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One More Story About Climbing a Hill

Title: One More Story About Climbing a Hill: Stories from Assam

Author: Devabrata Das (translated from Assamese by multiple translators)

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

1. A Night with Arpita

(‘Arpitar Erati’ translated by Meenaxi Barkotoki)

The side berth was created by lowering the back rests of the two single seats along the aisle of the compartment. Crouching in one corner of that berth, chin in her hands, eyes looking out of the window, could the expression on her face be called disinterest, or was it heartache? On the other hand, she had not the slightest curiosity about what was going on inside the compartment. Drawing the free end of her sari tightly around the upper half of her body, she had withdrawn even her feet into the cavity created by her sari. Her presence in the compartment seemed more like an absence. She seemed completely oblivious and unaware of her surroundings; her look betrayed a sense of resignation. Or perhaps of surrender.

Having positioned myself in the compartment, the sense of resignation that was evident in her demeanour attracted me to her the very first time that I looked at her attentively. I told myself that if I wrote a story someday on the girl, I would name her Arpita (the one who offers herself). Arpita what? Ganguly or Acharya, Roy or Majumdar? Because on hearing the Hindi strewn with Bengali words spoken by the girl’s father, (who had complained animatedly to the waiter about the stale fish served for the meal) I was certain that the girl was not an Assamese disguised in a sari, she was actually Bengali. Regardless of whether she was Assamese or Bengali, she was just a girl, a more or less pretty girl, and she was presently in another world, completely oblivious to her surroundings. Her entire being was concentrated on a point in the darkness of the world outside the compartment, a point that could easily be defined as infinity. Her absentminded beauty aroused my curiosity. Puffing at my Charminar cigarette I kept staring at her from my middle berth in the three-tiered compartment. Just then Kiran returned from the bathroom and broke my reverie. ‘What is this? Why are you already in bed? You don’t mean to go to bed so early, do you?’

This story is actually the story of Arpita and me. I am the protagonist, Arpita the heroine. Apart from the two of us, there is no need for anyone else in this story. The problem, however, is that in order to be able to describe the chain of events, the inclusion of some redundant characters becomes necessary; their presence in the story is not essential but without them it is difficult to narrate what happened. Among those extras, unnecessary characters actually, one is my friend Kiran Debnath. We work in the same office and it is on official work that both of us are travelling by train to another city. We had to travel at very short notice, so we had no reserved train seats; hence the second unnecessary character, Krishna, became necessary. Krishna lives in our neighbourhood. A young man barely out of his teens, he had recently joined the NF Railway as Travelling Ticket Inspector, in short TTI. The moment I saw him at the train station, I was relieved; we wouldn’t have to travel in the crowded, unreserved compartment after all. Since Krishna was there, with his help we would get at least two sitting seats for ourselves. But luckily there was not a huge rush that day and after doing the rounds, Krishna arranged two sleeping berths in a three-tier compartment for us. The sleeper charges for a night are five rupees fifty paise each, so eleven rupees in all. I gave him three five-rupee notes. He forgot to return the change. A little while after the train started, another uniformed ticket checker came and wrote out our reservation slips. The fourth unnecessary character in this story is Arpita’s father, who, after finishing the long and animated argument with the waiter about the stale fish served for dinner, turned his attention to his daughter. She was still staring out of the window. He told her to lie down and go to sleep, and gave her other sundry bits of advice, all of which were met with monosyllabic answers. He then climbed onto the upper berth, above his daughter. In a little while, his snoring proved that he was fast asleep. This is the last time I will mention these unnecessary characters, except for Kiran.

I told Kiran that we had a lot to do the next day. We would have to go through all the documents and records of our branch office in the town we were travelling to. It was not clear whether we would have any free time at all. So instead of sitting up chatting till late in the night, since we had secured two sleeping berths, it might be wiser to go to sleep. Like a good boy, Kiran agreed immediately and went to sleep in the berth below me. To tell the truth, I was not at all sleepy. If I had wanted to or if we were somewhere else, I would have easily chatted with Kiran for an hour or two. But at that moment, in that situation, the single-minded desire to enjoy the distracted attractiveness of a beautiful girl made me give up the wish to chat with Kiran.

Arpita sat immersed in herself on the rattling train, on that otherwise still night, ignoring the silent presence of the many other passengers sleeping in the compartment. No exam results had been declared recently. Then why was Arpita so unwaveringly distracted and sad? Was her pain intensely personal? For instance, had some sly lover cheated her and gone away, after having made a thousand promises of many-hued rainbows and eternal love? Or was there some complication in her recent wedding proposal? Had the partner that her parents chose for her, seen and approved of her but demanded a huge dowry, which made it completely impossible for her to leave her parents’ home? What could it be? What was her real story?

(Extracted from One More Story About Climbing a Hill: Stories from Assam by Devabrata Das, Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025.)

About the Book:

 In ‘A Night with Arpita’, a beautiful young girl in a train compartment captures the imagination of the writer—but he is unable to fathom the reason for her melancholy until it is too late. In ‘Ananta with His Seema’, three apparently disconnected incidents take place on a railway platform. Descriptions of the incidents are interspersed with passages from a letter written by Ananta’s friend, that lays bare his helplessness in the face of injustice and the loss of his youthful ideals.

In the eponymous story, life imitates art with a disastrous twist. A young couple treks up a hillside to recreate for themselves the experience of two characters in a love story set in idyllic Shillong. But the beauty of the pine shrouded hills is marred by extremist violence and their climb to the top of the hill has an unforeseen, macabre end.

Each of the eighteen stories, translated by multiple translators, in this collection provides an insight into life in an area of conflict, told with irony and ingenuity. Regarded as a torchbearer of post-modernism in Assamese literature, Das is often a character in his stories, blurring the distinction between writer and narrator and, often, between fiction and reality, leaving readers to construct their own endings. This first English translation of his work is a valuable addition to the pantheon of India’s regional literature.

About the Author

Devabrata Das is considered to be a torchbearer of post-modernism in Assamese literature, following in the footsteps of other great Assamese writers such as Saurav Kumar Chaliha and Bhabendra Nath Saikia. With more than twenty-five bestselling books to his credit in a career spanning more than four decades, his repertoire ranges from fiction to non-fiction, and from screenplays to reviews and critical essays. He received the Sahityarathi Lakshminath Bezbarua Award in 2018, the Sahitya Sanskriti Award of the literary organization Eka Ebong Koekjan in 2010, and the Tagore Literature Award of the Sahitya Akademi in 2011.

About the Translator

Meenaxi Barkotoki is a mathematician turned anthropologist by profession. An avid translator from Assamese into English, her most recent work includes a couple of novels, notably a children’s novel by Arupa Patangia Kalita titled Taniya (Puffin Classics, 2022). Her translations have appeared in newspapers and periodicals as well as in prestigious compilations like The Oxford Anthology of Writings from North-East India (OUP, 2011) and in Asomiya Handpicked Fictions (Katha, 2003). She also writes short stories, travel pieces and current interest articles, and her work has been published in newspapers, journals and magazines. She is a Founding Member of the North East Writers’ Forum.

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

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The Wanderers, Lost and Seeking

Title: Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India

Author: Anuradha Kumar

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

INTRODUCTION

The Wanderers, Lost and Seeking

The people you will meet here—the ‘first Americans in India’—were indeed all wanderers. They came, not attached to the intentions of a country, or even protected by it, unlike their peers, the Englishmen who made up the East India Company, and who came to trade backed by a royal charter granted by Elizabeth I in the year 1600.

The wanderers, the first of whom came at a time when the United States of America had not come into being—and their actions, thus, were different from what was ordained as state policy. The ‘wanderers’ were not ‘state actors’ in that sense, but they, men, and some women, came to India, on their own, driven by their own spirit of search. They were brought here by a sense of adventure, or by a wild dream—that of finding something that would make their fortune—gold or inspiration quite like gold—or by the need to do something good and enobling.

But they were in some ways quite lost after they came to India.

Stepping Into a Mosaic

To these wanderers who travelled to Asia between 1700-1950s, India came as a mosaic of many impressions, a spread of colour and many experiences. It offered a field of new sensations compelling them to revise received knowledge. They were intrigued, they saw its contradictions, its strangeness, and how things were very different from the homes they had left behind. In the process, life for these wanderers was made afresh.

They came as traders, adventurers, military men, fortune hunters, seekers of knowledge, storytellers, mystics, those seeking a new career, or who came simply to serve.

To them, India—that looked quite different from what it does now—was a land of adventure. A land to make a fortune in, or to find fame.

It was a mysterious, magical place, one that fuelled the imagination, a land that contained the ancient truths of the universe. Yet it was a place caught in the ‘medieval age’, a place they had been sent to, a matter ‘divinely ordained’—as the missionaries and mystics believed—to save souls.

A place one could write about, for it was as strange as fiction; it was a land that offered inspiration and where one could find new, yet old, wisdom. A place to serve and cure and heal. A land where a new world was possible, or an arena to set the world aright.

The wanderers were awed and overwhelmed, and then, scandalized and shocked in equal measure. Some of what they wrote mirrored each other’s experiences. For example, their surprise at the number of servants that were needed. The astonishing beauty of the temples. The majesty of the Taj Mahal. The artistry produced by craftsmen and artisans, an art passed down generations. The riot of unexpected colour—in the bazaars, in the turbans men wore, and in the forests with ‘exotic’ fauna and flora yet to be named and classified by the new science of taxonomy. Balmy days spent on houseboats—‘doongas’—in Kashmir. The spiciness of the food, the liberal doses of pepper in curries. And then, the sad state of its women, especially the child brides, and the young widows, who had to be ‘saved’. The timeless stubbornness of the caste system. The very unchanging nature of things.

Change in America

To look at this period—1700-1950—and talk of Americans is somewhat anomalous. For one thing, for the early part of this time, America was a British colony. By the mid-1770s things would change. The United States of America emerged as a new political entity only in 1776.

On the other hand, from the early 18th century onward, the once dominant Mughal Empire was in decline. Aurangzeb, the last powerful ruler of that dynasty, had worn himself and the empire out with his battles in the Deccan and the upsurge of discontent elsewhere that he failed to contain. Even before the Battle of Plassey in 1757 tilted the balance—beginning in the east—in the East India Company’s favour, India was a patchwork of regional rulers, each brimming over with ambition and jostling for power. To adventurers and fortune-seekers—like the ‘wanderers’—who had no master, who came lacking the conqueror’s zeal, but who had their own sense of adventure, such a state of affairs was ideal to make a fortune, to remake a life.

