to satiate political needs of powerbrokers — as is the case in any war. People who create the need for a war rarely fight in them while common people like us always hope for peace.

We have good news to share — Borderless Journal has had the privilege of being listed on Duotrope – which means more readers and writers for us. We are hugely grateful to all our readers and contributors without who we would not have a journal. Thanks to our wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork.

Hope you have a wonderful month as we move towards the end of this year.

Looking forward to a new year and spring!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE NOVMBER 2025 ISSUE.

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READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Categories
Tagore Translations

Winter by Rabindranath

Sheeth or Winter was first published in 1909 in Tagore’s collection called Shishu (Children). The poem looks forward to winter giving way to spring using simple but eloquent verses.

Art by Sohana Manzoor
The bird says, “I will leave.”
     The flower says, “I will not bloom.”
The breeze merely says, 
       “I will not flit across the woods.”
Young shoots do not look up,
   Instead, sprouts shrivel to shed.
Dusty bamboos loom
     To paint an untimely dusk. 
Why do the birds migrate? 
        Why do flowers not bloom? 
Why has the agile breeze 
    stopped romping in the woods? 
The heartless winter 
        Has a bleak outlook. 
Wrinkled and harsh, 
       She imparts hard lessons. 
The gleaming moonlit night,
        The fresh fragrance of flowers, 
The youthful sport of breeze, 
      The cacophony of leaves — 
All these she looks upon as sins, 
       She thinks in nature, 
The knowledgeable only sit 
       Still like a picture. 
That is why the bird bids “goodbye”. 
     The flower says, “I’ll not bloom.”
The breeze merely says, 
       “I’ll not run across the woods.”
But when Hope says, “Spring’ll come,”
        The flower says, “I’ll bloom.” 
The bird says, “I’ll sing.”
         The moon says, “I’ll smile.”
The newly-fledged spring 
       Has just started to awake. 
He smiles at whatever he sees. 
       He plays with everything. 
His heart is full of hope.
          Unaware of his own desires, 
His being runs hither and thither 
         Looking for kindred spirits. 
Flowers bloom, so does the child. 
         Birds sing, so does he. 
He hugs the caressing breeze 
         To play vernal games. 
That’s why when I hear, “Spring’ll come,”
    The flower says, “I’ll bloom.” 
The bird says, “I’ll sing.”
         The moon says, “I’ll smile.”
Winter, why did you come here? 
       Your home is in the north — 
Birds do not sing there, 
       Flowers do not bloom on trees. 
Your home is a snowy desert 
        That’s dark and lifeless — 
Sit there alone, O knowledgeable, 
         Spend your days contemplating.
Snowy Kanchenjunga photographed from Darjeeling, West Bengal, in winters.

This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor 

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

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

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Categories
Conversation

Where Books Create Binding Bonds…

An interview with Amina Rahman, owner of Bookworm, Dhaka

In a world, where online bookshops and Amazon hold the sway, where people prefer soft copy to real books, some bookshops still persist and grow. There are of course many that have closed business or diversified. But what are these concerns that continue to show resistance to the onslaught of giant corporations and breed books for old fashioned readers? How do they thrive? To find answers, we talked to a well-known bookshop owner in Bangladesh.

Amina Rahman is an entrepreneur who runs such a concern called Bookworm, a haven for book lovers in Dhaka. Schooled in Italy, India and America, Rahman married into the family that owned a small bookshop. Started by her father-in-law, it was a family refuge till she took over the running and created a larger community – a concept that she believed in and learnt much about during her youth spent on various continents. She believes that just as it takes a community to bring up a child, a bookshop has to be nurtured in a similar vein. Bookworm started at Dhaka’s old airport in 1994 and eventually moved to a more community friendly locale at the town centre. Rahman took over in 2012, rebranding it, repurposing and breathing new life into it.

Bookworm houses books from all over the world, holds special launches, as they did recently of Sam Dalrymple’s Shattered Lands: Five Partitions and the Making of Modern Asia, and of many other local and foreign authors, like Vikram Seth and Aruna Chakravarti. They have even been adopted by the cats in the park! This month they are opening a book-café. Rahman has a unique outlook that makes her redefine ‘success’ and here she also talks about how she evolved into her dream project to make it a reality.

Sam Dalrymple at his launch on 9/11/2025
A local launch

You studied environmental policy and environment, worked for several NGO’s and multinational concerns. What made you turn to or opt to run the bookstore over your own career options?

My choice of subject in university was impacted by a fantastic biology teacher I had in middle school at Rome. He took us out on regular field trips and made us collect garbage to learn about the environment! You can imagine — in 1984-85, when we were kids, he would pick up garbage and show us how diapers and cigarette butts were completely not biodegradable. Disgusting but effective. He told us it would take years before they deteriorated and dissolve into the Earth. These things stick in your mind.

To be honest, I followed the Environment path and ended up working for the King County solid-waste department in Seattle which was all about garbage and recycling and so fascinating. But as you get older and you travel through Asia, you realise the pointlessness of it all as none of it is applicable in the same way in our region. Bangladesh and Asia were green in those days until plastics were introduced in a big way about fifteen years ago. At the end of the day, the community is at the heart of taking care of everything, and if everyone takes care of their particular communities, it’s a better world. And this resonates with why I went into running the bookstore – to make community.

I realised that I was missing some kind of dynamism and I wanted to move forward. I wanted something more to happen. This had been a consistent strain I had with everything. You worked for organisations. They would become very top-heavy. Change happened slowly. When I shifted into the corporate world in Dhaka, I felt that was the most dynamic thing — it was fast moving.  I learnt much. Then I went into market research, which was incredible research into human behaviour but was completely tuned into making money at whatever cost. It all was very self-serving and opposite of a welfarist approach towards the community. Corporations trumped community here.

