Title: No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata
Author: Ashoke Mukhopadhyay
Translation from Bengali by Zenith Roy
Publisher: Niyogi Books
No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata by Ashoke Mukhopadhyay, translated with sensitivity and nuance by Zenith Roy, is a strikingly contemporary novel that brings into sharp focus the precarious lives of urban gig workers. Set against the pulsating yet indifferent backdrop of Kolkata, the novel explores a world that is at once hyper-connected and profoundly isolating.
At the heart of the narrative is Sriman, a food delivery worker whose life is defined by anonymity and transience. He delivers meals to strangers, navigating the city’s labyrinthine streets, yet remains invisible within the very system he sustains. Mukhopadhyay captures this paradox with quiet precision: Sriman’s labour is essential, but his existence is expendable. The gig economy, as portrayed in the novel, demands efficiency, obedience, and silence—qualities that gradually erode individuality and agency.
Equally compelling is the character of Mrittika Sen, a bike taxi driver whose experiences foreground the gendered dimensions of gig work. Through her, the novel examines the additional vulnerabilities faced by women in an already unstable ecosystem. The constant threat of being “logged out”—a chillingly impersonal metaphor for economic erasure—hangs over her life. Mukhopadhyay does not sensationalise her struggles; instead, he presents them with restraint, allowing their quiet intensity to resonate.
What elevates No. 1 Akashganga Lane beyond a social-realist narrative is its imaginative and philosophical layer. The titular word, Akashganga, is a century-old house and serves as a refuge, both literal and symbolic. Within its walls resides Bishan Basu, a figure who introduces Sriman, Mrittika, and others to the stars. This shift from the immediacy of urban struggle to the vastness of the cosmos is one of the novel’s most poignant devices. It offers a counterpoint to the claustrophobia of gig work, suggesting that even in the most constrained lives, there exists a yearning for transcendence.
The recurring motif of the stars and the speculative question—whether these workers might one day need another planet to call home—imbues the narrative with a subtle dystopian edge. It reflects not only ecological anxieties but also a deeper sense of displacement. The idea that gig workers might carry their labour into another world is both darkly humorous and profoundly unsettling, underscoring the inescapability of systemic exploitation.
Mukhopadhyay’s Bengali prose, as rendered in English by Roy, is measured and evocative. The translation deserves particular commendation for retaining the cultural texture of the original while ensuring readability for a wider audience. Kolkata itself emerges as a character—its rhythms, inequalities, and fleeting solidarities shaping the lives of those who inhabit it. The author’s background in documenting the city’s social history is evident in the authenticity of detail and atmosphere.
The novel also succeeds in capturing the fragile solidarities that emerge among gig workers. Friendships, though often transient, provide moments of warmth and resistance. The shared experiences of precarity create a sense of community, however fleeting. Akashganga becomes a space where these fragmented lives intersect, offering not solutions but solace.
No. 1 Akashganga Lane is a timely and thought-provoking novel that captures the human cost of the gig economy with empathy and insight. Through its blend of social realism and philosophical reflection, it offers a nuanced portrait of contemporary urban life.
Ashoke Mukhopadhyay has crafted a narrative that is both rooted in the specifics of Kolkata and resonant with global relevance, while Zenith Roy ensures that its voice travels beyond linguistic boundaries. The result is a work that lingers, prompting readers to look more closely at the invisible lives that sustain modern cities.
.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Title: The Tree Within: The Mexican Nobel Laureate Octavio Paz’s Years in India
Author: Indranil Chakravarty
Publisher: Penguin Random House India
‘For me, India was an accident.’ – Octavio Paz
The Mexican Nobel laureate poet and essayist Octavio Paz (1914-1998) was a writer of lightening insights and electric intelligence. His impassioned poetry is meditative, with a precision of language that is imbued with a strangely sensuous quality. In fact, language and poetry per se were some of his key thematic concerns. The announcement on the cover of this book states that The Tree Within is the enchanting story of Octavio Paz’s passionate love-affair with India where he served as Mexico’s ambassador in the 1960s but reading through this very detailed 518 pages well-researched biography of the Nobel Laureate poet one realises that it is a lot more.
Immersing himself in India’s rich cultural life and contemplative traditions, Paz travelled widely, forged deep friendships with some of India’s finest minds, and produced several of his most inspired poetry and essays. It was here that he met the love of his life and until the day he died, he continued to refer to India as the place where he experienced what he called his ‘second birth’. It is difficult to find similar cases in our history when a major creative figure from abroad drew inspiration from India’s culture for one’s own works over such an extended period. His writings became a bridge between continents, blending Eastern and Western sensibilities in ways that enriched the literary landscapes of both. In India, where the erotic and the sacred blend in ecstatic union – unlike in the West, where the two are scrupulously kept apart – he saw the possibility of a new synthesis through the dissolution of dualities. Interestingly, Mexico belongs to the western hemisphere but is generally considered non-West, like India. Blending biography, cultural history, and literary criticism, The Tree Within is a luminous testament to the enduring alchemy between India and the world through one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.
The book is divided into ten stand-alone chapters, and one can move to the topic of one’s choice. The first two chapters entitled ‘Family and Nation’ (1914-36) and ‘Paz Before India’ (1936-1951) serve as the background of Paz’s lineage, his growing up, and his passionate engagement with India can be understood in terms of the seeds planted early in his life through his family as well as the national cultural ambience where the idea of India was inscribed. All of them played a role in reinforcing his attraction towards the country. Unlike T.S.Eliot, Paz became politically active from an early age, with an initial inclination towards anarchism and Marxism and a subsequent rejection of Communism. He witnessed the Spanish Civil War firsthand, and he also had a close relationship with the surrealists in France.
It is only in the third chapter, ‘The First Sojourn’ (1951-52), that India is physically present when in 1951 Paz, then 37-years old, was assigned the task of opening a new embassy in New Delhi. It recounts his long sea-journey to India and his experiences and poetic output during that brief period of six months. To some extent, he externalised his inner unhappiness on India during his first trip. India of that time had little to offer him by way of intellectual excitement or fulfilling companionship. Things were in disarray when under Nehru as the new nation-state had just been born a few years ago. In New Delhi, Paz stayed at the Imperial Hotel, which became his residence during his entire stay. He also carried a lot of baggage in terms of Western cultural prejudices towards India. India not only smothered his senses; the grinding poverty and rigid mores of life left him disgusted.
In Chapter Four, ‘Paz and Satish Gujral: In Light of Mexico’ describes the personal friendship between Paz and Satish Gujral, one of India’s leading painters and how Paz shaped his development as an artist by inserting Gujral among the maestros of the Mexican mural movement. In fact, the influence of the Mexican mural movement on modern Indian art through Gujral would not have been possible without Octavio Paz’s decision to send him to Mexico. The meeting with Nehru and Indira Gandhi through Satish’s brother I.K. Gujral also offers interesting information. The following chapter, ‘Coming Home, Going Away’ (1953 -62) traces Paz’s life and creative evolution from the time he left India to the time he was sent to India as Mexico’s ambassador in 1962. This ten-year period between his first sojourn in India in 1952 and his return as the Mexican ambassador in 1962 involved many defining moments in his personal and professional life which shaped his creative evolution as a writer. The extent to which he had already immersed himself in Indian philosophy is evident from the ways he assimilated his experiences and insights of his first stay in the writings of the next decade even when their themes had little to do with India.
