Category: Slices from Life

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Slices from Life

Launching into the New Year

By Meredith Stephens

Alex pointed the flare towards the ocean and released it. The flare was originally from the boat, but had passed its use-by date so we had decided to release it to celebrate the New Year. But instead of heading into the ocean the flare changed trajectory, turning at right angles into the wind and headed into the hills. In the distance we saw a flame erupt, but it didn’t die down as expected.

“Oh no! A fire? Let’s go and put it out,” shouted Alex.

The six of us piled back into the ute[1] and drove to the site of the fire. A trail of light extended down the gully towards the ocean. Surely, it wouldn’t last long on this cold summer night? I shivered in my coat and walked down the hill to the house to change into a heavier coat. When I returned the fire burned ever more brightly.

“Let’s go and get the water tank so we can extinguish it,” suggested Alex.

We drove back down the hill towards the orchard to retrieve the water trailer.

“Alex pulled and pulled on the starter cord. Damn! It’s refusing to start!” exclaimed Alex.

Then, Aaron joined us to help us pull the cord several more times, to no avail. Eventually, after trying about fifty times, we gave up. Instead, we ferried twenty-litre jerry cans of water to the fire front, but the miserly amount of water was no match for the ever-growing fire. Aaron’s mother, Rochelle, emptied a wheelie bin of recyclables, pulled it towards the water tank, and filled it with water. She and Aaron pulled it towards the fire to douse the flames. At that point Alex realised that we couldn’t contain the fire ourselves and called the fire department. I wasn’t sure what to do, so returned to the house to fill a bucket with water. Rochelle rushed into the house.

“Can we have some towels to douse the embers?”

I reached the top cupboard in the laundry and grabbed the freshly laundered guest towels. I handed them to Rochelle.

“Thanks,” she said, and ran out of the house.

Rochelle and Aaron, upon the advice of a concerned neighbour who had observed the fire and come over, whacked the embers with a wet towel that they had dipped in the wheelie bins. Rochelle protected the water tanks by treating the nearby embers with the heavy wet cotton towels. Her actions saved the water tanks from melting, as the fire edged close but stopped just before making contact with the equipment. Aaron protected the hot tub in the same way with the wet towels.

The hot tub is saved. Photo Courtesy: Meredith Stephens

The casuarinas were at risk of being burnt and would have added fuel to the fire. Aaron smothered one of the casuarinas with the towel and averted a further spread of the fire to the cedar hot tub. That is how Rochelle saved the water tanks and Aaron the hot tub.

The fire trucks arrived. The fire-fighters did not know the lie of the land, and this was compounded by the darkness. Rochelle’s husband, Brian, had anticipated this, and directed them where to go. It was dark. The unsealed road to the house was unlit. The fire-fighters directed their giant hoses to the fire. Now the fire had turned and extended to the front of the house. I found another towel and drenched it with tap water. I saw a man in uniform outside the front door, and assuming he was a fire-fighter, directed a question to him.

“Which area would be best to douse flames with this towel?”

“I don’t think that’s really necessary now. The fire-fighters are here.”

I looked at him more carefully and noticed that ‘police’ was written on his uniform.

“Are you staying here?” he asked.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“Who called the fire-fighters first?” he asked me.

“Alex,” I answered.

“The house is safe,” he advised. “You don’t need to do anything.”

Alex saving the house. Photo Courtesy: Meredith Stephens
The author not knowing…. Photo Courtesy: Ruby Riessen

Once we knew the house was safe, we looked at our phone and discovered it was 12.18 in the morning. 2026 had arrived without us noticing. Rochelle’s jeans were blackened all over, and she had smudges of soot on her hands and face. Alex had blackened ankles, and a large patch of soot on this face. I wish I could claim I was covered in soot too, but in typical fashion the crisis had left me in a state of paralysis. Despite our fatigue it was impossible to simply go to bed as usual. We needed to process the events of the evening. Inexplicably, we suddenly felt hungry. Alex, Brian, Rochelle, Aaron and I sat around the coffee table and consumed large quantities of cheese, crackers and dips. Suddenly, at 2 am, our tiredness caught up with us. We felt guilty going to bed when there were still firefighters dousing the last of the flames in the distance, but we gave in to the overwhelming urge to sleep.

The next morning, a fierce sunshine pierced into my room but I resisted the urge to get up. Surely yesterday would have been a dream, and I would be greeted by the usual vegetation when I looked out of the window. I remembered the blackened treeless landscape on the highway leading from Fresno to Huntingdon in California a couple of years earlier and dreaded being greeted by a similar scene. I braced myself to look outside. The grasses had burnt over many hectares and extended close to the infrastructure but not burnt any of it. The aforementioned water tanks and cedar hot tub were unscathed, as was the house and the ancient coastal forest. Alex had lost some of his revegetation, consisting of a few pines and immature casuarinas. The other damage was that the police advised Alex that he would receive a fine for letting off a flare when there was no emergency. There would be no further action because the fire was confined to his property and had not extended to the neighbours’ properties. This was thanks to our wonderful house guests and the dedicated fire-fighting volunteers who worked through the night.

The next day, a helicopter repeatedly flew in front of the house, along the coast, dumping one thousand litre buckets of water at particular points on the sand. There was a risk that in hot conditions the sandy patches could erupt into flames again.

Next new year we will content ourselves with sitting in front of the television to watch the official fireworks, if we can be bothered staying up that late. We have had a first-hand and first-time experience of a bushfire, which has given us a new respect for the speed and ferocity of a bushfire, and a fresh awareness of the necessity of being prepared.

[1] An Australian term for a vehicle with a passenger cabin and an open cargo space at the back

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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

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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Slices from Life

Visiting an Outpost of Lucknow: Moosa Bagh

By Prithvijeet Sinha

Samridh had always dreamt of standing atop the mound of Moosa Bagh for the last four years. His good friend Kabir had so animatedly filled his head with its haunting, almost transcendent images that Sam was engrossed by its structure, its history and the sheer fact that it was located in the most “silent parts of the city’s outer realm”. This made the place seem unattainable but also something to hold close to memory.

Kabir filled Samridh with the essence of Lucknow’s quintessential wonders and took him to a few of these “outposts”, sturdy sentinels who had seen decay and ruin and could even possibly be forgotten by the city’s dazzling archive that only focused on the centre. Sam now wanted to visit Moosa Bagh at any cost. He even expressed the desire to explore it all alone. Something about a mostly ruined but still beautiful archeological anamoly was deeply attractive to him.

