Category: Stories

The Wedding

By Sohana Manzoor

Ishrat looked at the girl staring at her from the computer screen. Smooth and silky dark hair framed a face with wide eyes and lips that curved into a tender smile. According to her bio-data, Raihana Mimi finished her Bachelor’s from Stony Brook three years earlier. Then she did a Master’s in Social Work from UMASS Boston before going back to Bangladesh. Ishrat wondered why the girl liked Asif. At first glance, Asif seemed like an ordinary young man, even if pursuing a PhD in Computer Science. He was not handsome and he carried himself like a bear with a perpetual frown on his forehead. So why this lovely girl took a liking to Asif seemed a mystery to Ishrat. She hoped it wouldn’t end like the affair two years ago. It had broken Asif’s heart, and until very recently he would not hear of marriage.

“She’s very pretty,” Ishrat finally said. “But marriage is a life-long commitment, Asif. Do not marry for the wrong reasons. Do you love her?”

Asif looked at the somber face gazing upon him and smiled sadly. “Love? I thought I was in love the last time I went home. You know the rest.” Both of them went silent reminiscing about the unprecedented series of events that occurred about two years ago when Asif had gone back to Bangladesh to marry the girl he had been planning to wed for years. He came back alone a month later as the girl’s family had refused to allow their youngest daughter to marry him, and his sweetheart accepted the decision made by her family without protest.

Ishrat still remembered the bleak look on Asif’s face when he had asked her after returning from home, “What’s wrong with being fatherless, Apa[1]? And is an American passport essential for marriage? Tania’s uncle told me to get a US passport and then ask for their daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Ishrat couldn’t tell him that the marriage mart in Dhaka was a fish market. Most people with assets in the capital city would turn up their noses at someone like Asif whose father had died leaving his children still struggling to make a place for themselves. Instead, she had said, “It’s better that this match didn’t work out, Asif. Obviously, the girl didn’t care enough to stand up for you. I’m sure that you have a better person waiting for you in the future.”

“I told you Apa, she got married last year, didn’t I?” asked Asif.

“Who? Tania? Yes, you did. But Asif, I hope you are not planning to get married just because you want to show off that you’ve got a better wife,” said Ishrat with a frown. “Raihana is surely prettier than Tania and more accomplished. But just that would be a wrong reason for getting married.”

Asif shook his head. “That’s not why I want to marry Mimi. I’ve been talking to her for a few months now. She seems. . . how to put it. . . very mature, level-headed and practical. Has a lot of good sense,” he paused and then added, “something Tania never had.”

Ishrat asked again, “So, how does your family take it? I thought your mother had somebody in mind?

“That was years ago,” Asif said. To him, Kakon was just a next-door girl, the daughter of her mother’s best friend. It was a plan hatched by the mothers. He and Kakon never discussed this. There was never an occasion. “My sisters have already paid Mimi’s family a visit. And Mimi’s eldest brother and one of her sisters went to my elder sister’s house to meet my mother. Anju Apa is complaining even though Laiju is quite taken in.”

Ishrat nodded, “What does Laiju say?” Laiju was Asif’s younger sister, and not sentimental like Anjuman.

Asif smiled. “She says that Mimi seems friendly and sensible. Even though Anju Apa pulled a long face in front of everybody, she didn’t take offense. When Laiju apologised on her behalf to Mimi she said that she didn’t mind. People say a lot of things during such negotiations. It’s not wise to hold on to them.”

Ishrat nodded approvingly. “That sounds like uncommonly good sense to me. Marriage is a complex business though. Since you two like each other, you must keep a level head.”

Hamida Khatun looked helpless as her eldest daughter ranted about her brother’s marriage. “You’ll see that it will come to no good. That girl’s family is way better off than ours. Two of her sisters are settled in the US. And you still want him to marry her?”

“And how do you propose that I stop it, Anju?” asked Hamida. “You heard him. He is determined to have her.”

“I still don’t understand what was wrong with Kakon,” grumbled Anjuman. Kakon was their neighbour from their hometown in Khulna. They had known her since childhood. Kakon’s mother, Nahar, and Hamida once made plans to get their children married. But Asif was always busy with other things and once he went off to Dhak to study at BUET[2], he changed altogether. He fell in love with a girl named Tania who practically abandoned him at the altar. After that Hamida had tried to incline him toward Kakon once more. But Asif did not budge. At one point he told his mother, “If you nag like this, I will marry an American girl and never return home.” That sealed her mouth as Asif knew it would.

Hamida heaved a sigh and said, “Look, daughter, I don’t have a choice in this. If he can’t marry this girl, I’m afraid he will marry an American Christian girl. Do you want that?” Anju looked up at her mother, horrified. “You must be mad! What will our relatives say? American! And Christian too!”

“What do I care about our relatives?” asked an irritated Hamida. “Their tongues have been wagging since your father died. I just want my son to marry well and be happy.”

Anjuman grimaced. She was sure that this rich girl will only bring trouble for their family.

At this point, Laiju entered the room with a bundle of shopping bags in hand. She was buoyed up by the upcoming wedding of her only brother. Many of their close relatives had already arrived in Dhaka. She and her mother were staying in Rampura where Anjuman lived with her husband and two children.

Laiju looked at her elder sister keenly and said, “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal. I like Mimi Bhabi already. She is not like those typically snobbish rich girls. On the contrary, she seems very nice and sensible.” She paused and then added, “The kind of scene you made at their house! ‘I know our brother will be taken away from us after his marriage’—That was poor taste, Apa. I would have been mad if I was in her place.”

Anju shuffled uneasily and Hamida nodded gravely. “Yes, that was really bad.”

Laiju was about to say something more when they heard a commotion outside. Several voices were shouting, and one gruff voice most of all.

“I need to talk to Bhabi[3]. Where is she? This is insufferable and totally unacceptable. . .”

“Oh no, that’s Chhoto Chacha[4]!” groaned Laiju. As soon as she uttered the name, a dark burly man entered the room.

Without preamble he said, “Did you buy a saree for my wife? The eldest son of our family is getting married—where is the saree for his Chhoto Chachi?”

“We got sarees for everyone,” said Laiju. “And of course, Chhoto Chachi has got one too.”

“You call that a saree?” sneered their uncle. “That’s a gamchha[5]! If my brother was alive…”

“Unfortunately, he is not,” Laiju interrupted. “And his son is still a student. If you don’t like the saree we got for your wife, go and buy one yourself. Do you ever get anything for her?”

“You have such a foul mouth! No respect for elders at all!” growled Chhoto Chacha. He turned to his sister-in-law and bellowed, “I won’t come to the wedding, Bhabi. And I won’t allow my family to attend either.” He stormed out of the room. They heard him slam the front door shut.

Hamida Khatun heaved another sigh. “When will Asif come? I can’t take all this any longer. My poor boy! Nobody to give him peace of mind.”

Anjuman dried her eyes and said, “I won’t give you any more trouble. I, too, will keep away from the ceremony. . .” she stopped as her mother’s eyes started gleaming ominously. Laiju said, “For once, Apa, please act your age. How long will you behave like a 15-year-old?”

“What did I say?” asked a nervous Anjuman.

“You will act like a proper, respectable elder sister,” said Hamida quietly. “If I hear you babbling like a fool, I will leave your house. Just because we’re staying in your flat, don’t assume that you can do and say whatever you want. If necessary, I will rent a place and conduct the marriage ceremony from there. Understood?”

Anjuman eyed her mother with a newly found apprehension. Laiju gaped at her mother too. Then recovering herself she said half-laughing, “O dear! I didn’t know you could talk like that! You should take on that tone more often, Amma[6]. Chhoto Chacha will never dare to say anything again.”