‘Making Poetry, Making Love’ (1962 -68) is an account of Paz’s travels through the Indian subcontinent (he was given additional charge of Pakistan, Afghanistan, Nepal and Ceylon), his relationship with Bona Tibertelli with whom he spent an idyllic vacation across the Indian subcontinent, his unhappy marriage with Elena Garro, his meeting and eventual marriage with his second wife, Marie-Jose Tramini, and the poetry that grew out of that amorous experience – all find ample space in this chapter. The way in which their love affair unfolded is wrapped in secrecy. It is also said that he developed some unsavoury practices for a man of his position. Nevertheless, it was the most bountiful period of an unimaginably productive life.
Chapter Seven named, ‘The Poet as Diplomat (962-68), recounts his role as a diplomat and his pioneering bridge-building efforts. His life stands as a shining example of how the advantages of diplomatic life can be used for maximizing literary output. The title of the next chapter ‘Paz’s Indian Friends: Surrounded by Infinity’ is self-explanatory. It recounts Paz’s close personal friendships with major Indian painters, musicians, writers and thinkers. We are given details of the close relationship with Indira Gandhi, and Paz throws interesting light on Indira by contrasting her with Nehru: “Indira was concrete and sober. She never forgot the old maxim that politics was the art of the possible…”
Among the literary figures, mention is made of Santha Rama Rau, Nirad C. Chaudhuri, Mulk Raj Anand, Raja Rao, Satchidananda H. Vatsyayan, and many others. The story of Paz’s dramatic resignation in October 1968 over his own government’s massacre of students at the Plaza de Tlateloco is explained by the author through studying archival documents. The next chapter ‘Under Western Eyes: Visiting Writers and Artists’ tells the story of famous international writers, musicians and painters who met Paz in India and forged lifelong bonds and collaborations based on their common love for India.
The final chapter ‘Paz After India’ (1968 -98), traces the continued presence of India-related themes in Paz’s body of work, particularly his prose, ever since his departure from the country. Leaving India was not easy for Paz and Marie-Jose. Over the next three years, he would drift around the world, accepting fellowships, residencies and lecture assignments. Though Indian themes gradually faded out of his poetry, in prose it continued to engage him till his last days, thirty years after leaving India. Even in old age, Paz continued to maintain epistolary contact with his Indian friends and welcomed distinguished Indian visitors to Mexico with his characteristic Latin American warmth. ‘Cantata’ tells the knotty story of Paz’s legacy in Mexico and how India has periodically remembered him, one as late as February 2023, at a large international conference held in IIC[1], New Delhi, on the cultural links between India and Latin America. There was unanimity in the acknowledgement that the Mexican poet had created a permanent, direct bridge between India and Latin America that no state-led enterprise could have done.
Before concluding, a few words need to be said about the author of this book. An academic and a filmmaker by profession, Indranil Chakravarty’s interest in Hispanic literature and culture comes out clearly through the translations he made of Paz’s poems. His enormous labour to bring out this volume comes out in the manner he reconstructs the inner journey of the poet by delving into multilingual archives, declassified diplomatic files, personal letters, and intimate interviews. The labour that has gone into selecting the innumerable photographs that don almost every page of the book, many borrowed from the website zonaoctaviopaz.com (an ongoing repository of photographic and news material on Paz put together by a group of Mexican scholars) clearly exemplifies the author’s emphasis on visual imagery too. In Acknowledgements, he clearly mentions that he has merely tried to fill up the missing information on the poet’s India-years. He entirely agrees with Ramchandra Guha’s contention that an autobiography or memoir must be understood as a pre-emptive strike against a future biographer. The poet’s memoir of India elides most of the aspects that are interesting to us today.
Title: Odisha — 500 Years of Turmoil, Mayhem, and Subjugation
Author: Bhaskar Parichha
Publisher: Pen In Books
Bhaskar Parichha, a veteran journalist and chronicler of Odisha’s socio-political life, brings his characteristic blend of reportage and reflective commentary into his new book, Odisha — 500 Years of Turmoil, Mayhem and Subjugation. The book aspires to narrate a long and complex history, tracing Odisha’s journey from the sixteenth century, marked by the fall of indigenous rule to the emergence of a modern regional identity.
Yet, beneath this ambitious sweep lies a narrative that is as interpretative as it is descriptive, raising important questions about how history itself is framed and understood. The work begins with the defeat of Mukunda Deva in 1568 and the subsequent Afghan, Mughal, and British domination. Parichha presents this prolonged period as one of continuous ‘turmoil’, treating history not as a sequence of isolated events but as a sustained condition shaping both political structures and collective consciousness. This approach is compelling in that it foregrounds Odisha’s endurance amid repeated disruptions and external pressures, offering a unifying thread across centuries of change.
However, the emphasis on ‘turmoil’ also tends to compress the complexity of the past into a single unifying metaphor. Odisha’s history is not solely a chronicle of suffering and subjugation; it is equally a story of resilience, adaptation, and cultural vitality. Movements such as the Bhakti tradition, the inclusive ethos of the Jagannath cult, and the flourishing of Odia literature from Sarala Das to Fakir Mohan Senapati offer strong countercurrents of continuity and renewal. By privileging a single interpretative perspective, the book tends to underplay these parallel trajectories that sustained the region’s cultural and social life.
One of the book’s notable strengths lies in its accessibility. He writes with clarity and ease, avoiding dense academic terminology while presenting a broad historical panorama. His narrative remains engaging without being overloaded with excessive detail, making the work approachable for general readers. In this respect, the book successfully bridges the gap between scholarship and public discourse, a hallmark of the author’s journalistic sensibility.
Yet, this accessibility also introduces certain limitations. The narrative relies more on synthesis and interpretation than on original archival research, and at times reads more like reflective commentary than rigorous historiography. Some crucial areas, particularly colonial economic policies and their long-term effects on agrarian structures and livelihoods, would have benefited from deeper engagement with primary sources and established historical scholarship. A more balanced analysis of these aspects could have strengthened the analytical depth of the work.
The question of identity forms a central concern throughout the book. Parichha underscores the importance of cultural consciousness in shaping regional development and portrays centuries of political domination as persistent threats to Odisha’s selfhood. While this argument is persuasive in its broad outline, it occasionally leans toward a somewhat essentialist view of identity. Odisha’s internal diversity, regional, linguistic, and social, receives limited attention, and the narrative at times presents the region as a unified entity rather than a complex and evolving mosaic.
The book is most engaging when it attempts to connect past and present. It suggests that contemporary challenges, such as underdevelopment and governance issues, are rooted in historical patterns of marginalisation and neglect. While this linkage is insightful, it can appear somewhat deterministic, underestimating the role of present-day current capacity for action, policy interventions, and recent progress in reshaping Odisha’s trajectory.
Odisha — 500 Years of Turmoil, Mayhem and Subjugation is best read as a reflective interpretation rather than a definitive historical account. Its value lies in its readability and its capacity to provoke critical reflection on questions of identity, continuity, and historical memory. Despite its limitations, the book succeeds in opening a meaningful conversation about how Odisha’s past is narrated, remembered, and reimagined in the present.
.
Rabindra Kumar Nayak is a former Reader in English. He has translated The Maharani’s Son, which is the English version of the original Odia novel, Maharani Putra, authored by the esteemed Odia writer Pratibha Ray. This work has been published by Sahitya Akademi.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Radha Chakravarty is a writer, critic and translator and has now added poetry to her already considerable oeuvre. Her achievements as an academic are impressive. She has co-edited The Essential Tagore and edited Shades of Difference: Selected Writings of Rabindranath Tagore (Social Science Press, 2015). She is the author of Feminism and Contemporary Women Writers (Routledge, 2008) and Novelist Tagore: Gender and Modernity in Selected Texts (Routledge, 2013). She has translated a wide range of literary works by Rabindranath Tagore and works by Bankimchandra Chatterjee and Mahasweta Devi. She has edited Bodymaps: Stories by South Asian Women and co-edited Writing Feminism: South Asian Voices and Writing Freedom: South Asian Voices. She has published poetry widely online and in print.