It was the first week of August. It was an inclement day. Kabir was accompanying Sam. As soon as they took the left turn from Hussainabad ahead of the Bara Imambara and Rumi Darwaza, the sea of classically constructed mansions as old as Time’s curves and twitches, shops spanning the panorama of generations, mosques, temples and commotion that could be intercepted from the flanks of the new flyover made him giddy. If this was a quiet expanse, it wouldn’t be the same. The mass of humanity was the bloodline of the old city and nobody could truly fall prey to anodyne loneliness within these streets and lanes, not one angle bereft of sound and sights. No other place could make him inhale the aroma of sheermaals, kababs and biryani from the sea of eateries. No foreword could prepare him for the colours and shapes of the vegetables being hauled and taken out of the Dubagga Sabzi Mandi[1]— not one crackle of feet and wheels on the road or the cacophony of voices seemed to bother him. He was looking at it all for the first time, taking in the splendour of an area he had never set foot in before. Most impressive was the electrical tower which was almost shaped like an ubiquitous monument in Paris.

But soon the commotion cleared and the roads became more accommodative. They breathed in fragrance of the fresh air. The disappearing outline of buildings suggested that Moosa Bagh was near. Sam saw the open land in front of him as the car slowly made its way towards the mound. There was no human presence here except a young man on a bicycle. The land was mostly barren but little growths of plants and grass were still everywhere. It was the monsoon that kept its promise of verdure. Sam took a deep breath because as soon as he shifted his gaze to his left, he saw a dark red, earthy brown texture. Moosa Bagh was a beauty, a theatre of visuals that truly unveiled itself under the hazy sky so that the black stilts on its remaining mossy walls with overgrowth narrated its own saga, not of pain or destruction but something enduring, like Dali’s melting clocks or the moors in Wuthering Heights, or the solitary hills in Anita Desai’s Fire on the Mountain.

Sam gasped, beholding its outer ramparts that had holes like eyes; they could look into a visitor’s soul and read the signs of storm that had been delayed. It was just Samridh and Kabir looking over an ancient well in the compound, feeling the strength in the bricks that had seen glorious times when this was a haven. A spiritual poem seemed to grow out of the structure.

This was exactly how Kabir had come to accept it as the unheralded silent sentinel that perhaps allowed true believers to visit the place, finding in the process that it was not a ghost of the past or an architectural aberration. It was once a palace disseminating pleasure and leisurely journeys. On that day, two men deeply in love with Lucknow touched the tangle of leaves and the heft of twains, their appearance like an elderly person’s head full of grey river currents.

Kabir nodded. Samridh looked at the field of freedom that surrounded this mound, a place up there under inclement skies and reaching the upper realms of open reality with the shapes and contours of an unusual reprieve.

We discard secrets at the end of the line. We keep grinding on whetstones of popular appeal. But there are places and the feelings they evoke that don’t surrender to overestimated beauty or courting excitable crowds. In our world, a city can be oblivious to one sight and can still have the maganimity to send two introverts to its most treasured corners so that they salvage the essence of its history anew. Moosa Bagh is a beneficiary of these second chances. It is a place of charm and exquisite freedom to sensitive young men like Kabir and Samridh. Visits at the end of every month here have solidified their friendship into something greater than the sum of their parts.

At nights, Sam comes to his senses and initiates the same wondrous raptures that came to him on a gusty August afternoon. He is thankful for a storyteller like Lucknow. He feels it in his bones how Moosa Bagh is a symbol of the depths that he had never charted within his little lifetime, so far finding places close to his feet and repeating the same cycle of familiarity. But now going to an outer realm is no longer about being a traveller out of breath or time. He still dreams of Moosa Bagh almost every night, asleep on its mound, kissed by the moon and keeping its eyes in its walls open, telepathically conveying its deepest mysteries to him. Moosa Bagh is a sentinel taking him towards the perpetual road to his beloved city’s inner soul.

Then…
Now…
Moosa or Musa Bagh is an eighteenth century garden and monument also known as Monsieur Bagh. From Public Domain

*Note: Sam and Kabir are persona taken on by the author and his friend.

[1] Vegetable market

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

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Slices from Life

From the Land of a Thousand Temples

By Farouk Gulsara

From Public Domain

“Which part of India did your people come from?” asked the Tamil tour guide during our last trip to Chennai. 

“I know my forefathers came from Tamil Nadu, but, sorry can’t tell you which part of Tamil Nadu or village they came from,” I told him in Tamil. “I am a third generation Malaysian Indian. We lost touch with all the relatives back home.”

“Your Tamil is very good for someone out of this country. Judging from way you speak, you could pass off for someone from Thanjavur!” he went on. 

“People from Malaysia have mostly left their original accent and have developed new ones with Malay and Chinese words in theirs, so you cannot pigeonhole them to any region in India anymore.” I replied.

In a philosophical tone, he paused, then said, “I am here in Chennai, and you are there in Malaysia, and the only thing that connects us is the Tamil language.” 

Of course, there is the DNA that unites us, but the bond that draws us to India is independent of the language spoken or written. 

Our little conversation reminded me of the 1980s music video ‘Down Under’  by the Australian rock band, Men at Work. In that scene, the singer goes around the world, and everyone recognises him with his characteristic Aussie mannerisms. “Do you come from a land Down Under?” is their first response. 

My grandparents and parents believed that, despite moving away from their homeland due to increasingly hostile living conditions, it was necessary to pass down their culture and language. Perhaps it was the only language they knew. They did not turn their backs on Tamil Nadu, nor let their offspring immerse themselves solely in the local culture. They had no anger towards their country. They did not turn their backs on her. They understood their motherland was going through difficult times and that tides would eventually change. Maybe they thought that one day their descendants would return and boast about how their princes of the soil had succeeded in a distant land, even while still holding onto their ancestral roots – the mother tongue. 

It looks like the sun has risen, and the country has awakened from her long slumber, continuing to pursue what she stopped in her glorious past. Even her children, who have spread across all corners of the Earth, have made her proud. 

For the rest of my trip, I conversed in Tamil, checked into a four-star hotel, and even conducted transactions at a bank counter. At first glance, I am sure they could tell I was not local, with liberal use of the word ‘lah’[1]  in my sentences and the distinctive sing-song manner Malaysians use when speaking Tamil, it seems. The Malaysians are also described as extremely courteous, unlike the locals there.