It is thus of little surprise that the first of the wanderers came as part of the East India Company, to associate themselves with it, as ordinary private traders. America at that time, showed the same precarity that characterized India. It was a continent divided up between competing European powers, and to the west of the continent, the different native American groups too had their territories.1

In the next decades, as America extended westward into new frontiers, set its own foundations as a young democracy, some of the wanderers, citizens of a new nation, also faced their own frontiers, as they sailed eastward onto an unknown land.

Most of these early travellers were those who lived on the northeastern seaboard of the American continent, that is, in the port towns of New England that had historic links with England since the early 17th century. These travellers who came all the way from the faraway West to the East were immigrants themselves, children of people who had moved a generation or two ago, a westward journey from Europe to the ‘New World’. The wanderers to India—the South Asian subcontinent—were thus children of wanderers themselves.

(Extracted from Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India by Anuradha Kumar. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025)

THE BOOK

In 1833, Frederic Tudor, an American businessman, made history when he shipped 180 pounds of ice harvested from Walden Pond in Boston, to Calcutta—this luxury item being much in demand amongst the elites of British India. Tudor was deservedly christened the ‘Ice King’, and soon built a flourishing trade exporting American ice to India.

Others were drawn to the country by less materialistic goals. Like the ‘medical missionaries’ who were deeply concerned with the ‘women’s condition’ in India. Ida Scudder’s efforts in the 1900s resulted in the setting up of the Christian Medical College in Vellore, which continues to save lives till this day; in 1873, ‘Doctor Miss Sahiba’ Clara Swain set up the first hospital for women and children in Asia, in Bareilly, on land donated by the Nawab of Rampur.

There were also those who came to stay. Twenty-two-year-old Samuel Evans Stokes came to Kotgarh in the Himalayan foothills in 1904, embraced Hinduism and became Satyanand Stokes. He revolutionized apple cultivation in the area, now in Himachal Pradesh, by introducing the ‘Red Delicious’ apples of Missouri; today, his descendants still live and work in the region. Likewise, the Alter family. Martha and David Emmet Alter arrived in Mussoorie in 1917, to spend the summer studying at the Landour Language School; in 1941, Emmet became principal of Woodstock School, just around the hillside. Twenty-five years later, his son Robert occupied the same position. Robert’s son Stephen continues to live in Mussoorie, pursuing a successful writing career; his cousin Tom Alter was a much-loved actor in Indian films until he passed away in 2017.

These are just some of the ‘first Americans in India’ who came here, beginning in the 1700s, with different motives and dreams—as adventurers, traders, reformers, writers and artists. All of them, without exception, were fascinated, astonished, moved and, in the end, profoundly changed by their ‘Indian experience’.

Anuradha Kumar’s skilful and well-researched account of these early visitors makes this an important and engrossing book that informs, surprises and amuses in equal measure.

THE AUTHOR

Anuradha Kumar lived in Mumbai for over a decade, where she worked for the Economic and Political Weekly. She now lives in New Jersey in the US, and writes often for Scroll, The India Forum, The Missouri Review, Catamaran Literary Reader, The Common and Maine Literary Review. Two of her essays received ‘notable’ mention in Best American Essays editions of 2023 and 2024.

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The Wild One, Birds, Rabbits and Kittens…

Title: Fragments of Time (Memoirs)

Author: Snigdha Agrawal

Publisher: Notion Press

To say I was the wild one out of the four would be an understatement. The non-conformist in me surfaced very early on.  I never tired of climbing trees, sitting on the guava tree branches, gorging on the half-ripe fruits, rescuing kittens from overflowing drains, cycling around the golf course, swimming and dancing in the rain. Activities one would tend to associate with boys. Indulging in these activities gave me a high, like no other, despite the occasional mishaps, sometimes returning home with cuts and bruises and once a sprained ankle.  The latter memory still brings on chuckles and many more acts of dare-devilry, often landing me in serious trouble.

When I was about ten or eleven, I found myself clutching a squash racquet, sitting impatiently in the upper gallery of the court. My sibling and our best buddy were monopolising the game, deaf to my relentless pleas for a turn. Frustrated, I finally resorted to threats. “I’ll jump down and physically drag you two out!” I declared, pointing to the six-foot drop beneath me.

They burst out laughing, waving off my threat as an empty bluff. “Alright then, here I come!” I announced with dramatic flair before leaping off the gallery like a tragic superhero. Predictably, I landed flat on my skinny, bony backside, twisted ankle and all. Tears of pain and humiliation stung my eyes as I sat there, my busted pride compounded by the unmistakable warmth of pee spreading beneath me.

The scene was absurd: me, sprawled on the court floor, ankle throbbing, dignity in tatters and wet underwear adding to the shame. To their credit, the two culprits did feel a little bad. They hoisted me up and hobbled me home. Thereafter, I was sentenced to two weeks of house arrest with a plastered leg. My heroic leap had cost me not only a turn at squash but also a chunk of my pride.

The ‘Jamun’ (Java plum) season brings back more laughs—and another painfully ridiculous memory. The broad trunk of the Jamun tree in the backyard was too tall for us kids to climb, so we enlisted the gardener to shimmy up and shake the branches. The purple fruit rained down like magical stardust, scattering across the ground.

In a frenzy, I dashed across the open drain, gathering the fleshy fruits in my frock, which I’d rolled up to create a makeshift pouch. In my excitement, I missed a step and went flying face-first into the drain. The Jamuns soared into the air in protest, pelting down on me like purple confetti as I lay sprawled, filthy, and bruised.

My loyal partners-in-crime stared down at me, their goofy grins quickly morphing into full-blown laughter. Their hilarity was so contagious that even I couldn’t help but laugh at my misadventure. Covered in muck and Jamun juice, I climbed out of the drain, purple-tongued and scratched up, determined not to let Ma discover my mishap.

With my frock a casualty of war, I sneaked past her, heading straight for a long, scrubbing shower to erase all evidence of the day’s follies. No way was I going to cry or complain. If there’s one thing childhood taught me, it’s that a little dignity can survive even the most spectacular disasters.

Growing up with pets

During this period, the animal world entered our home, each one leaving under different circumstances.  Out of the many, the first that appears in my mind is a monkey, kept in the garden shed, brought out occasionally to be fed, and patted.  The gardener spotted the baby wandering around amongst the flower beds, looking lost and forlorn, in search of his mother, who probably had been chased back into the nearby Sal forests.  Baba decided to parent this little guy till he was of age and able to fend for himself.  Honestly, I never liked this furry creature, with large round eyes, vying for Baba’s attention.  Six months later, he was seen bounding off with confidence, probably in search of a mate.  

A parakeet with an orange beak, vibrant green feathers, and a long-spotted tail was the next addition to our home. This feisty little bird quickly made its presence felt, taking liberties whenever it was let out of its cage. It would hop onto the dining table and help itself to the food, unbothered by anyone’s protests. Though it was most attached to Baba, it also formed a special bond with Didi, the eldest sister. The bird would happily perch on her shoulder, observing the household with a sense of ownership.

Despite our many attempts to teach it to sing catchy tunes, the parakeet refused to comply, displaying an attitude far too big for its tiny frame. The only sound it ever uttered from its hooked beak was “khuku…khuku,” Didi’s pet name.

One day, the bird decided it was time to spread its wings—literally—and see the world beyond the confines of its cosy cage. The catalyst? A heated argument between Baba and Didi, during which Didi earned herself a thorough scolding for talking back. When she started crying, Laljhuti, the parakeet, seemed to lose its tiny green mind.

Squawking like an avian alarm, Laljhuti transformed into a miniature cyclone, zipping through the room at breakneck speed. It knocked over cups and sent saucers crashing, turning perfectly folded papers into a confetti of chaos. In its final act of rebellion, Laljhuti delivered precise nips to both Baba and Didi, leaving behind small but meaningful bite marks—souvenirs of its outrage. And then, with a dramatic flair, worthy of a Bollywood hero storming out after a family quarrel, Laljhuti shot straight out of the house.

Didi was inconsolable. Her beloved Laljhuti was gone. For days, she stood on the veranda, calling its name with the kind of desperation usually reserved for lost lottery tickets. But the green tornado had no intention of returning. Laljhuti had flown the coop, leaving behind only chaos, confusion, and a few well-placed dents in family egos.

To console her, Baba brought home a flock of colourful Budgerigars. These cheerful, social birds were more manageable and quickly became part of our household. They lived in a specially built cage, which Baba cleaned daily, ensuring their water and food bowls were always replenished. Their lively chatter often blended with our own, filling the house with a delightful din.

Over time, however, we lost a few of them and Baba decided to set the remaining ones free. With that, the “bird phase” of our lives came to an end, leaving behind memories of fluttering wings and chirping voices.

Next came a bunny rabbit, a fluffball with the whitest fur, pink glassy eyes, and a bushy tail that wiggled with mischief. This little creature was treated like royalty, roaming freely around the house and being pampered with baby carrots.

While everyone adored it, I had my grievances—specifically its habit of leaving tiny black droppings in the most inconvenient places. The worst was finding them nestled in my school shoes. There’s nothing quite like starting your day by gagging over rabbit poop.

To this day, I can’t recall what became of the bunny. One day it was there, twitching its nose and ruling the household, and the next, its cage had been unceremoniously relegated to the garden shed. Perhaps it hopped off to greener pastures, or maybe someone had finally had enough of the shoe sabotage. Either way, the bunny left its mark—quite literally—all over my childhood memories.

The last one was a surprise birthday gift for me and my twin, which arrived packaged in a shoe box, lined with layers of cotton.  A two-week-old Siamese kitten got from a litter of eight and was as tiny as the palm of my hand.  I watched Baba and Ma taking turns feeding this one with milk, prying open its mouth and squeezing the cotton ball soaked in milk.  He was named “Tuuta” and as he grew, the colour of his coat changed from white to grey and then a darker shade of grey. From milk, he graduated to eating goat entrails mashed with cooked rice and was a happy camper, rubbing his back against Ma’s legs, perhaps as a reminder it was feeding time. My twin and I fought over him, as one would fight over toys, setting dates for Tuuta’s sleeping schedule under our blankets.  One week in my bed, the next week in my twin’s bed.  Soon enough the fights ceased, with “Tuuta“, going out for overnight dates with the stray cats in the neighbourhood, probably the most sought-after male in the cat kingdom. The reasons could be his debonair looks, his pedigree and the fact that he lived in a bungalow, served gourmet meals, slept on whichever bed he fancied and most importantly, had his toilet created out of a wooden crate, filled with sand, where he performed his daily business.  Cleaned periodically. And if we so much as watched him at his job, he gave the stinky eye as if to say — “Get lost.  Let me shit in peace!”  