“I still don’t understand why she has chosen that guy,” Gulshan Ara grumbled. “He looks more like an ape than a human being.”

Her fourth daughter Moni shook her head. “Ma, you’ve said that at least ten times.”

“So?” asked Gulshan Ara. “Your headstrong little sister doesn’t pay heed to anything I say. She has her heart set on that ape.” She stopped and lowered her voice. “You and I are the only two with good sense. Even Muhib and Moin are taken in.”

“I’m more worried about his family,” said Moni. “Remember how the elder sister spoke?”

“I can’t understand why you’re so worried about the family,” said a third voice. Moin had entered the room silently like a cat. “Mimi will be living abroad with her husband. She may have to visit Khulna only once or twice in her lifetime. Honestly, how much trouble can her in-laws cause?”

In the next room of the plush apartment in Dhanmondi, the subject of their conversation was busy wrapping up the gifts for her wedding. She had already brought several sarees for herself. She meant to save at least some money for Asif. She understood that he was still a graduate student and could not be expected to spend a fortune on his bride. He also had nobody to support him with expenses. She insisted that there should be only one ceremony and the expenses should be borne by her family. She used to be indifferent when her family members rejected one suitor after another. But something about Asif made her stand up for him and maneuver her siblings, especially her brothers and eldest sister, into accepting him as a prospective candidate. Asif also went out of his way and visited her two elder sisters in New York. Whatever initial reservations they had about his appearance vanished after meeting him face to face. Both spoke approvingly of him, and Mimi’s parents also gave in reluctantly.

When her sister Moni had asked her what she liked so much about Asif, Mimi avoided a direct answer and asked, “What’s wrong with him? He is a good guy, pursuing higher studies. That’s what you wanted too.” She paused, then added, “Okay, so he is not very handsome. But Mishu Apu’s husband was. Did that help?” Mishu was her second sister who had died a few years ago. Her husband was the most handsome and obnoxious man imaginable. Mishu’s untimely death had cast a perpetual gloom on their family.

Moni wrung her hands, “No, but…”

“If you people continue like this, I may never get married, you know,” Mimi had said, half-teasingly. “I’ll be thirty in November.”

Mimi counted the boxes and eyed the suitcase carefully. These were mostly things for her in-laws. They still had not got anything for Asif who was arriving in Dhaka that very afternoon. The two of them had planned to do the shopping for their wedding clothes themselves. Asif’s mother already had the jewelry. Apparently, she had them made three years ago, which proved to be an excellent decision.

Asif’s elder sister Anjuman and Mimi’s mother had been raising a hue and cry over every little thing. Anjuman took it to her head that her brother’s wife should have her nose pierced, and Asif should give her a diamond studded nose-pin. Mimi let Asif handle that. Both of them had discussed the situation and decided to largely ignore their comments and avoid unreasonable suggestions without being directly offensive. Asif seemed to rely a lot on her judgment, which Mimi appreciated.

She remembered when her eldest brother’s wife had shown her Asif’s Facebook page. “He’s so funny, Mimi. Just take a look! Says he has all A’s in everything except in his love life. There he has an F!” Mimi had smiled, but somehow it didn’t appear funny to her. She still thought Asif shouldn’t have put such personal information on Facebook, but it pulled a string at her heart. She knew exactly how it felt to get an F in love. She wondered where Dipak was, and if he was still looking for a pretty face with a ton of money. Mimi’s family was very affluent and that turned out to be his main reason for pursuing her. Dipak was gone from her life forever, and Mimi had no intention of bringing him back.

Once upon a time she held Dipak dear, but now she shuddered to think what might have happened if they had been married. He was making advances on three girls at the same time, and Mimi was one of them. The incident taught Mimi a number of things. She promised herself that she would only marry someone she could trust and would look beyond physical appearance. She may never have love, but she would also never feel humiliated or pitied.

When Asif and Mimi finally met in person, it was the most unromantic situation possible. His flight was delayed, and he arrived three hours late. After assuring his nervous mother, a pouting elder sister, and an over-enthusiastic younger one, he reached his future in-laws’ house around 9 p.m. along with two uncles and a cousin. He looked tired and harassed, in a crumpled purple shirt and khaki pants. Mimi’s parents were a bit awkward, but her brothers were very cordial as they had heard glowing reports about Asif from their sisters in New York.

While the others were talking, Mimi observed her intended husband surreptitiously. She almost smiled at his attire—he was so unpretentious. Obviously, he was more worried about keeping his engagement than his appearance. She noticed that he also looked at her once in a while, and realized with a jolt that he wished, just as she did, to talk to her, to be away from this crowd, just to be by themselves. Mimi was surprised at her own reaction—she had known this man for only a few months, and yet she longed to be with him. She tried to concentrate on the conversation and heard that they were discussing her Kabin. Asif was saying, “Whatever you decide is fine with me. I won’t be able to pay it right away, though, as I am still pursuing higher studies.”

Her eldest brother Muhib said, “Of course, we understand as much. Will 10 lakhs be too much for you?”

At this point, her mother spoke up. “I won’t allow my daughter’s Kabin[7] to be less than fifteen.”

“Fifteen!” someone in Asif’s party gasped. “Fifteen lakhs is too much! Even ten is a lot.”

Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably while Gulshan Ara sat straight and glared at Asif with animosity. Mimi was about to pinch her brother Moin when Asif said in a quiet voice, “Whatever you say, I will accept. It’s your daughter we are discussing, after all.”

Even Mimi gaped at Asif. As everybody in the room started talking once again, Mimi realised that Asif’s move was the best possible strategy. Gulshan Ara would not complain any more. And Asif was not in serious trouble because he did not have to pay the amount right away. She didn’t know how Asif’s family would take it, though. She promised herself that she would always try to make things easier for him. He didn’t have any idea how rich her family was. He wanted to marry her.

The wedding reception was held at a posh restaurant in Dhanmondi. Asif sat on the stage and watched his bride smile and greet the guests who approached them. She was as beautiful as a fairy, thought Asif. Wise and kind too.

Then Asif saw his Chhoto Chacha approaching the stage and he said a swift prayer so that nothing disastrous happened. His uncle addressed Mimi, “The others are saying that the food is good. But I felt it was aida.” He looked triumphantly at Asif, as if saying, “You can’t fool me!” Mimi also looked at Asif, not knowing what aida meant. Asif hastily said, “That was kachchi biriyani, Chacha. It is the standard food for weddings in Dhaka. But we will have a reception in Khulna too. You can have your menu there with your favourite fish.” Chhoto Chacha nodded, looking pleased. “You have a pretty wife,” he said approvingly, “much prettier than your mother ever was.” He walked away. Asif heaved a sigh of relief.

Mimi whispered, “What’s aida?”

“I’ll explain later,” mumbled an embarrassed Asif. How could he say that aida meant food that has been half-eaten by somebody else? Basically, it suggested that the guests had not been properly treated.

Then came Asif’s friends. They were all laughing and joking. Asif was quite popular among his friends, and they seemed happy about Asif’s marriage and his choice of bride. Mimi had very few friends present—understandable, since she did her bachelor’s in the US. Someone mentioned that they had attended Tania’s wedding the previous year whose husband was a bald man in his forties and held an American passport.

A heavily bejeweled, fat lady appeared before them, and Mimi introduced her to Asif. “This is my Chhoto Mami. Mama[8] couldn’t come as he is in Singapore right now.”

Asif smiled and greeted her. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” the lady said with a broad smile like a crocodile. “You are not very handsome, are you? But then, Rahat was very handsome, and it didn’t help us at all.” She sighed, then added, “Hopefully, you’ll take good care of Mimi.”