Professor Chakravarty’s second book of poems, In Your Eyes A River, brings together poems which evoke both real, travelled to and imagined worlds, aiming to bracket and highlight traces of the extraordinary within the ordinary aspects of human experience. They demonstrate a keen and keenly documented awareness of the profound realities that lie beneath the fabric of our daily lives.
The poems in In Your Eyes A River are replete with memories and infused with traces of nostalgia. Particularly moving is the seemingly autobiographical poem about her father, the titular poem: You never left Shyamsiddhi./In your heart you carried a home, / in your eyes a river, in the soles of your feet,/ the swing and shift of a bamboo sanko,/ narrow bridge of precarious crossings/…..the lost ground of your birth,/forsaken foundations of your fast-transforming self, the absent source of mine.”The poem moves towards a sense of closure as she writes: “I stand face to face with your impossible story,/ and find at last the missing opening lines of mine.” The poem is suffused by a sense of nostalgia for a place hardly visited except through the act of imaginative recreation, the mind’s eye.
Some of the poems in this collection demonstrate the poet’s experimentation with some short haiku-like forms and even single-word lines occasionally to create a sharper focus and emphasis. A lot of poems are ample evidence of her meticulous attention to details of the art and craft of poetry. Thus her poem, ‘Blue Gold’ on indigo not only unfolds not only contrapuntally[1] but also encapsulates within itself the dark history of colonialism, slave labour and human suffering.
One poem which particularly resonated with me is about the slowing down of the frenetic pace of life, presumably after years of active service: “no setting the alarm for crack of dawn/no scanning the TV for breaking news /no boiling water for morning tea/ no opening curtains, shaking out sheets/no tidying, dusting, cleaning up/no ironing creases, putting out trash/no catching the train, no rushing to work,/no chasing the tight deadline/no putting on a public mask/to face the measuring gaze.” By the next stanza, the idea of change between two different phases of life acquires an existential dimension. In a changed routine, the poetic persona finds herself moulting and changing, facing and acknowledging her ever changing, unpredictable self, “the mutating stranger that is me.”
In yet another poem, the poetic persona assumes the voice of a renowned female scholar from ancient India, Gargi ,who “thirsts to know” about the “weave of life and the warp that holds all forms of being,/ from the remotest realms of abstract divinity to the limit of human knowing ” muses about posing “the impossible question.”
The figure of the transgressive, rebellious and recalcitrant woman who breaks the mould re-appears in the next poem as well. It draws from a women’s retelling of the Ramayana, that poses a counter narrative to dominant narratives of the epic. In this powerfully and poignantly reimagined poem, ‘Another Story’, the poet draws on the narrative of the 16th century poet Chandrabati, who “questions the unquestionable”, thereby interrogating the hegemonic narrative of Valmiki and the Tulsidas Ramayana. The story narrated by Chandrabati centres around the figure of Sita, telling the reader about Sita’s miraculous birth and later story, instead. Sita’s story is not for “the men in royal courts” “but a “folk song for women in six brief parts.” a song which “shuns the epic scale.” In this version of the epic, Rama is not a divine hero, but a fallible man and a “jealous husband.” Chandrabati’s narrative questions where heroism really lies, whether in warfare and violence or the sustenance of everyday life. Moreover, even if women’s voices have been erased from history, there are women’s songs where “my version of Sita’s story lives on.” Chandrabati’s “unfinished song” also arouses the “critics’ ire” who dismiss it as a fragment, since the male critics police the boundaries of the literary establishment and often become (self-appointed) custodians of it.
Additionally, there are poems of tourism and travel, some of them set in Italy. Tourist spots are visited and reflected on, often providing fuel to fire the imagination. From sunrise in the hills of Kanchenjunga to her visit to Darjeeling, to the volcanoes of Etna and Vesuvius, are all skilfully assimilated into Chakravarty’s poetry.
Chakravarty’s poetic persona is also a witness to history and its outrages. In the poem ‘Wounded Walls’, “scarred walls remember the shots/that brought down the dead.” Yet, it does not “quite go as planned” since a the past resurfaces as a commemorative “unwelcome ghost” who rises from the dead to “haunt the present with/undead questions.” Elsewhere, the poetic persona , battle scarred but resilient, documents “lingering inscriptions/on memory’s skin”, of “battles fought/wounds that healed.” Questions pertinent to the present time are raised as in the poem ‘Ceasefire’: “If captives walk free, will our hearts still/hold us hostage in wild tunnels of hate? If bombs stop dropping, will the shrapnel/of memory vanish, from festering wounds? If the bloodbath halts, will it staunch the grief/that oozes from hearts lately bereaved?”
Sensitively written and meticulously crafted, Radha Chakravarty’s collection of poems is sure to resonate with all those who have struggled, suffered loss and displacement. Her poems help define that which is essentially and indubitably human, in the middle of climate chaos and war, tumult and change. Attentive to history and mindful of its excesses, the poems assert a vision of sanity and of shared humanity, much needed at this point when the global order has descended into chaos and seems to be teetering on the verge of immeasurable destruction.
[1] A contrapuntal poem is one which can be read individually and together, vertically or horizontally simultaneously as a single harmonious or dissonant piece.
Meenakshi Malhotra is Professor of English Literature at Hansraj College, University of Delhi, and has been involved in teaching and curriculum development in several universities. She has edited two books on Women and Lifewriting, Representing the Self and Claiming the I, in addition to numerous published articles on gender, literature and feminist theory. Her most recent publication is The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
An introduction to Aruna Chakravarti’s Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories, published by Penguin India, along with a discussion with the author.
Ghosts are evocative of a past… of history one could say. Then who could be a better storyteller of the past than an author steeped in colours of historical fiction — Aruna Chakravarti! In the past she not only translated novels set in colonial India but evoked the Bengal Renaissance to perfection in her two Jorasanko novels and details of a court hearing in her retelling of the Bhawal prince! This time the diva of historical fiction brings to us a book of spine chilling, ghost stories, Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories. It is her third collection of short stories.
Aruna ChakravartiPublished in 2026
The narratives are so vivid and visual that they could be worthy of being made into films. They are distinctive in that she has mostly created her own very horrific ghouls – not the traditional ones. They pop up and frighten the reader with their bizarreness and terrifying presences which linger even when you try to sleep at night! She has given us thirteen stories — a spooky number in itself — spread across multiple communities in Asia.
Some of the narratives evoke the past, starting from the 1800s. ‘The House of Flowers’ is set in China partly and partly in Kolkata, where there is now a thriving Chinatown known as “Tangra” and a Kali temple that serves ‘noodles’ as its prasad or offering. The story has echoes of Pearl S Buck’s China interestingly. What comes as a surprise is the fluency with which she has woven in the influences that impact a community of migrants!
Chakravarti has used her skills as a writer of historical fiction in some of the stories like, ‘The Road to Karimganj’, in which a spook takes us back to undivided Bengal, when passports were not needed as in the story of the migrant Chinese. Hovering around history are more narratives like ‘Possessed’, where a courtesan who performs with the legendary Girish Ghosh1 of the nineteenth century Kolkata undergoes, along with the audience, a strange spooky experience!