[1] Lah is a phrase used by Malaysians and Singaporeans in local parlance

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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

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Champagne Sailing

Narrative by Meredith Stephens: Photographs by Alan Noble

Sydney Skyline

We are not champagne sailors. The only time Alex and I drink champagne aboard a boat is to celebrate the end of a voyage of hundreds of nautical miles. Our sailing expeditions are characterised by breakages, deprivations and isolation. Sometimes the seas are so rough that I cannot move around the boat, let alone change clothes. I can only bathe once a week, and that consists of a dip in the ocean at anchor.

Our meals often consist of fish we have caught and cooked, unless we consume them immediately as sashimi. A single fish might last us days, served in various guises. Other meals are prepared from lentils or canned foods. In contrast to land trips, I usually lose a kilogram or two when at sea. I prefer not to use the term ‘yacht’, because people imagine us sunning ourselves on the deck while sipping champagne. Instead, I use the term ‘sailboat’. I do confess to a tad of reverse snobbery in the deprivations I endure and look down on those I describe as ‘champagne sailors’. But was that about to change?

We had been invited aboard the luxury observer vessel known as The Jackson to watch the start of the annual Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race on Boxing Day. After Christmas lunch, we headed to Adelaide Airport to catch our ninety-minute flight to Sydney. Upon arrival at our hotel, we caught the lift to our room. The lift doors opened on the third floor to let two brothers in, aged around 10 and 12. They met our gaze.

“Would you like us to sing you a Christmas carol?” the younger one asked.

The older one looked a bit embarrassed, but I thought asking strangers to join in singing a carol in a lift on Christmas Day was a nice, if not brave gesture, so I nodded enthusiastically. The younger one started singing ‘We wish you a merry Christmas’, and facing us, moved his hands in the manner of a choir conductor. I joined in. Then the boys noticed that they had arrived at their floor and stopped singing.

“See ya!” said the older one, as they exited.

We continued to the seventh floor and deposited our bags. The light was fading, so we decided to head back outside to take a stroll around the harbour. We returned to the lift. Once we reached the fifth floor the doors opened and the two boys entered again. Three other guests were standing behind us.

“More carols?” asked Alex.

They nodded and smiled. “Yes!”

They launched into another familiar carol, and again I joined in. The tall guest behind me gave a kindly chuckle. Then they reached the third floor, bade us farewell, and exited. We continued to the ground floor and made a tour of Darling Harbour in the remaining light. It had been a wonderful Christmas Day, and what better way to end it than the act of goodwill in being serenaded by children in a hotel lift.

The next day was the yacht race, which has been held annually since 1945 and is one of the world’s great ocean races. The sailors would be competing in a gruelling and treacherous race of 128 boats covering 628 nautical miles (1,200 km), south down the Tasman Sea, across Bass Strait, to Hobart in the south of Tasmania. This race is one of the highlights of Boxing Day and a television staple.

Start of Sydney to Hobart race

We walked to the appointed wharf and noticed a long queue waiting to board. Upon being noticed by our hosts, we were directed to a shorter queue and were ushered up the stairs to the top deck, limited to fewer than sixty people. A ribbon with ‘The Jackson’ written on it was affixed to our wrists. We were greeted by a waiter holding a tray proffering a range of drinks. Alex picked up two glasses of champagne and handed one to me. Was this the beginning of my new career as a champagne sailor?

The Jackson soon departed and we headed out to the deck to view the boats lining up for the race. Even though it was summer the cold penetrated my body and my hands shook. I was determined to brave the cold in order to hold my place to view the start of the race. The lady next to me made some commentary.

“That’s the start line,” she said, pointing to two yellow buoys. The start lines are staggered depending on the the size of the boats to help prevent collisions. It’s a southerly, so that should help.”

I nodded, feigning comprehension. I was not yet a competent enough sailor to pick up the wind direction so quickly. The cannon sounded on the deck below, and a plume of smoke rose. The yachts set off. Soon they had overtaken our observation vessel and most of the guests moved back inside the boat to watch the race on a large screen. Alex and I and a few other hardy souls remained on the outside deck to savour the unique setting of Sydney Harbour. Waiters braved the cold regularly to top up our champagne and offer us canapes. We accepted each time, although I eventually slowed down and shared a glass of champagne with Alex. Had we become the dreaded champagne sailors?

The yachts sailed through the heads until most of them disappeared from view. The Jackson turned around and headed back to King Street Wharf. We remained outside on the deck in the cold, making the most of every minute because Sydney Harbour is so far from home, and we may never have this opportunity again.

I stubbornly refuse to accept the title of champagne sailor though. We are temporarily boatless (which is another story) but once we resume sailing again later this year, we hope to return to the days of self-reliance on the boat and sourcing our meals from the ocean. Maybe not too much deprivation though, because we will continue to uncork a bottle of champagne, as is our tradition, after completing a major ocean passage of several hundred nautical miles.

Sydney to Hobart race

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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

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Slices from Life

Duties For Those Left Behind

By Keith Lyons

Ubud: Where Dean and Keith Stayed. Photo by Keith Lyons

So many questions remain about Dean. Many remain unanswered. Top of that list would have to be “Is Dean still alive?”, followed by “How and when did Dean die?”

But underlying all those questions about a gentleman I met in Indonesia in the late 2010s is the fact that I, along with many others who encountered him on the island of Bali, regard him as a ‘good man’ and miss his presence.

“Have you ever wondered if he is still alive but just can’t communicate?” suggested an associate; a possible scenario, given Dean was in his seventh decade on this Earth. “What would happen if he just turns up again? Wouldn’t that be funny?” another pondered.

I first met Dean a couple of years after I moved to the cultural heart of Bali, Ubud, a small town a couple of hundred metres above sea level, a place sometimes with its head in the clouds. When I moved into a room overlooking the rice paddies, just 10 minutes’ walk from the centre of town, I heard about Dean before I first met him in person. Staff mentioned the other ‘permanent’ residing in the neighbouring bungalow. Later that day, in the turquoise waters of the infinity pool that overlooked the gully cloaked in jungle, I saw a figure glide underwater from one end to the other, dive flippers giving the impression the creature was both extraordinarily tall and also well-suited to amphibious life.

Dean, as I was later to learn, was both frugal and generous. I never quite worked out if he was living off savings or a veteran’s benefit. Or if he served in the military or actively tried to avoid it. When I first met him on the pathway that connects our respective residences to the main path that straddles the accommodation and the rice fields, he told me how he would eat lunch at a local food stall, known as a warung, with it being as little as 10,000 rupiah — less than US$1 — for a simple rice-based meal.