His entry/exit route for the overnight dates was through the open bathroom exhaust window.  One morning when Ma found he had not turned up for his breakfast, we looked everywhere and found him in the half-filled bathtub with water up to his neck, trying to scramble out, with little success.  The philanderer had missed his step on the ledge of the bathtub and landed inside.  Of course, that didn’t change our love for him.  He continued with such escapades, sowing quite a few wild oats, and ended up catching rabies.  A very sad end for him and us.  My twin and I had to take the rabies injection for a fortnight.  Very painful shots in the hips, administered by the Company doctor in the hospital.  Thus ended the saga of “Tuuta” the Siamese cat with whiskers that tickled, my favourite.

About the Author

Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is an aspiring writer who views herself as a perpetual learner on an ever-evolving creative journey. A graduate of Loreto Institutions and brought up in a cosmopolitan environment, she weaves a rich tapestry of Eastern and Western cultural influences into her literary work. Her writing is also shaped by two decades of corporate experience, which lends depth and realism to her narratives.

Spanning genres from short stories to poetry, her lifelong passion for creative writing is fuelled by a desire to connect with readers, evoke emotions, and spark reflection through her vivid storytelling.  She is a published author of five books, the latest Fragments of Time (Memoirs) is available on Amazon worldwide and on Flipkart, in Paperback, Hardcover and Kindle formats.

Now in her 70s, she embraces life with curiosity and an unquenchable thirst for learning. When not immersed in writing, she explores new places and shares her adventures on her travel blog.

Based in Bangalore, India, Snigdha finds enduring inspiration in her husband, her partner of nearly fifty years. Together, they continue to cherish and celebrate the ever-changing journey of life, which serves as the foundation for her creative pursuits.

About the Book

Fragments of Time is a heartwarming memoir that celebrates the beauty of life’s quiet yet meaningful moments.  Written by a woman in her seventies, it offers reflections on childhood, love, loss, and ageing, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary.  With grace, humour and honesty, these stories reveal the richness of a life well-lived, reminding readers that even the simplest experiences hold profound value and are worth cherishing and sharing.

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Nazuk by Sayad Zahoor Shah Hasuhmi

Translated by Fazal Baloch

This is first chapter of the first Balochi novel that was published in 1976. It has been translated into Urdu and Persian. The narrative depicts everyday life and experiences of the people living around the coastal area of Makkuran especially Gwadar and its surroundings.

The cover of Nazuk. provided by Fazal Baloch.

For about a week, the weather had been pleasant, with a cool wind blowing across the sea—a true blessing for the fishermen. A calm sea meant loss for them, while a rough sea spelled devastation. Over the past few days, the fleet of fishing boats had been returning to the shore with plenty of catch.

The sun had completed three-quarters of its journey, racing through the sky like a messenger in haste in the final quarter. Its burning rays were yielding to the soothing coolness of the approaching evening. The long, serene shadows stretching behind the houses provided an ideal setting for a public gathering.

Away from the shore, an old voyager boat, anchored in the red sands, stood tall like a pyramid—a symbol of the unshakable bond between the boundless sea and its people. Who could say how many joyful and sad years the sea’s companions had spent navigating across its waters on that very boat? Though the sea often rocked their boat like a cradle, not once had these brave sons of the ocean furrowed their brows in fear or discontent.

The fleeting morning shadows soon vanished to the unknown but the evening shadows lingered longer, creeping towards the damp sands of the shore and eventually reaching the water, as if embodying the spirit of the giant old boat longing for the sea’s embrace to soothe its heart.

The shadow it cast offered an ideal venue for one of the biggest public gatherings in the evening. At times, it seemed as if people sitting on its plank were aboard the boat chatting to pass their time on a deep-sea trip. The cool breeze blew across reflected the pleasant weather at sea.

The wind had cooled the sands of the shore, making them so comfortable that those who lay on them forgot the comfort of even the most luxurious mattresses and cushions. Men, women, and children all came to enjoy themselves, especially today, which was more crowded than usual as it was Friday and no one had ventured into the sea for fishing the night before, giving the fishermen a day off.

For those who lived around the sea, there were only two vocations: fishing or navigating across the sea on a boat. And everyone acknowledged that sea navigation was one of the most cherished vocations in the world. Thanks to these navigations and explorations, humans had even set foot on the moon.

Navigation in the sea made fishermen exceptionally skilled and resourceful. They sailed from one country to another, learning about different lands and their people. Some sailors, despite being illiterate, exhibited such remarkable knowledge that even the learned were left in awe.

On the right, in front of a small roadside hotel, people sat on benches, sipping tea and chatting with each other. Some distance away, a group had gathered around a tall and smart man, listening intently to him. Let’s draw closer. Oh! He is Captain Naguman, moving his lips and hands alike. With his hands, he fidgets with a rope, perhaps knitting a net, while with his lips, he narrates the story of the First World War so enthusiastically as if he were a part of it himself. At that moment, someone called out from behind: “Captain! Hey Captain Naguman!”

Naguman turned around, shaking his head annoyingly, and said, “This jinxed fellow never lets me speak properly.”

“Captain! Hey Captain Naguman!”

The call came from inside the hotel’s kitchen, and from his voice, the Captain recognised him.

“Abdul is really a cursed man! Look how he disturbed the Captain in the middle of his speech,” someone said with rage.

“Exactly. He always jumps in during my speech,” Naguman turned somewhat dismayed.

“Hey Captain! Would you like tea? A cup of tea?” Abdul’s voice reached their ears again.

“If you’re going to give him a cup of tea, then bring it, you the cursed scoundrel,” someone whispered, and the Captain replied loudly, “Yes, bring it.”

Abdul immediately came and placed the cup before the Captain. He too sat down to listen. A few people from the audience cast side-glances at Abdul. The Captain smiled, sipped his tea, and resumed his speech, “Listen, you blind fishermen! Just in a single day, over a hundred planes swarmed in like locusts…”

A little farther away, a few women and children were sitting. Children were playing with the sands. The first woman was busy weaving a net, and the second one was keenly observing her. The third one was still pondering about what to do or say. The second woman said with great lament: “Mamma Papi didn’t help me weave a net. At least I could have moved my otherwise idle hands,” lamented the first woman.

“Move your hands or make some money?” replied the third woman, as if she had been waiting for the perfect moment to speak.

Papi raised her experienced eyes slightly, smiled gently, and stopped weaving the net and glanced around. When she was sure that nobody was looking at them, she retorted in a hushed tone, “The ‘Young Man’ wouldn’t let you bother yourself with work, dear Mahbalok!”

“Waiy waiy! Mamma Papi, don’t defame me,” Mahbalok said slowly, taken by surprise.

“Mamma Papi! Mamma Papi! Look there. He’s coming right here,” the third woman hastily whispered. No sooner had she uttered these words, Mahbalok became so edgy that she almost broke into a sprint.

But Mamma Papi let out a hearty laugh, then she threw the spool of thread and half-woven net on the ground. With both her hands, she held Mahbalok’s shoulders and said: “What happened to you, the cursed woman? Where are you going? Look, you’re even getting fooled by this little Hajok. I’ve had enough with you. You’re almost out of your mind,” exclaimed one of the women.

“Hajok! May the lord of the sea curse you! I’ve never seen such a jinxed woman in my entire life. Mamma Papi, by God, my heart almost sank,” Mahbok tried to maintain her unsteady breath.

“Waiy Mahbok! Hajok is your neighbor and best friend,” remarked Mamma Papi.

“By God, Mahbok, don’t tease me again. I wouldn’t like it,” Mahbok was yet to come to herself.

“It’s alright. Don’t open your basket-like mouth. Men are looking at us,” Papi warned them.

Rows of boats lined up along the arched shore, resembling horses ready for a race. It seemed as if riders had tightly held the reins and were waiting for the whistle to be blown. A few boys were playing tag behind those boats and yawls. On the left, some nets were placed on a plank.

“Come! They taste like halwa. Come! They’re fresh and hot,” Zalya shouted as if warning those who couldn’t get any that they’d only have to blame themselves. And it did the trick. In a moment, people swarmed around her cauldron. A while later, a young man and his friend called out to her:

“O, Mamma Zalya! Send us half a rupee worth of Mat, please.”

“Pindi, my son! I don’t have that much left. They’re barely worth twenty-five paisa.”

“It’s alright. Leave it.” Then he turned to his friend and said, “We’ll go to the bazaar and have tea with biscuits.”

Pindi and his friend Guli got up and made their way towards the bazaar. Two young men were playing Liddi. The game seemed to absorb to the duo as if it were the greatest challenge of their lives.

“Jalu! Jalu! Come on, boy. Pass this net to your uncle. Every day these blind fishermen return it damaged. They’ve spent their entire lives at sea, yet they can’t keep the net away from the rocks,” an old man, while weaving a net, turned to a boy sitting next to him.

“Jalu, my son! Go and get me your uncle Shahdost’s net.”

“Uncle, let me finish my peanuts first,” the boy replied indifferently.

“I’ll keep your peanuts. Get me the net first, then you can eat your peanuts.”

The boy slipped the peanuts into his pocket and scurried off. He returned almost panting and threw the net with a thud before his uncle.

He closely examined the net to determine the nature of the damage. Startled, he suddenly blurted out, “Such a new net! They have damaged it terribly,” he mumbled in anger. “They’re blind in both eyes. Neither do they know how to properly cast the net nor do they know how to untangle it.”

The sea was crowded. A few boys were playing tip-cat, and some other people were watching and enjoying the game. It’s played differently in different areas, but the version played in the coastal area is distinct. Some other boys were playing hopscotch. Two young boys were drawing sketches of fish, boats, and yawls in the sand with knife-like-sharp fish bones. A little farther away, a few young men were playing bazari. Two young men looked at them and tempted them, “You blind men! Is this the time to play this game? You’re flaunting your skills. We’ll challenge you to a match. Come tonight at the sands of Kala Teembok. We’ll show you how it’s played and won.”