Traveling down the century, closer to our times, is the story that is perhaps one of the most bizarre and yet most relatable, ‘The Necklace’. Set in the Anglo-Indian community and the glamour of Park Street — where Wiccan writer, Rajorshi Patranabis, claimed to have met a colonial ghost awaiting her lover — Chakravarti’s narrative is of black magic and betrayal. The fiction is far more impactful and frightening than the factual narrative, which too was spine chilling! You realise what makes fiction so much more gripping than facts — anything can happen in fiction. Chakravarti is imaginative enough to make it as creepy and shadowy as any regular horror writer!
Holding on to that thought, the author holds the key to our experiences as she skillfully outlines two demons grown out of poverty in ‘A Winter Night’. The conclusion has a sense of irony and tragedy. ‘Truth is stranger than Fiction’ weaves in more of the diversity in the historic annals of Bengal. The story that starts the book, ‘The Caregivers of Gazipur’, has an unresolved ending, like some of her other narratives. Though there is a frightful resolution in ‘They Come Out After Dark’. The ghosts play spine chilling havoc with fears of the living while recalling the senseless violence of 1947. ‘There are More Things in Heaven and Earth’…takes us back to the atrocities committed during the Sikh riots of 1984 in Delhi. The mingling of fact and fiction to create weird a fantastical narrative is addressed during a conversation on the supernatural. And there is an exploration of the lines from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, which probably is a touch of the academic as Chakravarti had a long tenure as the principal of a girl’s college in Delhi. It also defines the authorial stance in this story:
‘Don’t forget what Hamlet said to Horatio? There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’
What is unusual about these stories is the way she has created fictitious geographies and personas, evoking historic realities. They seem perfectly authentic to the reader, including the one set in China. There is a vast mingling of facts and fiction in these stories all to lead to spine-chilling ends with strange twists.
‘Grandmother’s Bundle’ stands out in its rendition as the ghosts given out are part of the mythical lore of Bengal — stories that were related to most Bengali kids of the twentieth century. They have a touch of humour and dry wit, perhaps introducing a sense of comic relief among very dark and horrific stories that transport us into different worlds.
‘The Motorcycle Rider’, set in modern times, takes us into a university campus to shock us with horrific spooks born out of tragic deaths, while ‘Twenty-nine Years, Seven Months and Eleven Days’, merges a modern outlook with an unfathomable past, touching upon strange tantric yearnings. ‘Vendetta’ twirls nature and supernatural to give a frightening narrative of how nature takes its revenge… a theme that reiterates in writings addressing our current concerns with climate change.
The ease and fluidity with which she has switched from history and realism to horror and fantasy is amazing. Let’s find out more from her about this new persona that inhabits her writerly self…
Till now we have had translations, numerous novels—many of which can be called historical fiction—and realistic short stories with their base in history or contemporary life. What made you think of writing ghost stories?
After writing The Mendicant Prince which involved extensive research into the life and times of Prince Ramendranarayan Roy of Bhawal, I didn’t feel up to writing a historical novel again. The work had demanded delving into sociological texts, court records, letters, insurance papers and medical reports. Apart from research, historical fiction also demands a certain amount of field work.
Published in 2013Published in 2016
Before writing the Jorasanko novels I visited the Tagore mansion thrice and while writing The Mendicant Prince, I went to Bangladesh to see the royal palace in Bhawal, renamed Gazipur. Though it has been totally neglected, with shopkeepers and squatters having overtaken most of the area, I was able to get some idea of the topography of the palace and its grounds. I saw the lake and the temple (which was locked) and was able to visualise where the halls and galleries and the apartments of the queens and princesses would have stood. All this work was exhausting. So, for a change, I decided to try my hand at short stories which emerge straight from the imagination. And while at it, I decided to break out of the mould of “historical fiction” writer in which I had trapped myself and try a completely new genre.
Published in 2022
I wrote the first one on an impulse and found myself quite enjoying the process. I didn’t even think of publishing at that time. The first story led to another and another. When eleven stories had been written I sent the manuscript to three publishers and was surprised when all three accepted it. It was then that I found out that ghost stories were the in-thing. That they were selling well and that publishers were looking out for them. I signed up with Penguin as you know. At one point my editor Moutushi Mukherjee suggested I write another two. Thirteen stories will make it even more spooky, she said. So, I wrote another two.
Would you list these stories as fantasies or fantastical? Or are they stories of personal experience? Please elaborate.
No. They are not born out personal experience. I must confess that I have never seen a ghost in my life. I believe in sixth sense. As a matter of fact, I have acted on my sixth sense on occasions. I have had sudden impulses to do certain things and realised later that if I hadn’t yielded to the impulses, I would have regretted it. But I have had no brush with the supernatural. These stories were sparked off by sudden memories. Something I had read somewhere. Something somebody had told me years ago. A face I had seen in childhood which had stuck in my mind though whose I don’t remember. A conversation overheard which made no sense at the time but which, as an adult, seemed ridden with sinister nuances. A phrase from a book whose title and author’s name I had forgotten. In fact, I didn’t even remember the context from where the phrase had come.
Sudden flashes such as these triggered off the stories. But in the writing, they took on a life and soul of their own. I even feel, sometimes, that the pen took over and they were written by an invisible hand.
Your stories are set, sometimes in real landscapes and sometimes in fictional ones. What kind of research went into creating them? How do you make them so vivid and real?
There wasn’t any immediate research. I needed to look up a few facts, now and then, mostly to be sure of their authenticity. But nothing truly back breaking. The landscapes, both physical and of the mind, were culled from my travels and my reading of both English and Bengali writers over the eight decades of my life. Much of it stayed with me tucked away in some unconscious part of the mind. Although I write in English, you will notice that almost all the stories are about Bengalis. Bengalis living in Delhi, Kolkata, Bihar and the small towns and villages of Bengal. There are Anglo-Indians, Punjabis and Chinese, too among my characters. But having lived in Bengal for generations, they have adopted Bengali customs and a quasi-Bengali way of living. Many of the locales in which, they appear are fictional…gathered from my reading and observation of people from different strands of Bengali life.
You have a story set in China which also has the Chinatown of Kolkata in it. Have you been to China? What was the reason for the choice? Were you influenced by any Chinese writers? How did you visualise the Chinese migrants in Kolkata?
Yes, I have been to China. I visited the cities of Guangzhou, Shanghai and Beijing in 2004. Naturally, I have no personal experience of life as it was lived in the late 18th century which is the period covered in the story ‘The House of Flowers’. For this I had to rely totally on my reading of English authors writing about China like Pearl Buck and Amy Tan. Pearl Buck was a great influence on me while writing this story. It was from her books that I was able to catch the ambience of tea houses and brothels of the period. In depicting the Chinese family who lived in Calcutta in the early 20th century I had to rely on childhood experience, I knew some Chinese girls who had lived for several generations in Calcutta. And my imagination went into full play, of course.
In ‘Grandmother’s Bundle’ you have written about spooks from Bengal. It departs from your other stories in as much as it does not really introduce the supernatural except as a source of folklore. Do you feel it blends with the other narratives in your collection?
Well. It is different from my other stories in certain ways. Firstly, it is three stories rolled into one. Secondly, unlike the others, they are children’s stories. Thirdly, it is the only one that deals with ghosts and other supernatural beings with humour. Lastly, they have been drawn from folklore. I agree that it doesn’t quite blend with the others in this collection. But it is also true that each story in this collection is different from another. There are different time spans. Different locales. Different themes. Characters from different levels of society. That being the case, I think that this story lends variety and another flavour to the collection.
Your stories aren’t like the usual ghost stories one reads. The structure and content seem different. Your comments.