He cared less for the plethora of cute Instagram cafes and foodie-recommended ‘must-try’ restaurants that catered to the tourists who thronged the central market and motorcycle-packed streets of Jalan Raya Ubud. Though, there was one exception. Every so often, sometimes to mark his arrival back from a visa-run to Malaysia (most foreigners living in Bali usually have to exit every three or six months depending on their visas), or at the end of his long stay, when he was about to travel elsewhere in south east Asia, as the end of year rainy season ramped up — then Dean displayed his munificence. He would treat the staff — and a few hangers on — to a calzone from a long-established pizza joint that prided itself on its secret sauce. Being a folded-over pizza, the fillings remain hot during its journey in the box on the back of a Honda Vario scooter.

I got invited to join in one of those calzone feasts. We sat under a long pagoda looking out across beyond the pool and jungle to the terraces and the ridge where silhouettes were just visible in the twilight. Dean was very much a global citizen, well-travelled, and scuba diving in almost as many countries as he had visited. He had worked as a dive instructor at schools and resorts. He still had with him equipment for aqua-living, along with other items stored in other places where he had lived and worked.

Just as scuba diving requires adherence to safe practices and procedures, Dean’s life on terra firma also followed routines and habits, which he hoped would ensure his longevity. One day he asked me to check an unusual skin condition with white patchiness on his upper arm, which he had convinced himself by Googling might be pre-cancerous. He was going to have it checked out, but on closer inspection, I thought it might just be a local fungal infection. Fortunately, it cleared up a week or so later, so he didn’t have to visit a clinic.

Because Dean seemed to live such an active life and appeared fitter and healthier than most of the visitors to Bali, it seemed like he was in a sweet spot: retired but active, living a simple life of contentment, sharing good vibes with all and sundry.

So, it was a surprise, after the COVID pandemic with its travel restrictions, that I didn’t hear from Dean, and later, concluded he must have left us. It was only a few months ago when I returned to Bali that the reality of his absence became more evident. When I visited, instead of my usual room at the end of the block overlooking the jungle, I was given the next upstairs bungalow, the one Dean usually stayed in.

Staff, as well as the former ‘manager’ and one of his closest friends, told me they hadn’t heard from him for more than a year. He’d moved to a coastal settlement, closer to the sea, and there were rumours he’d met someone. “Perhaps she was a gold-digger,” suggested his local friend, who I’ll call No. 4. “But I don’t think Dean had much gold for her to mine.”

As we sat under the gazebo, gazing out at the perfect postcard scene of harmony between humans and nature, No. 4 confided that if Dean had already died, he had a rather onerous duty. Dean had asked him to dispose of his body. I thought perhaps that the American might have requested a cremation ritual, common on the island, which has evolved a blend of Hinduism, animism, and Buddhism into a rich mix of ceremony and devotion. But no, instead, he had requested that No.4 deal with his bodily form in another way. “See those coconut trees,” No.4 pointed towards the tall palm trees in the gully, which rose high up to their crown canopy of green fronds sheltering its fruit orbs. “Dean wanted to be strung up in one of those.”

We talked about the practicality of somehow hauling his body up 25 metres or more, and then about what processes and creatures might consume his corpse. It was quite a natural way to go, we concluded, though we did wonder about the sight, smell and impact on other guests staying in the bungalows.

“Dean also had another option, he mentioned to me a few times,” said No. 4, who seemed troubled by the responsibility. Plan B involved Dean’s body being fed to the lions at Bali Zoo. Dean had obviously given this some thought, and it weighed heavily on No.4, not just his role as Dean’s body caretaker, but what the duty might entail.

The following evening, my last before heading back home, I invited No.4 and some of others who knew Dean to get together. Amid the chat and speculation, the cool drinks and spicy snacks, as the breeze picked up and swayed the coconut trees gently this way and that, we had an informal farewell to Dean. Another of his friends — let’s call him Guitar Man — nominated one coconut tree and reckoned with some rope it would be possible to string up a body. No one wanted to try calling Dean’s phone, so I did again, just to confirm it was true. The number was out of service.

Another who knew Dean, let’s call him TaxiMan, talked through what Plan B might involve: chopping up with a machete Dean’s corpse, putting it into bags, visiting the zoo during its 9am to 5pm opening hours, and either throwing the parts over into the lion’s enclosure, or joining the special ‘Lion Feeding’ session (US$5). “I can find out what times they feed the lions and tigers,” he said, having worked out the practicality of this option. No. 4 looked nervous. There was more risk attached with this option, not just from a lion’s fangs, but from the law. How would you explain bags of body parts?

Then, just in time, I heard the strain of the motor-scooter coming up the rise of the terrace towards our place. It was the pizza delivery guy bearing two boxes with calzones I’d ordered.

As for Dean, we still don’t know for sure if he has died. We don’t know the circumstances of his death, or what remains of his body. What we do know is that he is still cherished and remembered. And that there can be few better legacies than to have friends fondly recall a person with a blend of missing, gratitude, and humour.

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Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

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

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

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Honeymoon Homecoming

By Meredith Stephens

“Please show me your international driver’s licence.”

“Certainly!”

Alex produced the licence.

“This is out of date! I’m sorry but we can’t hand over the car.”

“No! It’s current! It’s valid for five years.”

We scrutinized the licence. The start date was prominently displayed, but not the expiration date. As we squinted to decipher the fine print on page three, we discovered that it had expired three years ago. Alex had thought it would be valid for five years, but it was only valid for one. We attributed it to his light-heartedly referred to “OCD Deficit Disorder”. And that is how a one-week road trip suddenly became a public transport and taxi trip.

This was my first visit back to Japan after having left at the beginning of the pandemic. Alex and I had been deliberating where to spend our honeymoon, and we agreed that the island of Shikoku in western Japan where I had spent over twenty years would be our first choice.

Onigiri. Photo courtesy:
Mariko Hisamatsu

There were so many things to look forward to. The first thing I did, before even leaving Kansai Airport, was rush into the convenience store and buy an onigiri flavoured with an umeboshi pickled plum. An onigiri is a triangle of rice, with a choice of flavours in the centre such as fish, seaweed, or the aforementioned umeboshi. It is wrapped in a crisp sheet of seaweed. Before eating it you gently pull away a thin layer of wrapping which protects the outer seaweed from absorbing the moisture of the rice. As you bite into it you can enjoy the three distinct textures and flavours – the piquant centre, the contrasting bland rice, and the crisp outer layer of seaweed. Next, I purchased a mugwort daifuku. This is a Japanese sweet, consisting of a layer of pounded mugwort-flavoured rice around a centre of sweet azuki bean paste. All of this was washed down with a bottle of green tea.