A few girls were playing with beads, and some others were collecting salps[1]. It is believed that when you bury them in the ground, after seven days they will turn into beads provided no boy sees you burying them. On the seventh day, when they fail to unearth any beads, they wouldn’t turn dismayed. But at that moment, one of the girls would claim, “You know, Mami is a… he had been following us. He secretly watched us behind the wall. Thus, we couldn’t get beads.”

“Today I will complain to her mother,” the second girl replied.

“Anok! Anok! It’s better not to visit his mother.”

“Why, Jani?”

“Yesterday his father severely thrashed his mother… “

“Ah! But why?”

“You know Sayaki, the carpenter? She had visited his house.”

“May God keep us away from…”

Far in the distance, a woman called out, “Sharok! Come on, dear, look after the baby. I’ll be back from the bazaar just in a while.” Sharok, who was playing with beads, strode towards her mother. The youngest of them took all the beads from the girls, dismantled the holes, and chanted, “The game is over. Yes, it is all over.”

Two younger girls cried out, “Give us back our beads!” But by the time their sobbing subsided, she had already gone home. Determined, the two girls began digging through the holes again, hoping to find a bead hidden somewhere. However, there was nothing. Disappointed, they stood up and walked to the sea to wash their hands. Spotting other girls collecting salps nearby, they joined in, clinging to the hope that by the next Friday, the salps might somehow transform into beads.

The sun descended lower, casting the shore in hues of orange and gold. By sunset, the beach was nearly deserted, save for the men gathered around, engrossed in Naguman’s tale of the German War.

Glossary

Halwa, Mat: Types of sweets.

Liddi, Bazaari: Local ga

[1] A tiny sea creature

Sayad Zahoor Shah Hashumi (1926-78) is known as the pioneer of modern Balochi literature. He was simultaneously a poet, fiction writer, critic, linguist and a lexicographer par excellence. Though he left undeniable marks on various genres of Balochi literature, poetry remained his mainstay. With his enormous imagination and profound insight he laid the foundation of a new school of Balochi poetry especially Balochi ghazal which mainly emphasises on the purity of language and simplicity of poetic thoughts. This school of poetry subsequently attracted a wide range of poets to its fold. He also authored the first ever Balochi novel ‘Nazuk’ and compiled the first comprehensive Balochi-to-Balochi dictionary containing over twenty thousand words and hundreds of pictorial illustrations.

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. Baloch has the translation rights of this novel.

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The Great Himalayan Ascents

Title: The Great Himalayan Ascents

Author: Frank S Smythe

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

The Himalaya

TWO HUNDRED YEARS ago mountains were regarded as useless and terrible masses of inert matter where dragons had their lairs and the spirits of the damned lay in wait to claim the unwary. But as man emerged from the superstitions and materialisms of the Middle Ages he began to realise that mountains were beautiful and their summits worthy of attainment. The nineteenth century saw the conquest of the Alps. Unknown difficulties and dangers had to be faced by the pioneers of mountaineering. Disasters occurred, lives were lost, and mountaineering thrown into disrepute. The mountaineer was not dismayed. He knew that beauty was his for the seeking; he rejoiced in a newfound comradeship and in the acquirement and exercise of a new craft.

The great alpine summits fell one by one; traditions were established; a technique was evolved; a literature was born. The ripples of alpine mountaineering radiated outwards, bearing with them mountaineers to other ranges: the Caucasus, the Rockies, the Andes, the New Zealand Alps. On their highest peaks the skill acquired in the Alps was sufficient to ensure success. But there remained one great range that defied invasion of its strongholds – the Himalaya. There, the technique acquired in the Alps was not sufficient. Height alone was a physical deterrent, and coupled to height was steepness and danger. Expeditions had to be organised to reach even the foot of the great peaks; time and money had to be found. Yet, despite these disadvantages, Himalayan mountaineering and exploration progressed steadily. Pioneers such as the Schlagintweit Brothers, Sir Joseph Hooker, The Duke of the Abruzzi, Mr W.W. Graham, Lord Conway, Sir Francis Younghusband, Mr D.W. Freshfield, Doctor T.G. Longstaff, Doctor A.M. Kellas, General Bruce, Mr C.F. Meade, Doctor and Mrs Bullock Workman, Messrs. Rubenson and Monrad Aas, and many other pre-war pioneers opened up a region unsurpassed for its beauty and grandeur, and by their experiences pointed the way to the highest summits.

Many people refer to the Himalaya as though their limitations in scenery and climate were similar to those of the Alps. The tourist who gazes upon Kangchenjunga, 28,226 feet, from Darjeeling returns home saying that he has seen the Himalaya. So he has, but how much of two thousand miles of mountains stretching from the Pamirs to the borders of Indo-China, and beyond these limits, in terms of mountains? A lifetime might be spent wandering about the Himalaya, yet the knowledge acquired would embrace but an infinitesimal portion of that vast labyrinth of peaks, valleys and plateaux scrawled across the map of Asia.

In climate alone there is an extraordinary variety. From hot steamy tropical valleys, filled with luxuriant vegetation, it is but a few horizontal miles to zero temperatures and the highest snows in the world. Between these two extremes is an immense range of climate, the common despot of which is a fierce sun. Added to the complexities of climate due to height alone is the added complexity of seasonal weather fluctuations, due directly or indirectly to the influence of the monsoons and weather conditions emanating from the plateaux of Central Asia.

Racial characteristics are as diversified as the climate. From the people of Hunza and Chitral to the Sherpas and Bhotias of Northern Nepal, the almost extinct Lepchas of Sikkim and the wild races of Bhutan, the Himalaya can show many different types, for they form a natural frontier between India and Tibet, and a pudding-bowl wherein is stirred a mixture of Mongolian and Indian blood.

Politically, only a comparatively small portion of the Himalaya is accessible to the mountaineer and explorer. Democracy is unknown in Tibet and Nepal, and both these countries have closed their frontiers to Europeans and resolutely set themselves against infiltration of European thought and ideas. Some of the finest peaks of the Himalaya lie within the borders of Nepal, including the southern side of Everest, 29,140 feet, Dhaulagiri, 26,795 feet, Gosainthan (Shisha Pangma), 26,305 feet, and many other great peaks. In addition there are other districts where the mountaineer is not always welcomed, owing to political and other objections. The three most interesting districts accessible to mountaineers and explorers are the Karakorams, the Kumaun and Garhwal Himalaya and the Sikkim Himalaya, including the eastern side of Kangchenjunga, and it is in these three districts that the most notable mountaineering expeditions have been carried out, with the  exception of Everest (now barred politically) and the northern side of Nanga Parba (forbidden territory to expeditions at present). Each of these districts is magnificent in its own way. In the Karakoram there is no glacier to rival in grandeur the Baltoro, and no peaks surpassing in ferocity the terrific ice- armoured spires dominated by K2 (Mount Godwin Austin), 28,187 feet. From the Kumaun Himalaya rises Nanda Devi, 25,645 feet; the highest peak entirely within the confines of the British Empire, a mountain so difficult to approach that no one has yet succeeded in treading the glaciers at the foot of it, whilst Kamet, 25,447 feet, dominates the ranges of Northern Garhwal. In Sikkim, Kangchenjunga boasts the most wonderful snow and ice scenery in the Himalaya, owing to its exposure to the moisture-laden airs of the monsoon. It has defeated three determined attempts to climb it, in 1929, 1930 and 1931 by mountaineers well versed in the technique of high-altitude mountaineering. The highest point reached was 26,000 feet, by the gallant Bavarian expedition in 1931 and that only after incredible difficulty.*

Geologically, the Himalaya are a young mountain range, due to an uplift of the ancient seabed covering Central Asia. This uplift took place so slowly that rivers such as the Indus and the Brahmaputra, which have their sources to the north of the Himalaya, have been able to carve their way through the range as it rose. This is the only explanation that can account for the deep valleys cutting through from Tibet to India.

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(Extracted from The Great Himalayan Ascents by Frank S. Smythe. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025.)

About the Book

Frank S. Smythe (1900-1949) was one of the greatest mountaineers of the twentieth century, and a celebrated memoirist and adventure writer. This collection brings together three accounts of Smythe’s most thrilling ascents in the Himalayas—The Kangchenjunga Adventure, Kamet Conquered and Camp Six.

The Kangchenjunga Adventure narrates in detail the 1930 expedition to climb the third-highest mountain in the world: how Smythe, as part of an international team of mountaineers, attempts to reach the summit of Kangchenjunga, before a deadly avalanche—which kills one of the Sherpas— forces them to change course and scale the Jonsong Peak instead. In Kamet Conquered, Smythe makes a successful bid at ascending Mount Kamet in 1931, which was at that time still unscaled. On their way back, Smythe and his team chance upon the spectacular and colourful Bhyundar Valley, which they christen the ‘Valley of Flowers’, and which is now a National Park. Camp Six recounts a gripping adventure on the world’s highest mountain—the 1933 Everest Expedition, in which Smythe, climbing alone, ascends to a point higher than any human had reached before. Made without ropes or oxygen to support him, and in terrible snow conditions, the climb is regarded as one of the greatest endeavours in the history of mountaineering.

This majestic omnibus edition offers a fascinating window into early mountain climbing and Himalayan exploration. It is also a rare treat for every lover of fine, entertaining writing.

About the Author

Frank Sydney Smythe was a British mountaineer, botanist and adventurer. Smythe, who began his mountaineering career in the Alps, joined the international Kangchenjunga expedition of 1930 which ended in failure. In 1936, he led the expedition which successfully ascended Mount Kamet, then the highest peak ever to have been climbed. Subsequently, in the 1930s, Smythe was thrice part of teams which attempted to climb Mount Everest. An accomplished photographer and a prolific writer, Smythe wrote twenty-seven books in all, the best known among which are The Kangchenjunga Adventure, Kamet Conquered and Adventures of a Mountaineer. Smythe died in 1949.

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The Devil’s Halo

Title: The Devil’s Halo

Author: Rhys Hughes

Publisher: Elsewhen Press, 2024

The Devil said, “Look here, old chap, we are still going through your paperwork and it’s more complicated than you suppose. There are very few clear cut cases when it comes to judging a person’s life. You assume there is only one question to be asked. Was he good or bad?”

“Isn’t that what it boils down to?” I asked.

The Devil winced. “I wouldn’t make any references to boiling yet. And no, it can’t be reduced to such a simple question. Just using ‘good’ and ‘bad’ as the only two variables in the equation isn’t a workable approach. No, it’s not. There isn’t even an equation, not really.”

“I am astonished to learn this,” I answered.