You are right. These stories do not belong to the gothic/horror genre. They are not about vampires, blood sucking bats, severed heads or violence heaped on violence. They are essentially human-interest stories with a supernatural twist at the end. I have taken my cue, you may say, from Coleridge’s demand for a willing suspension of disbelief before reading his poetry. These stories have innocuous beginnings. Two friends sharing an apartment, a boy walking from his village to an unseen destination, a dinner party in an exclusive area of the capital, a marital spat or a telephone call at dawn. Then, a few paragraphs later a subtle hint is dropped startling the reader into a realisation that it is not a simple story of human relationships. That it is headed in another, more sinister direction. Another hint is dropped and another. Then in the final sentence the bomb bursts. The last line is the most important line of the story.
Which is your favourite story? And why?
Just as a mother loves all her children, I love all my stories. But mothers also have favourites and so do I. “The House of Flowers,” “Vendetta,” “Possessed” and “The Necklace” are my favourites. That’s because their themes are unusual and posed a greater challenge. And, perhaps, because I had to work harder on them than on the others.
Are you planning any new books? Exploring any new genres? Any new book we can expect soon?
I always think of a new book even when I am writing the current one. Yes, I am planning to explore yet another genre of writing. But my ideas are nebulous at the moment. Still in a fluid state That being the case I cannot share them with you. All I can say is that the work will be a challenging one and I’m not even sure I’ll be able to see it through. So, we must both wait for some more time
Girish Ghosh (1844-1912) Actor and Director from Bengal ↩︎
(This review and online interview by email is by Mitali Chakravarty)
Title: Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor
Author: Deepta Roy Chakraverti
Publisher: Penguin/ EBURY PRESS
History often celebrates great events, revolutions, and institutions, yet it frequently overlooks individuals whose quiet determination helped shape the modern world.
Deepta Roy Chakraverti’s biography, Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor, seeks to restore one such remarkable figure to her rightful place in history. Through meticulous research and deeply personal storytelling, the book brings to light the life of a pioneering physician who challenged conventions, crossed borders, and carved a path for women in medicine at a time when such ambitions were rare.
Jamini Sen (1871- 1933) was among the earliest women doctors of British India and the first woman to become a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons of Glasgow. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when the world of medicine was overwhelmingly dominated by men, her achievement was nothing short of extraordinary. To study medicine, it required courage and determination; to excel in it and gain international recognition demanded a resilience that few possessed.
Chakraverti’s book traces Jamini Sen’s journey from the changing social landscape of Bengal to the complex and often dramatic world of royal Nepal. Born in a time when child marriage, strict gender roles, and social conservatism defined the lives of many women, Jamini’s life unfolded against the backdrop of a society in transition. The opening chapters evoke a Bengal negotiating between tradition and reform—where ideas of modern education, nationalism, and social change were beginning to challenge entrenched customs.
It was in this milieu that Jamini took her first steps toward a career in medicine. The path was far from easy. As a woman entering a profession dominated by men, she encountered skepticism, resistance, and prejudice. Yet the biography portrays her not as a passive victim of circumstance but as a determined individual driven by conviction and intellectual curiosity. Her pursuit of medical knowledge reflects both personal ambition and a broader spirit of reform that characterized parts of Indian society during the late colonial period.
One of the most fascinating phases of Jamini Sen’s career unfolded in Nepal. She was invited to serve as physician to the royal family during the reign of Prithvi Bir Bikram Shah. Nepal at that time was a kingdom cautiously opening its doors to modern influences, and Jamini’s presence there represented an important step in introducing modern medical practices to the royal court.
Serving in the palace required far more than medical skill. Court life was shaped by hierarchy, intrigue, and political sensitivities. Yet Jamini’s professionalism, discretion, and quiet confidence earned her the trust of the king and the respect of those around her. The biography suggests that her friendship with Prithvi Bir Bikram Shah was marked by mutual regard, and that she played a role in supporting his aspirations for a more modern Nepal.
But the story of Jamini Sen is not merely one of professional success. The book also reveals the personal costs that often accompany pioneering lives. Loss, loneliness, and emotional hardship form a recurring undercurrent in her journey. She endured the deaths of loved ones and navigated difficult relationships yet remained steadfast in her commitment to her work and her ideals.
Chakraverti’s narrative emphasises that Jamini’s resilience was rooted not only in determination but also in faith and introspection. Moments of spiritual reflection and philosophical questioning appear throughout the narrative, suggesting that her inner life was as complex as her public career. This dimension of the biography adds depth to the portrait of a woman who was not simply a medical pioneer but also a thoughtful and introspective individual.
The author’s own connection to the story lends the book a distinctive emotional resonance. Deepta Roy Chakraverti is the last of Jamini Sen’s descendants through the line of Jamini’s niece, Roma Sen Chakraverti. A lawyer educated at King’s College London with a first degree in mathematics from University of Delhi, Deepta writes not only as a historian but also as a custodian of family memory.
In the prologue, she reflects on the idea that our ancestors live within us—not only through blood and lineage but also through memory and spirit. Her decision to write about Jamini Sen arose from a growing sense of injustice. Why had a woman of such accomplishment been largely forgotten? Why had her life been reduced to little more than a historical footnote?
That question became the driving force behind the book. What began as a short story gradually expanded into a blog and finally into a full-length biography. Along the way, Chakraverti discovered family heirlooms, letters, and personal belongings passed down through generations—small fragments of the past that helped reconstruct Jamini’s life.
The author also drew upon anecdotes preserved in family memory and earlier Bengali writings by her great-aunt, Kamini Roy, which provided valuable insights into Jamini’s character and experiences. These sources give the narrative an intimate quality rarely found in conventional historical biographies.
Structured across twenty-five chapters, the book moves through the many stages of Jamini’s life—from her childhood in a changing Bengal to her years in Nepal, her struggles and triumphs in medicine, and the legacy she left behind. The chapter titles themselves hint at the drama and complexity of her life: ‘A Woman in a Man’s World’, ‘The Fight to Wield the Scalpel and Stethoscope’, and ‘Becoming British India’s Saree Wali Daktarin Sahib’.
A foreword by Hany Eteiba, President of the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons of Glasgow, adds an important institutional recognition of Jamini Sen’s achievements. It situates her story within the broader history of global medicine and acknowledges the significance of her pioneering role.
Daktarin Jamini Sen is more than a biography. It is an act of historical recovery—a reminder that many women who challenged social boundaries and advanced professional fields were gradually erased from public memory. By reconstructing Jamini Sen’s life, Deepta Roy Chakraverti restores one such figure to the narrative of South Asian history.
Jamini Sen emerges from these pages as a courageous, intelligent, and deeply human figure—a woman who carried both the stethoscope and the burden of breaking barriers. Her story reminds us that the progress of society often begins with individuals who refuse to accept the limitations imposed upon them.
In telling that story, this book ensures that Jamini Sen will no longer remain a forgotten pioneer.
.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib (1797-1869), often considered a difficult poet by critics, offers both nuggets of philosophical wisdom and sparkling wit in his poetry. He wrote in both Persian and Urdu, but it is his Urdu poetry which has bestowed iconic status on the poet. Presenting a blend of classicism and modernism, a deceptive lucidity and a visible obscurity, playful naughtiness and transcendental raptures and above all an endearing humanism, Ghalib has a range which remains unsurpassed in Urdu poetry. His ghazals always open new possibilities of meaning and interpretation. An important poet in the court of Bahadur Shah Zafar and a mentor of Sir Syed Ahmad Khan, Ghalib has inspired and influenced almost all later Urdu poets.