I lost inspiration.

My father-in-law and I had a mutual love for books. I fell in love with my husband over his books. I married in 2004, and it was in 2012, when I was taking time out to assess my goals that my father-in-law suggested I spend time in his bookstore. So, I did. What was an amazing coincidence, was that the Dhaka LitFest started the same year! And the chief organiser asked if Bookworm could be part of the it and I agreed. Vikram Seth was the star guest that year.

Amina Rahman

Can you briefly tell us the story of Bookworm?

When I joined the Bookworm, it was almost a forgotten venture. The family had moved on to other interests. It was used more as a refuge for relatives, old staff, dusty books, unpaid debts and stalled time.

I had never run a business in my life before. For the book business I literally had to climb from the bottom up. It was definitely not easy. I had to figure out the book world, the suppliers, the publishers, the distribution network. Customer preferences, not to mention accounting, taxes, salaries and taking over a small business and the responsibilities that go with it.

The publishing world and the distributing world is a whole different ball game from every other business. It’s a supply chain of such remarkability from the packers and warehousing to the authors and customers. You go from the very basics to the highest and that is so fulfilling. Nothing can compare to that.

Besides, the love of books, one thing I knew was at bookstore was community. It is the ultimate community for booksellers and writers to connect with the world. As you will know, we hit every audience — everybody from the newborn baby to the old man or woman to young adults to school students to university goers to the erudite pursuing literature. We cover just about everything. Ultimately a physical bookstore is where the community meets, and that’s where the ideas are shared, that’s where if you put attention to it people meet inspiration.

While the Dhaka Literary Festival, in whose first iteration Bookworm was a participant, seems to have petered off, Bookworm continues to hold launches on its own. Do you see the shop as a substitute for the festival?

Absolutely not. I mean book launches are wonderful and are a must for every physical bookstore. They connect the people, and as I tell everyone, if you want to sell your book, even if you written the greatest book, you need to work hard at promoting the book. So, every writer needs to have venues whether small or big to launch their books.

Every city needs to have a LitFest, and it is a must. Dhaka is absolutely famous for having our Boimela[1]. That is a real heritage.

What is it you offer readers other than books? Do you have a café?

Actually, we are opening one now.

We didn’t have a cafe in the store, but we’ve had very interesting sort of cafe and bookstore combination when we were in the old airport. We had a cafe next-door to us, which I finally assimilated, also adding to more space for the books. And that became our own little cafe. It wasn’t really anything great; it was just regular we did not even have a coffee machine. Coffee was the old fashion Nescafe, but it did the trick. The whole set up had a very local flavour. Most of all people just like having an area to sit and drink something hot while freely reading books. And this sufficed.

That was wonderful. That store was in the old airport, which we loved with all our heart, and we were there for 30 years. Then we left. I opened up a branch in Dhanmundi, which is probably the best place for books sellers because the book reading population is huge there. We also got the opportunity to open up our bookstore inside a very famous Coffeehouse called Northend. They had a huge base, and they asked us if we’d like to take some of it and we did and that was fantastic.

We had to close that for Covid. Many say they miss it. And that was the first time we had ventured out of our space and opened a new store like a second branch. Then we got this chance to be in a park where we don’t have a cafe inside of our bookstore, but on the other side of the park, which is why we opened a café in our store.

What do you see as the future of bookstores like yours with the onset of online giants like Amazon? Does that impact you?

Yes. Amazon has had a huge impact. Luckily, we don’t have Amazon in Bangladesh. Amazon has had a very negative impact on our fellow booksellers in India and other places. I won’t even bother to compete with them.

I think everyone’s realised that there is a big difference with access points and how Amazon works. At the end of the day, people who come to our bookstore for the experience, for meeting other people, authors too, and talking to their bookseller. It’s more than just getting the book you want to read — that’s part of it — but it’s also about browsing and finding quiet time.

I think that my great experience with books was in bookstores I didn’t have to buy a book. I could browse. Sometimes, you may not be able to afford the book, but you can open it on any page. You could just read a passage, and that might change you. You could come back and buy it or the passage could just stay with you forever. You know it’s those sort of fleeting moments that you have when you’re browsing a book that makes a bookstore precious. That’s a very different experience from Amazon.

Amazon is much more utilitarian. Both have their ups and downs, I guess. You can’t have book launches on Amazon, but I think, Amazon is a big competition… in the sense that it also gives so many discounts.

What kind of books does your store offer? What kind of writers?

I tried to offer everything. In the beginning when we started, I started to try to figure out what books to get. I started with the catalogues, and it was a bit of hit and miss. You slowly start to realise what works. One of the worst experiences for bookstore are books that sit on shelves and don’t move. Sometimes you can buy what is really number one on the best seller list and it just doesn’t move because it’s irrelevant or it’s number one in a different country. You learn by trial and error and then you start to figure out your customers. It was painstaking yet enjoyable.

We use social media to draw readers to our shelves.

As a wholesome bookstore, we have a bit of everything from literature to history, kids’ books, romance, young adult fictions, thrillers, bestselling thrillers, to fantasy. Christie, Sydey Sheldon, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Manga, graphic novels, spiritual and religious books to Bangla books and collector’s items, special editions to lighter books that just bring solace. We see your customer choices and learn. You do not stuff literature down their throats. It has to be relevant to our customers.