Mimi made a face as she walked away. “Sorry about that.”

“Who is Rahat?” asked a puzzled Asif.

“My ex-brother-in-law,” replied Mimi briefly. “I’ll tell you later.”

“You and I both seem to have a fine lot of relatives,” observed Asif. Mimi smiled. “It seems so, doesn’t it?” They smiled at each other, and Asif knew that they would be working as a team. Their relatives wouldn’t be able to make a rift like they did in his parents’ case. He thoughts turned to Tania probably for one last time, and he wished he had never met her. Then he realised that it did not really matter. She was already a distant memory. Asif started to comprehend what Ishrat had meant by marriage being a life-long commitment.

Mimi sat contentedly. She liked her husband, she thought. Fair enough. He was sometimes a little rash, but good-natured. He had also shown himself to be sensitive to her needs. She remembered the scuffle over her wedding saree. They got it from Mansha. It was quite expensive and Mimi did not want to buy it even though she liked it very much. Asif, however, insisted that at least the main wedding saree should be costly, so that everybody was content.

Anjuman sat in one corner, still resentful at the turn of events. She looked at her children on stage with their uncle, nodding and smiling at their new aunt. Anjuman wondered how nobody could see what she saw—her only brother slowly moving away from them. She remembered what Laiju had said a few days ago: “He is not the same guy who left Bangladesh 4 years ago. He has changed. He has been leading a different life, his friends and peers are of a different sort. His world has changed, Apa. He couldn’t be happy with someone like Kakon. Don’t you see?”

No, Anjuman did not see. All she saw was a rich and beautiful girl taking her only brother away from them. Her resentment rose higher. She had tried to derail her own husband—to move him away from the influence of his nagging mother. But she had failed. The old woman had died only recently, and her husband still cried like a baby over the loss. And here was this girl, a mere chit of a girl, accomplishing what she could not in nine years. “If only it was Kakon!” thought Anjuman wistfully, their brother would have always been theirs. She did not see why he would be unhappy. What was the duty of a wife? To cook, bear children and maintain the house. Their mother did all this, she herself was doing the same; what more could Asif want? And in spite of all her good looks, what could Mimi give him that Kakon could not? Did he have to sell himself to money?

Somewhere at the back of her mind, Anjuman felt cheated. She felt that her brother got something she never even dreamt of. She saw the light of a different life on Laiju’s face, or even on their mother’s, a light she could not share. She thought of the flat in Rampura where she had so far lived with her husband and children. The 1200 square feet she had been so proud of owning suddenly seemed to have diminished into nothing. Owning a flat in Dhaka did not seem so great anymore as she wondered what kind of a house Asif and his wife would have in the US.

Hamida Khatun noticed the tear-stained face of her elder daughter from a distance and heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God she realises that they are happy, and she is praying for them,” she thought, and smiled with misty eyes. Her thoughts then flew to the future where she saw herself surrounded by grandchildren. She did not see even the flicker of any dark shadow on the bright stage where her son gazed lovingly at his bride.

[1] Elder sister

[2] Bangladesh University of Engineering and Technology

[3] Sister-in-law

[4] Younger uncle

[5] Thin, coarse, absorbent cotton towel

[6] Mother

[7] Marriage registration fees determined by the dowry

[8] Mami is wife to mother’s brother referred to as Mama

Sohana Manzoor is a writer and academic from Bangladesh, with a PhD in English from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Her works have appeared in Bellingham Review, Eclectica, Litro, Singapore Unbound, Borderless Journal, and elsewhere. She was the Literary Editor of The Daily Star from 2018- 22. Currently, she is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at UBC, Vancouver.

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

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

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

Tags Bangladesh, Sohana Manzoor, Southern Illinois University Carbondale, The Daily Star, UBC, Vancouver

Stories

Two Black Dresses

By Jonathon B Ferrini

Every day at three o’clock, as the afternoon sun fought through the dusty windows and escaped the obstruction caused by the high school down the street, a teenage girl would slip quietly into a boutique. She never spoke, never bought anything, just wandered to the same rack and lingered over a particular black dress. Minerva watched her, recognising the weight of grief in the girl’s eyes she knew too well.

The girl would lift the simple black satin dress off the rack and wrap it around her as if embracing somebody very special.

After a few moments with the dress, the girl returned it to the rack and quickly left the store without a word spoken with tears streaming down her face.

Minerva used her late husband’s life insurance money to buy a little boutique she’d admired for years. The shop sold consignment women’s clothing and served as a sanctuary for Minerva to pour her sorrow into something tangible, to help women and girls find joy in clothing and accessories. The shop was a fragile haven built from a life including love, loss, and longing. Every shelf, every dress, every faded photograph tucked behind the register was a thread in the tapestry of her survival, but a lump found during a breast self-examination ignited anxiety which weighed heavily upon her.

Each morning, Minerva opened the shop, she was certain the lump was a “call” to “fold her hand” as the world felt like it was determined to break her.

One afternoon, as the bell tinkled above the door announcing a customer, Minerva looked up from her ledger. The girl was there again; her gaze fixed on the black dress. This time, she hesitated, then approached the counter, clutching the black dress including a second, almost identical dress but in a different size.

“Could I try these on?”

“Of course, dear.

“The fitting rooms behind me.”

A few minutes later, the girl emerged, the black satin dress draping heavy over her small frame. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, then turned to Minerva, uncertainty clouding her face.

“How does it look?”

Minerva stepped closer.

“May I ask, why this one?

“It doesn’t seem to fit you properly.

“I believe the black cotton dress will fit you perfectly.”

The girl hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of the satin dress.

“My friend and I… we wanted to dress up and go to the prom together. She was killed in a hit-and-run accident. I can’t stop thinking about her. This black satin dress… it’s the only thing she tried on here. It’s all I have left of her.”

Minerva’s heart clenched. She spoke as if embracing the girl, her voice soft.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Loss is a heavy thing to carry.”

The girl’s eyes shimmered with tears.

“I just… I wanted to feel close to her again. I thought maybe, if I wore the black satin dress, I could remember what it felt like to laugh with her.”

Minerva nodded, her own memories surfacing including her daughter’s laughter, a husband’s steady presence, and the ache of their absence.

“I can only imagine the emotional trauma you’re suffering, but please, allow me to share my sorrow with you, and together, we might lessen our heartache and move forward, stronger. I lost both my daughter and husband. Once, my world included a loving husband, Paul. He was a hard as nails career Marine whose stern exterior hid a heart that beat for his family. Marrying Paul provided me an opportunity to escape the role of only daughter to dysfunctional parents rooted inside a small town offering no prospects for self-fulfillment or escape.

“Marriage to Paul included a patchwork of military bases and hurried goodbyes, of late-night phone calls and the constant ache of uncertainty whether he’d be called to war. I learned to be strong; to pack up our life at a moment’s notice, but I also learned to find beauty even inside environments built for war. I found work inside clothing stores wherever we landed because I was drawn to the way fabric could transform a person, and how a simple dress could make a woman feel alive, special, or different even for one occasion.

“I apologise for tearing, but you remind me of our daughter, Emily, the light of my life. Emily’s spirit was wild and restless, her laughter echoing through the cramped military apartments and purring inside my heart. Emily drifted away to somewhere unknown inside her mind as if being pulled by currents I couldn’t fight including Paul’s ’tough love’ and frequent physical admonishments also inflicted upon me.

“The phone call came on a cold November morning: Emily was gone, lost to a Fentanyl overdose on a bed inside a stranger’s home. The grief rolled over me like a tidal wave, relentless and suffocating. Paul tried to be strong, but the loss hollowed him out like no weapons he’d ever known.