Anisur Rahman’s The Essential Ghalib is a welcome addition to many already existing translations and selections of Ghalib’s poetry. But such is the appeal of Ghalib’s verse that he continues to be read, loved and celebrated and there remains a scope for new books on his poetry, especially in English for a wider readership. In this regard Surinder Deol’s arduous task of translating Gopichand Narang’s book as Ghalib: InnovativeMeanings and the Ingenious Mind, a study using insights of Indian aesthetics, and Maaz Bin Bilal’s excellent English translation of Ghalib’s famous masnavi Chiragh-e-Dair as Temple Lamp: Verses onBanaras, the best possible paean to the holy city,are admirable efforts. Other better- known academics like Khurshidul Islam and Ralph Russell, translators and editors, Frances W. Pritchett, to whom Rahman dedicates his book, Mehr Afshan Farooqi, who endorses Rahman’s book, have devoted a lifetime to present Ghalib before Anglophone readers.
Anisur Rahman knows that translating all of Ghalib’s ghazals can be daunting, a task which was attempted recently by Najib Jung. However, as Rahman has not only made a selection of 200 shers[1] of Ghalib, but has also written an insightful commentary on each of them. Admitting that making a selection is always a subjective choice, Rahman has tried to represent Ghalib “in all his thematic and stylistic varieties” by developing his individual methodology, “a linguistic register and a pattern of rhyme and rhythm… that could represent Ghalib”. He also needed his “own diction with a certain echo, deciding on my number of syllables with certain weight and volume, determining the line breaks and their length to ensure their readability in translation, and finally approximating Ghalib’s tone and voice which differed from verse to verse”. Another criterion that he has followed is to select verses which were “translatable ones”, implying that a lot of Ghalib presents an insurmountable challenges for translators.
A short Introduction presenting important facts of Ghalib’s life and times, which of course have been documented in a number of books, provides a context to appreciate fully the selection and elucidation of verses that follow. A brief timeline of Ghalib’s life and works presents information in a capsule form helping the reader further.
A distinctive aspect of The Essential Ghalib is its neat and precise organization of verses and their interpretation. A two-line verse extract from a ghazal of Ghalib, which obviously can have an independent existence because of the very nature of the ghazal form, appears in Urdu and Devanagari script on the left side of the page. The page also carries a glossary of the difficult Urdu words and the English translation of the verse. On the right side of the book, the commentary of the verse explains its most obvious meaning as well as the philosophical and figurative layers hidden in the two lines. In other words, like a couplet of a ghazal, each page of the book also stands independently in the book. With his long experience as a university teacher of English poetry, Rahman has seen to it that his commentary of the couplet also does not go beyond a single page and yet it remains complete. A sequential reading of the book is not required, and the reader can open the book on any page, or savour it back and forth.
Rahman’s selection and translation includes the variety of emotions, tones and themes that Ghalib’s poetry offers. Ghalib’s wit can be seen in the following verse:
Maine chaaha thaa ke andoh-e vafaa se chhuuTuu. nvo sitamgarmire marne pe bhi raazii na huaa
I had wished to get rid of love’s grief and pain But that tyrant didn’t even let me die in bane
Ghalib had the rare talent to turn an often-thought idea into a fine poem:
Bas-ke dushvaar hai har kaam kaa aasaa.n honaa aadmi ko bhi mayassar nahii.n insaa.n honaa
It’s hard to make it easy; past man’s acumen Just as it is for a man to be a human
Rahman’s short commentary on each couplet is undoubtedly the most important feature of the book. He brings out many layers of meaning of the couplet in a clear and precise prose. Rahman knows that one way of reading poems is to read them in relation to other poems treating the same idea. In his commentary, Rahman often cites a verse from another poet not only to stress Ghalib’s influence on other poets but also to suggest the intertextual nature of poetic imagination. In the following verse Ghalib talks about the oppressive nature of the beloved:
ki mire qatl ke b’aad us ne jafaa se tauba haai us zuud-pashemaa.n kaa pashemaa.n honaa
She vowed not to be oppressive, after ravaging me Ah! Her repentance too soon! Ah! Her idiosyncrasy!
While explaining this verse, Rahman quotes Shahryar’s verse:
Ham ne to koii baat nikaalii nahinn.n Gham kii/vo zuud pashemaan pashemaan sa kyu.n hai.
(I didn’t utter anything sad/ Why does she look repentant {my translation])
At other places in the book, Rahman quotes the relevant verses of Sheikh Ibrahin Zauq, Siraj Aurangabadi, Firaq Gorakhpuri, Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Munir Niyazi and Parveen Shakir to show the resonance of Ghalib’s poetry.
Such is the beauty of Urdu poetry, of Ghalib’s in particular, that it never loses its relevance and can be cited to refer to many contemporary issues and controversies while Ghalib’s irreverence and “note of impudence” in referring to angels is beautifully captured by the following verse:
pakre jaate hai.n farishto.n ke likhe per naahaq aadmi koii hamaaraa dam-e tahrir bhi thaa
I am unjustly caught for what the angels Recorded of me Was there someone for me to see What they reported of me
Very proud of his poetry, Ghalib was never known for his modesty. Paradoxically, he can sound both vain and self-deprecating:
Ye masaail e tasavvuf ye tiara bayaan ghali tujhe ham valii samajhte jo na baada khvaar hotaa
There mystical matters, these sparkles You bring me, Ghalib If not a boozer, I would take you For a saint, Saahib
Simple but not simplistic, scholarly but interesting, The Essential Ghalib is a good introduction to Ghalib’s poetry especially for a beginner.
Mohammad Asim Siddiqui, a professor of English at Aligarh Muslim University, is the author of Muslim Identity in Hindi Cinema: Poetics and Politics of Genre and Representation (Routledge 2025).
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Signing in the Air, Malashri Lal’s second poetry collection, announces itself as a meditative, non-linear poetic journey from the very outset. A poet, academic and critic, Lal explains in her preface, there is “no linearity in such a theme,” and the poems move instead through cycles of time, memory, myth, and lived experience. The seventy-six poems converse with each other and portray her meticulous craftsmanship.
The collection draws deeply from the Indian concept ofritu — the six seasons — while simultaneously acknowledging the disruptions of climate change and modern dislocation. Nature in Lal’s poetry is neither sentimental nor static; it is capable of both “ravage and rejuvenation,” a duality that becomes central to the collection’s philosophical stance.
The poet’s voice resists fixity. The lyrical “I” is deliberately “timeless, generic author, reader, witness,” allowing the poems to transcend individual autobiography and become collective meditations on human and feminine destinies. This makes the book not merely confessional but contemplative, situating personal memory within wider cultural and ecological continuums.
The five sections of the book do not function as isolated compartments but intricately connected that speak to one another.
‘Whispers of the Earth’ foregrounds the elemental: trees, rain, seasons, and landscapes, yet avoids pastoral nostalgia. Lal speaks to nature rather than about it, creating an intimacy that acknowledges environmental fragility without moralising.
‘Installations’ shift attention to material culture and memory. Objects, such as, old books, domestic utensils, inherited artefacts become repositories of time. Lal’s reflection on ancestral possessions, such as the hamam or the dol[1] for washing clothes, raises radical questions: have women’s destinies changed as technology has advanced, or have only the tools evolved while labour and inequality persist?
‘Echo of Myths’ is one of the most resonant sections, reworking mythological figures like Lakshmi, Sita, and Radha not as static icons but as evolving subjects. Lal’s engagement with myth is neither reverential nor iconoclastic; it is dialogic. Myth becomes a living language through which contemporary women’s struggles, endurance, and resilience are articulated.