“People who come here often are. And it’s the same in the other place. Lots of deliberation is necessary. Listen, I enjoy mathematics but this is morality, not calculus. The issues at stake are intricate. There are many philosophical aspects in any consideration of how an individual is morally rated. Investigations must be thorough and you appear to be a fellow of ambiguous character. For every act of grace, you have a malign one.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” I cried.

“Wait,” came the crisp reply, “in the Waiting Room that has been prepared for cases such as yours.” Then the Devil’s voice became less formal again. With a nudge of his elbow in my ribs, he added, “The Waiting Room isn’t so awful. It is certainly better than Hell itself.”

“How long do you think my case will take?”

He shrugged. “Twenty-four.”

“Hours?” I was alarmed that a whole day would pass in whatever limbo lay in wait for me behind those doors. He shook his horned head and I gasped, “Days?” but he kept shaking and a horrible prospect opened up before me. “Weeks? Months? Years?” I felt hot and cold at the same time. “Centuries?”

“Aeons,” he said. And then he yawned. I blinked. His forked beard was so oily it gleamed in the dim light of the cavern. He took me by the arm, and while his tail lashed from side to side, he guided me to the double doors that appeared to be made from pocked granite.

“Just through here,” he said, as he propelled me with a little push. I lost my balance and tumbled into the igneous doors. They swung open to admit me and I rolled on the floor. Before they shut again, I heard him add, “Plenty of waiting chaps inside you can make friends with. The millennia will seem to fly by, trust me. No restrictions on amusements.”

I wasn’t reassured by his words, which were abruptly cut off by the closing of the granite portals. I knew they wouldn’t open from this side. I was bruised a little on my elbows and knees. But I stood and regarded my surroundings. I was in a chamber so vast there was no visible end to it. There were chairs, sofas and divans of all kinds arranged haphazardly. Some of them were occupied. I licked my lips and took a few paces forward.

“Newcomer, huh?” said a man on a rocking chair.

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“What else could you be? Pointless question. But I asked it anyway. That’s how I pass the time. Infinity,” he added after a pause, “is the heaviest weight on the shoulders of a dead soul.”

“You have been here for a long time?”

“Not really. One hundred years, a century. A grain of sand on the shifting dunes of Forever. But I am getting used to it. Tedium can be stimulating if you don’t take it too seriously and–”

“There are better amusements here,” said another voice, more strident, low in register, and I turned to see a fellow frowning at me from a very comfortable armchair. He was dressed smartly and my intuition told me that he was one of those minor sinners, an embezzler or fraudster, someone who would probably be consigned to a less painful Circle of Hell. Once his paperwork was done, that is. His frown continued. I asked: “Such as?” and I realised my voice was a croak.

“Telling stories,” he said.

He leaned forward, although in the luxurious depths of his particular chair he looked just as stuck as when he was sprawled almost horizontal. “Let me say that I prefer short tales, the briefer the better. Thrills without frills. Long stories annoy me. I seem to lack patience.”

“A major disadvantage in a place like this,” commented the first man, then he chuckled and the shaking of his body made his rocking chair oscillate. With a sigh, the second man continued: “I have only been here for a few months. I am still in full possession of my senses. The decay of my mind hasn’t begun. I will tell you a story and I suggest you tellme one in return.”

At a loss for words, I simply stood there, and my failure to respond quickly enough seemed to irritate him.

“It doesn’t have to be a major epic,” he snapped.

“But my mind is blank.”

He threw up his hands, exasperated. “Then you ought to clear off. It’s far better to be where you belong.”

“Wherever that might be,” said the first man.

“Not near here, I hope,” snarled the man in the armchair, and he scratched his head with unwarranted ferocity. “Well, I don’t care if I don’t get any story in exchange. I intend to tell mine.”

I found this rather mystifying and was about to say so, but he was clearing his throat and preparing to speak. The first man was still chuckling and rocking, but more quietly and less vigorously, and soon he settled back into quietude. At the same moment, the smartly dressed fellow fixed me with his piercing eyes, a gaze too intense for such a casual moment, and then a stream of words came out of his mouth. I was vaguely alarmed.

About the Book: In death, as in life, paperwork is hell. The paperwork for the recently deceased Monty Zubris needs to be examined and deliberated upon. So, meanwhile, the Devil has consigned him to the Waiting Room of the Afterlife. It is ordered alphabetically, so he is compelled to make his way to his designated zone, which is, of course, near the very end of the chamber. On this voyage of enormous length, he meets various dead individuals, many of whom wish to tell him their remarkable stories.

A light comedy, a picaresque journey – like a warped subterranean Pilgrim’s Progress.

“Only Rhys Hughes could have written The Devil’s Halo!”
– IAN WATSON, European SF Society Grand Master 2024.

About the Author: Rhys Hughes began writing from an early age. His first book, Worming the Harpy, was published in 1995 by Tartarus Press, and since then he has published more than fifty other books, and his fiction has been translated into twelve languages. His work encompasses genres as diverse as fantasy, gothic, experimental, science fiction, magic realism, comedy, absurdism, thrillers and westerns, and he is known for his invention, imagination and wordplay. He recently completed an ambitious project that involved writing exactly one thousand linked short stories. He also writes plays, poems and articles.

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A Perpetual Struggle

Title: Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage, and Resilience

Author: Bhaskar Parichha

Publisher: Pen In Books

Chapter 10

 A Perpetual Struggle

“Humans and nature can never be friends! Nature will never hesitate to starve you in the drought, drown you in the rain, burn you in the sun, and kill you with an earthquake, a hurricane or a disease; and as such, nature should always be seen as an enemy not a friend.”
― Mouloud Benzadi

 Cyclones exert a significant influence on the economy and agricultural sector of Odisha, leading to considerable disruptions and enduring challenges for the region. Agriculture serves as a fundamental component of Odisha’s economy, accounting for approximately 26% of the Gross State Domestic Product (GSDP) and providing employment for around 85% of the rural populace. The occurrence of cyclones frequently results in severe crop damage, exemplified by the 1999 Super Cyclone, which led to the loss of nearly 2 million tons of rice and devastated approximately 18.43 lakh hectares of farmland. More recent cyclones, such as Fani in 2019, inflicted damage on about 60% of the paddy crop and had a detrimental effect on vegetable production.

The fishing industry, crucial for the livelihoods of local communities, also suffers significant setbacks due to cyclonic events. Damage to fishing infrastructure and interruptions in fishing operations result in decreased catch and income for fishermen, thereby intensifying the economic difficulties faced by coastal populations.

Cyclones inflict extensive damage on infrastructure, including roads, electricity, and housing. This destruction not only affects immediate livelihoods but also obstructs long-term economic recovery. For instance, Cyclone Amphan in 2020 caused widespread infrastructural damage, impacting millions of consumers and resulting in prolonged power outages.

Job Loss

The devastation wrought by cyclones leads to job losses, particularly affecting daily wage laborers and roadside vendors, who are often the most susceptible to economic disruptions. The reduction in employment opportunities further exacerbates poverty levels in a state that is already economically disadvantaged.

Research indicates that cyclones adversely affect local economic growth, with studies revealing a significant decline in the growth rate in the years following such events. For instance, after the catastrophic cyclones of 2013 and 2014, the growth rate plummeted to 1.8% in 2014-15, a stark decrease from 9.3% in the preceding year.

Cyclones result in flooding, soil salinization, and erosion, which significantly undermine agricultural productivity. Coastal areas, where a majority of agricultural activities are concentrated, are especially susceptible to these effects, resulting in diminished crop yields and heightened food insecurity. Farmers are compelled to adjust to the evolving climate and the rising occurrence of cyclones. This adaptation may involve altering planting schedules, implementing multiple cropping strategies, and enhancing irrigation systems to alleviate the impact of cyclones on their livelihoods. The financial challenges associated with recovering from cyclone-related damage can be daunting for farmers, many of whom do not possess sufficient insurance coverage. This economic pressure can perpetuate cycles of poverty and obstruct agricultural advancement in the region.

Ongoing Struggle

The ongoing struggle of the people in Odisha against the backdrop of cyclones is a complex interplay of psychological trauma, economic hardship, and the need for improved disaster management. While strides have been made in preparedness and response, the experiences of survivors underscore the necessity for continued support and infrastructure development to mitigate the impacts of future cyclones.

Resilience to cyclones involves implementing a range of strategies to minimize the impact of these natural disasters on communities and infrastructure. This can include building stronger and more resilient infrastructure, such as storm-resistant buildings and flood barriers, as well as developing early warning systems and evacuation plans. Investing in disaster preparedness and response training for communities can help them cope better with the aftermath of a cyclone. By taking proactive measures to increase resilience to cyclones, communities can reduce the loss of life and property damage caused by these powerful storms.

Incorporating nature-based solutions such as mangrove restoration and coastal vegetation can help absorb the impact of cyclones and reduce erosion. Building codes and regulations can also be updated to ensure that new construction is more resilient to extreme weather events.

 Promoting community engagement and participation in resilience-building efforts can help foster a sense of ownership and responsibility among residents. This can include educating communities on how to prepare for cyclones, providing resources for emergency supplies, and establishing communication networks to disseminate information during a crisis.

Resilience to cyclones requires a multi-faceted approach that involves collaboration between government agencies, non-profit organizations, businesses, and local communities. By working together to implement these strategies, we can better protect vulnerable populations and infrastructure from the devastating impacts of cyclones.

Livelihood Loss

The economic impact of cyclones is profound highlighting the broader economic devastation faced by many in the fishing and agricultural sectors. Initial estimates indicated that thousands of fishing boats were lost, and agricultural land became salt-encrusted, rendering it unusable for years. This dual loss of livelihood and resources has compounded the stress for displaced communities.

Survivors of Cyclone Fani, which struck Odisha in May 2019, have faced severe mental health issues, including stress disorders and depression. Many individuals expressed feelings of despair and anxiety about their future, struggling to cope with the trauma of the cyclone’s destruction. Mental health experts have emphasized the need for immediate interventions to address these issues, as the fear of future cyclones continues to haunt the affected communities.

Mental health professionals have been mobilized to assess the psychological impact of the cyclone. A study conducted a month after Cyclone Fani found that approximately 42.9% of participants exhibited probable PTSD, while 36.7% experienced severe anxiety and 16.5% showed moderately severe depression. Additionally, suicidal thoughts increased by 14% among the affected population. These findings underscore the urgent need for targeted mental health interventions.

