Category: Essay

Essay

Christmas that Almost Disappeared!

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date January 14, 2026
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By Farouk Gulsara

Charles Dickens was flying high by 1842. His books, Pickwick Papers and Oliver Twist, and periodicals were selling like hot cakes on both sides of the Atlantic. With so many fans over in America, he decided to pay them a visit. What he saw in the second-largest fan base upset him for two reasons. Firstly, there was the issue of royalty. Publishers in America were printing his work left, right and centre. He received none of the returns due to him. Secondly, he was upset with the level of racism and their cavalier attitude towards slavery, even amongst the northern states.

Dickens could not stomach the dehumanisation of the black Americans. The vocal and expressive writer, who drew his readers to his craft in the first place, wrote in one of his later articles about his trip to America. He did not twist his words when he wrote verbatim in his American travelogues of slaveowners’ advertisements about their runaway slaves. In one of these advertisements, it read, “Ran away, a negro woman and two children; a few days before she went off, I burnt her with a hot iron, on the left side of her face. I tried to make the letter M.”

A few years earlier, Britain had outlawed slavery, so the British felt a bit of moral superiority over the Americans.

The Americans did not take to this kindly. Dickens’ following few publications fared poorly.

Meanwhile, Britain was also changing.

It was industrialising as its Empire ventured far and wide to exotic lands. With that came the increasing gap between the poor and the rich. The poor remained short of money and short of education opportunities. With the development of science, religious belief took a back seat. Catholicism lost its favour. The Puritans were disillusioned with the material world.

The idea of Christmas and family togetherness was losing out. Work took up most of the time. There were no documented Christmas holidays. The ancient midwinter culture of Europeans had lost its lustre. Many of the Christmas iconographies were viewed as pagan in the UK and the US. The Puritans viewed life as hard, and having joy and fun was scorned. A small proportion of people still wanted to revive the spirit of Christmas.

Against this background, Dickens returned home. His following two books received a poor reception from readers. He resumed his social work, helping the marginalised. At that time, the prevailing view in the UK was that poverty was self-inflicted. The society felt that providing aid to the poor was counterproductive; it made them lazy. People deserved to go hungry for producing so many children, and the Malthusian theory that food demand would outstrip supply seemed to be coming true. The 1840s were known as the “hungry 40s.” Famine was looming.

Yet another layer of population, the reformists, took it upon themselves to help the downtrodden. Dickens was one of those souls. In Manchester, after giving an emotional lecture at a fundraiser to feed and educate poor children, he went for one of his famous long walks.

As he walked the streets, an idea struck him. He visualised a man who had lost all his compassion and had to be jolted back into a complete sense of his humanity. The story helped rebuild Christmas and the compassion that had been lost over the years. The rest, as they say, is history. A Christmas Carol reformed Victorian Britain.

Reference:

From Journey Through Time: 59. A Christmas Carol: The Book That Brought Back Christmas (Ep 1), 25 Dec 2025. Podcast

Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.

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Tags A Christmas Carol, America, Atlantic, Britain, British, Catholicism, Charles Dickens, Christmas, Empire, Farouk Gulsara, Malthusian theory, Manchester, Pickwick Papers, Puritans, Rifle Range Boy, Victorian

Essay

The Untold Stories of a Wooden Suitcase

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date January 14, 2026
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By Larry S. Su

On the first day of college in today’s China, train stations and campuses unfold like a modern spectacle. Students step off high-speed trains, wheeling sleek polycarbonate suitcases or expandable fabric cases, an impressive display of China’s transformation and prosperity—worlds apart from the scene when I started college in the 1980s. Back then, students from the countryside, like me, arrived weighed down by clumsy, hand-built wooden suitcases—boxy, awkward, sometimes nailed shut or painted over in dull brown or red. Despite their lack of style and ease, these suitcases held far more than just clothes and books. They carried the weight of individual and family expectations, sacrifices, and the deep conviction that education was the key to a better life.

I was admitted to college in 1983, just six years after China resumed its national college entrance exam, which was halted during the Cultural Revolution from 1966 to 1976. For an entire decade, higher education had vanished like a dream interrupted. When it returned, it did so with urgency and hope. Admission rates hovered in the single digits, and every name on the list felt like someone hitting the million-dollar jackpot.

In my village of 150, tucked between dry hills and narrow paths, I was the first to make it to college. The news spread like wildfire down the dusty lanes, from the threshing fields to the courtyard kitchens. Old friends came by to shake my father’s hand. My mother quietly wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. For families who had known only toil, harvests, and ration coupons, the word college opened the door of paradise.

For years, we had lived under the gaze of quiet scorn of certain snobbish and well-off villagers. Our poverty was visible in our patched clothes, our sunburnt skin, and our empty grain jars. Other villagers had watched us with indifference or pity. Now my college admission lifted my family’s status in a way nothing else could. I was no longer just a poor farmer’s son; I was a future cadre, or ganbu, with a guaranteed salary, a ration book, and an iron rice bowl that would never crack. No one else in the village had ever crossed that threshold.

For more than a decade, my family had invested everything—hope, sacrifice, and a few Yuan they could scrounge into my education. On days when the journey felt too long or the hunger too loud, they were the ones who kept me going. I remember one winter during high school when I was short of just one dollar of my tuition. My homeroom teacher, stern and unmoved, made me walk five miles home and warned me not to return without the full sum. My parents went from house to house in the village, humbly pleading for a small loan just for a week or two. Most turned them away, murmuring about their own hardships, but a few, out of pity or quiet admiration, handed over a Yuan or two. By late afternoon, the small offerings had added up. I returned to school at dusk, the cold wind at my back and the full tuition folded carefully in my coat pocket. This incident, instead of shaming and destroying me, further strengthened my conviction that no matter what price my family and I had to pay, I would go to college.

To prepare for my departure to college, my father did something he had never done before. He hired a carpenter from a neighboring village to build a wooden suitcase. It was a costly decision, one that must have weighed heavily on him. We were truly poor. There were days when even salt felt like a luxury, when my siblings and I wore the same mended clothes year-round, and when my mother bartered eggs for school supplies. When unused, our tattered clothes were wrapped in a faded cloth, stored in the corner of the kang, our raised earthen bed connected with the earthen stove.

To have a suitcase made, father first had to find wood for the suitcase. The lumber did not come from a store, nor from a tidy stack delivered by truck, but from the raw ribs of the mountains five miles away, remote, rugged, and indifferent to human need. It was hewn not with ease, but through toil born of necessity, from a land where poverty pressed against every doorstep like a hungry wolf.

In the villages near the foot of those mountains, the stooped peasants in worn jackets would venture up the steep trails in search of timber, not for craft, not for trade, but for survival. When harvests failed or granaries stood bare, they turned to the forest as their last resort. Trees were cut and sold in the black market for bread. A good haul of wood might mean a sack of corn to keep a family fed for another week.

But obtaining the wood was no simple act. The journey was long and unforgiving. They would rise before dawn, axes slung over their shoulders, climbing through thickets and boulder-strewn paths, deep into the mountain’s silence. There amid the mist and the call of unseen birds, they would fell the chosen trees, their sweat mingling with sap and soil. Because it was illegal to cut down the trees, the peasants had to keep alert not to be spotted by the forestry workers who, though sparse in number, might show up on the roadside, so they often chose dark evenings to carry the lumber home.

The return was even harder. The logs, heavy with sap and sorrow, pressed into their backs. When the burden became too great for one person, they’d cut the timber into several smaller chunks, but even then, each required the strength of two men to carry. They would strap it to a thick bamboo pole pressured on their shoulders like a yoke of hardship.

Then the carpenter had to be hired.

In the last century, craftsmen were highly revered, especially in rural areas. A person with a particular skill was often treated as an honoured guest. As a result, there were many craftsmen at the time, covering every trade such as stonemasons, carpenters, roof tilers, lathe workers, scale makers, locksmiths, blacksmiths, and so on.

Most rural carpenters didn’t have a permanent workshop. Instead they traveled from home to home, carrying a heavy tool chest on a shoulder pole, often walking long distances between villages. A carpenter might spend days or weeks at a client’s home, eating and sleeping there, crafting everything from furniture to roof beams.

Electricity was rare in villages, so all labour was done by hand. Precision was essential; there was no room for error, and the quality of joints, mortises, and finishes distinguished a true master even though the tools they used were heavy and primitive such as chisels, hand planes, ink markers, hand saws, clamps, files, oiling pads, and so on.

The carpenter my father hired was an elderly man clad in a worn-out black shirt. He exuded the quiet dignity of a lifetime spent in manual labor. His silver hair was cropped neatly, and his glasses rested securely on his nose, an emblem of careful, measured craftsmanship. Every detail of his posture spoke of experience: His back slightly hunched in concentration, his grip firm yet practiced, and his face calm but focused as he drove a wooden peg into place with a mallet. His labour, a simple wooden suitcase for college, was held together by mortise and tenon joints. Tools lay scattered around him, not as clutter, but as trusted companions making rhythmic movements guided by repetition, trial, and intuition.

It took him a few days to prepare the timber and to complete the suitcase. It was crafted from elm with a thick lid and slightly raised base. It was built to survive train rides, jostling, and years of storage in dormitories or small rented rooms. He used metal corners and hinges, often made of blackened or rust-resistant steel, to reinforce its solidity. He fixed a metal lock plate to the front where I would attach a small padlock. The box rested on a slightly elevated base, not decorative but practical, to prevent moisture from seeping up through concrete or earthen floors. The inside was unlined, raw wood, rough to touch. It was rectangular and boxy, about 70 cm long, 40 cm wide, 40 cm high, and weighed over 10 kilograms when empty.

When the suitcase was completed, my father carried it on his shoulder to a village a few miles away to have it painted by a painter. Being a painter in rural China in the 1980s was a life marked by ingenuity, hardship, and quiet artistry. While cities were beginning to modernise and reform under Deng Xiaoping’s opening-up policies, the countryside remained largely poor and traditional. In that setting, rural painters were admired for their skill, often called mister, xiansheng, or master, shifu, yet they were rarely paid well. Their payment might be in kind—a few eggs, a meal, or a bag of grain. Many painters did manual labor or farming to survive.

These rural painters, to be sure, are not professional artists painting landscapes or portraits for galleries. They were locally recognised for their talent in New Year prints, nianhua, paper cuttings, or village murals. They painted gods, animals, good luck symbols, or local mythologies on temple walls or household altars; they also painted shop names, price boards, wedding banners, walls, furniture, doors, and coffins.

As bleak and barren as the region often felt, the village painters still found ways to infuse life with colour and meaning. With brushes dipped in leftover paint and hope, they adorned rough wooden furniture with scenes that reached beyond hardship. Floral patterns bloomed across cabinet doors. On headboards and chests, magpies took flight, dragons curled in motion, and phoenixes danced in pairs, each stroke a whisper of good fortune, power, or harmony.

The painter who adorned my suitcase turned a rough wooden box into something radiant, almost otherworldly. He coated it in a deep, lacquered red, and on its front panel, he conjured a scene of quiet enchantment: A still pond cradled by green reeds, golden fish drifting in lazy arcs beneath the surface, and birds poised on willow branches, their beaks open in mid-song as if singing to the silence. It was a landscape none of us had ever truly seen, except in schoolbooks or village tales whispered under oil lamps.

When my father brought the suitcase home days later, the sun hit its polished surface and sent a soft glow across the dusty courtyard. The red shimmered like embers, the painted water seemed to ripple in the light, and for a brief moment, the box did not look like something made for travel, but for reverence. It felt as though something sacred had entered our home, something beautiful and too delicate for hands weathered by fieldwork and ash. For most peasant families in the 1980s, such a thing was unthinkable, a luxury far beyond reach.