From the above account, it might sound like I was returning to Japan to indulge in simple culinary delights from a convenience store, and maybe this is a possibility I am unwilling to admit to myself. Of course, the main purpose was to reconnect with old friends, the second to reconnect with old pleasures, such as the aforementioned onigiri and daifuku, and the third, to stay in a traditional Japanese house.

After having been refused permission to drive our hire car, we headed back towards the terminal and searched for the railway station. We caught trains out to the UNESCO heritage listed site of Koyasan to enjoy the autumn leaves, and then seven trains and two buses later, to Wakayama station. Finally, we caught a taxi to our accommodation, which turned out to be a house that was over two hundred years ago, dating from the end of the Edo Period.

Jiomaru-an Edo period house. Photo Courrtesy: Alan Noble
Inside the house. Photo Courtesy: The Host

The door slid open to reveal an earthen floor. We walked down the hall to the kitchen, left our shoes in the sunken area, and donned the provided slippers. The kitchen opened onto two traditional tatami rooms, with fusuma sliding cupboards, and latticed paper shoji screens leading onto the garden. Beyond the shoji was a narrow hall known as an engawa, with a small wooden table and chair where you could enjoy sipping a drink while looking out over the garden. This was the kind of room I had been longing for during my five years away from Japan.

But we hadn’t had dinner yet and I was longing to ride to a local supermarket to purchase a ready meal.

‘“Do you have any bicycles?” I asked the host.

“Certainly. We have mountain bikes too!”

“You don’t want to go cycling in the dark?” queried Alex. “Not after a long-distance flight, seven trains, two buses, and a taxi ride? Surely not!”

I insisted, and Alex gave up persuading me otherwise. Rather than a mountain bike I chose the mamachari, a vintage bike replete with a shopping basket attached to the front handlebars.

We cycled to the supermarket, as I had done almost daily during my twenty years of living in Shikoku. There we bought sushi and sashimi ready meals, and cycled home, scanning to avoid roadside ditches with sheer drops and no guard rails. Once safely home, we indulged in the much longed for sushi and sashimi, enjoyed the traditional deep Japanese bath, spread out the futons on the tatami, and luxuriated in a deep sleep.

The next morning, we woke to a gentle light streaming through the latticed paper shoji screens. We cycled to Wakayama castle, Alex on the mountain bike and me on the mamachari. We strolled around the traditional garden before entering the castle and then completed it with a visit to the adjacent tearoom, where we enjoyed green tea and a sweet bean paste confectionery.

The following day, we bid farewell to our Edo Period home, and our kind host drove us to the ferry terminal. As soon as I saw the sign in Japanese for Tokushima, I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks. This had been my home in Japan for fifteen of my twenty years in Shikoku, until the day I departed for a routine visit to Australia, just before the international borders were closed due to COVID. Little did I know that the pandemic would prevent me from returning to Japan. I boarded the ferry as I had so many other times after returning from various work trips, but this time I was visiting on my honeymoon. The two-hour crossing readied me for the arrival in my old stomping ground and was heralded by the sentimental music played to signal a homecoming. Alex and I exited the ferry to be met by my old friend and writing mentor, Suzanne. Overcome with emotion, I covered my face with my hands to spare her the sight of my crumpled features and then gave her a hug. Then I went back to covering my swollen eyes and gave her another hug.

Platter of Sushi at Sally’s home. Photo courtesy: Alan Noble

Suzanne drove us to the home of the son of another old friend, Sally, who had kindly offered us a couple of nights’ accommodation. That evening a subset of old friends dropped in to see us and eat sushi. I braced myself for the entry of each friend into the house, trying to compose my features, after an unanticipated five-year interval. My eyes, however, betrayed me. I caught the expressions of those who returned by gaze, and they could sense my relief and excitement of meeting them again. Over five years people’s appearances were a little different. Those who had long hair now wore it shorter. Those with shorter hair had grown it. Those who were curvaceous were now svelte, and those who were svelte were now curvaceous. A child had now become a lanky teenager. I’m sure I must have looked different to them too. What had not changed was people’s smiles, conversation and sense of humour. People who I would normally see a few times over a month were now all present in the same room in the space of a few hours.

A few days later, we took the bus across Shikoku to Matsuyama, where another happy reunion took place of eight friends from six different countries. I was freshly aware of the joys of the expat life, where you can make friends from a greater range of countries, and a greater range of ages, than you would at home.

Ranma Carvings in a traditional room. Photo Courtesy: Alan Noble

I had been craving another stay in a traditional house, and we savoured a room with ranma carvings suspended from the ceiling, letting in light and air flow from the adjacent room. We sat at the kotatsu low heated table on the tatami, and slept on futon, in a room featuring shoji paper screens facing outside and fusuma cupboards where futons were stored. Features which had once seemed so ordinary were now infused with nostalgia.

Family obligations called us back to Australia after only one week of our Japanese honeymoon. A taxi was followed by a bus which took us on the long trek back across Shikoku, driving through impossibly long tunnels, crossing elegant bridges, with views of the sea and mountains. Once we crossed the final bridge onto the largest main island of Honshu, the landscape was transformed into high rise apartments, and dense traffic. We alighted from the bus at Kobe’s Sannomiya Station.

There we asked directions to the airport limousine bus and made a final purchase of onigiri. My favourite umeboshi pickled plum one was not on sale, so I had to make do with a tuna mayonnaise one and a pickled seaweed one. We ran to the bus stop, purchased tickets, and skipped into the bus holding our luggage. There was no time to store the luggage in the hold. Once the bus pulled into the traffic, we knew we could relax after our long and complicated journey. I gently pulled away the wrapping separating the layers of the tuna mayonnaise onigiri and savoured the contrasting flavours and textures. Our fleeting trip to Japan was punctuated by savouring onigiri on both arrival and departure. We bade farewell to this land of delectable tastes, exquisite arts, historic houses, hair-raising bicycle rides, and precious friends.

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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

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

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Slices from Life

The Rule of Maximum Tolerance?