Efforts are being made to enhance community-based mental health support. This includes training local volunteers to identify individuals in need of psychological assistance and providing them with referral support. Such grassroots initiatives are crucial for ensuring that mental health care reaches those who may not have access to formal healthcare services.

Despite these interventions, challenges remain. Many survivors continue to experience sleep deprivation and anxiety due to the trauma of the cyclone and the ongoing fear of future disasters. The presence of mosquitoes in temporary shelters has further exacerbated sleep issues, highlighting the need for improved living conditions during recovery.

Moreover, the long-term psychological effects of such disasters necessitate sustained mental health support beyond the immediate aftermath. Historical data from the 1999 supercyclone indicates that without adequate post-disaster psychological support, issues like PTSD can persist for years.

Government’s Role

Cyclones in Odisha lead to devastating impacts on local communities, including loss of life, destruction of homes, and significant economic losses. The recurrent nature of these disasters has resulted in long-term challenges, such as food insecurity and displacement among vulnerable populations. The state government has been working on improving cyclone preparedness and response mechanisms to mitigate these impacts.

Early warning systems play a crucial role in reducing the impact of cyclones on the East Coast of India. These systems involve the use of advanced meteorological technology to track and predict the path and intensity of cyclones, allowing for timely evacuation and preparation. Additionally, coastal defense infrastructure such as seawalls, breakwaters, and mangrove restoration projects can help mitigate the impact of storm surges and erosion caused by cyclones.

Initiatives to prepare and build resilience within the community are also essential in reducing the impact of cyclones. This includes educating the public about cyclone preparedness, conducting drills and simulations, and providing access to emergency supplies and shelters. Building resilient infrastructure, such as cyclone-resistant housing and public buildings, can also help minimize the damage caused by cyclones.

Despite these measures, the East Coast of India remains vulnerable to the devastating impact of cyclones. Continuous research into cyclone behavior, climate change adaptation strategies, and the development of innovative technologies are crucial in improving the effectiveness of measures to reduce disaster risk. Strategic planning at the national and local levels is also necessary to ensure that resources are allocated effectively and that policies are in place to address the long-term impacts of cyclones.

Climate Change

In recent years, there has been a noticeable increase in the frequency and intensity of cyclones in the region. This trend is believed to be linked to climate change, which is causing rising sea levels and warmer ocean temperatures. These changes create more favorable conditions for cyclones to form and intensify, posing a significant threat to the people of Odisha.

Climate change has a profound effect on Odisha’s disaster preparedness plans in a variety of ways. The increasing temperatures and sea levels are contributing to more frequent and severe disasters such as cyclones, floods, droughts, and heat waves. This necessitates more robust and frequent evacuation drills, shelter maintenance, and emergency response planning. The prevalence of water and vector-borne diseases like malaria and dengue fever is worsened by climate change. Consequently, the health sector must incorporate climate change considerations into health policies, enhance disease management, and implement measures to mitigate the impact of heat waves.

Changes in monsoon patterns and more frequent cyclones result in widespread food and nutrition insecurity. Disaster preparedness efforts should prioritize ensuring access to nutritious food and promoting sustainable agricultural practices. The rise in sea levels due to climate change and the increased intensity of storms pose a threat to coastal infrastructure, including cyclone shelters and evacuation routes. Regular maintenance and improvement of these structures are essential to minimize the impact of climate change.

Raising awareness about climate change and being prepared require ongoing community involvement and capacity building. This involves training volunteers, promoting safe migration practices, and increasing media coverage of climate change issues. Climate change can negatively impact economic growth and exacerbate poverty. Disaster preparedness strategies need to address these economic risks by encouraging sustainable industries, renewable energy, and climate-resilient infrastructure.

Given the changing impacts of climate change, Odisha’s disaster preparedness strategies must evolve to ensure effective response and mitigation measures. This requires ongoing investment in disaster preparedness and response measures, as well as efforts to address the underlying causes of climate change. By taking proactive steps to mitigate the impact of cyclones and adapt to changing climatic conditions, Odisha can better protect its coastal region and ensure the safety and well. Financial investment in measures to reduce disaster risk and adapt to climate change is essential for the East Coast of India. This includes funding for the development and maintenance of early warning systems, the construction of resilient infrastructure, and community preparedness initiatives.

Investment in research and development of new technologies and strategies for cyclone mitigation is crucial in building a more resilient and adaptive East Coast community.

As climate change continues to influence weather patterns, the frequency and intensity of cyclones in this region may increase, further highlighting the need for effective disaster management strategies and resilient infrastructure to protect the vulnerable populations of Odisha. In the face of a cyclone, communities must come together to prepare and respond to the impending disaster. Early warning systems and evacuation plans can help to minimize the impact of a cyclone, saving lives and reducing property damage. In the aftermath of a cyclone, communities must work together to rebuild and recover, showing resilience in the face of adversity.

Political Accountability

The impact of cyclones on political dynamics in Odisha has been significant, particularly following the devastating 1999 Super Cyclone. This event not only caused immense human suffering but also reshaped the political landscape and public sentiment towards various parties. The destruction prompted widespread criticism of the government, particularly regarding its preparedness and response to the disaster. Many survivors expressed dissatisfaction with the lack of support and infrastructure improvements in the years following the cyclone, leading to a sense of betrayal among the electorate.

In the years following the cyclone, political parties in Odisha, especially Biju Janata Dal and its leader Naveen Patnaik have faced scrutiny over their handling of disaster relief and infrastructure development. Although the BJD asserts that significant advancements have been made in the reconstruction initiatives, numerous inhabitants of regions impacted by the cyclone have indicated persistent challenges, including insufficient compensation and a shortage of cyclone shelters. This dissatisfaction has affected electoral choices in later elections, as those who survived the disaster frequently perceive a lack of attention from political figures who pledged assistance but did not fulfill their commitments. The political narrative in Odisha has continued to evolve, especially in light of more recent cyclones like Fani and Phailin. The BJD had maintained a significant foothold in the state, leveraging its disaster management initiatives as part of its campaign strategy. Opposition parties have capitalized on public grievances, framing their campaigns around issues of local pride and accountability in disaster management.

NGO’s Role

Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) play a crucial role in disaster mitigation and recovery efforts in Odisha. NGOs sensitize local communities about disaster risks and preparedness measures through awareness campaigns, mock drills, and training programs. They build the capacity of communities, especially vulnerable groups like women, children, the elderly, and the disabled, to cope with and recover from disasters. NGOs collaborate with the government in preparing disaster management plans at the district and state levels.

During disasters, NGOs are involved in rescue operations, providing temporary shelters, organizing health camps and setting up communication facilities.  They work closely with the government in relief distribution, ensuring equitable access to food, water, sanitation, and other essential supplies for affected populations. NGOs focus on protecting vulnerable groups and providing special care for pregnant women, lactating mothers, children, elderly, and disabled persons during emergencies.

In the recovery phase, NGOs support the rebuilding of damaged houses and public infrastructure and restoring the livelihoods of affected communities. They promote the use of disaster-resilient construction techniques and make rehabilitation efforts disability-friendly.  NGOs help in reviving local economies by providing livelihood support, forming self-help groups, and establishing market linkages.

NGOs coordinate their efforts with the government through dedicated coordination cells at the state and district levels. They advocate for inclusive and equitable disaster management policies that address the needs of marginalized sections of society. NGOs also collaborate with the private sector through CSR initiatives and public-private partnerships in disaster management.

The Government of Odisha recognizes the critical role of NGOs in building community resilience. The state has involved NGOs in its disaster management framework, leveraging their grassroots presence, flexibility, and innovative approaches to complement government efforts in protecting lives and livelihoods from disasters.

Media Coverage

The historical context of cyclones in Odisha is characterized by significant events, particularly during the late 20th and early 21st centuries. The Super Cyclone of 1999 stands out as one of the most devastating. This disaster prompted substantial reforms in the state’s disaster management approach, leading to the establishment of the “Odisha model” for disaster preparedness.

The evolution of media coverage regarding cyclones in Odisha has been notable, especially in the aftermath of catastrophic occurrences like the Super Cyclone. Reports increasingly focus on the state’s preparedness initiatives, including early warning systems and community-managed cyclone shelters, which have played a crucial role in significantly lowering casualties in recent cyclones compared to earlier incidents.

The relationship between media coverage, public awareness, and government preparedness has been instrumental in shaping Odisha’s response to cyclones. The proactive strategies adopted by the state, along with community engagement, have established a framework for disaster management that reflects a transition from reactive to proactive measures in addressing climate-related challenges.

Public Perception

In the wake of the 1999 disaster, the Odisha government launched a “Zero Casualty” initiative aimed at reducing fatalities in future cyclones. This strategic shift is evident in media narratives, which increasingly highlight the state’s proactive efforts, such as the implementation of early warning systems and community-based disaster preparedness programs. During Cyclone Fani in 2019, for instance, media coverage underscored the successful evacuation of more than 1.2 million people, illustrating the effectiveness of the state’s preparedness strategies and garnering international recognition for its response efforts.

Media narratives have progressively included discussions regarding climate change and its effects on the frequency and severity of cyclones. Reports indicate that climate change is expected to intensify the challenges encountered by Odisha, with predictions of more powerful cyclones in the future. This evolution signifies an increasing recognition of the wider environmental factors associated with cyclonic events and has led to demands for more effective climate adaptation measures.

The public’s perception of cyclones in Odisha has significantly transformed over the years, shaped by a blend of historical experiences, governmental actions, and improvements in disaster management practices.

Changing Paradigm

Odisha encounters several significant obstacles in upholding its high standard of disaster preparedness. Despite the establishment of extensive cyclone shelters and evacuation routes, the state’s power, communication, and transportation infrastructure are still at risk. Disruptions of these systems can lead to widespread consequences during disasters. The continuous challenge lies in investing in underground power lines and disaster-resilient infrastructure. A considerable portion of coastal housing in Odisha remains vulnerable to cyclone damage. The transition of at-risk families from straw huts to disaster-resilient homes is an area that demands sustained attention and investment.

The success of Odisha’s disaster preparedness efforts heavily relies on the mobilization of local communities and volunteers. Ensuring the maintenance of this level of preparedness and response capability along the state’s extensive coastline poses an ongoing challenge that necessitates consistent training and drills. With the escalating frequency and intensity of cyclones due to climate change, Odisha must consistently enhance its early warning systems, evacuation strategies, and disaster management approaches to proactively address evolving threats.