The day I left for college arrived under a weeping sky. Rain had fallen for weeks without pause soaking the hills and fields. The autumn wheat sowing, so crucial to the coming year’s harvest, had been delayed again and again, the absorbed fields swallowing the farmers’ footsteps as if resenting their labor. The dirt roads had turned into narrow canals of mud, where every step threatened to pull a shoe clean off your foot and suck it into the earth, but that morning there was no time to think of planting. I was to leave for college, six miles from the train station. We had no way to get there but on foot.

Everything I would need for the new life: My quilt and bedding, summer shirts and padded winter coat, two pairs of shoes, a few notebooks, and my admission documents, were packed neatly into the lacquered wooden suitcase, now wrapped tightly in sheets of plastic sliced from emptied fertilizer bags. The suitcase was too large and heavy to carry alone. No buses ran from our village to town; no donkey cart would dare the mire. My elder brother and I did what necessity demanded: We slid a bamboo pole through the knots tying the box, hoisted it between us, and prepared to carry it to the station in the rain.

Father rose early that morning, long before the faintest hint of light broke through the slate sky. He cut two makeshift raincoats for us from the same plastic sheeting, covering them loosely around our shoulders. They rustled with every movement, thin as cellophane, barely enough to keep the water out. For himself, he wore nothing. There was no extra plastic, and we had never owned an umbrella. He insisted on walking part of the way with us.

His cloth jacket was already damp before we reached the edge of the village, his cotton shoes dark with moisture, but he showed no sign of discomfort. He walked beside us quietly, his eyes fixed not on the muddy road but on the box, on the sum of so many sacrifices, so much hope, now swaying with each step as we bore it forward. Eventually, he stopped and said he would go no farther. “It’s your journey now,” he said simply.

It took close to three hours for my brother and me to carry the suitcase to the train station. It rode with me for seven hours to my college. It was indeed a prized possession handcrafted with care, a costly item that had occupied an honoured place in our home, but within days of arriving on campus, my affection for the suitcase began to falter. What once felt like a treasure now felt like a burden, heavy not just in weight, but in meaning. It stood there beside the dormitory beds, squat and old-fashioned, its lacquered wood and painted pond strangely out of place among the glossy synthetic trunks or sleek leather cases of my classmates who came from cities. Its sturdy bulk, once a symbol of care and craftsmanship, now seemed to shout my difference in the echoing corridors.

I had already felt the sting of dislocation—my homemade shirts hung too loosely, my accent turned heads for the wrong reasons, and my soles were so thin I could feel the gravel beneath them. The suitcase, with its rural weight and painted dreams, added another layer to my growing unease.

I dreaded the glances and the unspoken judgments. Would they smirk at the rough wood, the iron clasps, and the makeshift lock? Would the women in our class notice it when they visited our dorm? I imagined whispers, sideways glances, and quiet laughter. The suitcase suddenly seemed not like a carrier of dreams but of shame. It was a marker of poverty, of distance, and of the village accent still in my voice and the callouses still on my palms.

I tried to silence that shame by reminding myself what the suitcase had cost my family not just in money, but in care, pride, and hope. And yet despite my best efforts, a quiet sense of isolation would creep in, uninvited. I told myself to be grateful. Still, beneath gratitude lived an ache: The fear that no matter how far I had come, I would never truly belong.

In graduate school, my relationship with the old wooden suitcase quietly shifted. By then, I was no longer the anxious, self-conscious undergraduate who feared that the worn, bulky trunk might betray my rural background. I was now one of four graduate students sharing a cleaner and bigger dormitory room, markedly better than the ones assigned to undergraduates. The simple fact that I had made it to graduate school granted me a certain dignity and status, something visible in the way others addressed me and in the quiet respect I began to feel in myself. With that change came a subtle emotional distance from the suitcase that had once embarrassed me. It no longer defined me.

I began to see the suitcase not as a social burden but merely as a functional storage box. Its outdatedness did not offend me. I no longer examined it with self-doubt or compared it with others’ modern luggage. It just sat in a corner, silent and sturdy, holding things I didn’t need every day. I had more important things to think about: coursework, research, passion in literature, and my future beyond campus. The emotional weight the suitcase had once carried of family expectations, inferiority, and identity began to loosen its grip. I stopped resenting it. I told myself it was old-fashioned and coming from a different era, but I was now moving beyond it. I believed, with growing confidence, that better things lay ahead: lighter luggage, freer choices, and a life not weighed down by symbols of poverty but propelled by the quiet strength and sacrifice that wooden box had always represented.

By the time I became a university faculty member, my relationship with the old wooden suitcase had become almost purely practical, stripped of the emotional charge it once held. I shared a dorm room with only one colleague, a considerable upgrade from the four-person graduate setup, and my financial situation had improved dramatically. I could now buy what I wanted like new clothes, books, even a suitcase in any style or color. If I had wanted to replace the wooden trunk with a sleek, fashionable one, I could have done it without a second thought. But I didn’t. I had reached a point in life where I no longer needed to prove anything through objects. I had become what I once dreamed of becoming: A university professor.

After I got married in 1992, my relationship with the old wooden suitcase entered its final, quiet stage. As my wife and I began setting up our new home, one of our first major purchases was a large modular furniture set made up of three sections. The middle part held our television and decorative items, while the tall cabinets on either side were designed for hanging clothes and storing household essentials. It was modern, elegant, and capacious, a clear symbol of how far I had come. The suitcase, once essential, now served no practical function. I placed it in the deep corner of the closet. Its role in my life had come to a quiet close.

Though the suitcase now rests on a shelf, its meaning and the stories it carries remain alive. Remembering it brings back the life my father and his generation endured. My father was born in 1938. When I entered college in 1983, he was 45, supporting a wife and five children, the youngest only seven. By the time I finished graduate school in 1990, he was 52, still living a hard life. I could send home a few hundred to a few thousand Yuan for seeds, fertiliser, or wedding gifts—small relief for him, though never enough. From 1990 to 1997, as a university faculty member in China, I sent as much as I could; life was still tough for him, but at least the family had enough to eat.

When I left for the United States in 1997 to pursue further studies, I lived on assistantships and could send nothing home. I knew they had food but still struggled to afford the most basic supplies. In 2004, when I secured a full-time, tenure-track professorship in an American college, I began sending money regularly. Three years later, in 2007, my father died at 69. I could not return for his funeral, but I sent enough to cover all expenses. I wanted him to be buried with dignity, for without him, there would be no educated professor named me.

Remembering the suitcase, I cannot help but think of my father and the sacrifices he made so I could become educated. He remains an unending source of inspiration. His stance toward life, his defiance in the face of hunger and humiliation, and his resilience against the weight of helplessness guide me every day. The hardships I have endured—four years of boarding school sustained by meagre food brought from home, the inability to pay even a few dollars of tuition, the shame of wearing threadbare clothes in public, and over a decade of isolation from my family while living in a foreign land—are nothing compared to what he faced. Because of him, I have always found the strength to forge ahead no matter the obstacles, carrying in my mind the unwavering gaze of my father as if to say, “If I could do it, so can you.”

Now, at sixty, I have reached an age when I can slow my pace and begin to savour life. How different my days are from those of my father! As a professor at an American institution of higher learning, I can say without hesitation that I have lived my American dream. I am well-fed, well-clothed, and surrounded by all I need. When I buy food, it is not merely to stave off hunger; I choose wholesome meats, fresh vegetables, and ripe fruits—luxuries compared to the corn, potatoes, and sweet potatoes on which my father and his family relied for more than a decade. For him, the simple gift of wheat bread once a day would have been a source of deep contentment. My clothing, too, tells the story of this contrast: Nike shoes, Ralph Lauren shirts, Banana Republic trousers, each item costing enough to feed my father’s household for half a year or more.

In addition, I have the luxury of traveling internationally. Between the ages of fifty-four and sixty, I have visited France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Austria, Hungary, Monaco, the Czech Republic, the United Kingdom, Spain, Portugal, and Turkey. I can say, without boasting, that I have walked the streets of distant lands, savoured their foods, immersed myself in their cultures, and broadened both my horizons and my perspective.

The contrast with my father’s life could not be starker. For most of his years, his movements were limited to the fields near home. Occasionally, he traveled three miles to the rural market to sell produce or buy supplies, and only rarely journeyed twelve miles to the county township to exchange goods for cash. Never did he have the luxury of dining out, attending a show, or taking a day off from the relentless toil of farm life. Seen in this light, that simple wooden suitcase of his era captures the noble, heroic, and sacrificial spirit of my father and of an entire generation.

Unless someone has lived through such hardships, it is hard to grasp how unforgiving life can be for some. I tell the stories of my school years to my son constantly, and I never fail to mention the wooden suitcase, a thing he has never seen. We brought him to the United States when he was close to five. He never experienced the life of my father’s generation, or even mine. Growing up in one of the richest and most powerful countries in the world, he naturally takes much for granted, and I do not blame him.

Our purpose in coming here was to create a better life for him and for us. On the first day of college in the fall of 2014, my wife and I packed all his necessities into our Honda CR-V and drove him to Northwestern University. He needed no suitcase, certainly not a cumbersome wooden one, yet he never forgot the stories I had told him about my wooden suitcase or the depth of its significance for my family and my generation.

He made the most of his college years, graduating in 2018 with a double major in statistics and economics, fully prepared for the career he now has at a Fortune 500 company. In this way, hardships and difficult journeys become wells that nourish the mind and soul of the next generation. And the stories of the suitcase, like a quiet legacy, will continue to inspire his children and his children’s children.

The wooden suitcase that traveled with me from 1983 to 1992 is far more than a piece of luggage; it is a vessel of hope, a keeper of dreams, and a silent witness to the shifting tides of my family’s life. Built and painted by calloused hands in lean years, it carries not only my possessions but also the love, expectations, and unspoken sacrifices of my family, especially my father. For those of us from villages along dusty roads, such a suitcase embodies the weight of our origins and the transformations we endured. Over time, its meaning deepens. It comes to represent not only my personal journey but also the shared story of a generation of rural college students who, rising from poverty, saw their futures irrevocably changed by the power of education. It also stands as a tribute to the previous generation, who gave everything so their children might leave the parched soil behind and begin anew in the cities. Even now, the worn corners of these wooden suitcases seem to murmur stories of struggle, resilience, transformation, and gratitude—tales not only of my own life, but also of a family, a village, and a nation in motion.

Larry S. Su has been a professor of literature and writing for the past thirty years. He has also been a passionate reader and ardent writer since college. He writes both in Chinese and English, and his writings have appeared extensively in the Chinese and English publications, mostly in the form of articles and essays.

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Essay

A Place to Remember

By Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia

It all began in the cold, uncertain days of early January 2025. I was in Tokyo, at Odaiba Beach with one of my closest friends, the icy water soaking our feet. It was bitterly cold, the wind merciless, but our love for the ocean pulled us in. We agreed to dip our feet into the sea, just for a few fleeting seconds. The water stung like needles, yet nothing stopped us from laughing, from enjoying the moment, from playing in the waves like children.

New Year had passed only a few days earlier. We were exhausted from celebrations, worn down by sleepless nights, just as we had been throughout last December. Still, that day felt different. It was the first time my best friend and I had reunited together in the Land of the Rising Sun. Back in Madagascar ten years earlier, we used to dream endlessly about Japan, whispering plans and wishes into the air as if they might someday carry us across the sea. And now here we were together in the country we once imagined only from afar.