By Jun A. Alindogan

From Public Domain

In the Philippines, ‘maximum tolerance’ refers to peacekeepers practicing a high level of restraint during public gatherings to ensure safety and maintain peace, while law enforcement implements action against violent demonstrators and shows tolerance towards those who are peaceful. Essentially, it means tolerating an individual’s capacity for patience, endurance, and long-suffering in the face of behavioral challenges.

Until now, I have maintained a close relationship with an orphaned nephew of a colleague of mine. Our bond grew stronger when he moved to our church shelter from a nearby mountainous town to live with his uncle. I have always empathised with him, as my family also provided care for fatherless children. The purpose of his relocation was to enable him to complete his college education. He eventually graduated with a degree in computer science from an institution that claims to have an Asian focus, despite lacking a physical campus during the Covid-19 pandemic. Understandably, he struggled to find employment. He returned home to stay with his aunt’s family, patiently waiting for an opportunity to secure a job, which proved to be challenging.

During his studies, we would occasionally meet for meals to discuss the work on his paper requirements before graduation and plan his group thesis. When the pandemic hit, our conversations shifted online, but his willingness to seek my assistance remained strong, and I gladly supported him.

His first job involved selling organic powdered coffee imported from Malaysia at an office in the heart of Quezon City. When the Covid-19 virus spiked, all the company’s employees had to work from home. However, there were times when they were asked to come to the office despite the significant health risk.

My friend refused to do so, which was quite reasonable as he lived with his elderly aunt and uncle. As a result, he was reprimanded and issued a memo for unauthorised leave of absence. I had to help him draft a letter in response to the memo. This situation challenged him to assert his rights as an employee as not every human resource policy is beneficial. At times, companies will test your threshold of tolerance to the limit which is not necessarily wrong. Upon repeated emails that we sent to the HR department, he was finally given his last paycheck months after his resignation.

His next job was as a management trainee for a Canadian-based coffee shop in a mall chain. Coffee shops and fast-food stores often hire college graduates from any field to fill staffing gaps caused by high employee turnover, even if their majors are unrelated to the food industry. Unfortunately, he did not pass the probationary period because he said he was verbally mistreated by the store manager over work principles and practices.

His initial job application at a global fast-food chain was unsuccessful, as he did not receive an interview. He ended up taking a part-time online job at a small pharmaceutical company to earn money for his expenses. After a year of waiting, he was finally invited for a management interview at the same fast-food chain in a city near his hometown. He got the job.

He has been working for the global fast-food chain for over two years now and enjoys his role as a specialist manager due to his interest in computing and ordering items. However, the local store management has not been supportive in terms of taking care of their team. For example, when he had a high-grade fever while working, he was not allowed to go home until the next shift manager arrived, in the midst of a heavy, rainy evening. There was even an instance where he had to attend a management meeting at another store after his graveyard shift.

On a particular rest day after his graveyard shift, he was instructed to attend management classes in a southern city for three days, without being given additional days off to offset his attendance during his rest day. Another schedule required him to report at 2pm after working a graveyard shift. At times, he was also instructed to go to other stores to manage, without any fare allowances. All these cases are documented online. The goal is for the team to hit the sales target at whatever cost and without offering any additional incentives. Even when he had toe-surgery and had to go on sick leave, he was still expected to work from home regarding stock orders. The global fast food chain’s work-life balance policy is only superficial.

Maximum tolerance does not mean to allow individuals, communities, and corporations to exploit us to unimaginable levels, where our self-worth is solely dependent on our output. Outstanding results should be based on a holistic approach that recognises everyone’s basic humanity. Resignation prevails simply because individuals are not allowed to exercise and enjoy their humanness in any circumstances. This should not be the case.

This scenario is not only limited to corporations, but also to religious institutions. In the church that I regularly attend, the resident minister encourages members to be involved in various programs, as leadership should not be dependent on a single individual but on the collective efforts of everyone. However, in doing so, he expects every member to participate in a series of activities all day on Sundays. Sundays, or any Sabbath day, should be a day of spiritual and physical refreshment and renewal. However, with the onslaught of day-long programmes each Sunday, the maximum tolerance of members is tested to the point where most skip events instead of feeling encouraged, as the minister makes them feel guilty. Saying ‘n’o is not a sin of omission.

I look forward to a time when it will be common for business enterprises and social institutions to implement appropriate mechanisms that help individuals to be more human, rather than just robots mindlessly following instructions.

Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specialises in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).

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

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Slices from Life

Embracing the Earth and Sky…

By Prithvijeet Sinha

Saadat Ali Khan’s tomb. Photo Courtesy: Prithvijeet Sinha

In Lucknow, there’s a peculiar yet quintessential fascination with preserving the dead, ensuring that monuments to revere them are not only easy on the eyes but also constructed with a certain soulfulness. The sublime, inevitable poetry of mortality is hence the reason why multiple Imambaras and Maqbaras (resting places and tombs) eulogise the architects of a region that led the charge by invigorating secularism, architecture and employment to the masses.

The stunning Saadat Ali Khan tomb testifies to all these features with poignant grace till this present era. Built by Ghazi-ud-Din Haider, the crowned King of Awadh in the early years of the 19th century in memory of his father, the eponymous Nawab Wazir of Awadh, Saadat Ali Khan, it was a palace of refined craftsmanship that took on the sombre hues of remembrance and eternal memory by being rebuilt as a tomb. Such is the fervour of familial legacies. Those eternal memories of wives and children now rest in the vaults that have been preserved in the inner chamber of the structure in its rear end.

On his part, Ghazi-ud-Din Haider (1769-1827) was a man of poise and taste. But he was also operating at a time when colonial powers were shareholders of Awadh as much as any other part of the country. Being a ruler may have been as much a nominal position for him as it was for his father, Yameen-ud Daula Saadat Ali Khan II Bahadur (1752 – 1814). But they both walked on common ground as they ensured that administrative duties fuelled by colonial interests didn’t usurp the spirit of their homeland. Lucknow was much more to Ghazi-ud-Din Haider and his father than just a city. Hence, their architectural aesthetics came into play to build a monumental legacy. If father Saadat Ali Khan was the mind who gave Lucknow a large number of memorable monuments between the city’s fabled Kaiserbagh and Dilkusha corridor then son Ghazi was no flash in the pan himself. The majestic Chattar Manzil, the quietly captivating Vilayati Bagh (built in memory of his beloved English wife Mary Short/ Padshah Begum) and the impressive Shah Najaf Imambara (modelled after the holy Shia site of Najaf in Iran) are all beholden to his vision. They all occupy pivotal central areas of the city today and are a visitors’ delight. He was also the pioneer behind a printing press, employing English and local scholars who were versed in multiple languages and enriched his court with the compilation of an extensive Persian dictionary.