“Less than a year later, his heart stopped forever, leaving me with nothing but memories and the silence of an empty house we purchased after Paul retired. Some days, the memories are all that keep me going.”

The girl looked up, surprised.

“Does it ever get easier?”

“Not easier, but you learn to live with the pain of loss. I’ve learned kindness helps stitch the pieces back together.”

The girl glanced at the price tag, her face disappointed.

“I can’t afford both dresses.”

“You don’t have to. These are my gift for you.”

“But… why?”

“Because I know what it’s like to need something to hold onto. Giving is the only way I can heal.”

Tears spilled down the girl’s cheeks.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,”

Minerva carefully folded the dresses and placed them inside a gift box including a pink ribbon adorned with small hearts around the box.

“Promise me you’ll remember the good times and let yourself laugh again, when you’re ready.”

The girl nodded, clutching the box to her chest.

“I will.

Thank you.”

Minerva watched the girl slowly leave the shop and turn towards her before exiting. She mouthed the words,

“I love you.”

The girl left and the slight spring in her step signaled to Minerva signs of hope flickering in the ashes of her sorrow, and although Minerva didn’t get her name, she instinctively knew it was a brief encounter with her beloved Emily which gave her the final contact she desperately needed.

The doctor diagnosed Minerva with metastatic breast cancer. Minerva remembered staring at the ceiling in the doctor’s office, feeling as if her body was telling her the fight against grief was soon to be completed and she could join Emily and Paul in the afterlife.

The hardest blow came when the doctor informed her,

“The treatments will include a double mastectomy surgery, chemo, and radiation. If you want a chance of beating the cancer, it will require your complete devotion to rest and recovery. You won’t be able to keep up with the demands of operating the business.”

The words echoed in her mind as she stared at the racks of dresses, the sunlight struggling to pour through the fabrics mirroring the tears behind the black veil Minerva wore at two funerals and today, a struggle for her own life. Closing the shop felt like losing another piece of herself.

She lingered by the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon. She thought of her daughter, husband, all the moments lost, and the memories that remained. In giving the girl those two black dresses, Minerva was reminded that even in the depths of loss, kindness could stitch together the torn fabric of a broken heart. She had hoped to hear the familiar chime above the door open one final time and reveal the lovely girl. Minerva knew she was off chasing her own life which would reveal twists and turns. Minerva prayed the girl would be guided by kindness and knowing loss and misery is universal.

Recalling the happiness in the girl’s face carrying both dresses helped Minerva find the resolve to survive. She turned the sign on the door to “Closed,” knowing she would never open it again. But as Minerva locked up, she felt, for the first time in a long while, that she was not alone and would confront her illness head on with a newfound resolve to live.

Jonathan B. Ferrini is the published author of over seventy fiction stories and poems. A partial collection of his short stories may be found in Within Hearts Without Sleeves. Twenty-Three Stories at Amazon. Jonathan also writes and produces a weekly podcast about film, television, and movies named, “The Razor’s Ink Podcast with Jonathan Ferrini.” Jonathan received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA. He resides in San Diego.

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

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

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

Tags Amazon, Fentanyl, Jonathan B. Ferrini, San Diego, UCLA

Stories

Whispers of Frost

By Gowher Bhat

Christmas Bazaar in Kashmir. From Public Domain

The holiday market buzzed with life, bathed in the golden glow of string lights that twisted like ribbons between the stalls. Vendors hawked hot cider, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon and cloves. Children, bundled in puffy coats, raced around, their fingers clutching candy canes, their laughter mingling with the low hum of holiday songs. The warmth of the season wrapped the world in a festive embrace.

Shafi clutched her coffee tightly, the warmth of the cup unable to quell the cold gnawing at her insides. The heat of the liquid contrasted sharply with the chill that had settled deep within her…. a coldness that not even the bright lights or holiday cheer could dispel. She scanned the lively scene, but her focus was elsewhere, far from the twinkling stalls and cheerful music.

“You’re too quiet again,” Amir said, nudging her elbow gently. “You okay?”

Shafi tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just thinking.”

Amir frowned. “It’s Christmas. You’re supposed to feel warm and fuzzy, not… whatever this is. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It just feels… off.”

Amir gave a small laugh. “Paranoia. Classic Shafi.”

But Shafi couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on her chest. The world felt too loud and too quiet at the same time. The joy around her seemed distant, muffled by a creeping unease. She wanted to feel the warmth of the season, to laugh and enjoy the festivities like everyone else, but all she could think about was the shadow of her past, looming just out of reach.

As they walked toward her apartment, the streets emptied, and the festive energy of the market gave way to the solitude of falling snow. The sky had turned a deep shade of indigo, and the streetlights cast long shadows across the quiet pavement. The snow, falling gently at first, began to collect, blanketing the city in soft, white layers. Each flake seemed to carry its own quiet story, falling in silence but adding to the growing weight of the world.

When they reached her door, Shafi stopped dead in her tracks.

“Wait,” she whispered.

Amir followed her gaze, his expression shifting from concern to confusion. The door to her apartment was slightly ajar. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Stay back,” he said firmly. “We don’t know what’s inside.”

Shafi grabbed his arm, urgency flashing in her eyes. “No. I’m going in.”

They stepped inside together. The apartment was eerily quiet. The usual hum of the fridge, the faint rustling of curtains in the breeze, was absent. Everything seemed untouched—except for a single set of dusty footprints leading from the door to the table.

Amir moved cautiously toward the table, his eyes scanning the room for danger. On the table lay a folded piece of paper. It seemed ordinary, yet in the context of the silence and the unusual circumstances, it felt like a warning.

“Shafi,” he said softly. “You need to see this.”

Her name was scrawled on the front in jagged handwriting, the ink slightly smeared. The paper felt heavy in her hands as she took it, her fingers trembling.

“Shafi,” Amir read aloud, his voice steady but concerned. “The snow may bury, but the truth always thaws. You can’t hide forever.”

Shafi staggered back as though the words themselves had struck her, each letter cutting deep. A cold shiver ran down her spine. The past rushed at her with the force of an avalanche.

“What does it mean?” Amir asked, his voice tense.

Shafi didn’t respond. Her mind raced, the weight of her past crashing down like a flood. The words weren’t just a threat—they were a reminder of the life she had tried to leave behind, of the man she had betrayed, and the secrets she had buried.

“Shafi,” Amir said gently, insistent. “Talk to me. Who sent this?”

She clenched her fists, struggling to speak. The truth felt like a lump in her throat, burning to get out, but fear kept her silent. She had buried this secret for so long, hoping it would stay hidden. Now, it was all coming to the surface.

“It’s not that simple,” she whispered, trembling.

“Make it simple,” Amir said softly, kneeling beside her. “Please.”

She looked at him, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She had carried this burden alone for years, but now, in Amir’s unwavering presence, the walls she had built began to crumble.

“There was a man,” she began, voice breaking. “Rafiq. Years ago, I…” She paused, breath hitching. “I betrayed him.”

Amir’s brow furrowed. “Betrayed how?”

“I lied,” she admitted, voice heavy with guilt. “I framed him for something he didn’t do. It was him or me, and I chose myself.”

Amir stared silently. His quiet presence asked no questions; he simply waited.

“Why?” he asked softly.

“Because I was scared,” she whispered. “I thought it was the only way out. It worked—he went to prison, and I walked free. But now he’s out, and I think he’s come for me.”

Silence hung between them, suffocating. Shafi could barely breathe, the weight of her confession pressing down.

Finally, Amir spoke. “And this note… it’s from him?”