I call her ‘Tsu Nami’, not her real name but the one she chose for herself. Her true name means waves in English, yet everyone calls her by her alias. We had known each other for years, but I never asked why she chose that name. Sometimes she said it held both serenity and ruin, as if calm and chaos lived inside her simultaneously. I never truly understood it then.

We spoke for hours that day, about life in Japan, the challenges, the bright moments, the ups and downs of living far from home. We were alike in many ways: two souls far from family and homeland yet living in a country we dearly loved. Life alone in a foreign place is thrilling, but also painfully heavy. She confessed the struggles that had pulled her toward depression, and I encouraged her as much as I could, reminding her of her strength, telling her that not everything deserved her energy.

We filmed silly videos, screamed with laughter, and let the waves numb our feet. Deep in the heart of winter, frozen to the bone, she suddenly asked if I knew how to swim. I said maybe, maybe yes, maybe no. I used to swim as a child, but I no longer knew if I still could. I told her I dreamed of surfing someday. She smiled and said it would be incredible if we could surf together in summer. We come from a warm island paradise where surfing is possible, yet neither of us had ever tried it.

Time slipped through my fingers like sand, and I only realised when spring whispered its gentle arrival. Somewhere along the way, I crossed paths with someone extraordinary, a girl from India, whom I will call A. We would see each other occasionally around the campus, studying in the same university, though in different fields. We first met in the early autumn, when the air was neither hot nor cold during a cultural exchange event.

A. seemed cold and distant; when I politely asked for her SNS contact, she answered in a sharp tone. By nature, I am sociable yet quietly reserved, someone who loves meeting new people and treasures cultural exchange, but my introverted side pulls me back, holding me at a distance like an invisible thread. However, A. is the opposite of me. She is entirely extroverted. And yet, something about her fascinated me, an aura of maturity, strength, reliability. Slowly our conversations grew, and the more time I spent with her, the more I cherished her presence. I never would have imagined she would become one of my dearest friends.

A. was warm, kind, and endlessly sociable, the type of person who knows almost everyone in the neighborhood. She understood my introversion, but she never stopped inviting me into her world. She took me along to events, introduced me to people, pushed me gently outside my comfort zone. She wanted me to live, not merely breathe.

Soon winter was coming to an end, and our friends organised a farewell party for A, who had completed her studies and was returning to India. The atmosphere was warm and lively, with music, laughter, and bittersweet goodbyes. It was there that I met J, a friendly and curious soul from Sri Lanka. He became the first person who ever asked so many thoughtful questions about my country, so many that sometimes I did not know how to answer. As we talked, I learned he loved water sports, especially surfing. And when he whispered the word surf, something inside me ignited. I felt the warmth of summer already, I imagined myself riding waves for the first time.

That day, I told Tsu Nami to visit me during summer break, that I had found someone who could teach us how to surf. She was thrilled. Together, we counted the days impatiently. And then July arrived, our university classes ended, and at last we were free. We went to the beach with J.

J. had lived in Japan for years and knew every hidden corner of our prefecture from quiet paths to secret places untouched by crowds. We asked him where the most beautiful beach was. He laughed and said there was not a perfect one here, not the kind you see in postcards, but there were places where the waves were strong and alive, perfect for learning to surf. So, we followed him, nervous and excited, ready to feel the ocean breathe through us.

It was our first surfing lesson, both for me and for Tsu Nami. The evening sun melted the sky into gold, the air warm but soft. Because of a physical issue, I could not surf that day, so Tsu Nami began first. She could not even swim, yet she stepped forward with fearless determination. J. taught her patiently, movement by movement. And in a surprisingly short time, she stood on the board, shaky, unsteady, but still, standing. Minutes later, she balanced perfectly, rising like a wave itself. I recorded it all, my heart glowing with pride. Even though I could not surf that day, I found joy at the shoreline, soaking my feet, screaming with laughter, recording moments I wanted to keep forever.

A few weeks later, I returned with J, but this time without Tsu Nami. She had returned to Madagascar, and her absence echoed through the sound of the waves. I missed her deeply. Yet something inside me trembled with excitement, my turn had finally come.

J. guided me gently, step by step. After a few minutes, I managed to stand on the board, unstable, but still balancing. I fell countless times, swallowed by the waves, but each fall made me rise stronger. The ocean roared like encouragement, whispering: ‘Again. Don’t stop’. I felt alive, truly alive.

A few days later, we went back to the beach again. The sky stretched above us, and the sea sparkled under the sun. Sometimes the waves were too calm to surf, so we simply floated on our boards, talking and laughing.

J. reminded me of a kind uncle, joyful, supportive, and gentle. He told stories about his country that made me laugh until my stomach hurt. J even told me, laughing, that some Japanese people go surfing eveninwinter, when the water is freezing and the wind feels like knives. I stared at him in disbelief, wondering how anyone could survive that kind of cold. He just smiled and said, ‘That’s the real surfing spirit!’ I could not help but burst into laughter, imagining myself turning into an ice statue somewhere in the middle of the ocean.

The ocean has long felt like the place where I truly belong. Every vacation in my homeland, I choose destinations where the beach is close enough to hear the waves. The sea clears my head, softens the storms inside me, and gently repairs the pieces of my heart. Standing at the shoreline, I can breathe again. It is more than just water and waves; it is where I find restoration.

Whenever I walk along the coast or step onto a surfboard, something inside me wakes up, the weight in my chest lifts, and my thoughts begin to move freely. Ideas return, like the tide rolling in, and I remember why I want to write, create, and keep moving forward. There were days when depression felt like weather that would never clear, but the sea gave me solace. It held me together when I thought I was coming apart. Its steady murmur softened the noise in my head, and each wave seemed to lift a little of the heaviness I could not carry by myself.

I cherished every moment of that summer, every surfing lesson, every fall, every laugh. That summer became another precious memory in the Land of the Rising Sun. The beach gave me peace, and a place where my soul felt at home. Now December is here, winter tightens its grip, and the warmth of that summer feels like a distant echo. But the ocean remains, waiting. The beach will always be a place to remember.

Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia is from Madagascar and is currently studying in Japan as a trainee student. She enjoys reading, writing, listening to music, and traveling to explore new cultures.

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Tags India, Japan, Madagascar, Odaiba Beach, Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia, Sri Lanka, Tokyo

Essay

The Last of the Barbers: How the Saloon Became the Salon (and Where the Gossip Went)

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date January 14, 2026
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By Charudutta Panigrahi

If language were a haircut, “saloon” got a buzz cut and a blow-dry and came out as “salon.” That change in spelling is the visible tip of a larger style transformation: one rough, male-only ritual space has been trimmed, straightened, scented and repackaged into a gleaming, multi-service, mostly woman-centred retail experience. Along the way, the loud, fragrant, argument-heavy mini-parliaments of small-town India — the saloons — have been politely ushered into warranties, playlists and polite small talk.

Barbers in India are almost as old as conversation itself. The profession of the barber — the nai or hajam — is embedded in pre-colonial life: scalp massage (champi), shaves, tonsure at rites of passage, and quick fixes between chores. These services were usually delivered in open-fronted shops or under trees, with tools that were portable and livelihoods that were local.

The “saloon” as a distinctive, Western-flavoured, male gathering place began to consolidate during the 19th and early 20th centuries. Port cities and colonial cantonments — Bombay (Mumbai), Calcutta (Kolkata), Madras (Chennai) — saw the rise of dedicated shops selling not only shaves and haircuts but also imported tonics, straight razors and a distinctly public atmosphere shaped by newspaper reading, debate and gossip. Over time, that form blended with older local practices and spread inland. By the mid-20th century, the saloon — a recognisable, chair-lined, mirror-fronted social stage — existed in towns from Kashmir to Kanyakumari and from Gujarat’s chawls to Assam’s market roads.

So ancient barbering traditions fed into a colonial-era intensification of the barbershop as public forum; by the 1950s–70s, the saloon as we remember it was firmly a part of India’s social furniture. The precise start date is a quilt of custom and commerce rather than a single founding ceremony — and that is part of the saloon’s charm.

Walk into a saloon in Nagpur, Nellore, Shillong or Surat and you’ll notice an uncanny resemblance. The reasons are simple and human:

Low price point: Saloons survive on quick volumes and walk-ins. That encourages many chairs, fast turnover, and layouts that invite waiting men to talk rather than sit quietly.
Ritual services: Shave, cut, champi. These are short encounters that thread customers through the same communal space repeatedly — ideal for gossip to collect and ferment.
Social role: The barber doubles as ear, counsellor, news-disseminator and crossword referee. That role is culturally consistent across regions: a saloon’s psychic geography is the same whether the tea is masala or lemon.

The result is that a saloon in Kutch and a saloon in Kerala will differ in language, politics and local jokes — but both will produce that same satisfying racket of opinion, repartee and advice. They are India’s unofficial, peripatetic fora for public life.

Enter the salon: padded seats, curated playlists, appointment-booking and a menu so long it reads like a restaurant wine list (colour, rebonding, keratin, facials, pedicures, threading, and sometimes a minor festival of LED lights). A couple of business realities did most of the heavy lifting:

Women’s services earn more and recur more often. Regular facials, hair treatments and beauty routines translate into steadier, higher bills. The money follows the customer, and the space follows the money.
Franchising and professional training created standardized staff who follow brand scripts — which tighten conversation and reduce the barber-confessor vibe.
Unisex salons consolidated footfall, but that consolidation shrank male-only territory. Men who once had a semi-public living room now sit in chic, quieter spaces that discourage loud, extended debate.

The practical upshot: the saloon’s boisterous mini-parliaments were replaced by stylists with laminated menus, muted background music and an etiquette that favours privacy over political salvoes.

What we miss (and what we gained)

We miss the moralisers, the wisecracks, the boisterous consultancy of unpaid experts who knew which councillor was friendly with which shopkeeper and which wedding was scandalous; the loud education in rhetoric and local affairs; the bench-seat apprenticeship in how to perform masculinity in public.

We gain in expanded choices for women, more professional hygiene and techniques, new livelihoods for trained stylists (especially women), and spaces where people can pursue personalised care without the social cost that used to attend public rituals.

It’s not a zero-sum game — but it does reorder who feels proprietorial about public grooming spaces. The new economics say: she who pays more — and pays more often — gets the say.

Not all saloons are extinct. In smaller towns they still hum. In cities, they’ve evolved into hybrid forms:

Old-school saloons persist where price sensitivity and cultural habit remain strong: walk-ins, communal benches, loud conversation and a barber who’ll recommend both a haircut and the correct candidate for local office.
Nostalgic barbershops in urban pockets lean into the past with “vintage” decor, whiskey-bar vibes and sports on TV — except now they charge a premium and call the barber a “grooming specialist.”
Some entrepreneurs stage “men’s nights” or open-mic gossip hours in neighbourhood shops, trying to recapture the civic pulse while keeping the modern business model.

If you want the old saloon spark, look for places without appointment apps, with too many phones in sight but none in use, and with a tea flask on the counter.

What’s lost isn’t only a loud, male-only gossip pit; it’s a training ground for public argument and a place where local memory was kept live and messy. The saloon taught people how to spar without a referee; the salon teaches how to look good while being politely neutral. If you mourn for the saloon’s barbed banter, you can grieve — but also take action: host a “Salon for Men” in your local café, revive a community noticeboard at the barber, or convince your neighbourhood salon to schedule a weekly “open-chair” hour for community talk (and maybe offer tea).