Saadat Ali Khan’s Tomb extends his legacy, it’s a stunning architectural design of a palace turned resting place for dearly departed retaining Lucknow’s exquisite stamp. The magnificent dome, arches, unbridled calligraphy of designs, decorative motifs and the pillars echo with two hundred years and more of all that the structure represents. The distinctive wash of yellow, brown and sometimes bleached lemon in the building are all captivating to discerning eyes. Under this dome and the parapets, one walks in circles and picks up the nuances of beauty that surround it. Chief among them being huge windows framed with nets, galloping squirrels and various potted plants covering the expanse.

Even more wonderful is the tomb of Mursheer Zadi, Saadat Ali Khan’s beloved wife, that stands parallel to his tomb. With its similarly constructed structure and darker tones, the confluence of dome, spires, parapets, inner chamber and decorative motifs become breathtaking. If the morning reveals these structures as enchanting dual partners, afternoons suffuse them with a time-honoured glow while the evenings bathe them with shades of devotion to this cityscape.

Visitors people the verandahs that surround it. At the Saadat Ali Khan Tomb and Garden, we relive the permanence of smiling flowers, the majestic architecture and the surreal power of its mystique. It’s a structure that seems to literally rise out of the earth and court the sky in reverence to both. We, in turn, understand its juxtapositions of mortality and muted grandeur as die-hard Lucknawis.

Photo Courtesy: Prithvijeet Sinha

As scaffolds populate the tombs and restoration work ensures more renewed glint for its overall structure in the new year as also for its neighbouring Chattar Manzil, this site becomes the classical storyteller it has always been. Its saga is continuous, eternal. Its haunting understories are as soaked in legends and myths as is the wonderful city of Lucknow. The dead don’t just rest in peace here, they converse in whispers that become the wind and birdcalls.

Photo Courtesy: Prithvijeet Sinha

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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Slices from Life

The Final Voyage

Narrative by Meredith Stephens

I stretched the boat hook as far as I could towards the mooring buoy, but it slid beneath the bow.

“Go back!” I shouted to Alex back at the helm, but my voice was carried away in the wind.

I pointed at the buoy under the net, and Alex reversed. The waves were dancing in front of me and the buoy would not stay in place long enough for me to reach it. On the second attempt, I forced all of my attention on the rope attached to the buoy, and tried to pull it aboard. It was much too heavy so I screamed for Alex to come, and he raced from behind, pulled the buoy up and secured it to the bow.

How would I alight into the dinghy in these waves? Alex lowered it into the water and it lunged towards the stern and back in succession. I doubted I would be able to board in these conditions.

“How about if I move the dinghy to the side of the boat and you enter via a ladder?”

“Worth a try!” I answered.

Alex brought the dinghy to the side of the boat and slung a ladder made of strong fabric overboard. I gingerly stepped down but once I glanced at the water raging beneath me, I lost confidence and gave up.

“I think I had better hop in from the stern after all,” I told Alex.

He moved the dinghy back to the stern. As I walked towards it, I slipped and fell on my thigh. There was no time to feel sorry for myself, so I picked myself up and continued heading for the dinghy. It lunged back and forth in the waves.

“Now!” commanded Alex.

I placed one foot in the centre of the dinghy to centre myself and then sat down on the bench. As hard as it was for me it was not hard for Haru, my border collie. I called her in and tapped the dinghy behind me because I knew she was hard of hearing. She leapt behind me with alacrity. It was so much easier for her to board the dinghy, not least because of her four legs.

Alex was locking the door back on the boat. The dinghy kept lunging toward the stern, and I was scared of getting knocked off when it hit the stern. I screamed as hard as I could.

“Okay!” replied Alex and hopped in behind me. Then he turned on the engine and headed for the shore, except that the shore was unrecognisable. Instead of a sandy beach, there were rocks.

Alex headed for the most promising spot. “Hop out!” commanded Alex, and I disembarked one leg after the other and headed to climb over the rocks. As usual, Haru leapt out and ran ashore.

I thought I was clear of the rocks and the menacing water, when Alex called out to me.

“Take my backpack! The laptops are in here. They can’t get wet. I realised then that we should have put them into the dry bag.”

I walked over the slippery rocks and strained to grasp the shoulder straps of the backpack. Once they were in my hands I returned to shore over the rocks, ready for the trek up to the holiday house.

I was so longing for the warmth of the fireplace and the view of the setting sun over the bay. I walked effortlessly up the hill, with Haru trotting happily beside me. The shelter and glow of the house was just as I had imagined. It was worth the hardship of getting there.

That night the winds continued to build, but it was pleasurable to hear them passing over the house as we enjoyed the safety and warmth of being inside.

Around one in the morning, the whole house shuddered when hit by a particularly strong gust, which was violent enough to briefly wake Alex.

No sooner was it light that I heard Alex enter the room. He must have been out before the wee hours.

“The boat has drifted to shore. I had a bad feeling and got up early to check the position of the boat. From the cliffs I could see that the mast was too close to the shore. Then my fears were confirmed when I saw that it had been blown ashore.”

Dragged moorings. Photo Courtesy: Alan Noble

“Didn’t the mooring hold?” I asked.

“Evidently not. I’m going to check it out now. Want to come?”

I agreed, and we drove out to the cliff with Haru in the back seat. Once at the cliff, I remained in the car because I couldn’t face the gale-force winds that were now gusting to forty knots. Meanwhile, Alex, in his wetsuit, walked down the dirt road towards the beach, entered the water, and pulled himself aboard. I kept my eyes focused on him until I saw his figure exit the boat, swim ashore, and walk up the track back toward me.

“It’s finished. There’s nothing we can do, beyond salvage.”

Alex’s boat of sixteen years and our home away from home for the last five years was no more. In years past, we had circumnavigated Tasmania, sailed to New Caledonia and back, and across the Great Australian Bight to sail north on the Indian Ocean. Exiting a marina and heading towards the waves was a symbol of leaving our troubles behind and anticipation of adventure. I could no longer take this adventure for granted.