What are the challenges of running a bookstore like yours in a country where English is not the first language?

I think actually it’s a challenge to run a bookstore anywhere in, especially with the new market forces of Amazon and online shopping and the digital world. Having physical stores is becoming a challenge. I have travelled to bookstores all over the world and learnt from the experience. A bookstore is more of a tactile experience for all people, readers and non-readers. Humanity has learnt from tactile experiences and to touch and smell a book, browse and sit amidst books is very much that. When realised that people were not coming to me, I took the books to them. I took our books to every mela(fairs). Social media was the next big thing. The ultimate was of course the Dhaka LitFest. People were excited to see our English books, and they all sold. Bangladeshis would travel to other countries to buy books as Bengalis love reading.

The LitFest helped a lot. It brought big authors, like Vikram Seth, for they were interested in exploring new readers.

We also started a delivery service. Some customers said it was hard to get to our store. So, we started a thrice week delivery service and then increased it. We bought a cycle for the rider. He went out and delivered the books that readers had ordered and paid for.

When Covid hit, it was prime time for many to turned to books and we had everything in place – our social media and our delivery service. We did well during that phase, though that is not a good thing to say.

What do you see as the future for your bookstore? There are chains like Takashimaya, Times Books and others — which despite having shrunk, post online bookstores, maintain an international presence. Do you see yourself as a chain that will grow into an international presence?

I think a chain store goes beyond the community. It is a model for more profit-oriented sellers. I would rather have a community-based culture where all people are welcome and find something that draws them and gives them a sense of quiet.

A lot of people mistake success with earning huge profits and if that’s what you’re in for that’s fine too — that’s business but what I do isn’t that. I get fulfilment out of other things –- community health and happiness, and you know just interaction. I think one of the ways to make a very powerful long-lasting brand and business is trust and good service. There’s no substitute for hard work and passion. When you love something, you really put your mind to it. And that helps you keep your friends forever.

Sam Dalrymple gives his opinion of Bookworm after his session ( 9th November 2025)

[1] Bookfair

(This online interview has been conducted over transcribed voice messages in What’sApp by Mitali Chakravarty. All the photographs have been provided by Amina Rahman.)

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

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

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

Categories
Nazrul Translations

O Wayfarer, Wipe Your Tears by Nazrul

Nazrul’s Musafir, Mochh re Aankhi Jol (O wayfarer, wipe your tears) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam.

Art by Sohana Manzoor
O wayfarer! Wipe your tears,
Return only with yourself. 
The flower blooming on its own
Shed all by itself.
O foolish one! So hapless is your state,
Will you now build your nest in water?
Thirsts are not quenched here
For this is no lake to allay thirsts.
Will the bokul that didn’t bloom in monsoon
Blossom when it’s winter?
On this path forever, errors shed
Covering the grove of frustration.
Oh poet! You’ve illuminated many lamps
With your own light
But your own revered Krishna hasn’t come
To light up the darkness pervading your world.

A rendition of the lyrics by Feroza Begum (1930-2014) in original Bengali

Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899-1976) was known as the  Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs. 

Fakrul Alam is an academic, translator and writer from Bangladesh. He has translated works of Jibonananda Das and Rabindranath Tagore into English and is the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award (2012) for translation and SAARC Literary Award (2012).

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Review

Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive

Book Review by Satya Narayan Mishra

Title: Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive

Author: Amal Allana

Publisher: Vintage Books, Penguin

During an extensive interview, Pankaj Kapur, the highly acclaimed actor, director and writer, nostalgically remembered his days in NSD[1] as a student in the 70s and of Ebrahim Alkazi who was the guiding light of the school as the Director from 1962-77. Mandi House was the vibrant cultural hub where the quartet of NSD, Triveni Kala Sangam, Sriram Art Centre and Kamani Auditorium breathed cadences of art, music, dance and theatre. As the presiding deity of NSD, Alkazi’s prodigious talent in all aspects of theatre except costume (where his wife was the moving spirit) brought his dynamic genius into the quest for intercultural and interdisciplinary thinking in artistic expressions that was both transformative and liberative for his myriad students like Sai Paranjpye, Nasir, Om Puri, Surekha Sikri, Uttara Baokar and Pankaj Kapur[2], who later on lit the stage and celluloid  though their exceptional talents and skill. He would have been a hundred this month. Amal Allana, his daughter has authored a biography of her father, Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive. The book  makes an absorbing read.

She brings out Alkazi’s early encounters and reception by the Hindi Theatrewallas of Delhi in the early 60s. It is the story of a western educated Bombayite who was presumptuous enough to think he could teach Delhi theatre buffs a thing or two. As a second-year student, Sai Paranjpye recalls Ebrahim as a storm under whom a metamorphosis took place in the NSD overnight. Walking in to the den of Hindiwallah writers’ camp, Alkazi caught them unawares by picking up the works of the most cerebral and experimental of the Hindi new wave movement; Mohan Rakesh’s Aashadh Ka Ek Din[3]and Dharmavir Bharat’s Andha Yug[4].  Aashadh ka Ek Din, a play with a rural background, was the story of the Indian villager, whose lifestyle, pace and values were succumbing to the inevitable onslaught of urbanisation. The basic theme was autobiographical to Mohan Rakesh himself, where he identified himself with a classical playwright like Kalidas. This mix of history and the present entwined in to a single entity, was a modernist strategy that Alkazi too had attempted while contemporising myths. He exquisitely crafted the mise en scene[5]that sparkled with delicate, nuanced performances from young student actors such as Sudha Sharma as Mallika and Om Shiv Puri as Kalidas.