And until then, if you miss the salty, pungent chorus of small-town democracy, go to any saloon that still has a kettle on the stove and a barber who knows the mayor’s schedule by heart. Sit down, get a shave, and watch a mini-parliament assemble around you. You’ll leave clean-faced, better informed, and maybe a little animated — exactly how democracy used to feel.

Charudutta Panigrahi is a writer. He can be contacted at Charudutta403@gmail.com.

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Tags Assam, Bombay, Calcutta, Charudutta Panigrahi, Chennai, Gejarat, India, Kanyakumari, Kashmir, Kolkata, Madras, Mumbai, Nagpur, Nellore, Shillong, Surat

Essay

250 Years of Jane Austen: A Tribute by Meenakshi Malhotra

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 15, 2025
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It is a truth almost universally acknowledged that Jane Austen is a great writer. The world created by her in just six novels continues to regale generations of readers with tales of love, marriage and money, a sentiment which would be reiterated by substantial numbers of her fans all over the globe. We could well echo Evelyn Waugh on the comic writer P. G. Wodehouse: that his (Wodehouse’s) inimitable world could never grow stale….that he has made a world for us (readers) to live in and delight in…

Jane Austen(1775-1817) has acquired a kind of cult status in the last couple of centuries. Such is her reputation that it has helped birth a veritable Jane Austen industry, replete with museums, memorabilia and mementos. There have been numerous novels and films inspired by Pride and Prejudice and Emma and many films (and remakes and adaptations) based on her novels.

16 December 2025 marks her 250th birth anniversary. Many museums in the UK and the USA have showcased exhibits which give viewers delightful glimpses into her life and writing. Her novels, full of wit and satire, provide an insightful commentary on the social hierarchies, as well as the quirks and oddities of her milieu.Their plots and themes are woven around women and the necessity of marriage, money and the determining power of money.With considerable irony and subtlety, she turns the mirror on how manners are a function of morality and good sense and not just a matter of appearances. Rarely didactic or preachy(with Mansfield Park as the only exception), her novels convey in perfectly nuanced and measured prose, how difficult and crucial it is for women to find the right spouse and space.

As the youngest daughter of a poor clergyman, mostly educated at home, Jane Austen was well aware of the value of an independent income and a home of their own. After the death of her father, she, her sister Cassandra and mother, rather like the Dashwood women in her novel Sense and Sensibility, had to move around as they were dependant on the financial support of her brothers, especially her wealthy brother, Edward. The pain of this unequal fortune and frequent shifts, which Jane and her sister Cassandra may have experienced, is expressed by Elinor and Marianne in the novel where they have to practice small economies and learn to scale their expectations according to their situation.

Austen led a largely sheltered and sequestered existence, surrounded by her family, bound to family duties which “might have been the more expected of a dependent spinster aunt such as she was.”[1] Many intelligent women, like Charlotte Lucas, Elizabeth Bennett’s friend in Pride and Prejudice are shown to accept inferior matches to escape from spinsterhood and the expectations of their natal families. The absence of livelihood opportunities for women in her day and the lack of any income of her own would have proved irksome to Austen and provided her with a further impetus to “write her way into some money,” as she wrote in a letter to her brother, Captain Francis Austen, in July 1813. Further, in another letter to her niece Fanny Knight, she writes that “single women have the propensity to be poor which is one very strong inducement for women to marry.”

Her novels often do not always reveal the full measure of Jane Austen’s remarkable achievement: how she, constrained by genteel poverty, “the lack of a room of her own”, and writing materials which had to be put away often to attend to obligatory family commitments, wrote her novels based on such close observation of, and acute insight into contemporary life. Her eye for detail is such that it invites frequent references to her own words: “A little bit of ivory, two inches wide, on which I work with a brush so fine as to produce little effect after much labour.” This modest disclaimer and “little effect” have, however, fascinated generations of readers and inspired hosts of writers.

That Jane Austen’s 250th anniversary is being celebrated and commemorated all over the English-speaking world perhaps comes as no surprise but it still leaves us with some questions. What is the relevance of her novels now? Are her novels relevant to present-day political realities, in addition to their astute observations on graded social hierarchies? Can we view her as a feminist? Does she merit inclusion and study in universities of the global south at a time when there is a strong drive to decolonise English, the language of the erstwhile colonial masters?

In her book Jane Austen: The Secret Radical, Helena Kelly writes of the subversive and radical potential and intent of Jane Austen’s novels. Kelly goes a step beyond Marilyn Butler’s 1987 Jane Austen and the War of Ideas that had suggested that Austen leaned on the conservative Burkean side when challenged by new-fangled Jacobinism with its ideas of equality and brotherhood, coming from France which disturbed hierarchies, ideas and values long held to be sacrosanct in traditional English society. Kelly suggests that far from being conservative, insulated from contemporary political concerns, Jane Austen held radical and possibly subversive views which she did not express openly but which are clearly configured in the world of her novels. In doing so, she made the novel a meaningful art-form and a vehicle for the expression of ideas around love, marriage and additionally also of debates on slavery, female education and emancipation.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in the want of a wife.”[2] This famous ironic opening sentence of Austen’s has captured attention and elicited many critical commentaries. It’s a brilliant masterstroke where Austen underlines the mindset of young women and their anxious mothers on the lookout for eligible bachelors. Articulated like a truism, it seeks to facetiously universalise a partial truth. The omniscient authorial tone and tenor encompasses the dominant themes of Pride and Prejudice in the opening statement itself. Marriage, women’s responses, men’s reactions, social rank and wealth — all the principal subjects of Austen’s writing are near universal themes. In her novels, Austen communicates the constraints within which women function and the limited or literally the only ‘choice’ available to them. Having experienced financial instability and economic dependence, she had a clear understanding of the constraints experienced by women in early nineteenth-century England.

The happy ending that we see where Elizabeth Benett indeed becomes “mistress of Pemberley” symbolises the moment when some women, having acquired a certain status, become custodians of the home and the private sphere. Some feminist historians like Gerda Lerner, however, have pin-pointed this moment as one where the economic marginalisation of women is complete, in the aftermath of the Industrial Revolution, and they are pushed back from the public sphere.

Even as women were participating in print culture and taking their place as readers and writers, they were increasingly relegated to the private sphere. The tendency to relegate women to the private sphere and making them responsible for the entire range of domestic tasks of nurturing and care-giving and thereby sustaining the edifice of domestic life is something that persists even now. The fact is that women’s participation in the paid economy and public sphere has added to their ‘double’ burden in the 21^st century.

Many critical voices have pointed out that Jane Austen’s writings do not directly mention the political situation, philosophical debates or religious discourses of the day centering on questions of social equality, justice, economic questions or the rights of man. Yet her fine crafted depiction of socio-economic relations, the dynamics of human relationships shaped and moulded by the struggle for wealth or power or status exposes the political reality, social hierarchy and the economic structure in society which shaped and informed all social transactions.

While the position of women may have improved in some spheres, there are still glaring gaps when it comes to women’s access to equality or justice. Changes in the last two centuries have gone beyond superficial tokenism. There are still miles to go in our march towards equality. It is in this larger context where there is a grudging acceptance or disavowal of women’s rights that the Jane Austen heroine’s negotiations with patriarchy remain relevant.

They demonstrate a mode of assertion, of agency in the face of inequality and in socially disadvantaged situations, which sustain an illusion of female empowerment and wish-fulfilment. It is this vision of romance, which, informed by a comic and somewhat ironical view of life, consolidates the exercise of female agency and makes the reading and re-reading of Jane Austen’s novels a rewarding and enriching experience. Her astute delineation of human delusion and human folly holds up a mirror to her society that often impels recognition on our part and remains forever relevant. Her perceptive analysis of the warp and weft of her society remains almost unmatched.

To recall Auden’s well-known lines on Jane Austen:

…yet he (Byron) cannot match the shock she (Austen) gives me;
Beside her, Joyce is as innocent as young grass. I feel truly uneasy, my mind unsettled,
Watching the English middle-class spinster
describe the power of money to attract love,
so plainly and soberly revealing
the economic foundations that sustain human society.

W.H.Auden’s lines on Jane Austen and the unlikely comparison with the prince of notoriety, Lord George Byron, never fails to instruct or entertain us. Such is the mark of great literature which leaves its imprint decades and centuries after its inception.

[1] Juthika Patankar, Wire, November 2025

[2] Pride and Prejudice

Meenakshi Malhotra is Professor of English Literature at Hansraj College, University of Delhi, and has been involved in teaching and curriculum development in several universities. She has edited two books on Women and Lifewriting, Representing the Self and Claiming the I, in addition to numerous published articles on gender, literature and feminist theory. Her most recent publication is The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle.

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Essay

Sangam Literature: Timeless Chronicles of an Ancient Civilisation

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 15, 2025
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By Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan

Across the golden sands of time, where the voices of an ancient people still echo, Purananuru stands as a timeless testament to the spirit of the Tamizh[1] land. More than mere verse, it is the heartbeat of a civilization, a chorus of kings and warriors, poets and common folk, each speaking with the fire of truth and the fragrance of life. In its lines, the pulse of an age long past still throbs, reminding us those words, when born of wisdom and experience, never fade, but they endure.

Purananuru, one of the illustrious eight anthologies known as Ettuthogai, forms the bedrock of Sangam era Tamizh literature. Composed over two thousand years ago, it opens a luminous window into the outer world of the ancient Tamizh people, their politics and valour, their sense of justice, their joys and sorrows. Unlike the sweeping arcs of epics that follow a single thread, Purananuru unfolds as a constellation of four hundred independent poems, each a gleaming fragment of human experience. Together, they weave a tapestry of life, fierce, tender, and profoundly real. offering us not a story, but a soul.

The Sangam Age, spanning from the third century BCE to the third century CE, shines as a golden dawn in the history of South India, a time when art, intellect, and poetry reached luminous heights. Born under the gracious patronage of the Pandya kings of Madurai, the Sangams, legendary assemblies of poets and scholars, became the beating heart of Tamizh culture. Within this radiant world of thought and expression, Purananuru took form, a collection that mirrors the grandeur of its age, capturing the valour of kings, the wisdom of poets, and the vibrant rhythm of a thriving civilisation.

Scholars, tracing its language and historical echoes, place its composition between the first century BCE and the fifth century CE. Yet the poems themselves speak louder than any chronicle, invoking images of bustling ports like Musiri, where Tamizh traders met Greek and Roman merchants across the seas. In these verses, we glimpse not isolation but exchange, not obscurity but brilliance, the confident stride of a people deeply connected to the world, yet proudly rooted in their land, their language, and their spirit.

Purananuru is classified under Puraththinai, a literary category that focuses on external experiences and public life. This distinguishes it from Akam poetry, which deals with internal emotions and personal relationships. The poems in Purananuru range from four to forty lines in length. Despite their brevity, they are rich in imagery and emotional resonance, with each word carefully chosen to evoke a specific mood or scene. This compact style enhances the impact of the verses, making them accessible even to modern readers who may not be familiar with classical Tamizh literature.

Among the many celebrated lines in Purananuru, one verse stands out for its timeless relevance. Poet Kaniyan Poongundranar writes, “ Yathum oore yavarum kelir”, which translates to “Every place is my home; Every person is my kin.” This profound statement of universal brotherhood transcends geographical, social, and cultural boundaries. It promotes the idea that all human beings are interconnected, advocating for equality and inclusiveness. Today, this verse is often cited as a symbol of global humanism and remains one of the most iconic lines in Tamizh literature.