Alex reached out to Thompson’s Marine Salvage, and they arrived at the bay within two hours. The plan was to attach one end of a heavy rope to a tractor at the top of the cliff, and the other end to the boat, and drag it onto the sand to save it from smashing on the rocks.

Alex again donned his wetsuit, descended the cliffs, and swam to the boat. I sheltered from the wind in the car at the top of the cliffs with Haru. Then I thought that I should walk towards the boat in case there was anything I could do. Just as I reached the shore, a young man in a wetsuit approached me.

Haru observing from inside the car. Photo Courtesy: Meredith Stephens

“Watch out for the rope. We’re ready to begin!”

It was too late. The operation had started, and the rope was heading towards me, as the tractor started to try and haul the boat to the shore.

“Jump!” the young man urged.

I’m glad the young man thought this was a possibility, but I haven’t jumped for years. My days of jumping are decades behind me. Unable to jump, I met the full force of the rope and was knocked on my back. My head hit some rocks. I uttered an expletive “sh..!” which I reserve for extreme situations. I lay there for seconds before slowly getting back to my feet. My head was aching from the blow and my whole being was in shock. I gave up on rendering assistance and walked slowly back to the car. There I sheltered from the wind until Alex eventually returned to the boat.

“The operation has failed. The boat is still stuck on the rocks,” he explained.

Late in the day, a twenty-ton excavator arrived on the scene. I spent the day bent over holding a rubbish bag, picking up rubble from the boat. Haru trotted around me enjoying being freed from the confines of the house. The excavator approached the boat like a giant menacing dinosaur. I grabbed Haru by the collar and removed myself to a distant spot on the other side of the boat. I could not face another industrial accident. The hand of the excavator grappled the mast and moved it to a safe spot on the rocks. I watched the dinosaur make its retreat back to the road while I maintained a hold on Haru’s collar.

The following day a second twenty-ton excavator descended onto the beach. The first excavator lifted the stern while the second lifted the bow. Slowly, the airborne boat was moved off the rocks and onto land. I was invited to view it, but I couldn’t face seeing the destruction of our home. That evening, I ventured out to the paddock where the boat now rested high and dry, like a beached whale. Amongst the devastation, I retrieved the remains of my dressing gown, which had somehow become entangled in the bow.

Over the next few days, I continued to return to the beach to extract boat rubble from the shore and pull up items of clothing and bedding from the sand. Alex drove down to the beach in his off-road vehicle, and we loaded up the tray with bags of rubble. Different items washed ashore each day.

Salvaged shoes. Photo Courtesy: Alan Nobel

The bump on my head continued to heal, only feeling pain when touched. The bruises on my legs changed colour as they too healed. And eventually the bay would heal too. We continued daily beach clean-ups. Seven odd shoes were salvaged, an odd snorkel fin, and odd gloves. Two months later the other fin washed up, but none of the missing shoes ever made an appearance. We continued to fill our off-road vehicle, and rubbish bags, with debris. Our beloved nautical home sat out of place in a paddock awaiting salvage. We came away with a renewed appreciation and respect for the destructive power of the ever-changing sea, but it would take more than a broken boat to diminish our desire to sail again. For now, our sailing adventures were on hold, but once we had the opportunity, we would again return to the sea. This would not be our final voyage.

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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

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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Slices from Life

Linen at Midnight

By Pijus Ash

Kindness is a virtue in every religion. But for a decade, I’ve been chased by a single, unsettling act of kindness. It returns whenever I see a remote train station at sunset, or a quiet backyard touched by green. Sometimes, even in a glimpse of flowers laid on stone.

It began during a month-long training in the Netherlands in June 2015.

Days were spent in Hilversum; my nights, in the sleepy town of Bussum.

The journey from Kolkata to Amsterdam had blurred into airport queues and cross-continent menus. All I craved was rest. Bussum seemed to offer it.

The town was near empty when I arrived—just a few locals cycling away from the platform. I followed an early-arrival email and made my way to a small hotel tucked into a quiet street. A kind young man named Erick checked me in.

My room was on the second floor, at the back. It was hot, and I was drained. After a light dinner, I collapsed into sleep.

Then came the noise.

A low, grinding sound—like stone dragged against stone. Dull but insistent.

It came from just below my window. My water bottle was empty. The sound, unrelenting.

I got up and drew the curtain. My room overlooked a moonlit field. A quick check on my phone confirmed what my gut had already whispered: it was the Bussum graveyard.

I couldn’t stay in the room. I slipped into the hallway, mind spiralling.

Then I saw her.

A woman in a white uniform stood at the far end, carrying folded linen. She appeared just when I needed her — arms full of linen, and something like calm. She walked toward me with a curious smile.

“Hi, what happened?” she asked.

Too shaken for pleasantries, I got to the point. “There’s a noise from the backyard. I can’t sleep.”

“Oh, is there? Let me see.”

She stepped into the room and looked out the window with an odd indifference. Then she quietly closed the blinds and adjusted the air conditioning. The noise stopped instantly.

As if she had flipped a switch.

She placed a bottle of water on the table and turned to leave. “Everyone will be sleeping now,” she said. “You should try to as well.”

Kind lady, I murmured.

The next morning, I went to the reception. “The laundry shouldn’t make that much noise at night,” I said, describing the sound and the woman.

Erick looked puzzled. “The laundry shuts down by 4 p.m. And there’s no machine that could make such a noise, let alone carry a bottle to your room.” He hesitated. “We don’t have night staff. No janitor. No night housekeeping.”

I didn’t trust Erick a hundred percent. So, I checked.

Went to the kitchen, laundry, housekeeping corner—she wasn’t there. Wasn’t anywhere.

A housekeeping roster hung on the wall. I stared at it for a long time.

Erick was right.

I stayed for three weeks but asked for a room at the front. The noise of the road was better than that sound from the graveyard.

But it’s not the grinding or the cemetery that keeps returning.

It’s her.

Even now, when I pass a tiny station with a green patch beside it, the same question returns—Who was she?

Someone who took pity on a weary traveller in the middle of a ritual not meant for me?

Did she silence the stones… just for me?

I never found answers in Bussum. I don’t have them now.

But when the memory returns, I still see her—curious smile, arms full of white linen—like someone quietly closing a door so you can sleep.

A kindness that stayed.

A kindness that chases.

Photographs of Bussum taken in 2015 by Pijus Ash

Pijus Ash, a Kolkata-based journalist and writer, publishes in Space Ink, Newsclick, and more. He enjoys grayscale photography and listens closely to silence when away from the page.

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

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