Category: Musings

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Musings

That Time of Year

By Rick Bailey

We’re looking for one in particular.  We find 130 Michael Smiths.

I’m standing at the kitchen counter chopping an onion at eleven in the morning. We’ve just walked seven miles, on what feels like the first day of spring. Real spring: The sky is blue, the maples are in lush full leaf, the ferns along the east side of our house are burgeoning. The birds are so noisy even with these bad ears of mine I can hear them. Ten minutes into our walk I pull off one of my two layers, the long sleeve shirt. 

“That’s a lot of Michael Smiths,” I say now. Tizi is looking for him on her IPad. 

And I’m thinking, there could be a joke– How many Michael Smiths does it take to…? But it’s 130 obituaries we’ve found. An obituary is not funny.

Earlier today, on our walk to the top of Van Ness, an avenue of maples near our house, we stopped and talked to Carol, a friend from the local senior center, which we abandoned during the plague, then never went back to, post-Covid. 

“Will you look at us,” she says to Tizi, pointing first at her own hair, then at Tizi’s. Both gorgeous silver. Carol is sleek, energetic and funny. This morning she’s dressed in slim jeans, a gray fleece, and running shoes. When we walk up her driveway she’s stabbing a weeding fork into dandelions along her front sidewalk. She says her house is too big. She’s lived here, post-divorce, thirty some years. Too many flower beds, she says. Too much work. When I ask, she says her hip replacements were a great success. Yes, she tells Tizi, she did go back to the senior center, where there are some of the same people. And there are those, like us, who never came back. And, she says, there are some new seniors too. I think: Does that make us old seniors?

“What about Ed?” Tizi asks. 

I know she’s afraid to ask. Ed’s the trumpet player. Ed’s the leader of the senior center big band. Occasionally he took the elevator downstairs to the exercise machines and didn’t exercise. Mostly he sat at the round table upstairs, drank coffee, and dispensed witticisms. A few years ago, we missed his 90th birthday bash. He had a yellow Corvette in the parking lot but didn’t drive much. One Tuesday nights, I took him (or he took me) to a jazz jam session over on Woodward Avenue. We sat through two sets. Every so often, he wiped tears from his eyes. He drank one glass of beer. 

“Gone,” Carol says now. 

Tizi shakes her head. “I knew it.”

Carol says, well, Ed was 92. “But Michael Smith?” 

He was a young senior, with a shock of very premature gray hair and a wicked sense of humour. He had no business being a senior. And now, he has no business being dead. 

*

Like Carol I think about the flower beds. And the basement. And a spare room upstairs. Every house has a junk drawer. We have a junk room. At our age, you begin to reckon with the too-muchness of a house. At least I do. Tizi not so much. 

Part of the problem is accidental shopping.  We try to avoid Home Goods. There’s one right next to Costco. If you’re waiting for Costco to open, you can kill time at Home Goods. But there’s peril. We don’t need another pan, another serving dish. We have enough tongs. When I open kitchen and bathroom and mudroom cupboards, I find soaps we bought at Home Goods and forgot about.

I find soaps with a French accent–savon pour les mains (soothing, it says on the label, soft cotton), three 17-ounce pump bottles of those. I also find Lemon Verbena made by or for aromatherapy rituals; Ginger Mandarin Hand Soap, which, according to the label, is “pure and good”, biodegradable and plant-based; we have Rain Forest Collection of Ecological Products (meaning, judging from the look of them, soaps); we have Thyme Vegetal Soap and Cedar Vegetal Soap; Kirk’s Original Coco Castile pure botanical coconut oil 100% natural hypoallergenic skin care with no synthetic detergents soap. We have The Chef’s Soap (not A chef’s soap) also made in France. All that soap makes me want to get dirty. It also tells me don’t buy any more soap, maybe ever.

Online shopping has exacerbated the problem. It’s too easy to buy stuff. 

A helpful message popped up on my phone one day. I’m paying too much for hearing aids was the message. That day, it just so happened, I came home from Shake Shack, a stressful outing with a grandson involving touch screen menus and digital ordering and a flood of hungry young professionals, and I was missing one of my hearing aids. I tried calling. Did you find a small electrical thingie on the floor… and learned if you press 1 you can place your order and if you press 2 you can leave a message for the manager but really you really can’t. Press 2 and you go nowhere. They don’t ever say wait for the beep. There’s no beep. I pictured Big Beaver lunch traffic passing through Shake Shack, my dinky, obscenely expensive device under foot, smashed.  

This ad on my phone said, “Get new hearing aids for less than $100!” 

They arrived two days later. The operating instructions, a 12-page manual only slightly larger than a postage stamp, said it can take up to two weeks to get used to them. I lasted three days. The problem was feedback, annoying high-pitched squealing coming from the direction of my head. I could hear the feedback just fine. The frequency-adjusted audible world that came to me sounded like sharpened knives.  Tizi said, “What’s that noise?” She meant the feedback. The one-button control panel on the side of these things, which are the size of a peanut inserted into your ears, is no bigger than the head of a pin. Press the head of the pin three times to adjust volume. Squeal. Hold the head of the pin down for three seconds to change the mode. Squeal. 

When my father got old and wore hearing aids, his fingers were always in his ears, adjusting, pressing, fiddling, which I think now, in my case, is only slightly less unsightly than a finger up my nose. No one wants to see that.  I am becoming my father. Deaf, like him. Old.

I sent them back.

*

Poor Michael Smith. We never find the obit. Nor the death notice

Next day I’m thinking about him again, walking out of a local market, and I see Ted. I’d see him at the senior center, too, but he and I go back a number of years. We go way back to the BC (before Covid) years, to the years our kids were in school together. He is heavier. He has unkempt gray hair and an unruly goatee.

He squints as we pass each other in the parking lot. “I know you,” he says.

“Ted,” I say.

“What’s your name?” 

The look of irrecognition is on his face, in his eyes. I tell him my name, feeling a shiver of alarm. He says, “How do I know you? Do you go up North?”

I say yes, we go up North. I tell him we’ve been to his house up there. This doesn’t register. He’s trying to puzzle it out. I can see he’s tired of puzzles. “We sat all those nights by the Herman’s pool?”

“The Hermans,” he says. He gets that. Then: “Whatever happened to them?”

I feel a moment of panic of my own when I can’t remember his wife’s name. I ask, Grandchildren? Yes, he has two. 

“We’ve got three,” I say. “We’re going to California on Tuesday to see the new one.” 

He asks again, “Do you go up north?” If he knows me, I can’t tell. He has other things not on his mind.