Shafi nodded, throat tight. “It has to be.”

Amir knelt, taking her hands gently. His touch grounded her. “Listen. Whatever you did, whatever he’s planning, we’ll handle it. Together.”

Tears streamed down her face. “You don’t understand. He has every right to hate me. I ruined his life.”

“And hiding will only make it worse,” Amir said firmly. “You need to face this. We need to face this.”

Shafi looked into his eyes, searching for doubt, for hesitation, and found none. Only resolve. Only support.

“What if he wants revenge?” she asked, barely audible.

“Then we’ll stop him. But first, we need to talk to him. No more running, Shafi.”

She nodded slowly. For the first time in years, the weight of her guilt began to lift not because the past had changed, but because she wasn’t facing it alone.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in quiet beauty. Inside the apartment, something new took root: hope.

Gowher Bhat writes fiction and non-fiction. He’s a a columnist, freelance journalist, and educator from Kashmir. His writing explores memory, place, and the quiet weight of the things we carry, delving into themes of longing, belonging, silence, and expression. A senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley, he is also an avid reader and book reviewer. He believes that books and writing can capture the subtleties of human experience.

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

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

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Tags Christmas, Kashmir

Stories

Flying Away

By Terry Sanville

“It’s pancreatic cancer.”

“Are you sure, Dr. Marcum?”

“We’ll need to do more tests to determine what stage it’s in, but … yes, we’re sure.”

Megan sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the framed photograph of a colorful hot air balloon hanging on the office wall behind the oncologist. She wished it were her who clutched the balloon’s basket rail and drifted away toward the far hills and the sea beyond. But her husband’s grip on her left hand had tightened so much that it crushed her fingers and destroyed her ability to escape.

“I know this is a hard thing to be told,” Dr. Marcum said. “But we can fight this and, with luck, you can beat it.”

Megan managed a weak smile. “I’ve never been very lucky … except maybe marrying Ted and having Kaylee.”

“Maybe we can change your luck.”

“How much … how much time do I have?”

“That’ll depend on the severity of your disease and how it responds to treatment. If it’s localised, with surgery to remove part or all of the pancreas, the one-year survival rate is over 70%.”

“And if it has spread?”

“Well … that’s not good … 10% or less.”

The silence built. Megan let out a deep breath and continued to stare at the balloon photograph.

Ted cleared his throat. “So … so what’s next, doctor?”

“We’ll do PET and CT scans to get a good picture of what’s going on, check the liver and lymph nodes to see if the cancer has spread, do blood tests, and biopsy the tissue. Hopefully, we’ve caught it early; more testing will tell us. But … but you should know that most patients don’t report problems until the cancer has metastasized, which limits treatment options.”

Megan sighed. “Great, more tests and poking around just to narrow down how soon I will die.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Dr. Marcum said.

“Thank you for that,” Ted whispered.

Afterward, the couple sat without speaking in their Subaru, the early September heat baking them slowly. Finally, Ted started the car and they drove home, taking the long way that skirted the coastline, the Pacific’s green waves breaking hard against the rocky shore.

“So what should I tell Kaylee?” Megan asked.

Ted chuckled. “She’s thirteen going on twenty-five. I think she can handle the truth.”

Megan sighed. “Yeah, she puts on a good act. But she’s still a little girl.”

“If you want, I can talk with her,” Ted offered.

“No, no. I’ll do it. She’s going to know that something’s wrong, especially if they recommend surgery. And then there’s the chemo and maybe even radiation.”

Ted ran his hands through his thinning hair and shivered. “I think we should wait until we know what we’re up against. After the tests we can tell Kaylee the whole truth.”

“Okay. But we can’t wait too long.”

The afternoon sun burned golden on the surface of the creek, just above the weir with its steelhead fish ladder. In the distance, the onslaught of Pacific breakers kept up a steady rumble. Megan and Kaylee sat on a bench shaded by a huge oak, taking a Saturday afternoon together, a break from schoolwork for the over-achieving girl, and a secret break from cancer for her mother.

Megan had grown thinner with dark circles under her eyes, testing finished and her first round of chemo scheduled for the following week. She stared at the three elegant male mallards that glided across the creek’s mirrored surface, chasing a lone female.

“I’ve something to tell you, Kaylee. But I don’t want to scare you.”

The girl turned to face her mother. “I think I already know.”

Megan’s eyes widened. “What do you know?”

“I found the test results of your scans and biopsy. You left them on the dining room table last week. I can read, you know. What I didn’t understand, I Googled.”

The two stared at each other. Kaylee’s lips trembled and tears filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to find out that way. We were going to tell you but I wanted to make sure we had all the facts.”

“It’s not good, is it Mom?”

Megan sighed, admiring and at the same time resenting her daughter’s directness. “No, it’s not good.”

Kaylee came into her arms and they sat together in the warm shade, weeping silently. Megan remembered how, when Kaylee was a baby, she would strap her to her front and carry her everywhere, enjoying the warmth and pressure of the child’s body against her own.

“So what happens now?” Kaylee asked.

“Chemotherapy.”

“No … no surgery?”

“You know about surgery?”

Finally, they separated.

Kaylee frowned. “Yeah, people have a better chance of … of surviving it they remove the …”

Megan laid a hand on Kaylee’s arm. “It’s too late for surgery. The cancer has spread. The chemo might slow it down … but not stop it.”

“It’ll make you sick, right?”

“Yes … and I’ll probably lose my hair.” Megan grinned.

Kaylee seemed to ignore her mother’s last comment. She crossed her arms and rocked back and forth. “So … so you’re going to die?”

Damn, there’s that directness, probably gets it from me … and she seems angry, resentful. “Yes, Kaylee, I’m going to die.”

The words seemed to float out across the water into the dappled sunlight. The female mallard madly flapped her wings and flew upstream and out of sight, leaving the drakes alone and probably frustrated.

“But … but you can help me and your father. You will probably grow up faster than normal … and I’m sorry for that.”

“Mom, I’m 13 and I’ve already grown, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that.” Megan chuckled and clutched Kaylee to her.

“I’ll help, Mom. Just tell me what you want.”

“Well for one thing, I want you to study hard in school, make friends, and don’t become some crazy teenager like I was.”

“Sure, Mom.” Kaylee rolled her eyes, paused, and then managed a quiet smile.

Their dust-covered SUV bounced along the farm road toward the line of sycamores, oaks, and willows that bordered the creek. Megan winced with every bounce of the car but kept smiling. Over the past six weeks she and Kaylee had developed a bond stronger than before cancer. It took her daughter that long to shed her anger and sadness and come to accept her mother’s condition, well, almost.

“Mom, just what the heck were you thinking with that wig?” Kaylee reached over and tugged on a long curl of blonde hair. “Are you trying to look like Dove Cameron?”

“Who the heck is Dove Cameron?”

“Come on, Mom. Don’t you know anything?”

“Evidently not. I was actually going for Dolly Parton. Always wanted to try being a blonde with big hair. But your father likes … liked my dark hair.”

“My turn. Who the heck is Dolly Parton? Is she that old lady singer?”

“Yes, I suppose she is. But she still looks great.”

Megan pulled the car onto the road’s fringe and parked. A patch of waist-high fennel bordered a drainage ditch.

She turned toward Kaylee. “I think this is a good spot to check. Didn’t you say that the swallowtails like to lay their eggs on fennel plants?”

“Yeah, this place looks cool.”

“Let’s see if we can find some of their eggs, or better yet, the caterpillars.”

Kaylee grinned. “Sounds good. I’ll get the jars and the clippers.”

The two scrambled from the car, both eager to do something that had nothing to do with cancer.