‘Meditative Missives’ carries a distinctly philosophical tone. Time dissolves into moments of stillness, and poetry itself becomes an act of contemplation. Lal explicitly frames the volume as possessing “a meditative streak weaving through it,” where mind and body interact to create “kaleidoscopic images” that search for form and vocabulary.
‘Women Who Wander’ brings the collection into the socio-political present. Drawing upon the idea of the flâneuse, Lal reimagines wandering as a gendered act—women moving through cities, histories, and emotional terrains. These poems reclaim mobility as agency and witness.
Lal’s language is marked by clarity rather than excess. Her metaphors are precise, often luminous, and grounded in lived experience. The imagery functions kaleidoscopically: fragments turning to reveal new patterns rather than fixed meanings. Light, shadow, seasons, and movement recur as motifs, reinforcing the book’s concern with impermanence and continuity.
A powerful example of Lal’s ethical and spiritual engagement appears in the opening poem, ‘Invocation: Devi Stuti – The Divine Feminine’. Here, the feminine divine is portrayed as both creator and destroyer, compassionate yet fearsome:
She, the feminine power creates as well as destroys… Evil seems to flourish and goodness struggles but She knows whom to vanquish in the final reckoning.”
The poem moves beyond ritual praise to a contemporary plea, invoking divine protection against “violence, brutality, torture of the everyday woman”. This invocation sets the moral and emotional tone of the entire collection, anchoring the personal within the cosmic.
A recurring concern in Signing in the Air is hybridity of place, language, identity, and time. Lal reflects on her own transitions between Jaipur, Bengal, and Delhi, embracing what critics have described as her ability to be “at home in her multiple worlds, and an outsider looking in”. This tension enriches the poems, allowing them to speak across geographies and generations.
Memory functions not as nostalgia but as ethical inheritance. The poet’s recollection of her grandmother—an early graduate of the University of Calcutta—foregrounds women’s intellectual legacies often erased from public history.
The book cover is understated yet evocative. The image of a silhouetted tree against a luminous sky visually echoes the book’s thematic preoccupations: imprint and erasure, presence and absence, rootedness and transcendence. The title Signing in the Air is aptly suggestive, writing that leaves no permanent mark yet insists on meaning.
In terms of physical quality, the book is finely produced. The paper and layout are reader-friendly, lending dignity to the text without distraction. The careful structuring of sections and the inclusion of preface, acknowledgements, and critical blurbs enhance the book’s scholarly and aesthetic value.
Signing in the Air is a mature, reflective, and deeply humane collection. Malashri Lal writes with quiet authority, weaving together ecology, myth, memory, spirituality, and women’s lived realities. The poems resist closure, inviting readers into an ongoing conversation, one that unfolds across seasons, histories, and inner landscapes.
Ultimately, this is a book that does not shout but resonates. It affirms poetry as an act of witness, meditation, and ethical imagination: truly, as Lal suggests, a way of “scribbling in the empty air where intimations of spirituality and social truth coexist without definable boundaries.”
Never before has the world been so wealthy, so networked and so saturated with information. And yet, as Kailash Satyarthi points out in Karuna: The Power of Compassion, humanity appears increasingly fractured—by inequality, conflict, ecological devastation and a growing culture of indifference. The paradox, he argues, is not a lack of resources or knowledge, but a moral failure. What the modern world suffers from is not technological deficit, but a deficit of compassion.
Satyarthi’s central intervention is to reclaim compassion from the realm of softness. In popular imagination, compassion is often treated as an individual emotion—gentle, personal, and largely apolitical. Karuna rejects this framing outright. Compassion, Satyarthi insists, is not passive kindness or distant sympathy. It is an active, disruptive force—one that challenges injustice, reshapes institutions and compels moral action.
For Satyarthi, compassion is born at a precise moment: when another person’s suffering is experienced not as an abstract concern but as one’s own. That recognition, he argues, cannot remain inert. True compassion demands a response. In this sense, compassion is not the opposite of power; it is a form of power—ethical power—that has historically driven social movements, expanded rights and forced political change. From struggles against child labour to campaigns for human dignity, Satyarthi positions compassion as the invisible engine behind lasting transformation.
One of the book’s most distinctive contributions is the idea of a “Compassion Quotient (CQ)”. Just as IQ measures cognitive ability and EQ assesses emotional intelligence, CQ is proposed as a way to understand how individuals, organisations and societies relate to suffering and responsibility. For Satyarthi, CQ is not an abstract moral scorecard. It is a practical framework—something that can be cultivated, strengthened and embedded into systems of governance, education and leadership.
The argument is clear: without a high CQ, even the most intelligent or emotionally skilled societies risk becoming efficient but cruel. Economic growth without compassion deepens inequality. Technological progress without compassion accelerates exclusion. Political power without compassion normalises injustice. CQ, in Satyarthi’s formulation, becomes the missing ethical dimension in modern decision-making.
To prevent compassion from dissolving into sentimentality, Satyarthi defines it through four inseparable elements. The first is awareness—the refusal to look away from suffering. Indifference, he argues, is not neutrality; it’s complicity. The second is connectedness—the recognition that another’s pain is not “their problem” but part of a shared human condition. This sense of moral interdependence is central to karuna or compassion.
The third element is deep feeling—a genuine emotional identification with the other, distinct from detached sympathy or charity. And finally, action—concrete, mindful steps to reduce harm and restore dignity. Compassion, Satyarthi insists, collapses if it stops at feeling. Without action, awareness becomes voyeurism and empathy becomes self-indulgence.
When these four elements converge, compassion becomes transformative. It turns individuals—often without formal authority—into problem-solvers, moral leaders and catalysts for change. This is a recurring theme in the book: power does not always flow from institutions; it often emerges from ethical clarity and moral courage.
Satyarthi’s insistence on compassion as a public ethic is shaped by his own life’s work. Over five decades, he has fought for the rights of millions of marginalised children across borders, cultures and political systems. In Karuna, these experiences are not presented as personal triumphs but as evidence of what compassion-in-action can achieve when it is organised, sustained and fearless.
The urgency of the book lies in its diagnosis of the present moment. Satyarthi argues that globalisation has connected markets and technologies, but not consciences. What is needed, he writes, is a “globalisation of compassion”—a deliberate effort to act as if the world is one family. This is not sentimental universalism, but a pragmatic moral stance, especially when addressing issues such as child exploitation, forced labour, displacement, and environmental collapse.
In a political climate increasingly defined by hostility, exclusion and moral exhaustion, Karuna makes a quiet but radical demand: that compassion be treated not as a personal virtue but as a collective responsibility. It calls on citizens, leaders and institutions to rethink success—not merely in terms of growth or efficiency, but in terms of dignity protected and suffering reduced.
Karuna: The Power of Compassion is not a manual for charity, nor a retreat into moral idealism. It is a challenge—to individuals and societies alike—to recognise that the future will not be shaped by intelligence, technology, or power alone. Without compassion as a guiding force, Satyarthi warns, progress itself becomes hollow. With it, even the most entrenched injustices can be confronted.
.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Title: River Traveller: Journeys on the TSANPO-BRAHMAPUTRA from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal
Author: Sanjoy Hazarika
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
Sanjoy Hazarika, a former reporter for the New York Times, dons many hats, combining roles as researcher, columnist, mentor and practitioner. Over decades this veteran journalist has travelled extensively across the Northeast and its neighbourhood. His interests include developments in Myanmar, Bhutan, Tibet (PRC), Bangladesh and Nepal and he has produced over a dozen documentaries including on the Brahmaputra, dolphins, governance, conflict, and rights.