When I get home, I tell Tizi. She says she surprised Ellen lets him drive.

Ellen, I think. That’s right.

Before lunch I step outside to walk around the house, to feel the spring air again, to stand in the sun. In Tizi’s patch of trillium we have a lump of rock that’s a foot tall and comes to kind of a point on top.  Every year on a day like today we’re likely to see a chipmunk perched on top of it, looking around in its nervous, jerky chipmunk manner. This is one of those days. It’s the first chipmunk day of the year. I can’t hear it chipping and chattering, but I know it does that.

What I do hear is a sound in the distance. At first, I think, electric bicycle, the distinct whine as it picks up speed, probably just down the street. Then I realise, no, it’s a motorcycle accelerating, running through the gears in the far distance, going who knows where, fast, and enjoying it.

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Rick Bailey blogs about family and friends, home and travel, food and wine, the odd and ordinary in everyday life. He has published four collections of essays, a memoir, and a novel.

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Musings

How Twins Revive Spiritual Heritage Throbbing Syncretism

Narrative and photographe by Prithvijeet Sinha

Lucknow bears the identity of an old soul always beholding glory and cultural heydays that have not altogether faded. The afterglow of its architecture, spiritual antecedents rarely misses the mark. After being pulverized by the lost revolution of the First War of Independence (1857), it transmuted its fearless legend to the present day, it’s hard not to think about the city’s twin children who breathe new life to it.

Shah Najaf Imambara
Sibtainabad Imambara

Shah Najaf Imambara and Sibtainabad Imambara are nestled just ten minutes away from each other within the historic and unmistakable centre of Lucknow- Hazratganj. But they cannot be summarised in pithy words. For if serenity draws us closer to our own tranquil and fuller selves, they play a huge part in orienting us towards a spiritual life that’s almost impressionistic.

Built under the aegis of Nawab Ghazi-ud-Din Haider in 1818, Shah Najaf Imambara derives its name from Shah-e-Najaf (King of Najaf), leaning towards its Shia origins and a place of spiritual importance in erstwhile Iran. Once again, these imambaras/ mausoleums were made in such formative fashion that the distinction between a royal estate and a resting place for architects of the region almost blurred. Today, it’s taken as the burial place of Nawab Ghazi-ud-Din Haider and some other pivotal family members. But on every occasion where the spirit meets holy chants and inner emotions especially during Muharram, Shah Najaf Imambara celebrates human valour to let the timeless strains stir those that need history to guide the present.

Two doorways usher us towards the main structure. The first has two lions almost standing as eternal sentinels while the second one has arched designs, windows in striking sky blue and turrets to welcome us. Then, past a garden and symbols of umbrellas and pillars on both sides, we enter the domed structure with a golden spire. The initial architectural framework has a miniature castle-like arrangement and pillars. Then the unique indoors open to wide verandahs, huge walls resembling those of a palace while stained glass windows and floral patterns catch our eyes.

We walk around and behold the sunshine. Pigeons make their passage like unobtrusive guides. It’s once we enter the main hall of the Imambara that its richness finds heft and visual import. Intricate doorways in black open the way to the sanctum where colours shimmer and add lustre to portraits of erstwhile kings.

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Here tazias (handmade religious symbols), chandeliers, gilded mirrors and clocks, tapestries, lanterns, Quranic verses engraved on walls and pillars evince an aura of holding everything in a single space. Yet they never overwhelm the assortment. From the high roof with circular vents, light floods this space as green and gold filigrees shimmer admiration for the craft. Gold, green, black, white are the prominent colours expediting a unique spiritual leadership. We come here to capture serenity in our pulses, quieting our anxious throb. Shah Najaf Imambara commences that sojourn in true humbling fashion. It’s said that the thick walls around the central mosque withstood the heavy gun fires of the Rebellion of 1857. Looking at this centre of secularism today, it’s obvious there’s some extraordinary strength that still radiates power and integrity.

Then walking towards the further center of Hazratganj which is bustling and still lively with the rhythms of an active day, we reach the other spiritual cousin which is the Sibtainabad Imambara. Here too, dual gateways, one that begins amid the main market area and the other that leads us further to the main structure, are attractions in their own individual right. Then commanding a centre surrounded by a few residences styled in an exquisite classical style is a white mosque, Sibtainabad Imambara, raised on an eight-foot platform navigated by steps. Its historical continuum is still intact and that is why it’s so fascinating.

It was Amjad Ali Shah(1801-1847), the fourth King of Awadh, who greenlit its construction as a place of majlis (mourning) in memory of Imam Hussain’s martyrdom in the Battle of Karbala. It was his son, the great Wajid Ali Shah, who completed the structure with his army of architects and other creative hands. Today, Sibtainabad Imambara houses Amjad Ali Shah’s tomb and bears the history of being under the eye of the storm during 1857. But since History and Time always have a unique way of restoring Lucknow’s architectural marvels, it has withstood the test of time despite changing administrative jurisdictions and the gradual passage of eras.

Its outer surface is one of arches, parapets, eaves, dome and stucco which makes it conjoin its formation with Shah Najaf Imambara. The interiors are adorned with beautiful green paint of the most impressive hue. The main hall enthralls with images of horses bearing coat of arms, floral designs, anthropomorphic beings, swords, angels harking to past riches and fish symbols central to the city.  Stained glass windows, huge mirrors on the walls and chandeliers complete a mosaic of colours that take the caravan of spiritual fulfillment further ahead, all the way from Shah Najaf Imambara.

Tazias deck the main hall while a throne shrouded in black and zig-zagging floor designs create a most exquisite picture.

While many people, men and women say their prayers here in both these places of spirituality, religious exclusivity never even becomes a point of consideration. You can be anyone, belonging to any faith or religious background which are after all man-made labels. Both the Shahnajaf and Sibtainabad Imambaras let us become one with the light emanating from their natural structures and the tranquil air that counters the world of noise and everyday activity. We are encased or should we say delivered from the coves of our daily occupations to their cores of transformation simply by choosing to go there.

Spirituality and faith beckon private, internalised journeys. Both the Shahnajaf Imambara and Sibtainabad Imambara attest to those journeys, occupying the heart of Lucknow to let its bloodstream flow with due diligence, with an eye towards true serenity.