 India had lost a war with China in 1962.  Alkazi had chosen Andha Yug, set during the last days of the Kurukshetra war, when Aswasthama stood in rage, prepared to use the ultimate weapon to annihilate the mankind. It was just not the play’s topicality, its anti-war thrust that drew Alkazi to it. Alkazi tried to shrug off the baggage of European modernism he was carrying, embarking now on a foundational journey towards a deeper ‘discovery of India.’ Through Andha Yug, Alkazi came closer to learning about India’s value system and philosophy as explored in the Mahabharata, while Aashad gave him an appreciation of the artistic sensibility of the great Sankrit poet-dramatist Kalidas, India’s veritable Shakespeare. From now on, he would engage with the idea of India between the two polarities: India as a myth and India as a kind of documented reality. Alkazi was introducing the idea that theatre was a performance art, not literature performed on stage. He was creating a language of performance that was distinct from the language of words.

The making of Tughlaq and its staging in Purana Qila is a watershed event in the theatre landscape of Delhi. Alkazi was greatly drawn to Girish Karnad’s play Tughlaq. Karnad had confided in him how Tughlaq was the most idealistic, the most intelligent king ever to come on the throne of Delhi and one of the greatest failures also. And how in the early sixties India had also come very far in the same direction. Alkazi felt that this play effectively reflected the trials and opposition a visionary leader faced, while trying to function within a corrupt political scenario. The cast of Tughlaq had some of the most brilliant actors, each painstakingly trained by Alkazi himself. There was Manohar Singh who was playing Tughlaq, Surekha Sikri and Uttara Baokar were doubled as Sauteli Ma, Nasiruddin Shah as the Machiavellian Aziz, Rajesh Vivek as Najeeb. The young reporter members included Pankaj Kapur, KK Raina, Raghuvir Yadav, a veritable who is who of latter-day cinema. Tughlaq was staged in 1972 at the Purana Qila (Old Fort) in Delhi, utilising the historical ruins as a backdrop for the dramatic spectacle. This production is considered a landmark event in Indian theatre, combining history, politics and performance to create a commentary on the reign of Tuqhlaq[6] and politics of the 60s.

Nehru’s dream of reconstructing the nation needed a powerful and unitary concept of ‘nationalism’ to recognise all productive forces in the country. Culture was very much a part of the reconstructive process that needed to be systematised and brought under one umbrella and for this purpose, three national academies had been set up: the Sangeet Natak Academy, the Lalit Kala Academy and the Sahitya Akademi. The desire to modernise Indian theatre was part of the same reconstructive cultural policy. And Alkazi was the mascot of the theatre movement and Mandi House, the epicentre of cultural conflation and crescendo.

The Purana Qila festival in 1972, with Tughlaq, Sultan Razia and Andha Yug became the most talked about cultural event of the decade He wanted to offer both the hoi polloi and the cognoscenti, including burqa clad women, high quality theatre that did not conform to ‘popular taste’; theatre that had a social relevance, that both instructed and entertained. This was Alkazi’s ideal of what constituted national theatre.

There have many stars in firmament of Indian theatre. Ebrahim revitalised Indian theatre. Habib Tanvir, blended folk traditions with modern drama. Badal Sirkar revolutionised Bengali theatre by challenging conventional norms. They are like the great troika of Indian Cinema, Satyajit Ray, Ritwick Ghatak and Mrinal Sen.

Alkazi left NSD as it was denied autonomy by scheming bureaucrats. Allana brings out how Alkazi passionately believed that an artist belongs to no political party, and has no religious ideology. An artist has to distance himself from each one of these in order to see each one of these objectively. “And finally, he has to distance himself from himself.” He wrote: “ It is our duty and moral responsibility to study history dispassionately, but with a passion for the truth, with humility and with a profound sense of responsibility and to ask ourselves seriously: What is the legacy that we shall leave behind?”

[1] National School of Drama

[2] Well known Indian actors

[3] A Day in Aashadh (June-July) was a Hindi play that debuted in 1958

[4] Blind Age was a verse-play in Hindi written in 1953

[5] Placed on stage

[6] A 1964 Kannada play by Girish Kannad, translated to Urdu in 1966 in NSD and most famously performed for in Purana Qila, New Delhi, in 1972

Satya Narayan Misra is a Professor Emeritus and author of seven books. The latest, Against the Binary, was published in December 2024. He is a regular columnist and reviewer of books for several leading newspapers in Odisha and digital platforms likeScroll.in and The Wire. He was associated with the NSD in the 70s.

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

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

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

Categories
Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

Nomads of the Bone

A Poem Of Unsuccessful Excess

Art by Paul Nash (1889-1946)
Ogden Nash is the finest.
The snobs who dismiss his work
are knobs and jerks
whose heads should be examined
and given an F minus.
Of his talent they have not a tenth.
I mean, flipping heck!
Lacking depth is his strength.

And
now for some
HAIRY QUESTIONS… 
Werewolf?
Whywolf? Howwolf?
Whenwolf? Whatwolf? Whowolf?

Questions like those never can
be answered
because the facts are tactless 
and the fangs
will leave you gutless on nights
of a full moon.
The lycanthropic topic is one
best avoided
and thus I will always avoid it.

I made myself a sandwich.
I made it for my health.
I am a self-made man
despite my lack of wealth.

I made myself a promise
I would be a bitter gourd 
cut into fancy segments
by an even fancier sword.

Unlike okra I’m not slimy.
If you ever dare to try me
I’m a vegetable Cockney,
I must say, “gourd blimey.”