Beyond its literary brilliance, Purananuru serves as a poetic record of the Sangam era’s political, social, and ethical life. The poems document the dynamic relationships between rulers and subjects, highlight the moral values upheld by society, and preserve the customs and cultural practices of the time. Through its verses, readers can reconstruct the everyday realities of ancient Tamizh life, from the battlefield to the banquet hall, from royal courts to humble villages.

In recent years, many of these poems have been retold in simplified narrative forms, helping contemporary audiences connect with the ideas and emotions expressed by the ancient poets. These adaptations preserve the essence of the original works while making them more relatable to today’s readers. The enduring wisdom of Purananuru continues to inspire readers across generations. Its themes of heroism, ethics, leadership, and human emotion remain relevant in today’s world.

However, Purananuru is not merely a collection of poems, but a mirror of human emotions, ethics, and reflections on life that remain relevant even today. They have prose too. Take as an example Purananuru 43. It’s a tale that blends pride, humility, and forgiveness in a deeply human way.

In the palace of the Chola King Nalankilli at Uraiyur, one calm evening turned unexpectedly into a lesson about pride, humility, and forgiveness. The King’s younger brother, Mavalathan, was passing time by playing a board game called sokkattan with the poet Thamappal Kannanar. It was meant to be a light hearted diversion, just two friends enjoying a quiet evening. Mavalathan was an expert at the game, having played often, while the poet was more of an amateur. Normally, when two players of unequal skill meet, the game quickly dissolves into frustration or conflict. But between these two, there was only affection and mutual respect.

Kannanar wasn’t the type to play games, his interests lay in poetry and thought. But when the prince himself invited him, he couldn’t decline. To refuse might have seemed rude or dismissive. So, with a polite smile, he agreed. At first, the game was easy going. They laughed, teased each other, and moved the pieces without care. But soon, the mood shifted. What began as leisure turned into competition. Both players started paying closer attention. Each move became more deliberate, and their concentration deepened. The world outside the board disappeared.

Yet, as the rounds went on, the poet’s joy faded. Mavalathan’s experience showed, he won effortlessly, again and again. The poet began to feel the sting of failure. Losing once or twice might have been fine, but repeated defeat bruised his pride. A dangerous thought crept into his mind, what if he cheated, just once, so that he could finally win? The temptation was small, but powerful. Yielding to it, he secretly slipped one of Mavalathan’s pieces into his robe, hoping it would go unnoticed.

But Mavalathan did notice. The moment he realised the deception, his face hardened. The calm of the evening shattered. Without thinking, driven by anger, he flung a game piece at the poet’s forehead. The small stone struck sharply, drawing blood. For a moment, there was stunned silence. The poet touched his forehead and saw his own blood on his fingers. Pain was quickly replaced by outrage. “Are you truly the son of a noble Chola?” he shouted. It was an accusation that cut deep, not just through Mavalathan’s pride, but into his conscience.

In that instant, Mavalathan felt the weight of his own wrongdoing. Yes, the poet had cheated, but what he himself had done was far worse. He had responded to deceit with violence. Instead of defending honour, he had stained it. So, he bowed his head in shame, unable to meet the poet’s eyes.

That quiet act of humility startled Kannanar more than the earlier blow. The prince, despite his status, chose remorse over anger. The poet’s own guilt began to surface. He realized that he had set the chain of wrongs in motion by cheating. The prince’s shame was not his burden to bear, it was the poet’s. He walked up to Mavalathan and said softly, “Forgive me. I was the first to do wrong. You were born noble, and your heart proves it.”

Mavalathan, equally humble now, replied, “No, great poet. I acted like a brute. The blood on your forehead is my doing.” The poet responded with calm wisdom, “I erred out of desire, and you erred out of anger. But both of us have recognized our mistakes. That is what truly matters.”

This episode, later immortalised in Purananuru 43, is not just an ancient story about a game gone wrong, it’s a timeless reflection on human behaviour. It captures something we still struggle with today, how easily pride, frustration, or ego can make us lose sight of our values.

In today’s fast-paced, hyperconnected world, people often find themselves caught in similar emotional spirals, though the setting may be different. A workplace disagreement, a heated social media argument, or even a casual online game can escalate into hostility in seconds. We live in an age where reactions are instant, and reflection is rare. The poet and the prince both stumbled, but what makes their story memorable is not their mistakes, it’s the way they confront them.

The ability to recognise one’s fault, to pause and say “I was wrong,” is a strength that modern life often overlooks. We are taught to defend our opinions, to “win” arguments, to justify our anger. Yet, as this ancient story shows, dignity lies not in victory, but in self-awareness. Mavalathan’s silence and Kannanar’s apology are reminders that maturity is found in humility, and peace in forgiveness.

In every conflict, there is a moment when we can either react or reflect. Most of us react, like Mavalathan in anger, or like the poet in pride. But if we choose reflection instead, we reclaim our humanity. Recognising our mistakes doesn’t make us weak, it reveals our strength.

The sands of the river Kaveri have long since shifted, and the game pieces of sokkattan have been lost to time. Yet the moral of that evening in the Chola palace still holds true, greatness is not in being flawless, but in being honest with one’s flaws. For in the end, as both the poet and the prince discovered, the truest victory is not over another, but over oneself.

[1] Tamil

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.

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Tags Akam poetry, Chola, Ettuthogai, Kaniyan Poongundranar, Musiri, Purananuru, Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan, Sangam, Tamil

Essay

Anadi: A Continuum in Art

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 15, 2025
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Ratnottma Sengupta revisits an exhibition full 25 years later

Images from exhibits at Anadi . Provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

On November 1 of 1956 was born a state in Central India called Madhya Pradesh. And 44 years later, on exactly the same day of November 1, in the year 2000 it was remapped. A new state — Chhattisgarh — was carved out of the land that had been home to the oldest Indians: the men and women who had peopled the caves at Bagh and Bhimbetka.

Standing at the threshold of that new beginning, I had curated an exhibition titled Anadi – that which has no beginning and, therefore, no end. The exhibition card was designed by M F Husain who came on the inaugural day in Delhi. The next day was graced by the presence of Madhavrao Scindia, scion of the royal family that continues to throw up political leaders. I was fortunate to have friends like collectors Anand Agarwal and H K Kejriwal, bureaucrats Bhaskar Ghose and Sarayu Doshi, art lovers like poet Gulzar and artists like Yusuf Arakkal. Happily, then, the exhibition travelled to Birla Academy in Kolkata to Chitrakala Parishath in Bangalore to the National Gallery of Modern Art in Mumbai. And with it travelled a batch of youngsters who were soon to be among the most sought after names in Indian Contemporary Art.

What made that exhibition so special? The card? The multi-venue display? The star viewers? The exhilarating combination of tribal paintings, figurative sculpture, and abstract images? Twenty five years later, I will look back to find an answer.

At the intersection of two millennia I was amazed to note there was no rupture in continuity. Anadi offered a fresh look at a continuum that lives on beyond the geopolitical redefinition, because it began at a time when Chhattisgarh was not Madhya Pradesh, nor the Central Province of the Raj. Bhopal, Indore, Raipur, Jagdalpur, Sanchi, Vidisha, Malwa… these cities had no chief minister back then, nor a Prime Minister. Why, there were no Begums nor a Buddha. No Baj Bahadur loved a Roopmati nor did Kalidasa send a Cloud as Messenger. It was a time when the intrepid fingers that harnessed stones and hunted hides also painted rocks to sing of life. In the process – around 10,000 BCE – they crafted the rockbed of Indian Art at Bhimbetka, the UNESCO World Heritage Site mere miles away from Bhopal.

Bare lines that captured with only a twist and a turn the vigor of hunting and the verve of dancing, rock art is that elusive genre which is narrative, figurative and abstract – all at one go. And that is a characteristic common to the tribal stream of art which flourishes in the state from a forgotten past. There is a story in every figure painted by Bhuri Bai or Sukho Korwa. She paints a cart and tells you of the festival day when on its wheels it goes round habitats, collecting all the bimari and driving illness out of the village. He paints a bird that pounces on a snake which devours a rat, recounting the lifecycle that sustains ecological balance. But where is the third dimension? Where’s the likeness to the world of five senses? We see no effort here to evoke either. Instead, there is a stylization which is unique to the region that is home to the Bhil, Gond, Sahariya, Baiga, Saur and other tribes. A stylisation that abstracts the essence of the physical reality they celebrate through colour and line.

Dots and crosses, circles and squares all come into play as the vivacious blues and reds, yellows and greens acquire life. A line is not simply a straight line or curve: that would be an unappetising repetition. The quest for variety and individuality finds Kala Bai, Lado, Sumaru break up the lines into an intricate arrangement of countless motifs. When the subject is the same, as too the colour, it’s the dots and crosses, dashes and stars that give the work the imprint of individuality. In the process, these artists who work in a community and send off their creations to markets in distant cities, have worked out a way of ‘patenting’ artistic property. Tradition did not require them to ever sign off a work with their names. In the age of copyright awareness and intellectual property rights, they might put their signatures on the canvas – but the unmistakable imprint of the artists lie in the manner of their assembling the familiar patterns.

That, make no mistake, is the sign of a master, be he in the tribal mould or a modernist. For corroboration, we have only to look at a painting by Maqbool Fida Hussain, N S Bendre or Syed Haider Raza. Madhuri or Mahabharat, Gandhi or Indira, M F Husain constantly painted figures. Eminent and easily recognised ones at that. And yet, they lived not in the details of their features but in the lines and colours that spelt ‘Husain’ to seasoned viewers. Likewise Bendre’s forms had little concern for photographic realism. In Raza’s case, it is the arrangement of colourful geometrical bindus (circles) and squares alone that speaks of the artist. So, regardless of whether or not there is a ‘McBull’ or ‘Bendre’ inked on the canvas, we readily identify these masters who, incidentally, all came from this same state of Madhya Pradesh.

Note one more thing about these names. Each of them had set new watersheds for Indian contemporary art. All of them had opened up new avenues for artists who came after them. Bendre, the first to head the art education at the Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda, gave not just one more centre for mastering the brush. He gave shape to an institution which still assimilates the best of the home and the universe, giving the MSU artists a rare acceptability in India and in the West. Raza, who lived in Paris for years and years, did not sever his umbilical cord with this soil, yet carved a niche for Indianness in the Mecca of contemporary art. And Husain? The life as too the art of this ‘Picasso from Indore’ had become a legend in his own lifetime. Who else but MF could raise the high water mark at auctions, again at again, at home and abroad? Who but him could open up the markets for Indian artists, including those who preceded him like Jamini Roy?

Talking of the masters who opened vistas, especially in the context of Madhya Pradesh, one comes to J Swaminanthan who facilitated a two-way transaction. While holding the reins of Roopankar Museum in Bhopal, he assimilated tribal art to such an extent that he could understand it, explain it, talk about it, write about it and paint after them, using their earth colours, and the bareness of their lines. At the same time, the outsider who became an insider gave, through Bharat Bhavan, all of Madhya Pradesh a new standing in the realm of contemporary art. Artists from all over the country would congregate in Bhopal with their art, exhibit it, discuss it threadbare in seminars, impart it to those keen to learn. Small wonder, the state boasts a host of artists like Akhilesh and Anwar, Seema Ghuraiya and Manish Pushkale, Yogendra and Vivek Tembe, Jaya Vivek and Jangarh Shyam. Artists who steal the attention of the world today.

This breed, which was born with the emergence of the state, came of age in artistic terms as the province consolidated its presence on the marquee. And an overwhelming number of them express themselves in just lines and colours. They care not for things like market – which seems to have an insatiable appetite for figurative art. Nor for the narrative tradition of the forefathers who painted on rocks. These neo-masters are all distilling forms, extracting experiences, working out their own equations with abstraction.