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Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

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Musings

How Two Worlds Intersect

By Mohul Bhowmick

Sunset at Colaba, Bombay, which is currently referred to as Mumbai. From Public Domain

To think that Bombay is attainable is the first mistake of the rookie. And though this city attracts and repels in equal measure, it is the former that makes me want to linger all the more. And linger I do, over a cup (or was it two?) of piping hot Irani chai and bun maska at the Persian Cafe in Cuffe Parade. The rain starts just as soon as I step out of the metro station and make for the safer confines of the cafe, reminding me of home in more ways than one. It is only in Bombay that I am reminded that the culture of the Zoroastrians flourishes somewhere outside of Hyderabad as well.

Colaba lures me, but Kala Ghoda’s immense detachment from its suburban-esque walkways seems more pensive. With Mahatma Gandhi Road sweeping past the Fort and Dr Dadabhai Naoroji Road intersecting it at Flora Fountain, Bombay’s charm offensive lies bare. It is only much later, after I step into Kitaab Khana, the Bombay equivalent of Madras’ Higginbotham’s and Calcutta’s Oxford, that I strongly feel the Raj’s tentacles of reunion. On the other side of the road, the college named after Lord Mountstuart Elphinstone, who twice gave up the chance to be appointed governor-general of India, preferring to finish his two-volume work, History of India (1841) instead, is a reminder of the good that existed among our colonial masters.

*

But the second mistake that the rookie can make is by affirming that all of Bombay lies within the island of Colaba. While it did, in the days of the Raj, it no longer holds the sanctity of tradition as much as it does for the affluent who have no idea of when the last local leaves from Churchgate to Borivali. Versova, much a fishing village as Bandra had once been, is as far away from Colaba as Islamabad is from Vancouver, and Jogeshwari is a mere landing ground for the aristocrats of the north, for whom Thane is where the merely envious congregate and share stories over pav bhaji. A hint of Marathi wafts over the air, sprinkled generally with salt from the sea, and the Bambaiya of Parel and the Hindi of the island city are forgotten.

For what does a gentleman bred in the now-reclaimed Old Woman’s Island, fondly called Little Colaba, know of the fighting on the streets of Dadar? The Gateway of India, looming far beyond the ordinary, takes no part in the skyline of this Bombay, where political representatives of all hues and colours sell dreams just as kaleidoscopic as their ever-changing loyalties. Areas where no cars enter are not strictly unheard of in the Bombay of the north, and as Suketu Mehta so lovingly painted in Maximum City, it is a conurbation not afraid of its past, and one that is constantly stuck in an identity crisis. For there are more millionaires in Bombay than in any other city in the country, and they are only matched by the number of people who go to bed hungry. The Marine Drive becomes an elongated resting place for the unfortunate, the destitute or the merely curious once the lights on the Queen’s Necklace get turned on. I would have seen it had I known where to look.

*

To reclaim the days of the Raj, there are few places more apt to while away an evening than Colaba. There are certainly no places as germane as the cafes Mondegar and Leopold, which happily serve continental fare to their patrons after all these years without a trace of embarrassment at the culinary debaucheries they joyfully commit. Old men, with fedoras last seen in fashion in 1930 (before World War II took away the joys of wearing headgear, apart from sola topis, in a country where the sun has been awarded citizenship), and with shirts tucked into waistbands up to their lower chest, order bottles of grizzled beer with a side of mashed potatoes. Cholesterol and high blood sugar are forgotten when relieving one’s youth, especially with Spanish women gawking at the absurdity of it all in the flea market on the causeway outside. With the stroke of a pen, these men bring to life the jazz clubs of the early 1950s, recollecting the trumpeter Chris Perry at Alfred’s. And then they remember Lorna Cordeiro, of whom they speak as if she were a loved one.

The scarcity of vada pav in the vicinity of Kala Ghoda scares me until I remember that even autorickshaws are banned from this part of town. Much like a man seeking water from the desert atrophies of the Middle East, I lunge into a seller close to the Victoria Terminus. When he asks for a mere INR 30 for two vada pavs, I am shamed into submission, looking towards my shoes — coloured an extravagant yellow — and murmur notes of dissent that even my ears cannot pick up. A jet-black Mercedes-Benz skids past the puddle of water that has gathered around Flora Fountain, dousing me with dredges of obstinacy. There are two worlds that we live in, and Bombay may have achieved its supremacy over both yesterday.

Bun Maska can be found in Iranian cafes in Mumbai
Pav Bhaji, a popular street food of Mumbai
From Public Domain

Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, poet, sports journalist, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published four collections of poems and one travelogue so far. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.

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Your call is important to us?

By Farouk Gulsara

From Public Domain

I cringe every time I hear this line, during those countless times during my calls, placed amidst the robotic, psychosis-inducing loop of hold music. Funny, this ‘muzak’[1] was meant to create calmness. 

“All our agents are extremely busy right now; you’ll be attended to shortly. Your call is important to us.” The robotic voice would go, trying to sound like how a hangman would place a hood over your head before pulling the lever. 

“You are the number 999,999,999th customer in line!”

This is nothing new. Even when an alien concept called customer service was introduced in the old days, people had to wait in line to have their issues resolved. At least, the saving grace at the end of this endless queue was a human voice, not a chatbot. Now, after a zillion years of human experience in crisis management, the problem of waiting persists, and we still have to wait in line, twiddling our fingers.

Now that all transactions and dealings are conducted electronically, I wonder why the queue on the telephone line is never-ending. Is there a rush for something that I am unaware of? Are the customers so unimportant or irritating that the company believes it does not need to invest in more agents to handle the increasing demand? Whether it is a Monday or any other day of the week, you can tune in and listen to an hour or so of so-called soothing music, or until your patience runs out. 

When you finally reach the end of the line and think it is all over, it is not. Here, you will be presented with a menu so extensive that you will be spoiled for choice. Press 1 for English, press 2 for …, press 1 for savings, press # to return to the main menu, yada yada. The fat lady never sings. 

Along the way, you will be forewarned, “anything you say can be used against you in the court of law!”, but not in the exact words. 

“Your call is important to us. It will be recorded and be used for training purposes!” Yeah, right. 

For all you know, nobody is there at the other end. The single casual employee employed to man the line may be on sick leave with a sore throat or something. The customer line is just to hold a caring image. If a problem cannot be resolved online, how can it be sorted over the phone? The clients have to present themselves in person at the office anyway. Just give the callers some chill music and let them be zombified by the hold music. At a time when AI (artificial intelligence) is taking over mundane tasks, it is not cost-effective to hire dedicated staff for them. This is what the big companies seemingly offering call-in customer service seem to think.

They may have made a devilish deal with the telco companies. We hold the line while the telcos go laughing all the way to the bank on our account. That is why there are frequent dropped calls. It is not due to poor cellular network coverage or a system glitch. It is intentional.