Despite the significant progress made by Odisha, disaster preparedness is a continuous process that demands unwavering commitment, innovation, and allocation of resources to tackle emerging challenges effectively. Sustaining the state’s prominent position in global leadership in this domain remains a persistent priority.

Odisha’s disaster management paradigm has evolved from a relief-centric model to a comprehensive, proactive, and integrated framework that emphasizes risk reduction, community participation, and efficient response mechanisms.

About the Book

Cyclones in Odisha presents an in-depth exploration of the complex dynamics surrounding the storms that have impacted the coastal region of Odisha. It delivers a thorough examination of their frequency, the catastrophic effects they inflict, and the remarkable resilience exhibited by the communities in the aftermath. The book investigates the underlying factors that contribute to these extreme weather phenomena, analyzing the geographical and meteorological conditions that render the area vulnerable to such formidable storms. The book explores the devastating power of cyclones and their profound impact on the state, carefully chronicling the extensive destruction caused. It also highlights the remarkable resilience of the communities affected, showcasing their determination to rebuild and thrive in the face of adversity. The roles of governmental bodies, non-governmental organizations, and various stakeholders in facilitating recovery and reconstruction efforts are also examined. The text assesses the effectiveness of disaster management strategies and initiatives, shedding light on both successes and shortcomings in addressing the needs of the affected communities. By scrutinizing the diverse approaches employed, it offers critical insights into how the impacts of future cyclones can be mitigated and managed more effectively. This groundbreaking book is the first of its kind to explore the entirety of severe weather events, serving as an invaluable resource that offers a thorough overview while equipping readers with crucial insights for future preparedness.

About the Author

Bhaskar Parichha (1957) is a senior journalist and author of six books, including ‘Unbiased: Writings on India’; ‘No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha’; Madhubabu: The Global Indian’; and ‘Biju Patnaik: A Biography’. He has also edited three anthologies of essays entitled ‘Naveen @ 25: Perspectives’; ‘Bhubaneswar @ 75: Perspectives’ and ‘Essential Odisha: Portrait of a State’. He is a bilingual writer and lives in Bhubaneswar.

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Ramblings of a Bandra Boy

Title: Ramblings of a Bandra Boy

Author: Joy Bimal Roy

(Excerpted from Ramblings of a Bandra Boy by Ratnottama Sengupta)

Joy Bimal Roy looks back at the many 21 Januarys, his birthday, that have dotted 70 calendars

On 6th February 1950 Baba and Nabendu Kaku arrived together in Bombay to work on Bombay Talkies’ Maa. I wasn’t born then, so I can only wonder if either of them, or their illustrious fellow travellers Hrishikesh Mukherjee and Asit Sen even imagined what a life changing experience that journey would be for each of them and, ultimately, for Indian Cinema.

This small but immensely talented and visionary team — Baba as director, Nabendu Kaku as screenplay writer and Hrishi Kaku as editor — created some of the best loved and most remembered classics of the golden ’50s and early ’60s: Do Bigha Zamin, Devdas, Madhumati, Sujata and Bandini.

When I was born on 21st January 1955, this team was already well established and feted in Bombay film industry. Co-incidentally (or perhaps not, because is there any such thing as coincidence?) six days after my birth, a daughter Ratnottama — Uttama to me — was born to Nabendu Kaku and Kanak Kakima in the same, Mandakini Nursing Home in Bandra. Uttama and I instinctively formed a bond which continues till today and seems to strengthen over the years. For me this became the link between our two families.

*

Some silly astrologer told my parents that they should not celebrate my first seven birthdays — else, ill-luck would befall me. So I grew up going to birthday parties of other children and wondering why I never had one.

That could explain why to date I hate my birthdays. It is a day of introspection and soul searching, assessing the past year of my life for gains and losses. No wonder I am more depressed than usual by the end of the day.

All that changed on my 40th birthday thanks to Sriram, my college classmate, and my sister, Aparajita, who was in Mumbai from Kolkata at that time. Together they conspired to have a small celebration at home. Sriram, ever generous, brought the champagne and glasses as well because he was not sure we had any.

Paradoxically it was possibly the worst time in our lives. We had lost the eviction suit our landlords had filed against us in the Small Causes Court, and had been given four months to vacate the premises, of which two months were already up. My birthday was on 21st January and three weeks after that, on 14th February, we were supposed to vacate our home of 46 years — unless we got a Writ Petition admitted in the High Court.

Plonk in the middle of this mess, the thought of celebrating my birthday had not even crossed my mind. But when Sriram entered holding the champagne bottle aloft like a trophy, along with his petite and demure wife Enakshi, and my classmates Divyakant and Ajay, their love and concern were so palpable that suddenly my spirit soared and I felt free as a bird. If I was blessed to have friends like them, Life couldn’t be so bad after all. 

It’s not that I celebrated every year after that but I was no longer traumatized on my birthdays.

*

The first birthday we celebrated after moving into our cottage was my 50th birthday. It doubled as a housewarming party, so it was a riotous affair. Everyone got high thanks to the ministrations of a bartender called Greenville and danced to blaring music like whirling dervishes. Our neighbours complained and the cops turned up. 

Not bad for someone who started out in life with no birthday celebrations at all, eh?

*

When my 60th birthday dawned I was not feeling particularly celebratory. But my sister was coming down, this time from Hyderabad, my niece from Dubai and my nephew from England, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.

Our home at that time was overrun with cats and the garden was a mess, so I looked for a more welcoming venue. The only place I could think of was Kekee Manzil, home to our old family friend Kekoo Gandhy, founder of Chemould, India’s first commercial Art Gallery — and his daughters Rashna, Behroz and Shireen. I asked hesitantly but they agreed enthusiastically and I will always be grateful for that.

Kekee Manzil is an elegant and gracious villa, a heritage structure overlooking the Arabian Sea at Bandstand. At one point of time the Gandhy family also owned the adjacent property which once went by the name of Ville Vienna and housed Baba’s mentor Nitin Bose — and now is famous as Mannat, owned by Shah Rukh Khan.

The venue was the hero on that evening filled with friends, food and fun, not me. Because I was feeling singularly ill at ease about my appearance.

I hadn’t had the time or the bandwidth to figure out what to wear for this milestone birthday, so I had to settle for the only new kurta I had. Unfortunately it looked like tent on me. To make matters worse I had burgeoned to 95 kilos, so I felt like a beached whale.

I made a mental resolution. I HAD to lose weight that year. But as they say, the way to hell is paved with good intentions. So my resolution remained just that — until months had gone by…

*

But before the year dovetailed into my 61st birthday, by sheer synchronicity I stumbled into the right dietician for me — and in eight months I lost 16 kg. Cereno, a trendy batch mate, told me about Zara and gave me a style tip for my hair. He said I would look much better if I had a very short haircut, like a crew cut. I didn’t like the idea of a crew cut but I realised I needed a makeover to go with my new clothes.

At the end of it all my reflection in the mirror was unrecognisable. A strange bald man looked back at me. My sister shrieked when she saw me but she was mollified by the favourable reaction of Cereno and other classmates.

The coup de grace was when a poker-faced Cereno borrowed my phone, fiddled with it, and handed it back to me saying he had put my profile on a dating app. “Just wait for five minutes,” he said, “and you’ll get your first hit.” Sure enough, after five minutes my phone went beep!

So in my 60th year I reinvented myself. Better late than never?

About the Book

Ramblings of a Bandra Boy is a compilation of Joy Bimal Roy’s posts on social media between 2017 and 2020. These slices of life “served without any extra seasoning or fancy garnish” as he puts it, have been described by Rachel Dwyer, professor of Indian Cultures and Cinema at SOAS, London, as jottings in kheror khata, the traditional cloth bound notebook that Satyajit Ray — and his father Sukumar Ray before him — used to pen down thoughts and visuals that are world’s treasure. It covers life in the glitzy Bandra where most of the Bollywood crowd resides… giving glimpses of real life of the giants peopling the cinema screens. 

About the Author

Joy Bimal Roy is the son of legendary Indian filmmaker, Bimal Roy, and one of India’s pioneer woman photographers, Manobina Roy. He started his filmmaking stint as an assistant director to Shyam Benegal.

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Read the author’s interview by clickling on this link

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Excerpt

The Stopped Clock

Title: Contemporary Urdu Stories from Kolkata

Authors: Sayeed Premi, Firoz Abid, Anis Rafi Siddique Alam, Mahmoud Yasien, Shahira Masroor Anisun Nabi, Reyaz Danish

Translated by Shams Afif Siddiqi, edited by Shams Afif Siddiqi and Fuzail Asar Siddiqi

Publisher: Niyogi Books

The Stopped Clock

By Siddique Alam

The hands of the clock had stopped permanently at 13 past two and two seconds. Sitting on the bench under the shed, I am trying to understand the oval dial of the clock, the Roman letters of which had become dimmed and its edges covered with spider webs. I wonder when the clock might have stopped. I am 35 years old. Is there apparently any difference between us? Just like the clock, I have also stopped for a while because there was no announcement about the arrival of my train, its departure time being four hours ago.

I am trying to survey the place with wide open eyes. It is a usual day and an ordinary station that we are accustomed to see.

I have bid farewell to the city of my birth. I am leaving the city like a failure. But it seems after relinquishing me, the city, with a feeling of guilt, now wants to take me back. Its first step in this direction is to delay my train for an indefinite amount of time.

Despite being in the midst of a city, a station is free from its clutches. I am enjoying that freedom with a one-way ticket in my pocket. A bit of patience, I tell myself, and I would be far away. Nobody can stop me, neither by erecting obstacles in the way of the railway tracks nor by stopping the hands of the clock. Maybe I am a loser, but the journey of my life is yet to end. I am only 35 years old. I have to go far away from this place. The most important thing is that I am satisfied that the address I am carrying in my pocket is not my last destination.

It is a temporary waiting place that can help me make a new beginning. After all man is born free. The sun does not select a particular spot to shine, nor is every wave that dashes against the shore the last one, losing which the boatman would have to wait all his life for another wave.

An old coolie, wringing khaini[1] in the palms of his hands, passes by me. He is clad in a white banian and dhoti, his red flannel shirt thrown on his left shoulder.

‘Since when has the clock stopped?’ My question stops him in his stride. He turns around, his tired, thoughtful eyes staring at me. A sense of shame overpowers me. He may be an illiterate coolie, not a station employee who is answerable for such a question. ‘I am sorry,’ I quickly add, ‘I should not have put the question to you. I take back my words.’