Is that all?
No, it certainly isn’t.

Lady Rickshaw claims
we are all ghost ships
on the streets of cities,
drifting here and there.

That’s modern civilisation
for you: please join the queue
for the time machine.

But in more barbaric times
in chillier climes…

Our cavemen noses
glow in the cold.
They never grow 
when we are old
but snowmen’s noses
linger for longer
and their nostrils
resemble craters.

The comet made from ice,
interstellar, vast,
oblivious, very fast,
will strike that fellah dead
when it hits his head.

And now
let’s take a trip to
ANCIENT GREECE

A gorgon’s internal organs 
must be clever forgeries.
She turns heroes to stone,
in pairs or if they’re alone,
and when destiny calls
and Greece finally falls
those statues will be taken
to Rome, their new home.

But the gorgon’s heart
will never beat a rhythm
you can dance to.
It won’t thump like
a man-bull’s hoof-shaped
shoes, that’s true.
No swirling sonic brews
amuse our motley crews.

I’ve had better days 
lost in this maze:
one time I almost 
found my way out,
said the Minotaur…

Fenugreek Mythology 
featuring Hercules 
and Coriander leaves,
Turmeric and Ulysses,
Centaurs and Bottle Gourds
on a bed of saffron rice
is nicer to devour than plain 
old Greek mythology.

Tell me honestly:
have you ever seen
A GHOST?

Death’s anniversary,
is a ghost’s birthday:
blowing out cake candles
with supernatural breezes
he teases the ectoplasm,
a professional phantasm.

Are spooks international?

I am turning Japanese
after a sneeze
because some wasabi
went up my nose.
Kimonos are my clothes.

Also, I play shogi
with my toes. (Shogi is a
kind of chess: I’m glad to
get this off my chest).

Now let’s have a
SELF-REFERENTIAL HAIKU

Counting syllables 
when confronted with haiku
ruins the effect.

That’s done.
Where else can we find our fun?

Do you know the tale of
Patriarchy and Mehitabel?
Do you know the tail that
twitches on the windowsill?

The proof is in the pudding,
or so they say,
but I think I know a better way:
the waterproof
is in the puddling duck.

A vestige of a visage?
My face is the place
where my luck never runs out.
It may lack grace,
a waste of features
belonging to other creatures,
but each to their own.

The philosopher doesn’t like
my tone: he tells me
to ponder harder
but not to think about
swamp imps named Marsha.
Easily done: I don’t
know anyone with that name.

Harsher, he calls me timid,
says I am a coward.
Coward? But how?
I don’t know the meaning
of that word
but I can work it out
and applied to me it’s quite absurd.
It means to move
in the direction of a cow,
or many cows, a herd.

Have mercy if you’re thirsty.
Be ruthless if you’re toothless.

Do farm girls 
grow on you over time,
seasonally?

A question I can’t answer
because I am a scarecrow.
No one planted me,
I do not grow. I do not know
a single thing.

But I can take a guess
about the mess
made by guests at dinnertime.
Billabong Monkeys
dunk their feet in the soup
in groups much larger
than gorillas are long.

Is that a SONG?
Somehow, I don’t think so.

And now
let’s have some
Soliloquies for Stringless Guitars.

Kiss her through the mask.
Miss her through the cask.

Foxglove Alley.
Weasel Stockings.
Garter Snakes, real and fake.
Rotten Shed and Rusty Rake.
I venture down
the Cul-de-Sac of Frogs.
I lost my way in the fogs.

That isn’t fog: it’s sand.
That’s no frog: it’s a panda.
Are you an understander?
There is no great demand
for sand disguised as mist
and so we insist you redo
the list of things you wish
to purchase in the sopping
shops that underwater lie.

Swinging on a garden gate,
it’s far too late
to palpitate at sunset
but the day’s still too early
to fly away and so you may
barbaric be,
barbaric bee, barbaric beer.

Beer comes in at the mouth.
Jokes come in at the ear.
Foam comes out of the nose.
POOR ATTILA lost his clothes
during a drunken stupor.
It’s not ideal but he is super.

Attila was very short.
Only one metre tall
and nocked with battle scars
at one centimetre intervals. 
No wonder he was such
an effective ruler!

He wanted his wife
to call him ‘Darling’
in the marriage bed
but she insisted on
calling him ‘Hun’ instead.

Oh dear!
Have no fear:
King Lear has shed a tear
that splashes
on the lashes of the whip
that thickens cream
in dreams.

When I was younger 
I had a narrow mind 
and only thought of
narrow things:
tight corridors, 
blocked canals,
mountain ledges,
malnourished gulls,
ladders designed
for stick insects,
crevices into which no
man could fall.

But now I am older
and think only of
wide things like
canyons and gulfs,
the open mouths that
shout bravo at gigs,
the taste in literature
of well-read people,
the square bases of
the mighty steeples
perched on churches
in historical towns,
the flapping gowns
of aristocratic vamps,
the pipe bowl of my
eccentric gramps and
the prehistoric snouts
of pigs snuffling for
unripe but fallen figs.

Listen closely, my dear…

My love for you
might sound hyperbolic 
to hyperactive alcoholics.
But it will sound 
perfectly fine to
good romantic folks.

Now here’s a thing:
sea roofs on the inside
are called sea lings.

Freshwater otters in Goa.
Salty authors in the shower.
Both are so clean
but only the latter dare dream
of rivers of cash.
The former dream only of fish.

FOR A FLUTE?