Not to forget the flurry of self-aggrandising advertisements that get inserted while clients wait in anticipation or are doing their down-to-earth activities like cutting vegetables or watering the garden with the phone on speaker mode, realising the futility and wasted effort of holding the phone to the ear. 

Customer service is a thing of the past. Now that there are so many online options to address the intended concerns, face-to-face interaction is quite dated. If the customer is too daft to use the services, they deserve to be taken for a ride. Increasingly, automation can handle most compelling transactional issues. If the customer’s problem is too big for the bots to handle, the customer still needs to go to the office.

The problem is that offices are virtual nowadays. Mailing addresses are in the cloud, and offices are shared by a zillion fly-by-night companies. There is a thin line between the modern way of doing business and being taken for a ride. Like the pleas of the stranded Nigerian princes and their stash of heirlooms, a legitimate transaction may turn out to be a scam, too.

From Public Domain

[1] Muzak- a brand of soft, instrumental, and smooth non-distracting music designed to create an atmosphere of calmness.

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

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On a Dark Autumnal Evening…

By Ahmad Rayees

From Public Domain

That evening was a Friday in autumn. I was sitting by the window pane and looking at the meadows beneath the mountain. The plot and idea for my new story changed colours as I watched the evening sky. The sun was vehemently trying to emerge from behind dense clouds that were outlined in silver. At a glance, it looked like a Renaissance painting, with a line of birds flying hurriedly towards an unknown destination.

I was engrossed by the beauty of the evening. Suddenly, the sun disappeared into the smoky oblivion of the phantom clouds. When the last rays of the embers reflected feebly on the heavily darkened sky, I could hear the shepherds shouting from the vast mountain peaks to their fellow men to hurry back to the tents. The bleating of the sheep and the clip-clop of their hooves on the rocky mountain echoed as they hurried to return to their dwellings. I felt a strange sadness without any obvious reason. Maybe I was overwhelmed with a sense of loss and abandonment.

I was still standing near the glass window, gazing at the sky. I could feel the northern wind pass through me, chilling my entire body. The dark night shrouded the valley with its creased onyx veil. Slowly, everything was immersed in a sea of darkness.

Yes, I needed to start. I was very keen to begin writing that very night and finish it as quickly as possible for a journal. I looked at my writing table—the blank white paper placed on the dark walnut surface seemed to be calling out to me. I could feel the pages waiting for words bleeding blue ink of pain and tears.

I have this irresistible urge to speak for those who have forgotten how to talk, who have forgotten how to cry, who have forgotten how to live. Maybe I will be the voice of the unheard. And maybe I am blessed to be a journalist and storyteller. But now, I feel lethargic, restless, and disturbed. I could feel the autumn creeping in with a deathly coldness hovering over the fallen leaves on this frosty night. Unlike previous years, this year autumn had arrived hurriedly with a cold vengeance. The rustling of dead leaves crumbling in the wind was unsettling, and I felt uneasy. I tried my best to calm the anxious spirit within me, to connect with the purity of those white sheets.

Time was ticking faster. Once again, I returned to my table and took the pen…

But—did I hear something?

Yes, I heard it again. I was distracted by noises from the distant forest. From the deep wilderness of the bushes, the haunting cries of wolves echoed, as if they had been left lonely and abandoned. I looked outside my window, then back at myself. Was I just imagining it? Was I hallucinating?

Suddenly, I was there—in front of them. I could see them clearly in the darkness, silhouetted against the white snow. When they saw me, they stopped howling and stared with shimmering red eyes.

Was I dreaming? Did I walk to them?

No… no…

I returned to my senses—to my reality! I was still sitting in my room. Just as I was trying to write the first line of my story, again I heard it. A faint sound of rustling leaves. The hollow whistle of the chilly wind gushed through the woods. It seemed as though autumn had conquered summer, pushing all living beings to their deathbed. The dried flowers were scattered by the wind. The buds had withered before they could bloom, ruthlessly destroyed—unable to spread fragrance and fill the valley with charm. Now everything had changed. Autumn was lashing wildly through the air with the howling wind, leaving grief and sorrow to linger on the withered branches.

The chilly wind blew fiercely, making the trees and their branches shiver. The cold night rendered everyone helpless and powerless. Humans stayed inside their homes, just like the animals in their burrows.

Did I hear an unnatural voice?

I sharpened my ears and listened.

Yes—I did hear a strange voice! It came from the nearby woods, from the bushes behind my house. It sounded like the voice of a mysterious person, filled with loss and sorrow. It wasn’t just a voice—it was more like a wail. I tried to ignore it, but it seemed to plead for help—something I couldn’t quite understand. No matter how hard I tried to focus on my story and look away, the voice disturbed my soul and compelled me to go out and uncover the truth.

The voice grew louder. It seemed like someone was standing in front of my house, knocking on the door. I waited for it to repeat, but the noise stopped.

Confused and tired, I turned back to my room. But something urged me on. With a compelling curiosity, I slowly opened the door and stood on the lawn. It was empty. There was no one.

With fear and uncertainty, I began walking in the direction of the voice. As I started moving, the invisible voice faded—but I continued to try to find it. I wanted to follow it. It was not only alluring, but terrifying. I wondered if it was just an illusion, leading me nowhere. Yet, the voice carried pain and helplessness that pushed me beyond imagination. I followed it through the narrow, bushy lanes of the forest in the dark of night.

The sky was starless, gloomy. The night was filled with ghostly noises from every direction. A waning crescent hid behind the clouds. I was aware of the danger, but I continued—driven by something deep inside me.

The lanes were lined with cold, dew-covered plants. The withered branches stood lifeless. Autumn hovered above them like a deadly witch. I reached the upper edge of the field where the forest met the mountain. The huge mountain stood like a dark phantom before me.

I stood under the walnut tree near the channel. The voice became faint. I crossed a small bridge to climb the hill, glancing at the dark water. It flowed from the river Jhelum, nourishing the upper mountain crops and connecting many villages like veins in a body. The clear glacier water flowed endlessly, season after season. It never stopped—an eternal source of hope.

And I remembered that day—the day we fought for that channel. How we went to the water authority office after sending so many applications which remained unanswered. We marched through town—fifty of us. Near the army camp, we had to walk one by one. Danish and I led with the petition signed by 500 villagers. Afnan and Usman chanted slogans, while Faris and Mujib carried placards. I had to calm them down to behave in the office…

Lost in thought, I didn’t realise how far I had gone. The voice still called—haunting and surreal.

Then, I heard laughter—children laughing.