But, come to think of it, isn’t this exactly what the original artists of this land – and every other land on earth – set out to do when they picked up the sharpened tool that was millennia away from the paint brush?

Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and writes books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.

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

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Essay

The Trouble with Cioran

By Satyarth Pandita

Emil Cioran (1911-1995). Photo provided by the author

It was the summer of 2019. The hostels were empty. Vacation had begun, and most students had already left for their hometowns. I was to leave the next day. While packing, I suddenly remembered The House of the Dead by Dostoevsky, which I had lent to a senior months ago.

I walked to his nearly abandoned hostel block and knocked on his half-open door. The room was dark—uncannily dark for the middle of the day. Thick curtains strangled the sunlight, casting the room into a premature night. There he lay on the bed, flat on his back, a laptop balanced on his belly. He handed me my book and resumed the video he had been watching—with monastic focus—from the fifty-sixth minute. It was footage of a man slowly cutting down a giant tree with an axe. He had been watching it, second by second, without skipping. He didn’t pause even when I left.

That was the man who introduced me to Emil Cioran.

It was not until much later that I finally read him. The Trouble with Being Born opens at three o’clock in the morning with Cioran contemplating the futility of existence:

“Three in the morning. I realize this second, then this one, then the next: I draw up the balance sheet for each minute. And why all this? Because I was born. It is a special type of sleeplessness that produces the indictment of birth.”

The book proceeds as a collection of aphorisms circling around the nausea of existence and the idea of suicide as both temptation and reprieve.

Before I began to read his work, I tried to prepare myself by reading his biography and interviews. I wanted to understand the man behind the words, as if glimpsing his life might help me endure the weight of his thoughts. One such childhood story was telling. In an interview, Cioran confessed that when he was a child, one of his favourite pastimes was to play football with human skulls excavated by a gravedigger who was his friend. But little did he know at that time that what seemed like play was the seed of a lifelong fixation, depriving him of sleep, driving him to insomnia, in the hope of a long, never-ending slumber.

For Cioran, suicide was not a prescribed act but an ever-present possibility—a metaphysical escape hatch that bestowed dignity on existence. The mere awareness of this option granted him a strange form of freedom. The power of contemplating death, rather than executing it, was his way of wrestling with life’s meaninglessness. Suicide was philosophical, not prescriptive; a potential that loomed, yet never fully realised.

Yet one question persists: if Cioran saw life as an error and glorified suicide as the only coherent act, why did he never end his own life? His own words reveal the paradox:

“It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.”

According to him, suicide comes too late to undo anything. The damage is already done. You’ve already suffered so much that ending it doesn’t fix anything—it merely ends an already exhausted life. By the time you do it, you’ve already endured the worst. You’ve already been broken, emptied, eroded by suffering. So, what’s the point? The act becomes redundant, even absurd.

At another moment, he offers a different angle, confessing his indecision:

“The energy and virulence of my taedium vitae continue to astound me. So much vigor in a disease so decrepit! To this paradox I owe my present incapacity to choose my final hour.”

Although Cioran ascribes his procrastination for suicide to his extreme weariness and boredom, yet, contrastingly, at another place, for him the power of ending one’s life is the greatest power.

“No autocrat wields a power comparable to that enjoyed by a poor devil planning to kill himself.”

This is the Cioranian condition: every insight undermined by its opposite, every aphorism shadowed by contradiction. He frames suicide as the ultimate sovereignty. The mere thought of being able to end one’s life surpasses the power of kings. And yet, he never exercised it. Instead, he transformed the possibility into philosophy, into aphorism, into art. His writing is not a system but an ongoing quarrel with himself. Instead of answering any particular question, his writings raise towers of new questions.

This tension, of circling but never arriving, defines his thought. He writes with precision, but his precision is not in building arguments―it is in dismantling them. Each aphorism is like a shard of glass: sharp, illuminating, but impossible to piece into a whole. Consider his reflection on sleeplessness:

“If there is so much discomfort and ambiguity in lucidity, it is because lucidity is the result of the poor use to which we have put our sleepless nights.”

Cioran knew the price of insomnia. To be awake at three in the morning is to be exiled from the world of the living, suspended in a state where thoughts spiral without conclusion. For him, insomnia was both torment and revelation. Perhaps, if Cioran had been able to sleep well, he might not have been trapped in this endless dialogue with futility. Instead, he lived in perpetual wakefulness, speaking to his own emptiness:

“No one has lived so close to his skeleton as I have lived to mine: from which results an endless dialogue and certain truths which I manage neither to accept nor to reject.”

“Once we appeal to our most intimate selves, once we begin to labor and to produce, we lay claim to gifts, we become unconscious of our own gaps. No one is in a position to admit that what comes out of his own depths might be worthless. ‘Self-knowledge’? A contradiction in terms.”

If, according to Cioran, true self-knowledge is not possible because we are too attached to our own depths and ego to judge ourselves truly, then there is no way he could have unearthed any truths about himself while living close to his emptiness (skeleton).

Cioran is, however, conscious of his contradictions. They were not accidents; they were his method. But are those contradictions a mirror of the thinkers he admired? In one of his aphorisms, he confesses:

“In the Orient, the oddest, the most idiosyncratic Western thinkers would never have been taken seriously, on account of their contradictions. This is precisely why we are interested in them. We prefer not a mind but the reversals, the biography of a mind, the incompatibilities and aberrations to be found there, in short those thinkers who, unable to conform to the rest of humanity and still less to themselves, cheat as much by whim as by fatality. Their distinctive sign? A touch of fakery in the tragic, a hint of dalliance even in the irremediable.”

Cioran points to that strange quality in writers like Nietzsche, Baudelaire or even himself-deeply tragic, but also stylistic, artful, and aware of the absurdities of their drama. For him, the appeal is not in the polished answers but in the drama of the doubt, in the visible struggle of a mind with itself.

Cioran is always in a perpetual state of perplexity. His thoughts are malleable. What is true for him today becomes obsolete tomorrow. And all this he has tried to betray through words. He knew his thoughts were mercurial, unstable. He confesses his extreme mental variability:

“I may change my opinion on the same subject, the same event, ten, twenty, thirty times in the course of a single day. And to think that each time, like the worst impostor, I dare utter the word “truth”!

Every time he pronounces a new opinion, he does so with the implicit suggestion that this one is right―that this is the truth. He accuses himself of a kind of fraud, i.e. knowing his judgments are volatile, yet he delivers them as if they were true.

Amidst all these contradictions and paradoxes, what, then, did Cioran truly long for? Because what he wishes for in one place, he rejects in the other. But there is one feeling, or a longing, that recurs throughout the book―a longing for a time before time, a time before creation. He speaks of it with yearning, as if for a paradise never lost yet never possessed.

“There was a time when time did not yet exist…. The rejection of birth is nothing but the nostalgia for this time before time.”

“O to have been born before man!”

This longing resonates the idea of what the Portuguese call saudade, a longing for something that never was or will never be attainable. Unlike nostalgia, which mourns a past that once existed, saudade is a longing for an unattainable ideal, a sense of melancholic absence that can only be evoked in poetry and art. This yearning captures the profound melancholy that saturates Cioran’s philosophy—a feeling that seeps like a grey mist into a distant blue sky. And yet he admits the impossibility of feeling it:

“It is impossible to feel that there was a time when we did not exist. Hence our attachment to the personage we were before being born.”

We cannot experience absence, so we cannot truly imagine our non-being before birth. In our memory and awareness, we’ve always been — we cannot step outside ourselves to picture a time when we were nothing. This is not a metaphysical claim, but a psychological one.

If Cioran were a simple nihilist, one who believed in nothing and cared for nothing, why would he write at all? Why invest thought and feeling into a world he found so painfully absurd? The answer lies in his profound sensitivity. Cioran was a nihilist who felt too much. He was wounded by life. Writing, for him, was both a compulsion and a failure. Cioran was a master of paradox. He despised life yet wrote nine books about it. He dismissed language as futile yet clung to words as his only tool. He longed for silence yet confessed:

“We write books because we are ashamed of not having been able to remain silent.”

Writing was a failure to keep still in the face of futility. Yet silence was a greater failure, an impossibility. Thus, he turned his torment into words. For him, each book was a kind of reprieve. Perhaps, his most telling aphorism is this:

“A book is postponed suicide.”

For him, writing a book symbolised a form of delayed self-destruction or self-sacrifice, where the author channels inner turmoil into the work and thus postpones an existential “death”.

On a similar note, he explains the need for language, the need for writing.

“The more injured you are by time, the more you seek to escape it. To write a faultless page, or only a sentence, raises you above becoming and its corruptions. You transcend death by the pursuit of the indestructible in speech, in the very symbol of nullity.”

Language itself, for Cioran, is paradoxical. It is both empty (words are mere signs, lacking substance) and the only tool we have to approach the eternal. So even while writing may seem futile or illusory, it’s also the only space where something indestructible can be momentarily glimpsed.

The Cioranian paradox yet again comes into the picture, where he proclaims:

“One must be mad or drunk,” the Abbe Sieyès said, to speak well in the known languages. One must be drunk or mad, I should add, to dare, still, to use words, anyword….”

In his earlier aphorisms, he advocates for the meaning or use of writing, but then in the following aphorisms, he expresses the futility of writing, or words, of language itself. To use language sincerely is itself madness. If words distort, then every attempt to write is a betrayal. And yet he could not stop writing. This was the paradox that sustained him.

In the book, Cioran traces this disposition back to his family:

“Every family has its own philosophy. One of my cousins, who died young, once wrote me: ‘It’s all the way it’s always been and probably always will be until there’s nothing left any more.’”

Whereas my mother ended the last note she ever sent me with this testamentary sentence: “Whatever people try to do, they’ll regret it sooner or later.

“Nor can I even boast of having acquired this vice of regret by my own setbacks. It precedes me, it participates in the patrimony of my tribe. What a legacy, such unfitness for illusion!”

Cioran interjects with irony: he can’t even take credit for being regret-prone as a result of his own failures. It’s not just personal experience that made him this way—regret runs deeper; it’s not biographical but ancestral.

Yet Cioran was not only drawn to grand despair. He had a peculiar love for the banal, the ordinary, and the infinitesimal things in our everyday life. Like Georges Perec’s concept of the “infraordinary”―the unnoticed texture of daily life―Cioran wrote:

“The intrinsic value of a book does not depend on the importance of its subject (else the theologians would prevail, and mightily), but on the manner of approaching the accidental and the insignificant, of mastering the infinitesimal. The essential has never required the least talent.”

“No true art without a strong dose of banality. The constant employment of the unaccustomed readily wearies us, nothing being more unendurable than the uniformity of the exceptional.”

For him, the ordinary was not a distraction from philosophy but its truest field.Emil Cioran was also deeply influenced by the Eastern philosophies of Hinduism and Buddhism. He often returned to the idea of renunciation and detachment:

“It is trifling to believe in what you do or in what others do. You should avoid simulacra and even ‘realities’; you should take up a position external to everything and everyone, drive off or grind down your appetites, live, according to a Hindu adage, with as few desires as a ‘solitary elephant’.”

“I am enraptured by Hindu philosophy, whose essential endeavor is to surmount the self; and everything I do, everything I think is only myself and the self’s humiliations.”

And yet, while he admired Buddha’s teachings on suffering, he could not detach himself from his own disappointments:

“My faculty for disappointment surpasses understanding. It is what lets me comprehend Buddha, but also what keeps me from following him.”