Love
for a flute
is holy love
because a flute without holes 
is a stick
and love for sticks 
makes me sick
but flutes have holes
thus my stomach will settle
at the base of the kettle
and I will laugh:
tea-hee cough-hee.

The frozen lion
thaws before he roars.

A thaw in the old ball bearings 
and the machinery of his desire
began working again.

The machine marks time
like a strict examiner
puffing out his metal cheeks
in the weeks
before the summer holidays.

Do machines
really play the drums?

As a rule of thumb, yes!
Keeping the beat with steel feet.
How neat. What a treat.
The soul of the dance 
is deep in the soles.
The heels heal the heart.

We have 
our whole lifetimes 
A HEAD of us
in which to try out 
new hairstyles, she said. 
She knew what 
she was talking about.
The barber’s wife.

Mourning becomes Electra.
Evening becomes etcetera.

The gentle love drizzle
puzzles the riddler.
The lion is sizzling 
in the meri jaan frying pan
over the fire
of our heartfelt desire.

And that’s
the end of the line
for the wandering rhymes
and the Nomads
of the Bone will soon end
up back home.

*meri jaan is an endearment in Hindi meaning my life

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

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Categories
Stories

Grandmother’s Guests

By Priyanjana Pramanik

My dida, my maternal grandmother, is perpetually dissatisfied. It is better to die young, my mother often says, than to live to ninety and be like her. For as long as I can remember, she has not smiled. Her face has twisted into a permanent grimace at the torments that each passing day on earth brings.

“After a certain age,” she sighs as she sips her morning tea, “living itself becomes a sin.”

When I was younger, these pronouncements would worry me, and I’d consider my mother’s laughter the height of callousness. With time, I’ve changed my tune.

“Have you considered dying?” I ask her conversationally in response. “I can make arrangements.”

She harrumphs at me and tells me that when she does die, I’ll be sorry. I reply that she’ll outlive her daughter, not to mention me. I hear my mother, who has just entered the dining room, mutter that death will be a sweet release.

“What did you say?” Dida demands, cupping an ear in one hand. “I’ve told you not to mumble, Mishti, no one can understand a word you say.”

Mishti vanishes again. Dida, thankfully, has been overcome by a fit of coughing and has already forgotten what we were talking about.

The cough had appeared approximately one week ago, the day after Dida’s ninetieth birthday, and she is sure that is it, her time has come. After tea each morning, she opens the drawer to her bedside table and takes out an aluminium case that houses several dozen strips of medicines. She inspects each one carefully. Then, it is time to call Ujjal.

Ujjal is our neighbour – and a medical doctor besides. Dida likes to catch him before he leaves for the hospital.

“Hello Ujjal?” she bellows into her mobile phone. “No, I feel terrible – this cough will be the end of me. Is it allergic, do you think? Should I take the Levocetirizine and Montelukast combined tablet? No? How about some Paracetamol? No, you’re right, sometimes home remedies are the best, who needs these newfangled medications? You’re right, Ujjal, what a good boy you are. What a blessing it is to have you so close by. If not for you… I have no one, you know. Nobody to take care of me, or care whether I live or die.”

After this conversation, she chews on some dried clove, that tried and tested home remedy, and then takes a nap. Ujjal calls up my mother and pleads with her to hide Dida’s medicine stash – my mother replies wearily that she would if she could.

After her nap, it is time for Dida to call up various relatives and let them know that she is not being taken care of. Their commiserations, stories of their own aches and pains, and reassurances that she if comes to visit, they will keep her in the lap of luxury, has her happily occupied until lunchtime.

“I won’t eat anything,” she announces when she emerges from her room for lunch. “I have no appetite because of this sickness.”

“Ma made goat curry,” I tell her. This is considered. Then – “I suppose I can force myself to have a few bites,” she concedes grudgingly. “Otherwise, I’m just wasting away.”

She eats three helpings with gusto, pausing to point out that the curry could do with a little more salt and two more minutes in the pressure cooker, but is otherwise not too bad. My mother drops a courtesy and is heading back to the kitchen when Dida makes her announcement.

“Mousumi and her husband are coming to visit me this evening,” she says with some satisfaction. “At least my sister’s children love me, even if my own daughter… No, I can’t even say it.”

She remains in good spirits all afternoon, only half-heartedly telling me that I don’t love her. After lunch, she shoos my mother out of the kitchen and does all the dishes. Then, she changes the sheets on her bed. Finally, she changes from her usual nightgown into a white saree with blue border. Now that all the props have been arranged, it is time to set the scene.

Carefully, she arranges herself on the bed and lets out an experimental cough.

“Is there anyone there?” she calls in a weak but carrying voice. “Could someone at least fetch me a glass of water?”

“Coming, Dida,” I call, heading to the kitchen and coming back with a bottle and glass.

She drinks deeply and hands it back to me before another fit of coughing overtakes her.

“I think my temperature is rising,” she says sadly. “This is what will kill me. And no one to switch the fan off, even!”

I turn off the ceiling fan and beat a hasty retreat.

My mother’s cousin Mousumi, or Mou for short, and her husband Somnath ring the doorbell at five p.m. sharp. I let them in and take them to Dida’s room, where the old lady is in bed, as I have left her – but hadn’t I left the lights on? She is silent – she does not move or say a word as we enter the room, and a moment of disquiet steals over me.

At that moment, she tosses her head and moans weakly.

“Oh, Mani!” cries Mou, rushing to her side. “I’m here, Mani. Tell me what I can do for you.”

“Mou, my dear sister’s child,” comes my grandmother’s frail voice in the darkness. “How good of you to come all this way to see your poor old aunt… I fear it may be for the last time.”