Kaylee moved quickly through the fennel, checking each plant. “I found some, I found some,” she called.

Megan joined her and they stared at two plants where green caterpillars, with black, orange and light blue markings vigorously munched away on leaves, stalks, and fronds. The duo had struck butterfly gold.

Kaylee unscrewed the tops of two quart-sized Mason jars. Megan carefully harvested parts of the fennel plants that held four caterpillars, placed them in the jars and closed the lids that were perforated with holes to let in air.

“That was quick,” Megan said, breathing in deeply, the black licorice smell of the fennel strong in the afternoon heat.

“Yeah. We could take more. But four should be enough for my science project. Miss Jasperson doesn’t want us to disturb nature any more than we have to.”

Kaylee had come to her mother complaining about having no idea for what to do for her eighth-grade project. With coaching from Megan, Kaylee had chosen the raising of butterflies because, “The swallowtails are so beautiful and I won’t have to kill anything to complete it.”

Megan had nodded, feeling that enough death had stared down their family and that maybe studying butterflies could bring them some joy.

“You know, Mom, my friend Tiffany has a butterfly tattooed on her shoulder. It looks really cool.”

Megan scowled. “Did her parents let her do that? Don’t you even think about doing such a thing. Tattoos are forever and you don’t want to mess up your body so early, then regret it.”

“Like you did with that Chinese symbol on your butt.”

Megan chuckled. “Yes, just like that. Time and body changes can be cruel to tattoos.” For a moment she thought that it might be fun to get her own butterfly tattoo, to carry that experience with her daughter to the grave, and maybe beyond.

Before they left, Kaylee took multiple photographs of the fennel plants, some with swallowtail eggs, some with caterpillars. As a freelance graphic artist, Megan had agreed to help prepare display boards and a slide show for her daughter’s class presentation, with close-up photos of all stages of anise swallowtail development.

Returning home, Kaylee set the Mason jars on her partially-shaded bedroom windowsill. The caterpillars proved to be voracious and every few days mother and daughter harvested more fennel for the fattening wigglies to eat. Finally, the caterpillars formed hard chrysalises and began the internal change process of becoming butterflies. Megan felt like she too should curl up and form a shell around herself, pray for change that would allow her to fly, to leave this life as something beautiful.

Within a couple of days, all four of the caterpillars had pupated, forming camouflaged green and brown chrysalises.

“How long before they emerge as butterflies?” Megan asked Kaylee.

“I’m not sure … I think just a few days. And some might not make it.”

“That would be sad … to go to all that trouble and never live to fly.”

“Yeah. We just have to keep watch and hope.”

The mother and daughter went quiet and Megan knew that her daughter was preparing herself for a poor outcome. So was Megan.

After about ten days, Megan grabbed Kaylee the minute she returned home from school and hauled her to her bedroom. The two stared at the butterfly jars, grinning. Three yellow and black swallowtails had emerged from their chrysalises and slowly beat their wings to dry them.

“Come on. Grab your cell phone for photos,” Megan said. “We need to release them.”

They returned to the fennel patch and carefully removed the new butterflies from their jars. The insects worked their wings slowly in the Indian summer sunlight before taking off and flitting toward the trees.

“What happens now?” Megan asked.

“They will search for a mate and the females will then lay eggs on the fennel plants. Then everything starts over.”

“You’ve read all about the mating part?”

Kaylee grinned. “Oh yeah. Some male butterflies go through quite a courtship dance, and the actual mating act can last for hours.”

“Sounds something like humans, although I’m not sure about that ‘lasting hours’ part.”

“Mom!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to embarrass you. So, how long do swallowtails live after mating?”

“Maybe a couple of weeks.”

Megan sucked in a deep breath and turned away from her daughter.

“You okay, Mom?”

“Yes … yes,” she said and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m just glad I’ve had thirteen years with you and more with your father.”

“So am I.”

The duo returned to the car. “So what should we do with the last chrysalis?” Megan asked.

“We’ll keep it. A butterfly could come out in a few days.”

“Oh I hope so, honey. I love to see them flying away.”

Days passed, and then weeks. Megan started a second round of chemo that weakened her even further. She spent her time sitting on the front porch trying to read, but mostly just staring at the hills that surrounded the town, hills that turned magically from gold to green after the first autumn rain.

Every day, while Kaylee was at school Megan checked the butterfly jar. Nothing changed and she had the sinking feeling that it never would. Finally, she and Kaylee decided to get rid of the chrysalis to avoid the daily reminder of its fate. After Kaylee left for school, Megan grabbed the jar and shuffled onto the front porch, heading for the car. But she couldn’t think of killing or ditching it, at least not then, the idea was too painful. She opened Keylee’s old toy box, slid the jar inside, and closed the lid, out of sight and hopefully out of her dreams.

The late fall and winter rains settled in, a cheerless time for Megan, with Keylee away at school and Ted at work. She tried contacting her commercial art clients to see if they had any jobs that might distract her from the pain and dark thoughts of the future. But the economy seemed to be stagnant and many of her clients were doing their own artwork using a variety of software tools.

The second round of chemo ended, leaving Megan mostly bedridden. Dr. Marcum didn’t recommend radiation. Ted had hired a home healthcare worker to help Megan take her medications, and to do light housework and provide transportation. Kaylee spent her after-school time doing the same. Winter came and went, the air warmed, the hills glowed greenly, almost like those in photographs of Ireland. The apple tree in their front yard started leafing out. Confined to bed or a wheelchair, Megan spent most of the day watching TV or sitting on the front porch and gazing at nothing in particular.

One afternoon, as she meditated, knowing her passing was near, Kaylee climbed the porch steps and sat on the bench next to her.

“How are you, Mom? You look … lost in some kind of dream.”

“I’m good. I’m good. Just glad to have time with you and your father.”

Kaylee gazed at the surrounding hills then down at the dust-covered toy box resting next to Megan.

“Mom, why’s this old thing still here? I haven’t played with toys since I was little.”

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Megan cracked.

“Hey, I’m fourteen and I was six of seven then.”

“You’re right, that’s half your lifetime ago.”

Kaylee bent down to open the box. At that moment Megan remembered the discarded Mason jar and its unborn butterfly.

But Kaylee was too quick and had the box open and let out a squeal. “What’s this?”

The girl reached down and retrieved the butterfly jar. Inside it, a beautiful black and yellow anise swallowtail beat its wings slowly, trying to dry them before flight.

Megan sat forward in her wheelchair and stared, wide-eyed. “I … I put it there last October, couldn’t bring myself to kill it or just throw it away.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t. I can’t believe it lasted that long. Come on, let’s get the healthcare worker to drive us to the fennel patch and let it go.”

When they returned from their last butterfly release, Megan lay smiling in her room, gazing at the walls where Ted and Kaylee had pasted a cluster of swallowtails, cut from prints of digital photos taken for her daughter’s science project.

Kaylee entered and sat on the edge of the bed, excited. “I did some Internet research,” she began. “It seems that a change in light or maybe temperature can make some butterfly pupa go into hibernation, sort of like bears do in winter.”

“Really?”

“I think that’s what happened. It got cold or the light went away when you put the jar in the toy box … and it went to sleep.”

Megan sighed. “We were just lucky that we opened the box when we did.”

“I know, I know.” I’m going to tell my science teacher what happened. It’s so weird and really cool that they can hang out that long in their little shells.”

That evening, Megan lay in her hospital bed next to a snoring and exhausted Ted on his portable rollaway. She thought that her own hibernation of sorts was ending, that it was time to fly. The healthcare worker had given her a full dose of morphine to dull the sharp pain in her abdomen and back. In the dim glow of the nightlight, she stared at the swallowtails on the walls. They seemed to flutter and move in some sort of dance. She felt like she was one of them, having dried her wings, ready for the next stage as the royal purple night closed softly in.