Cioran is the kind of person who is aware of his suffering, knows the cure, but won’t take the medicine because the illness has become who he is. For him, disappointment is instinctive, all-consuming and more intimate than thought itself. Since Buddha taught that life is marked with Dukha (suffering/disappointment), Cioran feels connected to Buddhist philosophy, but he cannot follow that path because to follow Buddha requires detachment, letting go of even disappointment, which Cioran cannot do.

Cioran also reflects on a peculiar way to cope with life’s anxieties. He says:

“In order to conquer panic or some tenacious anxiety, there is nothing like imagining your own burial. An effective method, readily available to all…”

This aphorism resonates directly with the Hindu practices, as especially embodied in Banaras (Varanasi), where the city itself is a living memento mori, where cremation fires at Manikarnika Ghat never extinguish, and death is not hidden away but displayed as part of life. In Varanasi, the pilgrims are encouraged to watch the burning pyres, not to indulge morbidity but to confront impermanence directly. But even here, he reminds us of the futility of origins:

“The emphasis on birth is no more than the craving for the insoluble carried to the point of insanity.”

He knows that obsessing over the question of birth, of life, is futile, insoluble and unanswerable. To take this obsession with origins, with life’s beginning, so seriously — to revere it, to found ideologies or hope on it — is, for Cioran, madness. It means you are so committed to wrestling with the unanswerable that you’ve abandoned sanity. It’s a form of spiritual masochism: continually turning to the one question — Why was I born? — that has no satisfying answer.

A man who spent all his life thinking about the tragedy of birth, the futility of life and the meaning of death confesses at one point in the book that he has known nothing new in all his later years that he knew when he was young. All his thinking, the sleepless nights, the anxiety and the dread have contributed nothing to further his knowledge. In his own words:

“What I know at sixty, I knew as well at twenty. Forty years of a long, superfluous, labour of verification.”

Despite all of Cioran’s nihilistic or dark thoughts, he granted failure a strange dignity:

“This is how we recognize the man who has tendencies toward an inner quest: he will set failure above any success, he will even seek it out, unconsciously of course. This is because failure, always essential, reveals us to ourselves, permits us to see ourselves as God sees us, whereas success distances us from what is most inward in ourselves and indeed in everything.”

“Failure, even repeated, always seems fresh; whereas success, multiplied, loses all interest, all attraction.”

In this sense, he inverts conventional wisdom: failure is not defeat but a revelation, a mirror of the self, stripped of illusion.

The Trouble with Being Born is not an easy read. The book is a constant rumination and meditation on the bliss of nonexistence, the deep nostalgia for a state before being, before consciousness, before identity. There is an uneasiness, an anxiety, a restlessness and an unknown dread that creeps in and grows with every sentence one reads. It has the potential to scratch the old wounds of one’s soul, which one has forgotten. Yet, if one reads and analyses the aphorisms from a distance with a particular perspective, it can also provoke laughter―the laughter of someone who has stared too long at the abyss and found it absurd.

Emil Cioran is like a chess master, and each of his aphorisms is a calculated move. For every aphorism that he mentions, he has already anticipated the reader’s move. He has anticipated every question, especially the most obvious one, why he did not kill himself and his reply is already there.

Reading Cioran is like walking into a fog. Every sentence brings a chill of recognition, but also a deeper uncertainty. He lived next to his emptiness, befriended it, argued with it, laughed at it—and wrote it down. He is frustrating. He contradicts himself. He writes aphorisms that sound like suicide notes, only to retract them with a smirk. But that is the trouble with Cioran. He lived. He wrote. He suffered. And somehow, he made it all sound beautiful.

And perhaps that’s the final paradox: the man most disillusioned with life gave us one of its most enduring voices.

After reading him, I’ve come to admire Cioran because, to me, he is like a mathematician devoted to solving the equation of life and death. Every variable, every permutation and combination, has passed through his mind; the possibilities now stand exposed on the blackboard, supporting and undermining one another in turn. The solution, if it exists, hovers just within sight—yet he chooses to work through it endlessly, not in pursuit of an answer, but in devotion to the act itself. He is a modern Sisyphus, who has not merely accepted his fate, but learned to love the rolling of the boulder, again and again, to the mountain’s top.

Satyarth Pandita is a PhD student at the National Institute of Mental Health and Neuro Sciences (NIMHANS), Bengaluru. He completed his dual degree, a Bachelor of Science and Master of Science in Biological Sciences (major) and Humanities and Social Sciences (minor), at the Indian Institute of Science Education and Research Bhopal (IISERB). His works have appeared in various newspapers and periodicals, including The Quint, Outlook India, The Wire, Madras Courier, Borderless, and Kitaab, among others.

Links to Satyarth’s published works, email address and social media handles can be found here.

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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Tags Banaras, Baudelaire, Buddhism, Dostoevesky, Emil Cioran, Hinduism, Manikarna Ghat, Nietzche, Sisyphus, The House of Dead, The Trouble with Being Born, Varanasi

Essay

Once a Student — Once a Teacher

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date November 14, 2025
No Comments on Once a Student — Once a Teacher

Odbayar Dorj writes of celebrating the start of the new school year on September 1^st in Mongolia and of their festivals around teaching and learning…

Mongolians are a people who celebrate festivals wholeheartedly and work with the same kind of enthusiasm. Among our many traditions, one of the most beautiful and meaningful to me is the way we welcome each new school year. In Mongolia, September 1st is not just the beginning of classes—it is a joyful national celebration for teachers and students. On this day, schools across the country hold ceremonies to mark the opening of the academic year. Students eagerly wait for this day, dressed in clean uniforms, their faces full of excitement. Traditionally, the new school year officially begins with a special lesson taught by the President of Mongolia, often about Mongolian script or history, which symbolises the importance of education and cultural heritage.

My own memories of this day are filled with music, excitement, and warmth. Unlike in many countries, Mongolian schools do not separate students into different buildings for primary, lower secondary, and upper secondary levels. Instead, everyone studies in the same school building, simply moving from classroom to classroom as they grow older. This creates a strong sense of community—older students and younger students share the same space, the same celebrations, and the same traditions. The ceremony usually begins with a speech from the school principal, followed by short performances by younger students. Songs about schools and teachers are sung, and the gentle melodies of the morin khuur—the traditional horsehead fiddle—fill the air. We sing, dance, and perform music to welcome the new academic year. Sometimes, I wonder how many other nations celebrate the start of school with such joy and artistry.

A man holding *a morin khuur*, whose music has been named as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO. From Public Domain

One of the most touching parts of the ceremony is the first bell ringing. This moment marks the official opening of the school year. First graders who are starting school for the very first time are given the honor of ringing a small handbell, while teachers line up their classes and lead them ceremoniously into the building. To ring the bell is considered a great honor, both for the child and their family. I will never forget the day my daughter entered first grade. She was chosen, together with a little boy, to represent all first graders and ring the bell. It was a chilly September morning, as it usually is in Mongolia. With one hand tucked into her uniform pocket to keep warm, she raised her other hand high to match the boy’s height and rang the bell. She was one of the smallest children in her class, but in that moment she seemed so brave and proud. That image remains clear in my mind even now—such memories stay with us forever.

For Mongolians, bells carry deep meaning. We even call our graduation ceremonies “Bell Ceremonies”. These are held for students finishing 5th grade (primary), 9th grade (lower secondary), and 12th grade (upper secondary). For 12th graders, the final bell has special significance: it is the last time they will hear the school bell as students before moving on to university or the adult world. That sound marks both an ending and a new beginning.

For teachers, September 1st is a day of joy. It is the moment we reunite with our students after the long summer break and see how much they’ve grown and changed in just three months. For students, it’s the thrill of seeing their classmates again. The entire month of September is a period of readjustment to school life, and it is followed in early October by Teacher’s Day, one of the few days in the year when teachers can celebrate their profession. Another beloved tradition in Mongolia is “Student Day.” On this day, graduating students—or, if the class is small, students from other classes too—take on the role of teachers for one day, while teachers become students. It’s a playful and meaningful role reversal that leaves deep impressions on both sides.

I still remember my first Student Day vividly. I was in 9th grade when my Mongolian language and literature teacher selected me to become a teacher for the day. It was the first time a lower secondary student had been chosen. I was nervous, especially standing alongside the older students from upper secondary school. I spent the entire night preparing, determined not to let my teacher down. On that day, I taught a 9^th grade literature class. I was frightened at first, but the time passed in a flash, leaving me exhilarated.

The following years, I was chosen again—first as a biology teacher in 10^th grade, then as a Russian language teacher in 11^th grade. I participated as a student-teacher for three consecutive years. I especially remember the biology lesson; that day, I felt a special joy and excitement, a spark that would later lead me to choose teaching as my profession.

Years later, after graduating from university, I returned to school as a real teacher. During my first year at a public school, Student Day came again—this time, from the teacher’s side. My 12^th

grade students drew lots to choose teachers, and a sweet girl named Khulan was selected to teach English in my place. She told me with a smile, “Teacher, you probably don’t have a student uniform anymore, so you can borrow mine tomorrow and join our class as a 12^th grader.” The next day, the 12^th graders handed us invitations, asking us to come to their class as students. Attached to each invitation was a class schedule for the day. When I put on the school uniform again, it truly felt as if I had traveled back in time to my childhood.

As a student, I used to think, “I can’t wait to grow up and start working. I’m tired of wearing this uniform.” But as a teacher, wearing it again brought back a wave of nostalgia. Returning to the classroom as a student for one day became one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life. On Student Day, everyone—teachers, administrators, and staff—puts on uniforms and attends classes together as “students.” The day is filled with laughter and playful mischief. Some pretend to be naughty students: interrupting class, asking silly questions, teasing each other. We laugh and call each other “bad students”.

At the end of the day, both the student-teachers and teacher-students gather to share their thoughts. This is always a moving moment. Older students often talk about how difficult it is to teach large classes and apologise for times when they had been troublesome. They express a newfound respect for their teachers, having experienced the challenges themselves. For us teachers, hearing this is incredibly rewarding. If there were a train that could take us back to our childhood, I think everyone would want to ride it. For teachers, Student Day is exactly that—a once-a-year chance to return to childhood.

For the past three years, I have spent September 1st, Student Day, and Teacher’s Day far away from Mongolia. At first, when I saw my friends’ photos and posts on social media, I felt a quiet envy. But at the same time, remembering these traditions filled me with warmth, pride, and a deep love for my profession. Throughout my life, I have met many wonderful teachers. Thanks to them, I have continued to learn and grow, always inspired by their example. These traditions, these bells, these memories—they are not just part of my past. They are part of who I am, both as a former student and as a teacher.

No matter where I am in the world, once a student, once a teacher—those identities live within me, carrying the echoes of September bells wherever I go.

Odbayar Dorj is an international student from Mongolia currently studying in Japan. Her writing reflects on cultural identity, personal memory, and the power of connection across borders and generations.

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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Tags Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, Japan, Mongolia, Mongolian, Odbayar Dorj, UNESCO

Essay

From Madagascar to Japan: An Adventure or a Dream?

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date October 14, 2025
No Comments on From Madagascar to Japan: An Adventure or a Dream?

By Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia

For as long as I can remember, I have been an introvert — this is who I am and will always be. Yet, few believe it. I come from Madagascar, a distant island where the people are called the Malagasy — a community bound by culture, tradition, and a shared sense of identity. Malagasy people are known for their warmth and generosity, often revealing a talkative side as they delight in conversation, and playful exchanges. In contrast, I am reserved — a shy person who expresses myself freely only when comfortable and among those I trust.