She moves to sit up, ignoring her niece’s protests.

“I’ll make you some tea,” she announces in a quavering voice.

“No, no Mani!” Mou says, aghast. “How can you be made to do these things in your condition! Mishti will make you tea, of course. And we’ll have some too, just to keep you company.”

My mother, as always, is amused by the old lady’s antics. As she and I bring in a tea tray loaded with snacks, including fresh samosas from our local sweet shop, we hear Mou earnestly reasoning with Dida.

“You must come stay with us,” Mou Mashi is saying. “We will make sure you’re comfortable – you won’t have to lift a finger.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” replies Dida tremulously. “It would be such an imposition. How could I ask so much of my only niece?”

“No, no, ask anything you want of me! We just moved to a new apartment – it has a brand-new elevator, and a clinic with a doctor available 24/7, and all the comforts you can imagine! And I’ll make all your favourite foods…you look so thin, Mani, it just breaks my heart to look at you.”

“How wonderful that sounds… No one lets me eat anything nice anymore,” Dida says sadly. “It’s all watery dal and plain rice and boiled papayas.”

Mou made appropriately soothing noises.

“I’m here for you, Mani,” she says, holding Dida’s hand. “I’m going to take good care of you.”

The visit is cut short because Mou needs to let her driver off for the night, but she leaves Dida with several more promises of a visit soon-to-be-planned. Before she departs, though, she has some stern words for my mother.

“If you can’t take proper care of a frail old lady,” she fumes. “At least have the decency to put her in a good care home!”

And on that parting note, she and her husband get into their car and drive off.

“Do you think they’ll take Dida away?” I ask my mother after they are out of sight.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Ma replies. “The old lady would never agree to leave!”

“What’s that?” calls Dida from her room, with her unerring sixth sense for whenever she is the subject of discussion. Her voice has entirely returned to normal.

“Nothing, Dida,” I tell her, going in to switch on the mosquito repellent and administer her eyedrops. “So, when are you going to stay with Auntie Mou?”

“Uff, now I’ll have to visit her for politeness’ sake,” the old lady says, sounding disgruntled. “Isn’t she so tiring? Turned out just like my sister, she has. Won’t let me lift a finger, indeed! She makes me sound completely helpless!”

And on that note, she bites into her third samosa with gusto.

Priyanjana Pramanik is a doctoral student of geography and writer of fiction and popular science articles, splitting their time between Kolkata, India, and Hobart, Australia, and a parent to seven cats.

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Categories
Poetry

In Your Arms, I Find Home

By Raiyan Rashky

IN YOUR ARMS, I FIND HOME

where i belong
the world is vast, relentless, ever turning 
but in your presence, time slows
and i am no longer lost 

i kneel before you, not in surrender
but in the quiet knowing that i have arrived 
that after every long day, every restless 
night
i will always find my way back to you 

you are the hush of the evening 
the warmth of a light left on for me 
the gentle breath of a place that feels like
forever

my hands are tired, my heart is heavy
but in your touch, i am weightless
here. against you, 1 lay down my worries
and in your arms, i find home

Raiyan Rashky is a master’s student in English Literature at ULAB. He writes from the heart, inspired foremost by love.

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Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

A Fruit Seller in My Life

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Sometimes I think of setting up a small business and nothing attracts me more than becoming a fruit-seller. The foremost reason is the steady supply of fresh fruits for my own consumption every day. When the copywriting gig flops, this is one venture that promises a fruitful outcome to take care of post-retirement needs. Without disclosing my real intention, I chose to grow friendly with a fruit vendor in the local market.

Becoming a regular customer who bought almost every fruit in kilos, I managed to get recognised as one of his top three customers for billings and behaviour. He acknowledged the fact that I never bargained with him so he was generous in giving me more than what he gave to other customers. He cited the unfamiliar names of two other customers and their professions, displaying curiosity about my domicile and my work. I shared my brief details but he was not clear what copywriting and advertising meant. The example he gave of painting the walls and putting up those flex banners from one lamp post to another revealed he was confused. I said he was getting it somewhat right though he still was a bit lost about how I could afford to eat avocados every week just by putting up hoardings. It was useless trying to explain the savings due to non-alcoholic and vegetarian lifestyle were blown up on a fruit-rich diet to avoid consultations with doctors and popping their prescribed pills.  

The fruit seller had placed his cart and occupied a large corner space for many years. The wheels of the wooden cart had not moved an inch for years and they went deep into the earth gradually, small creepers entwined the wheels for a rich green, decorative feel. Since it was close to a public urinal, customers would tend to avoid it. He lit rolls of dhoop batti or incense sticks every hour to keep flies and insects away, to spread fragrance, to beat the pervading stench. Contrary to my assessment, his was the busiest fruit stall, with customers emerging from sedans and SUVs to buy fruits, local and exotic, for premium quality, without pinching their noses, without feeling any pocket-pinch. With bricks cemented unevenly on the ground, and a wooden wobbly stool placed on it, he stood tall on this raised platform to keep an eye on customers and picked up blueberries and persimmons from the upper shelves that required a long hand and extra effort. If you quizzed him about the country of origin of any fruit, he was quick to specify the state or the city it was plucked from. He was aware of the care and temperature his fruits needed to grow well since he had a farmer’s background.