By the stream, children were swimming and splashing, shrieking and giggling. They looked like marble statues come to life in the moonlight. I was stunned. How could they be playing on such a frosty night?

As I approached, my feet suddenly froze. I couldn’t move. I stood there, watching.

And once again—the mysterious voice.

The same voice that had pulled me from my home now called from close by. I turned and saw a woman in a long veil, her hair loose, her figure merging with the darkness. She gestured for me to leave the children and follow her.

Her blurred presence held me spellbound. I walked hurriedly, determined to stop her and see her face. I followed her along the channel until we reached a graveyard.

She turned to me and said, “I just want you to know that my children have disappeared and are buried in this unknown graveyard. I came here to take their blood-soaked clothes as our last memory.”

She cried, then added, “They will remain lost until the truth is unveiled.”

I tried to ask her who she was.

She replied, “We are the unknown truth.”

And then—she disappeared.

I screamed, “Hey… stop! For God’s sake, who are you?”

Suddenly—I woke up!

The alarm clock on the opposite wall read 3:00 a.m.

It was a dream.

As I tried to piece together the events, the haunting imagery still lingered. It felt so real—as if I had already known them, in another phase of my life, long ago.

Maybe I was one of them?

Why do I always walk among the dead in my dreams?

Dreams are often a jumble of our daily experiences, but they can also reveal our deepest fears or hidden desires. In them, we confront what already lives within us. Frosty nights are the darkest and most haunting, where we seek comfort in dreams that bind us to the painful echoes of the past and the uncertainties of the future. In this realm, a person’s core essence trembles, leaving them defenceless as the barren wilderness intrudes upon their imagination. These nightmares are as cold and unrelenting as the frost-covered nights themselves.

(The little ones who are sleeping will be haunted and continuously disturbed by the stories of children who were terrorised to death long ago in faraway places. Their serene sleep and dreams can be subverted by a red river that continually competes and devastates the territories beneath them).

Ahmad Rayees is a freelance journalist. 

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Categories
Musings

When Nectar Turns Poisonous!

By Farouk Gulsara

” No, you cannot refuse this!” my wife said. “This is prasad, the divine offering to the gods.”

A motichoor laddoo… Photo courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

I reluctantly looked at the glazed motichoor ladoo[1]. The memories of my last blood test results started flooding my mind. 

The learned GP looked disapprovingly at my results through his reading glasses, one eye fixed on the result and the other condescendingly on me. Did I hear geckos chapping away in the background, or is the doctor making disgruntled sounds about my glucose levels?

“9.0 fasting sugar is not good! Congratulations, you are a diabetic now!” he declared. I thought I saw a gleam in his eyes as he announced it. 

“Let him have his day,” I told myself. “This is his terrain, let him have his last say.”

Quietly, I was guessing how well the doctor’s fasting sugar would be. Looking at his general appearance, it would not be so great. Proudly carrying around his protuberant apron of a paunch, slouched in his chair all day, the closest he must come to exertion would be leaning forward to examine his patients; he does not scream of a paradigm of health. Yet, this is his turf. Hence, I sheepishly blurted, “Yes, doctor.”

There are some things in life one cannot fight, like who your parents are and the garbage of genetic material one is thrown with. With my very strong family history of diabetes, it was a matter of time before I was garlanded with the same laurel. No amount of time spent at the gym or hours of burning the soles of my running shoes was going to steer me away from his genetic heirloom. I knew that. Still, it is unfair to say, nevertheless. 

So when she offered me the sucrose-dripping divine offerings, I looked at them as my mug of hemlock, as a concoction offered with an intended outcome, no matter how much one can sugarcoat it with divine intervention. Like an accountant who tallies debit and credit transactions, the body does not take into account whether a food is blessed or otherwise. It is quite transactional in its dealings with the trash that is shoved in versus the energy consumed, aided by detoxifying and catalytic agents. 

My mind then wandered upon the practice of emphasising food as one of the highest deeds one can offer to humanity. Every religious function invariably ends with a big feast. Forget prayers; one would get upset if a wedding, a birthday invitation, or even a casual visit to an acquaintance’s home is not accompanied by a meal or at least a snack. What is a birthday party without loads of sugar or unnecessary calories? Feuds have occurred in the past when caterers failed to meet their hosts’ promises. Our community believes that the taste of the wedding meals should be savoured much longer than the newlyweds keep their wedding vows. 

The highest brownie points in most religions must surely be for feeding the masses. No one is denied a meal in most places of worship. Why this fixation on meals and their intermingling with divinity? If any calamity were to befall any part of the world, the Sikh brothers would always be the first to be at Ground Zero to whip out some piping hot vegetarian food for the victims. Where do the homeless in the underprivileged part of town go for a square meal? A langar[2] , the Sikh community kitchen, of course.

I once heard an actress boasting about her polyamorous lifestyle and how she managed to win so many hearts. Her answer stuck in my mind. “Honey, the sure way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. You can either stir a nice meal, or you can compliment him on how slim he looks. You can tell him you can hardly see his stomach!” The actress also said that Belgian chocolates win any girl’s heart. 

Why this fixation on meals and their intermingling with the human psyche and divinity? Food and divinity are closely intertwined, not only because a hungry soul cannot sing praises of the giver, but also because the gratitude and joy showered upon their givers can be intoxicating. It fosters human connection at a primordial level, regulating social orders. After all, hunger remains one of the primitive needs before social conditioning expanded our insatiable wants. 

Famine has been a regular feature in the Indian subcontinent[3]. On the other end of society, opulence and wastage were prevalent. The society decided to imbue the act of ‘giving a dog a bone’ with religious fervour, bestowing it with a divine status. We were undernourished then and overnourished now. Either way, we are malnourished[4] , just that in the former, we were fed a wee bit too little, while in the latter, a tad too much. Both leave us much to be desired, metabolically speaking. 

Just as Empress Marie Antoinette could not comprehend why the peasants did not stop their boisterous shouts and just eat the cake[5], my wife cannot understand why I am having second thoughts about indulging in some blessed sweet ladoos.