As a child, I was the most talkative among my siblings, recounting every detail of my school day to my parents. I delighted in describing the funny expressions my primary school teacher made while explaining lessons, or the mischievous boys who always stuck their chewing gum on the pupils’ desks and all the tasks I had accomplished. I wanted my parents to know I was doing well, that the teacher praised me, and that I helped classmates who struggled.

Both my parents are very talkative, especially my father, from whom I inherited the gift of words. Speaking in front of my family comes naturally, yet in front of others, my words often falter — a fear that has always troubled me. I speak freely only with those I know well— my family and a few close friends.

Facing a large audience has always been daunting. My father encouraged me to confront this fear, to be confident, and to meet the audience’s gaze. I tried many times: presenting in group projects, speaking as a class representative, even addressing an audience at a classmate’s parent’s funeral.

As I grew older, my determination to overcome this fear grew. I devoured books and videos on public speaking, eager to communicate with confidence. My first real test came in 2018, when I delivered a speech in a Japanese language contest. I had loved Japanese language since childhood, captivated by its culture, and dreamed of becoming fluent. Entering the contest was a dream — an opportunity to speak publicly and a chance to win a trip to Japan.

I was guided by two close friends who practiced with me daily. They corrected my mistakes, offered feedback, and most importantly, encouraged me. Having known me for years, they understood how terrifying standing on stage could be, yet they supported me out of love, friendship, and belief in my potential.

During rehearsals, I gave my utmost effort, memorising the script when necessary. Still, doubts lingered about meeting expectations, conquering fears, and not disappointing those who believed in me. The days of practice passed quickly, and soon, the big day arrived. Nervous at first, I gradually became more at ease while speaking. I managed to control my anxiety but knew my performance was imperfect. I focused on each word, yet my mind occasionally went blank, struggling with the judges’ questions. Embarrassment washed over me; I feared I had let my friends and family down.

In the end, I did not win the first prize, but my closest friends congratulated me. They reminded me that the true milestone was stepping onto the stage, speaking in front of an audience, and maintaining composure. Their encouragement helped me realise that courage and effort mattered more than the outcome itself.

As an introvert, talking to strangers is challenging, let alone addressing a crowd. Hearing the words “public speaking” makes my stomach tighten, palms sweat, and heart race. Stage fright, fear of facing many people and sharing my thoughts has always been real. Each time my name is called, I shake, my mind blanks, heart pounds, mouth dries, and confidence seems to vanish before I start. Yet, I have never lost hope. Deep down, I knew a strength within me would help rise above fear and grow into a better version of myself.

One year later, I stood again in the same contest. This annual competition was a goal I refused to let go of. As before, my friends encouraged, pushed, and trained with me every day until the D-day. Their support gave me the strength to continue. I prepared even more fiercely — joining language clubs and volunteering in storytelling activities. But it was not easy. I never felt comfortable speaking or working with strangers. I was told teamwork required discussion, sharing, and collaboration — a nightmare for an introvert.

Solitude had been my ally, yet suddenly, I was surrounded by people of all ages and personalities. Cooperation was no longer optional. However, through this challenge, I discovered an important truth: whether introverted or extroverted, whether silent or talkative, we must learn to connect with others. Survival and growth depend on collaboration and support.

The big day of the speech contest arrived in May, a season of transition between summer and winter. I arrived at the hall just in time, accompanied by a close friend. A staff member guided me to my seat, only a few meters from the judges. I felt cheerful, and calm, even giving a fist bump to nearby contestants. For the first time, I felt truly ready to give a speech — optimistic, and at peace. Perhaps it was the preparation or my friends’ wholehearted support, or maybe I had begun to trust myself.

There were four contestants in the advanced level, and I was the last to speak. Each of us hoped to win the grand prize — a trip to Japan. I did not worry about the others. I believed in my success and was determined to win first place. Just days before, I even dreamed of visiting Japan, so nothing could stand in my way.

Finally, it was my turn. I adjusted the microphone, greeted in Japanese, and bowed to the judges and audience. I spoke for about five minutes on how Malagasy parents raise children. Three judges asked each two questions. Thanks to countless practice hours and mock questions and answers sessions with my best friends, I answered every tricky question. For the first time, right after my speech, I felt like a winner.

The event lasted about three hours, and the final verdict came. The Master of Ceremonies announced winners, starting with the beginner level, then the advanced. Among the four in my category, only two remained. The Master of Ceremonies paused dramatically before announcing the first-place winner… and pronounced my name. I whispered a silent thanks to God. This result — the goal I had worked so hard for — had become reality. The trip to Japan was the reward, and even more importantly, I had overcome stage fright. I spoke naturally and confidently in front of the audience — another milestone achieved.

Later that year, in 2019, I visited Japan for the first time. The experience was magical. I met wonderful people, explored my favorite country, and fulfilled a long-cherished dream.

Six years later, I returned to the Land of the Rising Sun—this time as an international student. I now live in Tokushima prefecture, which is in southeastern Japan, far from the bustling cities, in a quiet countryside where few tourists venture. Yet, the city and its neighbourhoods are simply wonderful. It is peaceful, surrounded by greenery, and while the locals may seem reserved, they are incredibly welcoming. Even with some grasp of the local language, adapting to a new country as a foreigner is challenging. Still, thanks to the support of my seniors and friends who have lived here for years, I managed to navigate my first six months successfully.

The city where I live hosts an annual Japanese speech contest open to foreigners who have been residing here for some time. I was encouraged to participate, partly because I could speak some Japanese, and partly because it was a great chance to gain experience. I thought, why not? After all, I gradually grew more comfortable speaking in front of others.

This time, participants could choose their own topics, though it was suggested to focus on their experience in Japan or explore cultural connections between their home country and Japan. I was eager to participate, but selecting a topic was harder than I expected. Inspiration felt scarce, and I had no clear direction. Still, I knew that finding my own perspective was key to making the speech meaningful.

Overwhelmed by my studies, I barely noticed the passage of time. Before I knew it, the deadline had arrived. I had not written a single word, though ideas swirled in my mind. I opened my laptop, took a deep breath, and began writing everything that came to my mind. Reflecting on my experiences in Japan, I realised that people often struggled to pronounce my name correctly. That inspired me to talk about the hidden culture behind Japanese and Malagasy names.

With my theme set, I focused on making my speech coherent and captivating. I tend to draw inspiration at the last minute. I wrote, rewrote, and proofread repeatedly, staying up all night without noticing morning approaching.

Finally, I finished my manuscript and emailed it to one of my Japanese teachers to check for grammatical errors. She responded immediately, and her quick proofreading allowed me to submit my speech on the deadline. I felt relieved, yet strangely nervous, a sensation I could not quite describe.

Six years have passed since I last spoke in front of an audience. Preparing another speech made me feel nostalgic, bringing back memories of long rehearsals, the advice of my best friends, and countless sleepless nights.

A month after submitting my manuscript, I received an email from the event organizer announcing my selection. I was among the fourteen candidates chosen to compete. I whispered a quiet “wow,” but doubts immediately surfaced. I had two months to prepare. To understand what awaited me, I watched recordings of previous competitions, while my seniors and Japanese teacher helped me refine my speech.

Four students were selected from my university. The other three were Asian students with extensive experience in Japanese language and culture. They read Kanji （Japanese characters）effortlessly and conversed naturally. And then, there was me. Though I had been exposed to Japanese language and culture since childhood, memorising every character reading and grasping dialects was never easy. Back in my country, despite growing interest in Japanese language and culture, opportunities to use it in daily life remain limited. Once again, I faced a new challenge—this time in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Time flew, and soon the two months of preparation had passed. Finally, the big day arrived. Early that morning, a kind university staff member greeted us with a bright smile. As I descended from my dormitory, I saw her waiting by her car near the main gate, bowing politely. Her excitement was palpable. Three of us rode in her car; she asked about our preparations and told jokes, perhaps to ease our nerves, which were all visible.

After twenty minutes, we arrived at a large building and walked up to the fifth floor through corridors decorated in traditional style. Japanese architecture and design have always fascinated me, and I was struck by their beauty once again. The event hall was medium-sized, with a small table at the entrance holding our name tags.

One by one, the other candidates arrived. We were then led to a smaller room for a preparatory meeting. While waiting, we chatted briefly to get to know one another. The competition began in the early afternoon. We were instructed to enter the hall one by one, greeted with warm applause. Observing the other candidates, I could tell they were ready. Fourteen contestants competed in total. Thirteen were Asians from countries including China, Vietnam, India, Indonesia, the Philippines, Taiwan, Sri Lanka, and Thailand. I was the only African, from a distant country few people knew. Before each speech, the Master of Ceremonies shared a brief anecdote about the candidate’s country, offering the audience a glimpse into its culture. Each contestant then delivered a five-minute speech.

There were two types of awards: the Golden Prize for first and second place, followed by four Silver Prizes. I had hoped to place among the top five while preparing my speech.

As I listened to the first three candidates, I was deeply impressed. Their speeches were powerful, emotional, and delivered with near-native fluency. I was surprised by how advanced and impressive their speaking skills were. I was the sixth speaker. Perhaps it had been so long since I last addressed an audience, or perhaps it was the absence of my closest friends but standing alone in a foreign country in front of strangers was overwhelming. My hands trembled. When my name was announced, I feared I might not endure those five minutes on stage.

Still, I stood before hundreds of people. I bowed, held the microphone firmly, and began. My heart raced and sweat ran down my face and back. Gradually, the pressure eased. When I shared the example of the longest name in the world—from my country, the audience reacted with surprise and amusement. I realised how attentive they were and regained inner calm. Although I forgot one line, I finished my speech smoothly and expressively.

The remaining eight candidates were equally impressive. Their eloquence was such that, with eyes closed, one might mistake them for native speakers. It was the highest-level contest I had ever participated in. Each theme and presentation were unique, and every contestant spoke with confidence. I doubted whether I would receive a prize, but reassured myself that even without one, the experience was worthwhile. Most participants had lived in Japan for over three years, and the Chinese and Taiwanese contestants were especially strong in oral expression. Yet, standing among such talented competitors was an honor.

After a break that was supposed to last twenty minutes but stretched to fifty, results were announced. They began with six Encouragement Prizes. I thought I might be among them, but my name was not called. Two more awards followed, still not mine. A friend nudged me, whispering, “Congratulations!” I replied, “Stop joking. Congratulations to you instead!”

Finally, the Silver Prizes were announced. They first called my country, then my name. The applause and cheers overwhelmed me, and tears welled in my eyes. I had not expected to win a Silver Prize, given the competition’s level. One friend from my university won the Golden Prize, and the second Golden Prize went to a Vietnamese contestant.

Participating in such a high-level competition was a tremendous challenge. Every step—from manuscript preparation to standing on stage—pushed me beyond my comfort zone. Yet, when it was over, I felt immense pride. I had once again delivered a speech before a large audience, this time in the country whose language I had cherished for years.

Though I had been nervous, the audience remained unaware. Their attentive expressions and warm applause carried me through. Afterwards, my Japanese teachers praised my performance, saying I had done exceptionally well. In that moment, I realised every hour of preparation, every doubt, and every fear had been worthwhile. I had faced a formidable challenge, stood my ground, and expressed myself fully, a reminder that courage, practice, and determination can transform daunting experiences into triumphs. It is a memory I will treasure forever.

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

Tags African, Chainese, China, India, Indonesia, Japan, Japanese, Kanji, Madagascar, Malagasy, Philippines, Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Taiwanese, Thailand, Vietnam