“When were you going to tell me about those tattoos?” Erick asked, propping himself up in bed.

“Oh, during our honeymoon,” Kaylee said and laughed. “But neither of us could wait for that. Do you like them?”

“A whole flutter of butterflies across your beautiful shoulders … what’s not to like?”

“My mom got me interested in swallowtails when I was a young girl, got me interested in entomology and how strange and magical the lives of insects can be. And now, here I am with a PhD in Ent and teaching at the university, down the hall from you.”

“And here you are with me.”

“My mom would be happy.”

Swallow Tail Butterfly. From Public Domain

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been published by more than 480 different journals, magazines, and anthologies including Folio, Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

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

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

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

Tags California, Cancer, Chemotherapy, Jazz, San Luis Obispo, Terry Sanville

Stories

Ameya’s Victory

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

Ameya was studying in the eighth grade. She was not only good at games but also a topper in her studies. However, she had one weakness — she had a squint in her eyes. Two girls in her class, Swapna and Sarasa, used to tease her every day by calling her names like “Squinty Beauty” and “Twisted Eyes”.

One day, during the lunch break, Ameya was eating her food. Swapna came near her and said loudly, “You have squint eyes, right? When you eat, does the food go into your mouth or into your ears?” Everyone laughed at her. Feeling deeply hurt and ashamed, Ameya stopped eating, went to the washroom, and cried.

From that day onwards, she started coming to school wearing dark glasses. Whenever she removed her glasses, she covered her eyes with her hand while talking.

Seeing this, Swapna mocked her again and asked, “Did you get an operation for your squint? Is that why you are wearing dark glasses?” Ameya did not reply and simply turned her face away.

After a few days, the school organised an exhibition. All the students prepared colorful charts. Ameya also prepared a wonderful presentation on Environmental Protection.

The District Collector came to visit the exhibition. Just as he reached Ameya’s desk, Swapna deliberately pushed her from behind. Ameya lost her balance and almost fell down. Her charts got slightly damaged.

Seeing this, Swapna whispered mockingly, “Look, the squinty beauty is about to fall. She can’t see properly, you know.” The Collector heard this. He immediately helped Ameya stand up and carefully looked at her charts.

Praising her work, he said, “You have prepared this very well. Why are you speaking so fearfully? Why are you covering your eyes with your hand?”

With tears in her eyes, Ameya said, “Sir, I have a squint. Everyone makes fun of me and calls me bad names.”

The Collector then spoke to the children standing there: “Children! In nature, no two flowers are the same. A tree may be bent, but the shade it gives is cool and comforting. Ameya’s intelligence and her concern for the environment are truly great. Making fun of someone’s physical weakness only shows poor character. Calling others by insulting names does not make you great. It makes you guilty of hurting someone’s heart.”

Turning towards Ameya, he said gently: “Your intelligence is your strength. A squint is only a small physical condition. Don’t feel sad about it. Have you heard of Helen Keller? She was not only blind but also deaf and unable to speak. Still, her extraordinary qualities made her an inspiration to the world. She learned to read and write using Braille, mastered many languages, and became the first deaf-blind woman to earn a university degree. Through books like The Story of My Life, she shared her thoughts with the world. She fought for the rights of the disabled, women’s rights, and social justice. People with disabilities should take her as an inspiration. Never hide your beautiful eyes for anyone.”

Inspired by the Collector’s words, the school principal immediately introduced a new rule:

“Anyone who calls others by insulting names will face strict action.”

After this incident, Swapna and Sarasa realised their mistake. They went to Ameya and said, “Please forgive us. We now understand that knowledge and values are more important than appearance.”

Ameya smiled freely at last. From then on, no one in that school teased anyone by calling bad names. Everyone lived together like one happy family.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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

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

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Tags Sahitya Akademi award, Andhra Pradesh, Telugu, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University, Anandalokam, Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation, Hellen Keller, The Story of My Life

Stories

In Translation: Lakhvinder Virk

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date March 16, 2026
No Comments on In Translation: Lakhvinder Virk

Story by Lakhvinder Virk, translated from Punjabi by C. Christine Fair

Translator’s note

This story comes from Lakhvinder Virk’s first collection of Punjabi-language short stories titled, Colors that Were Not Red (Rang Jo Suuha Nahin Sin), which was published in 2024 by Ojj Parkashan in India. Punjabi literature, despite the presence of important giants such as Amrita Pritam and Ajeet Cour, is still dominated by male voices and male interiorities. Even when male authors ventrilolocute for female characters, it often feels voyeuristic. Upon reading this story, I was immediately struck by its distinctive voice and storyline. This story is distinctive both because of its adventurous female protagonist, who is willing to explore her own sexuality and negotiate the boundaries of marriage, but also its theme of a husband who seeks an open marriage. In India such concepts are even more rare and controversial than they are in the United States. Upon encountering this story, I was awed by Virk’s brave willingness to engage a subject matter that is so verboten in India. While other stories in her collection of short stories flirt with similarly provocative themes, I believed “Open Marriage” was an important story to translate. While the specificities of this story are rooted in upper-class Mumbai, India, the challenges confronted by the young female protagonist are universal. How do women everywhere negotiate unreasonable demands and behavior from a husband who was heretofore presented as loving and caring? When has the Rubicon been crossed? When does a woman leave a marriage that is destroying her? How much is too much to tolerate? This story presents its own answers.

Open Marriage by Lakhvinder Virk

The sound from the phone caught both of their attention. It was likely text message. Indeed, Siddarth got a message on his phone. He did not pick up his phone to look. Tania’s gaze was fixed on the television screen. Because it was Sunday, both were free, and they planned to watch the film Animal on Netflix. They ordered out for food and began watching the movie.

On the TV. screen, there was a scene: the hero, having lied to his wife, formed a physical relationship with another girl. When the wife found out, she was inconsolable. She cried and left the house, taking the children with her.

Siddharth picked up the phone and went to the bathroom. But the sound of the message on his phone kept nagging Tania.

Tania tried to focus on watching the film. “Is it such a big deal if a husband is involved with another woman? He still loved his wife,” she thought to herself. “If what is being depicted is real, then so what?”

Siddarth and Tania were married two years ago. Siddarth was the CEO of a multinational company in Mumbai, and Tania was the general manager in a branch of the State Bank of India. They had an arranged marriage through a matchmaking app. After marriage, the husband and wife would clean the kitchen together as well as other household chores. Because Tania shifted from Delhi to Mumbai, she had to work hard to understand the new place and new environment. Siddarth helped her thoroughly in this process.

One day Siddarth asked, “Tania, did you have a boyfriend before marriage?”

“I am not so narrow-minded. Don’t worry. Come on. Tell me.”

“In truth, no.” Tania was collecting herself.

“This isn’t possible, dear. Don’t lie.”

“No Siddarth, it’s the truth.”

“This means that you don’t trust me, Tania. These days, there’s nothing bad about having relationships. Moreover, in our society, if you don’t have a relationship, it means that there is something wrong with you.” Siddarth wanted to know about Tania’s past.

“I never got the free time, Siddarth. I just focused upon my career and studies,” Tania answered, looking away. She was afraid that Siddarth would read her emotions.

“Tell me about yourself,” Tania asked.

“Yes. I had many. I had my first girlfriend when I was in the sixth grade. Before marriage, I had thirteen girlfriends.” Siddarth answered proudly, counting them on his fingers.

“Oh my god! At such a young age,” Tania said in bewilderment.