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[1] Sweet

[2] A Sikh community kitchen serving free meals to all regardless of religion, caste, gender, economic status, and ethnicity

[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_major_famines_in_India_prior_to_1765

[4] . Malnutrition is an imbalance between the nutrients your body needs to function and the nutrients it gets. It can mean undernutrition or overnutrition.

https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/22987-malnutrition

[5] “Let them eat cake” is the traditional translation of the French phrase, “qu’ils mangent de la brioche“, said by ‘a great princess’ according to Rosseau. It has been attributed to Marie Antoinette. Brioche is not cake but an enriched bread made with eggs, flour, butter and sugar. (ref:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Let_them_eat_cake)

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

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

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Musings

Just Passing Through

By Farouk Gulsara

During my early days of cycling, as I trained during the early hours before dawn, my greatest fear was not the darkness. Beyond fearing fear itself, the next thing that frightened me was the possibility of a head-to-head encounter with a pack of stray dogs that throng the country roads leading up to Genting Peres, the border between the districts of Hulu Langat in Selangor and Jelebu in Negeri Sembilan. 

The dogs are not from the wild. Some of these ‘man’s best friends’ served as guard dogs for the numerous orchards and homes of indigenous dwellers along the valley. A few packs of dogs must have been abandoned by their owners for various reasons. In Malaysia, a peculiar tradition during the Lunar New Year is to adopt animals based on the celestial animals associated with that year. Dogs, rabbits, and pet roosters are highly sought after until the excitement of the new year diminishes. Afterwards, people often look for ways to discard their pets. Where do you think they end up? Here, at the edge of civilisation. Fortunately, tigers and dragons, which are also animals in the Chinese calendar, cannot be kept as pets for obvious reasons. Imagine abandoning these creatures into the wild after the flavour of the month!

Over time, we occasionally hear of dogs attacking cyclists or cyclists falling off their bikes after being harassed by these canine creatures. The interesting thing about these wild animals is their need for vigilance. Creatures of the wild generally live by the rule of survival. They base their behaviour on constant vigilance. In a universe where ‘might is right’ and the law of the jungle dictates that the winner takes all, a misjudgment could be their last. Their default behaviour is to establish dominance in any given situation. If the opponent appears uncertain, frightened, or even runs away, the animals will try to assert dominance. Conversely, if they seem disinterested or exude confidence, the wild animals will likely just slither away. It is all about exerting dominance, marking territory, and size—these really matter. 

Imagine a child who, after being frightened by the appearance of a stray animal, immediately reacts with fear and runs away. This kind of submissiveness can be easily detected by predators. It is 101 in their survival toolkit. Next comes the attack. The more one bows, the more he will be smacked down. This is the law of the jungle before Earth became civilised, but is it relevant still?

We like to believe that civilisation ushers in less violence. A civil society is meant to resolve conflicts through negotiation and arbitration. The higher one climbs the ladder of education, the less one resorts to swords and machetes to prove one’s point. At least, that is the belief we have been taught. 

We were also told that we are not the sole owners of the planet. We share it with other beings, both human and non-human, to pass it on to the next generation in the pristine condition in which we received it. Every being deserves its place in the Sun.

Someone from my secondary school WhatsApp group recently sent a gruesome video of a toddler being mauled by a stray dog on a busy street. It is unfair to speculate about the events that led to the incident, but suffice it to say, rabies is quite rare in the community, and the dog was quickly captured and probably put down. 

The whole fiasco brought to mind the recent ruling of India’s Supreme Court on stray dogs[1]. After a six-year-old girl died from rabies following an attack by a stray dog in Delhi, society recognised the seriousness of the stray dog problem in India. There are about 15 million stray dogs in that country [2]. The Supreme Court decreed that all strays should be removed from the streets and be vaccinated, neutered, and placed in shelters permanently. 

What followed was a farcical display of comedy. Animal activists were furious, accusing others of cruelty for confining animals in cages. The highest courts reversed their decision and allowed the dogs to be returned as strays after sterilisation and immunisation, as if that would reduce dog attacks. Perhaps if the gonads are removed, they would be less aggressive. 

Many talk shows and YouTubers appeared in the media, debating the issue and trying to find common ground. Some activists may have lost perspective, forgetting that human lives are involved. They personify the stray animals, attributing more importance to them than to children, and prioritise animal rights and freedom. Some animal enthusiasts even link animal aggression to human behaviour. In my books, children and human lives may take precedence over animals. Some conspiracy theorists went so far as to say that PETA [3]and animal sympathisers are foreign agents to discredit India and maintain the Indian demand for rabies vaccines. 

The rising sales of pepper sprays only confirm that we should be more wary of fellow humans than other beings[4]. The increasing avenues for ladies (and men) to call for help in case of domestic or sexual assaults do not speak well of our ‘civil’ society. The ongoing stories about horrific crimes further serve as evidence of these crimes[5]. Leaders whom we elected democratically to protect us are determined to turn the world upside down, aligning with the military-industrial complex. They seek to wage war, not to promote peace. They play the fiddle while their capital goes aflame. They indulge in cakes when the common man has no bread.

We may convince ourselves that we, as a society, have become less violent. As a hunter-gatherer, our lifetime chance of a violent death was close to 15%[6]. In modern times, however, despite years of introspection, aggression still occurs. A growing concern is violence against oneself in the form of suicide, war and genocide against others due to differing ideologies, homicide for self-interest, and killing other animals for recreation. And we call ourselves cultured. Animals only kill for food, territory and mates for the continuity of the species. We do it for recreation during the hunting season, and for a psychopath, it gives him power, control, grandiosity and ecstasy with no remorse[7]. (6)

(P.S. Like how a mafia would walk into the neighbourhood and receive a cursory nod from the town folks, the pack of stray dogs and I have established a working relationship. They do their thing of barking and exerting authority, whilst I simply pass through unceremoniously. It is an understanding between a wandering dog and a cycling dog!)

Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

[1]  https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c5yejnze4p1o

[2] ). https://visionias.in/blog/current-affairs/stray-dogs-management-in-india-balancing-public-safety-with-animal-welfare#:~:

[3] People for Ethical Treatment of Animals

[4] https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/chennai/woman-partner-get-life-in-jail-for-killing-her-kids/articleshow/122888742.cms

[5]  https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-46269794

[6]  https://cliospsyche.org/articles/fuchsman-k-2014-the-complexities-of-being-civilized-clios-psyche-214-256-264

[7] https://leb.fbi.gov/articles/featured-articles/psychopathy-an-important-forensic-concept-for-the-21st-century#:

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

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not that of Borderless Journal.

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

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Musings

My Forest or Your City Park?

By G Venkatesh

The tussle between the neoclassical economist [that stubborn, unyielding breed] and the ecological economist [the rebellious change-seeking breed] has been going on for several decades now, and now has reached a climax. As per the former – Robert Solow, Joseph Stiglitz and John Hartwick[1] among them –capital has to be interpreted as an aggregate of the natural and manmade varieties and as long as this sum total is constant, we are good. A decrease in the former can be made up for, by an increase in the latter – it is as simple as that, according to the neo-classicists.