I was a relatively new customer and he introduced me to the exotic fruits on display with a different sales pitch. A lady customer had picked up avocados in my presence and, after she left, the fruit-seller said she managed to save her husband’s life. Seeing me curious, he divulged the complete story of how six months of regular consumption of avocado had reversed the heart disease her husband suffered from. He said the angiogram performed after six months showed arterial blockages were gone. Though it was a true story, I could not believe it completely Maybe the condition did not worsen or there was some improvement. Worrying about my own heart health had already stressed me out so I thought avocado was better than coronary bypass. To keep a healthy heart, it was necessary to drink an avocado smoothie or bite into an avocado toast. I reminded him that the pleasure of exaggeration was irresistible to those who tell fanciful stories and also for the consumers. He asked me to verify online videos if I had doubts regarding the leading role of avocados on heart health. He played it safe with fear – just like clever marketeers do when they make actors wear white robes with a stethoscope in hand and then promote a cooking oil brand as healthy for the heart. However, the bottom-line was clear: I could not bypass the avocado if I wanted to avoid bypass surgery.

As a savvy vendor, he showed me how the old gentleman picking up blueberries had saved his nerves. He was a retired professor with jangled nerves and his shaky hands added credibility to the narrative. He fished out the currency notes from his shirt pocket with an unsteady grip. That he was recovering from a mild stroke was another alert for me. Being engaged in creative overthinking required the brain to function optimally – to keep the cognitive abilities away from decline. Predictably, I became a frequent buyer of blueberries as well, exhausting my budget at times. Not that I noticed much improvement in my neurological performance but it was logical to think that the brain must be fed well since it was never introduced to the wondrous benefits of salmon and walnuts.  

A young lady came and dug her long, painted nails on the skin of the papaya to check its ripeness while another middle-aged lady walked in and sought to know when the hanging bunch of robust bananas in his stall would ripen. She wanted to know the exact time – in the morning or in the evening tomorrow. He said it would ripen by sunset the next day, without batting an eyelid. What made him so confident was unclear to me but I felt he made a wild guess.  He was no astrologer but such silly queries deserved prompt and silly answers. Surely, the lady would not come back to complain in case the fruit did not ripen within the specified time. In case she did so, he could always blame the bad weather for the lapse. When another customer demanded unripe bananas, he showed the same lot and said two days it would take to turn perfect ripe. His flexible truth changed on based in the need of the customer. Another eye-opener of sorts for me!

If a quarrelsome customer came to return a rotten fruit, he took it calmly and gave a fresh one even though he was sure the customer had not purchased it from him in the past seven days. He built a reputation for exchanging damaged fruits and he fed those to stray animals loitering around his cart. This was commendable as it added to his good deeds. Major irritants that tested his patience were queries on size. Customers always held a fruit in hand and asked for either a bigger one or a slightly smaller one but the one they held was not the ideal size for most customers. He was delighted to see me happy with the first watermelon I had picked up from the basket! Many customers, he said, behaved liked this but he had to stay unruffled as these customers were his source of income. Their word of mouth publicity was the most powerful form of advertising for him. Buyers trusted buyers as they were on the same side and the shopkeeper is the one who would always overcharge or sell inferior items. This was the common perception and many sellers followed such tricks and ruined the prospects of the business community. But he was unlike any of those.

One fine morning I was at his fruit stall, and a customer came smoking. He politely asked him to stub it out or finish smoking and then pick up the fruits of his choice. He did not like a smoker blowing out toxic fumes around his incense sticks and polluting the fruits with nicotine smoke. I was amazed he had the courage to say it to a customer and then I found him least affected when the offended customer walked away without buying anything. He did not mind losing such clients. When I argued that he was standing by the roadside and dust was piling up on the fruits, he pointed at the white cloth curtain meant to save his ware heat and dust and showed me the duster he kept handy to clear the dust from settling down on the fruits. Also, he had a sprinkler bottle ready to spray water on the fruits and keep them fresh for longer.

Interacting with him has been an informative exercise as I now know the kind of buyers one has to accost when one starts doing fruit-selling business. If I set it up, I must know how to handle bargaining pitches. I have seen him calculate the total bill and then voluntarily give a discount before the customer demanded it. In most of the cases, they did not argue because he himself chose to lessen the price so that the customer thought he was not being overcharged. That he did the same with me was effective to turn me into his regular client.

Now he calls me up on certain days he gets fresh fruits and offers me the freedom to open the sealed boxes and take the best pieces home, something these online delivery platforms cannot ensure in terms of quality. Surely, it’s a privilege I cannot resist and I do not mind paying him what he seeks for this special, exclusive privilege– be it apples, oranges, grapes or pomegranates or any other seasonal or delicate fruit. He knows my gentle touch on fruits would not cause any damage, rather worked as a blessing. The joy of unboxing the fruit packs in front of the vendor – using his knife – is an immense delight. Along with his compliment that I am a lucky customer who has brought for him more business, more clients, and more prosperity even though I have done nothing to boost his business. His sense of gratitude reflects in his words and reminds me of how much more I need to thank God for the good and all the good people in my life.

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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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Joseph C. Ogbonna


SHE GOT MY HEART SADDENED 

It’s a rainy day and it’s wet!

There’s a deluge!

A deluge from my almond-shaped glands.

My piercing love notes to you are all drenched

From this flash flood.

It’s torrential and it moves in sweeping proportions.

Proportions that clear everything in sight that

Characterizes the landscape of my own world.

It first took an insidious dimension with your

Disapproving body language, before it deluged

My entire being with your lack of consent to

My persistent advances and pleas for access

To the Mecca of your halcyon heart.
From Public Domain

Joseph C. Ogbonna is a widely published poet from Nigeria. Some of his works are published in magazines, journals, anthologies and in online blogs. He lives in Enugu, Nigeria.

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