River Traveller tells the story of a great river, as powerful as it is mysterious. The Brahmaputra rises in Tibet, travels through three countries and, after travelling over 2,900 kms, flows into the Bay of Bengal. But the most interesting part is that this river is known by many names: Yarlung Tsangpo and Po Tsangpo in Tibet, Siang in Arunachal Pradesh, Brahmaputra in Assam, the Jamuna in Bangladesh, merging with the Ganga at Arichar Ghat, to form the vast Padma on its unending flow to the Bay of Bengal and its quest for union with the sea.
This book has come together over decades of travels on this braided river (including on the boat clinics that he launched in 2005 in Assam) where Hazarika had seen its beauty and faced its wrath, been stuck on sandbanks and swept out to sea. He listened to those who plied the boats, the pilots, drivers, fishermen and their families, the sick and the ailing, women and children, Buddhist and Hindu monks, Sikh and Muslim priests, officials, politicians, students and scientists. He has listened to poets, singers, writers and artists, and to businessfolk and daily wage earners, boat builders, contractors, tea planters and workers. The writer amalgamated all their stories which were a mix of sadness, a determination to survive, an acceptance of fate and joy. Therefore, his traveller’s tales span not just his own journeys but the stories of those who had gone before him. Like the river, the region and its neighbourhood “never cease to delight, surprise, inspire, sadden and confound.”
Of course, the most ostentatious reason for Hazarika’s travels is the filming of documentaries on the river at different points of time. His first travel was for the film A River’s Story, the Quest for the Brahmaputra that he scripted and produced with Jahnu Barua as the director, Sudheer Palsane as cinematographer, Sanjoy Roy and Jugal Debta as audiographers as well as many others. The thrust area was to study the stories of the river and its people, from its beginnings in the Tibetan Plateau to the end in the Bay of Bengal. It wasn’t about science and theory, or politics and the environment, or climate change, but about the river and its moods, and especially its people and their relationship with each other, through history and changing geography, culture, faith, peace and poverty.
In the second venture, Gautam Bora was director and cinematographer of Brahmaputra, a six-part series for Doordarshan, shot in Arunachal Pradesh and Assam. In his third venture, he was involved in the making of Children of the River, the Xihus of Assam, which was directed and filmed by Maulee Senapati and where he learned much about dolphins.
Divided into three parts, the book is as exhaustive a study on the river as can be imagined. The Brahmaputra is one of the world’s longest and widest rivers—sustaining entire civilizations and agrarian systems. It has fascinated cartographers, lured adventurers, attracted kings and dynasts, and has supported life and ways of living by its banks. Before beginning with the actual travel in Part One that includes his sojourns in Tibet and Arunachal Pradesh, Hazarika goes back to history of the thirteenth century when in about 1215 AD, the Tai-Ahom prince Siu-ka-pha left his native land now on the China-Myanmar border and undertook a long march before settling down in Charaideo, his capital, with its surrounding flat plains, rich red soil, streams and the vast Brahmaputra nearby. After that for centuries, traders, smugglers, fighters, fugitives, goods, cuisines, languages and ideas as well as religions and religious people have travelled in either direction on the Siu-ka-pha trail.
Hazarika begins his yatra in Tibet and narrates how the challenges relating to it were not new. He describes a Tibet that was trying to hold on to its cultural legacy in the face of Chinese rule and the land’s exploitation for its resources. He recounts stories of explorers, spymasters and mapmakers, especially a motley crowd of intrepid men in the service of the East India Company and the Survey of India, who discovered the route of the river especially when it’s source was hidden in the most inhospitable terrain on earth. They finally solved the puzzle of the vanishing river and established that the Brahmaputra and the Tsangpo were the same river.
In Arunachal Pradesh, Hazarika views the river from a helicopter and to him it resembled a great, brown meandering serpent, moving in huge loops, with many channels; at times, a stream or two which joined the flow backed down on themselves, creating elegant oxbow lakes. At Gelling, the first village on the Indian side, the turbulent Tsangpo churns its way through a narrow valley after a cascading drop from Tibet. Here for the first time the Tsangpo changes its name and is known as the Siang or Dibang for the next 200 kilometers before it enters Assam. At a place called Kobo, the Lohit meets the Dibang, Noa Dihing, Tengapani and Siang and develops the immense power that is mirrored in the Brahmaputra in full flow.
Part Two comprising of nine chapters focuses on Assam. After the earthquake of 1950, water ‘blockades’ happened not just on the Siang but also on several other rivers flowing into the Assam Valley and as a result the river changed its course, lifted the riverbed, flattened the banks and land, and braided it in many places far more than ever before. As a result, many towns like Rohmoria, Sadiya simply vanished after being embraced by flood waters, and places like Barpeta, Goalpara and Dhubri underwent demographic changes.
In separate chapters we learn about the tea gardens of Assam, the influence of Srimanta Sankaradeva and his satras[1], about the great river island Majuli, the singer Bhupen Hazarika, the presence of dolphins in the Brahmaputra, the thousands of islands known as the chars and saporis, which are permanent in their impermanence, where the Muslim residents are known as Miyas, the large number of migrants that inhabit the place, the sand bars and sandbanks that dot the riverscape from Upper Assam and how the collection of sand and its sale and distribution has changed the lives of many along the river to the point where it enters Bangladesh. He also gives us details about the ferry system, the boat clinics on the river that represent both a dream and a reality, as annually, nearly three lakh people are treated in these mobile structures.
The third part of the narrative obviously ends with four chapters on Bangladesh. We are told how to move from a slow riverine economy to a bustling one is quite challenging. This section includes fear of being hunted by pirates on an open sea, the faith in the navigators, ‘drivers’, pilots and other crew members who can read the mind of the river, the trip to the confluence of the Ganga and the Brahmaputra along with a Bangladeshi singer called Maqsoodul Haque or Mac. Both these rivers have different names in Bangladesh. The Ganga is the Padma while the Brahmaputra is the Jamuna. We are told about the story of the island known to Indians as New Moore Island and to the Bangladeshis as Sandwip island that appeared and disappeared, causing a diplomatic furore. The Brahmaputra’s role in shaping the destiny of low-lying Bangladesh is well-established and we are told of the connectedness of the people to the river, on either side of the human-made border. There are many places where the turbulent river refuses to accept human markers and controls and the border just remains an imaginary line snaking across shifting sands.
After reading about the multifarious experiences of Hazarika, it is needless to state that this book of non-fiction mesmerizes the readers to such a great extent that one hankers for more information. It is best to conclude the review by quoting from the poetic way Hazarika himself speaks at the end of the book about the interconnectedness that lies even in a grain of sand:
“I have traversed the river, shared my secrets with it and laid my fears and troubles to rest there. It too has spoken to me and has been kind and generous, in the midst of its vastness and power, to someone who could not swim.
“River Traveller is deeply personal and piloted by my life and learnings on the river, failings, shortcomings, understanding. It’s about shared stories, loves gained and lost, inspiration and sadness. Autobiographical in parts, it navigates history and crosses borders.
“Many travels beckon, for the river still calls.“
From extremism to environmental responsibility, politics to ethnography, River Traveller touches on a multitude of subjects, and is an enduring study of human life and natural history. It is a rich and memorable portrait of one of the mightiest rivers on our planet. The colour photographs that are included in the middle of the narrative add extra charm to the narration. A volume worth possessing and reading and rereading repeatedly.
[1] Specialised Vaishnavi monasteries in Assam serving as socio-religious, cultural and educational centres since the fifteenth century.
.
Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati University, Santiniketan, India.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