Stress-free thinking? Just move on doing what you will, and the Universe will keep caring for you and protecting you. In fact, that is how a large majority of Homo Sapiens have been conducting their lives and livelihoods over the years, short-changing the conscientious ones in the process. Now this presents a disintegrated view – the adjective being important here. Disintegrated, ironically, even though the neo-classicists claim that what was not created by man can be balanced out by anthropogenic[2] assets, and one could claim that the total utility and happiness and welfare will remain unchanged.  

Let me tell you a story – fiction, yes, but may well have happened somewhere in the world, or maybe in many places in the world, on several occasions. Say there was a forest yonder a few kilometres out of the city. A forest my grandpa used to take me to, for a stroll on weekends, when I was a school-goer. Communion with Mother Nature. Feet on the soil. Glimpses of songbirds, rabbits, squirrels, gurgling streams. Shady trees under which, I and my grandpa would sit and play Ludo. He would tell me stories from the Aesop Fables and I would visualise those animals in that very forest. He would sing for me in his mellifluous singing voice and I would be enthralled and that would develop in me an interest for singing and expressing my locked-up emotions in my adulthood to vent out my grief. We would sit there, and he would teach me how to sketch the elements of Nature. I would grow up to develop an abiding interest in drawing, sketching and painting. Grandpa is no more. But thanks to those strolls, I now think I am a well-diversified individual with multiple tastes and abilities, and also a leaning towards industrial ecology, ecological economics and the like.

That was then. Now, I am a city planner in the very same city I grew up in. I have forgotten those lessons from childhood, even though I retain the said abilities – sing, sketch etc. Grandpa watching from the astral plane is surely sad. But I decide not to care. I veer towards the neoclassical, as I come under pressure from the others I am working with. I cannot stand my ground like Howard Roark did in Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead (1943). I give my consent to the idea that miners be allowed to prospect for gold in the same forest I used to go for strolls with my grandpa in the past. I visualise a stream of royalties and taxes for the city, which could be used to set up many parks. As the neoclassical theory goes, I would be convincing city-dwellers that I am creating easily-accessible capital for them right at their doorsteps!

The city parks styled as mini-forests, come up in due course of time [money loaned out by banks, which will be repaid thanks to the said royalties and taxes which are anticipated, as the miners have struck gold, literally]. I take my sons out to the park, and while telling them about how they came about and boasting about my planning skills, I slip into memories of the past and tell them how I enjoyed my strolls with their great grandfather long ago in those natural forests yonder. My younger son looks up at me and asks, “Why have not you taken us there? We wish to see where you used to go with your grandpa.” I am dumbfounded. An epiphany!

I have stolen from them what I enjoyed as a little boy. I have deprived them of what Mother Nature had bestowed upon all of us. Surely, people of my grandpa’s generation also used to visit the forest when they were young? And possibly their own ancestors too? Obviously, that is how grandpa knew of the value of the forest for holistic development? My sons have since joined the Greta Thunberg gang and they do not spare me in their criticism. I am proud of them while I am ashamed of myself, if at all these two feelings can arise in the human heart at the very same time. But what I have done, cannot be undone.

Well, the parks and the forests can surely co-exist, so that the aggregated capital can increase a bit and then saturate, instead of having to remain constant. After all, a conscientious city planner should realise that every inhabitant in the city may not have the time, energy or the wherewithal to go to the forest a few kilometres away [especially if he/she does not own a car and there is no public transportation out to the forest]. For such people [who may perhaps account for a sizable percentage of the city population], the city parks are indeed worthwhile investments the municipality can make. A poor substitute, yes, but something good better than nothing.

We came from the forests, right? Those of you who believe that God created Adam and Eve and we all trace our lineage back to a ‘poisoned apple in the Garden of Eden’ (now was that a park or a forest?) may take a hard left. But when you have already read through the article, maybe you have no choice but to pause and ponder. Then, head to the park for a quiet walk, or if there is a forest nearby, you could go there as well for some introspection.

[1] Robert Solow, Joseph Stiglitz and John Hartwick are economists known for their theory on economic growth

[2] of, relating to, or resulting from the influence of human beings on nature

G Venkatesh is a ‘global citizen’, currently serving at The Energy and Resources Institute’s School of Advanced Studies (New Delhi, India). Prior to this, he was Associate Professor at the Karlstad University in Sweden. has published a memoir, four volumes of poetry, four e-textbooks, numerous scientific publications, crosswords, and magazine articles over time.  He is a ‘sustainabilist’ who sketches in his spare time, likes singing, and is a sports enthusiast, cricket in particular.

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Categories
Musings

Parenting Tips from a Quintessential Nerd

By Farouk Gulsara

The question is, why are we here? What are we doing, and what is expected of us? Is the purpose of our existence merely to continue the propagation of the species? Is there a higher calling to elevate our souls? Can we correct our karmic order to a better footing? Unfortunately, if only we knew where we went wrong last time, we could fix our past mistakes. Sadly, we do not. Is our presence on Earth to raise our species a level higher, whether intellectually or technologically, than a generation before? Is there a greater plan in the pipeline, to consume more and more, heading towards entropy? The less wise among us will be sure of their existence, convinced that this is a testing ground for more magnificent things to come.

Among the lower orders of species, it is a given that the biological reason for their existence is the perpetuation of DNA and the selection of the fittest. Most animals die shortly after laying eggs. Some, like praying mantises and black widow spiders, kill their mates after sex. Salmons lay eggs once in their lifetime, after enduring life-changing experiences to swim upstream, conserving all their energy for their one final trip to lay eggs and then die[1]. At this level, it seems that their raison d’être is to procreate. That is all.

As we climb the pecking order, women evolve to live longer. Some even reach a phase of life way past the cessation of ovarian follicles, a period called menopause. Only in a few species do the females have the luxury of relieving themselves of childbirth and caring for the young towards the latter part of their lives. Formerly, it was thought that only humans go through menopause. Now, we know that besides humans, whales, orcas, and chimpanzees also spend a significant part of their lives in the postmenopausal period[2]. Thinking about it, if the main purpose of life is to pass on DNA and then move on, why do they stay so long without trying to improve or spread the gene pool? It seems like a waste of resources. If it were only for procreation, it would clash with the purpose of existence. They might have to compete for limited resources.