‘Why sir?’ he stands by the side of the bench, and looks at me with a sense of intimacy. ‘People will be asking questions about a stopped clock, isn’t it? They cannot to be blamed. The story of the stopped clock is well known but only the signal man Gocharan Ray has the right to tell its tale. He had spent all his life showing green and red flags to trains and has retired today.’

‘Who has replaced him?’ my question betrays my foolishness. My imprudence had always entangled me in thoughtless acts.

‘Why don’t you ask the station master?’ The coolie moves away. ‘It’s a question that requires an answer; otherwise, you will regret it all your life.’

I was not ready for such an unexpected turn of events. I thought that my relationship with the city had been cut off forever. What do I make of a station that has ignored me, as if the ticket in my pocket is of no worth? Once again, I look at the dial of the clock hanging from the shed. It had stopped at 13 past two and two seconds. What might have happened when it stopped? Did an accident take place at the station? Had any incident of murder taken place? Was it at the time of the departure or arrival of an important leader? An attack by Naxalites? Or was the place the site of a communal incident?

The coolie returned again. This time he was wearing his shirt. ‘Unless you hear the story,’ he says, ‘your train will not arrive. This is the rule here. It may take weeks, months, or even years and you have to move from one platform to another with your suitcase. Once, a passenger alighted here to board another train. He faced a similar dilemma. He asked the same question about the clock but I do not know what happened and why he refused to listen to the story. Do you know what happened to him?’

‘How can I?’ I replied impatiently. ‘The city hardly gave me any time so that I could listen to stories.’

‘You are becoming irritated unnecessarily, Sir,’ he said. ‘I want to tell you about the man. The fact is nobody knows much about him. Some say he went to the city and did not return. Others say he took another train that never reached its destination. Some may even tell you that a prostitute took him to her house by the railway tracks where he developed leprosy and is slowly dying there. There is also no dearth of people who say he is still moving, suitcase in hand, amidst platforms, difficult to spot in the teeming crowd of passengers.’

‘You mean to say he can be anyone, even me?’

‘Did I say that, sir?’ He was on the verge of leaving. ‘It seems you have tasted bitter gourd.’

I was staring at the departing coolie’s back. The constant use of the flannel shirt had not only exposed its fibres, it had also thinned the material exposing the bones of the man’s neck. I have no hesitation in saying that I did not believe him. Since the time when suitcases developed wheels, the number of coolies has dwindled in stations. The last nail was the introduction of the backpack. Either passengers drag their suitcases on wheels, or carry luggage in their backpacks, leaving the coolies with little work. So, this may be their way of passing time.

About the Book

Dealing with love and loss, dreams and reality, as well as history and violence, this is a collection of best 19 short stories that encompasses the whole gamut of human experience, seen through the eyes of current Urdu writers from Kolkata.

Stories from Kolkata are often assumed to be about bhadralok culture and the Bengali way of life. But Kolkata is a city with amultiplicity of stories to share. Contemporary Urdu Short Stories from Kolkata highlights the diversity of recent Urdu short stories fromthe city. In one of these stories, a writer trying to escape the city wants to find the reason why the railway clock has stopped working, in another, a new friendship sours as soon as it blossoms, while some other stories show how the complexity of human relationships is explored. There is an experiment in abstraction, and legend and reality are brought together when three sleepers of an earlier civilization wake up in the modern world.

About the Editor and Translator

Shams Afif Siddiqi, former Associate Professor of English (WBES), author, short story writer, and literary critic, was born in 1955 in Kolkata. He taught in government colleges of West Bengal for 35 years and was a faculty member at MDI, Murshidabad. Khushwant Singh selected his short story for publication in The Telegraph in the 1980s. His publications include The Language of Love and other Stories (2001), a critical look at Graham Greene’s novels, Graham Greene: The Serious Entertainer (2008), and an annotated edition of G.B. Shaw’s Arms and the Man (2009).

Fuzail Asar Siddiqi is currently a PhD candidate at CES, JNU, New Delhi, researching on the modernist Urdu short story, in general, and short stories of Naiyer Masud in particular. The founder/editor-in-chief of an academic editorial services company, he has been an Assistant Professor of English at Gargi College, New Delhi.

[1] Khaini: Tobacco

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Excerpt

The Life of an Elephant

Title: The Life of an Elephant

Author: S.Eardley-Wilmot

Publisher: Talking Cub

CHAPTER I

The Arrival of the Herd

The summit of the hill was crowned with a grove of lofty trees. They had stood thus for centuries, opposing their columned strength against wind and storms, against the onslaught of tropical rainfall, even in spite of earth tremors that made them shiver with apprehension. Their crowns were interlaced, so that they must stand or fall together; it was an effective alliance against the forces of nature, which no single tree could hope to withstand.

Within the grove, where the buttressed trunks rose suddenly from the soft earth, stood an ancient shrine, a hermit’s cell with rough stone walls, and a little temple in whose dim recesses might be seen vaguely some symbol of a demon or god, unknown perhaps to the outside world, but appealing to the hearts of the jungle folk, who, suffering patiently as the animals suffer, like them also blindly sought relief. That rugged track, which led from the hill-top into the depth of the forest below, had been marked out by the feet of the notaries of the shrine, who each, as he left after supplication, cast a stone on the slowly growing mounds at the entrance to the grove.

From the hill-top the forest spread on all sides as far as the eye could reach, and it lost itself in the distant horizon where the purple outline of the hills faded into the azure of the evening sky. There was wave upon wave of hills covered with trees, so that the earth lay hidden, and down in the valleys one saw nothing but the crowns of trees forming an impenetrable carpet of foliage; only along the ridges the light filtered in vertical streaks through the closed-up ranks of tree trunks. If there were villages they were hidden in masses of trees; the forest engulfed them and reigned supreme in this lonely corner of the earth.

The sun sank, and the brilliant light of day was followed by the soft illumination of the stars. The forest became dim and indefinite amid an intense and motionless silence. There was no sound of wind, or of animal life; the dew had not begun to drip from the foliage, and each leaf was still as if arrested in its task. Yet there was no sense of fear or oppression: rather the atmosphere was charged with the vitality of countless millions of plants rejoicing in their growth, struggling against the competition of their neighbours, and seizing every chance which offered to reach towards the life-giving light.

At such a time there came upon any human being dwelling in the forest, first, a conviction of nature’s absolute indifference to his proceedings, and next, the peace conferred by personal irresponsibility, to which, if a man succumbs, he joins the vast army of hermits, religious mendicants, and other parasites; while, if he resists, he is left to work out a strenuous existence in conflict with the wild beasts and against the pressure of overwhelming vegetation.

As night drew on, the cooler air became charged with moisture and wrapped itself in mist. The leaves of the forest trees were weighted with the dampness they exuded; it no longer passed away in invisible vapour, but trickled earthwards in heavy splashes, like the sullen sound of mindless rain. From hundreds of miles of forest came the sound of dripping water in a ceaseless murmur, which increased the weirdness of the scene, and even served to make any other sound more distinct. Thus it was that a movement became audible in the distance, at first so slight as to be indistinguishable; it was as if foliage was being quietly brushed aside, as if the dew-laden grass was being crushed by a gentle yet irresistible force. Standing on the summit pf the hill, one looked down on a pass between the mountains, a curved saddle that invited to an easier passage from valley to valley. Over this low pass the waves of mist eddied to and fro, just as if each valley in turn filled with cloud and overflowed into the next.

From the depths below a herd of elephants were ascending the pass in single file and in silence. The leader, an old female, first appeared in sight, walking quickly along the narrow trail. Her trunk hung limply from her broad forehead, touching the earth lightly alternately to right and to left, and with instant precision the fore-foot was placed on the spot which had been tested, and the oval print of the hind-foot immediately overlapped the rounder track. She passed through the eddies of fog, which at times seemed to swallow her up, at others allowed but the glistening outline of her back to become visible; or again hid all but the ponderous legs which moved with regularity through the dim air.

Following, came others who seemed careless of danger through confidence in their leader. Each set foot in the trail of its predecessor, so that soon there was but one track sunk deep in the soft earth, as if some old-time mammoth of enormous size had passed that way. Females, young calves, youthful tuskers, all passed in succession, each rising into sight and disappearing over the narrow pass, plunged into obscurity on the further side. There was silence in the ranks, for the animals were on the march, intent on changing their quarters ere dawn should break. They might have been so travelling for hours, and might continue their resistless way for many more ere they halted thirty or forty miles from their starting point.

Some hours later there was promise of daylight in the sky. The mist now lay thicker over the forest, it had sunk into impenetrable strata which rested heavily on the land. Above its sharp upper line the tops of hills stood out like islands in a sea of white; along the ridges the crowns of trees appeared as if floating in the waves, their stems were hidden in the fog. Again a movement was heard, and from below a single elephant approached, carelessly following in the trail of the herd.

About the Book

In the wild jungles of India, a tusker is born. Maula Bux—as he is later named—grows up loved and adored amongst his herd, learning all that a young calf must to become a majestic elephant. However, an unfortunate encounter with humans leads to his capture and he is sold. His mahout, Kareem, instantly takes a liking towards the tusker and considers him almost to be a brother. Maula Bux is courageous, agile and magnificent, and he and Kareem have many adventures together—from hauling timber deep in the forest to adrenaline-charged tiger chases. At his advancing age, Maula Bux is even appointed to carry an Indian Prince in procession!

Having spent much of his life in the jungles of India and Burma (now Myanmar) S. Eardley-Wilmot was a keen observer of wildlife and spoke out about the necessity to conserve India’s wild spaces and the mighty beings in them. The Life of an Elephant is a must-read for young and older readers alike—for it is not just an insightful story of one of nature’s noblest beings but also an important text about conservation, empathy, and the treatment of animals.

About the Author

S. Eardley-Wilmot (1852–1929) was a British civil servant, forestry officer and conservationist who worked primarily in India and Burma (now Myanmar) and served as Inspector-General of Forests. He joined the Indian Forest Service in 1873 and was appointed to the old North-West Provinces and Oudh region of colonial India. In recognition of his conservation-lead method and unorthodox approach to forestry in India and Burma, Eardley- Wilmot became a Knight Commander of Order of the Indian Empire in 1911.

Eardley-Wilmot’s published books include—Forest Life and Sports in India (1910), Leaves from Indian Forests (1930), and The Life of a Tiger and The Life of an Elephant (1933).

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