Behavioural scientists who have studied orcas and whales suggest that their pod structure is matrilineal[3]. The older members care for the ‘grandchildren’ to promote survival. Indirectly, they help ensure the continuation of the species. This is known as the ‘grandmother hypothesis’. Their presence leads to healthier and stronger calves for future generations. These older postmenopausal orcas possess a wealth of knowledge to guide the pod in making life-changing decisions such as where to hunt juicy salmon and where to relax in peace.

Elephants that live for a long time, up to around 80 years, can still reproduce quite late, even as late as a 65-year-old female. One may wonder whether inbreeding is a possibility since they live in communities. Fortunately, nature provides a solution for them. Bull elephants, after reaching adulthood, leave their community tribe — a practice called dispersal. They then join their bachelor friends and roam around sowing their seeds. Female elephants remain with their birth herd for their entire lives and do not go through menopause[4]. In the chimpanzee community, dispersal is carried out by the females. They leave their troop when their hormones surge to avoid inbreeding.

So, where does that leave us as humans? Are we evolutionarily programmed to spend a long time in the postmenopausal state? After all, our ancestors rarely reached menopause. Even as late as the 18th century, the life expectancy of a woman was between 35 to 40. Advances in medical care and safe childbirth have extended our lifespan beyond the expectations of our ancestors. It might be an evolutionary accident, but we have adapted to it. It also prevents intergenerational reproductive conflict, as we avoid competing with our daughters for limited resources and reproductive opportunities.[5]

If the continuity of a species is the primary goal of life, then postmenopausal women have fulfilled their mission early in life. Life in old age should be regarded as a bonus. Without a role in transmitting genetic material, they may indulge in pursuits that bring them happiness. They might be catching up on activities they could not pursue during the demanding years of motherhood. The vast wealth of life experiences and street-smart wisdom can be passed on to their children, if the young are willing to listen. They could also revisit their carefree teenage years, which were cut short by hormonal surges during youth and the burdens they carried.

Recently, it has been suggested that living in an extended family can help ease the burden of caring for children with neurodevelopmental conditions. While it does not prevent ADHD or autism, grandparents can be valuable for providing emotional support and practical assistance.[6] They can offer a listening ear to understand the child’s unique needs. Better outcomes have been observed when grandparents live with their grandchildren.[7]

On a philosophical and existential level, it is difficult to precisely define what life is all about. We can discuss endlessly, like a philosopher, until the cows come home and then go grazing again. From a biological perspective, there is no doubt that it is not merely about the propagation of chromosomes. There is also room for acquiring knowledge, disseminating it broadly, and offering a helping hand to make the world a better place.

An orcas: Sourced by Farouk Gulsara from Public Domain

[1] https://www.britannica.com/science/Why-Do-Salmon-Die-After-Spawning

[2] https://www.nationalgeographic.com/science/article/why-killer-whales-go-through-menopause-but-elephants-dont

[3] https://radiolab.org/podcast/the-menopause-mystery

[4] https://seaworld.org/animals/all-about/elephants/longevity/

[5] https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/11223885/

[6] https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s10803-024-06537-6#citeas

[7]https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0190740919314380

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

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

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

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Musings

Bibapur Mansion: A Vintage Charmer

By Prithvijeet Sinha

Photos of Bibiapur Mansion by Prithivijeet Sinha

Writing about Lucknow’s fabled monuments has set me free to regurgitate images and feelings (‘ehsaas‘ as the Urdu equivalent goes) that call for effusive recollections. When the praxis of location and travel stand side by side, words flow out of the material foundations of structures that court our instant awe. Another fabled monument that rewrites the architectural-historical continuum of Awadh in that admirable vein is Bibiapur Kothi (Mansion); there’s just something sturdy about its presence in one of the most beautifully quiet corners of the cityscape.

Blessed by the legendary aesthetic choices of Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula, one of the most prominent architects of Lucknow, and built by architect Antoine Polier and his dedicated team in the latter part of the 18th Century, Bibiapur Kothi is a vision of grandeur. Legend has it that it was a favourite country retreat for the Nawabs as well as a centre for another arcane ritual from the past — hunting.

Like it always happens, visiting this site is like opening a door and entering the mystifying corridors of a past that can never be replicated. The neo-classical architectural style itself is easy on the eyes as spacious arches, halls, high roofs and round pillars — hypnotic ballasts of extreme strength – mesmerize the visitor. An enchanting spiral staircase divides this space into two storeys while the halls and Greek columns, beautifying its iconic exteriors, make us hark back to the glory days of interracial socialization that prevailed here. Lakhauri[1]betweenbricks and majestic stones’ sturdy network further arrests our undivided attention.

Imagine the masked balls, coronations (such as that of Saadat Ali Khan as the legend goes) and exquisite mehfils (musical/ poetic congregations) marked this mansion and its prominence for both for the native and colonial understanding of Awadh’s sensibilities, particularly Lucknow as the harbinger of urban sophistication.

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Even for a modern traveller who can visualise yesteryears’ customs and etiquettes, the place is like a replica for the way the people lived and loved the essence of Lucknow. One can hear the hooves of equestrian sentinels guiding elaborate carriages, imagine a nawab reminiscing of a beloved while beholding the moon from the second floor and guests spread out under these roofs and occupying the hall, deep in conversations that could make or break the cultural sphere of influence tied intimately to regional politics. So, it’s natural that the more credulous storytellers still believe in this space holding fort for ghostly travellers who, it seems, just can’t escape the thrilling sensibilities of this particular realm.

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Bibiapur Mansion is a visual delight. Its current locational axis generates awe for discerning visitors. Today, one has to take a straight drive from the Dilkusha corridor and nestled within the cantonment area beyond an old railway line is this architectural wonder. An army sentry guides us further as we enter the gateway and a world of trees, vegetation, cricket’s unified whispers, quarters and a granary beholden to the cantonment board fall in the pathway. Everything has old-world charm. The passage invites to the visitor like a transcendent experience. Surrounded by ancient trees, some with beautiful forms and thickets relaying the permanence of this area’s timelessness, is this fabled monument.

Sunlight lights up its walls and every now and then a langur(monkey) sprawling his long tail stands guard over the gates. The staircases, spacious compound, arched entryway and the glory of the Greek columns touched by the inimitable mix of lakhauri and current-day refurbishments awe us.

Here at Bibiapur Mansion, everything has a presence. Everything is accessible and iconic. In the absence of noise and marked by surfeits of wonder, we travel to the past while celebrating the immediate moments that brought us to this place.

Here, History and Wonder never sleep for long. Rather they awaken a new sentience.

Photograph by Prithvijeet Sinha

[1]Lime paint and plaster

Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

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

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

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