“Young?” Siddarth looked at Tania as if she had come out of the jungle and knew nothing about the world. “Some of my friends had several physical relationships by the time they were in the tenth grade. I even had a friend who was caught with his girlfriend in the school toilet. Both of them were kicked out of school. In this regard, I was slow. My friends would make fun of me because I was clueless. Then somehow, during my graduation, I mustered the courage with my fourth girlfriend,” Siddarth explained while laughing. Tania was looking at him, astonished.

“Delhi is also an open environment like this. How is it possible that you did not have a boyfriend? Yaar[1], these days one has to do a lot of things due to peer pressure. Among my friends, if someone didn’t have a girlfriend, they would kick him out of the group. I don’t believe you didn’t have a boyfriend. Come on. Tell me,” Siddarth insisted.

“It’s not necessary that every girl has a relationship.”

Tania had two boyfriends. One was in the twelfth grade. When Tania saw him, she fell in love with him. But this was a childhood crush that ended in a few days when he became friends with another girl. The second was when she was doing her MBA. She fell in love with a classmate. She was fairly serious in this relationship. She wanted to marry him, but when she raised this matter with him, he responded in rage. Tania was outdated to him. “I’ve never even thought like this. What does marriage mean?” he had said.

After that, they could never be normal again, and they broke up.

Tania wanted to tell all of this to Siddarth, but she was afraid. She had always heard that a boy could do whatever he wanted, but a boy wouldn’t tolerate hearing this from girls. Her mom said that talking about such things could lead to a divorce. Thinking about all of this, she kept quiet.

Siddharath brought Tania into his embrace and said, “This is normal, Tania. We go out of the house, it’s natural that we’re attracted to members of the opposite sex. If I can, why can’t you? I am not an old school type.”

Even though Tania didn’t want to, she hid the truth. After this, Siddarth did not raise the issue again.

One night after dinner, when all of the work was finished, Tania came into the bedroom. Siddharth was reclining on the bed, reading a magazine.

“Do you know about open marriages?” Siddharth asked, signaling her to come near him.

“Open marriage?” Tania asked out of great curiosity, sitting beside him.

“I am reading some stuff about open marriages and…So be it. I myself am thinking about this,” Siddarth said.

For a moment, silence spread between them.

“What is an open marriage?” Tania stood up and started putting on some lotion. She had put on a nightie in Siddarth’s favourite color, but Siddarth had paid it no attention.

“An open marriage means that within the marriage, there are some commitments, but both partners can form relationships apart from the other,” Siddarth explained. “It’s not cheating but understood as a different aspect of intimacy.” He was looking towards Tania and saying, “In doing this, the couple’s bond can deepen and they never get bored.”

Before responding, Tania was quiet for some time, thinking about this.

“It seems interesting but….is it practical? Moreover, it could bring stress to the couple. And consequently, the marriage will get very complicated.”

Siddarth shook his head, “I know that this isn’t easy, but if one talks openly and honestly with each other, it seems to me that it isn’t so hard.”

For some time, a silence spread between them.

“Tania I don’t want our marriage to become old and conventional, and after some years we fight and become distant. Many of my friends are in open marriages or are into wife swapping. Actually, I didn’t want to get married, but my parents pressured me and I got married.”

“You mean you can have a girlfriend, and I can have a boyfriend. Right?” Tania asked in astonishment.

“Yes. It’s necessary to keep our marriage alive.”

“But how will this work? This seems very awkward to me.” Tania was stuck, conflicted.

“Go back deep into history, there is polygamy in our culture,” he began to explain to Tania. “In our country, there are multiple such examples in which Kings had hundreds of marriages. Apart from this, they had other relations. The queens had relations with the various slaves living in her palace. Were these not open marriages? We boast about that culture. I also want to follow that culture. It’s not impossible.” Siddharth wanted to convince her through whatever means.

Tania, flabbergasted, sat there in silence listening to him speak.

“Then after some time when there are children, nothing can happen anymore. At the very least, until then, we should enjoy our life according to our wishes.”

For some days, this argument went on between them. In the end, after hearing the various arguments, Tania agreed with Siddharth, and they decided to have an open marriage.

Whenever Siddarth had a new girlfriend, he discussed it with Tania. If he went to see a film or went on a date, he definitely told Tania. In the beginning, Tania did not like this. She felt jealous, but this feeling gradually faded. Siddarth kept on asking Tania whether she had a boyfriend. Tania, in those days, was very busy at the office. She didn’t take a liking to any man.

“You are so lazy,” Siddarth teased her, laughing.

“I have made a third girlfriend and tomorrow I am going on a date with her.”

“Well done,” Tania said with great flair. They both began to laugh.

The next day, Tania looked very closely at the men working with her, but none struck her fancy.

For the last few days, Tania had begun taking yoga classes. On that day, she went to her yoga lesson after work, and she saw a new face in the class. He was about 30 years old. He was a tall, attractive young man. Tania’s attention kept floating towards him. As soon as the session finished, people began gathering their mats.

“Hello.” The young man said to Tania, sitting on the same bench where Tania was sitting, and putting on her shoes.

“Oh. Hello, I am Tania.” Tania extended her hand and immediately felt that her hand was the hand that had touched her shoes. She pulled her hand back.

“Gavi.” The young man extended his hand, smiling. “My hands also touched my shoes. It’s no big deal.”

Tania really liked his style. “This is the first time I am seeing you?” Tania asked.

“I have just joined. Actually, I just shifted from Chandigarh a few days ago,” he replied.

“Oh nice. Chandigarh is a happening place. I wonder how people from Chandigarh can live in a congested place like Mumbai,” Tania said as they were heading towards the parking.

“You are right, but this is my first required posting outside of the state. No doubt, Chandigarh is a very beautiful and peaceful city, with zero crime. But you have to leave it for career growth. Chandigarh is a city of retired people. After retirement, I will definitely shift to Chandigarh,” Gavi looked toward Tania while smiling.

“In which department are you?” Tania asked.

“I am an Indian Police Service Officer.”

“Oh Wow!” Tania said happily.

“And you?” Gavi also wanted to learn about her.

“I am a general manager at the State Bank of India.”

“Good post.”

“Thank you. My flat is just here, and where do you live?” Tania asked as she was opening the car door.

“My flat is a five-minute drive from here.”

“Nice to meet you. See you soon.” Saying this, Tania sat in the car.

“Same here.” And as he said this, Gavi closed Tania’s car door.

After some days, Gavi and Tania became good friends. They sat side by side doing yoga. Sometimes, after class, they would stop to drink organic juice, and they would make small talk. Because he was newly arrived in the city, Gavi had no friends, but because of Tania he felt no loneliness. Tania also felt a lot of affection for Gavi. When she was with Gavi, she felt very special herself which she had never felt with anyone else.

On a vacation day, they planned to see a movie.

Tania had a message from Gavi on her phone that they would leave their homes at 10 o’clock. First, they would see the movie, then they would have lunch together. Siddarth read this message.

“You are dating someone?” Siddarth asked over dinner.

“Not exactly dating, but something like that. It’s nothing like this. We are good friends.”

“Hmmm. So you are going?”

“Yes. We made a plan.”

“Listen. I don’t like this,” Siddarth said, twirling his fork on his plate.

“What?” Tania asked with inquisitive eyes.

“This open marriage…Let’s close it.” Siddarth said.

“So…You have been enjoying the open marriage. I am just going to see a movie, and you want to close it?” There was bitterness in Tania’s voice.

“Yes. I want to close it. I cannot now live in an open marriage. You yourself were saying that marriage would get very complicated. Now I think the same.” Siddharth announced his decision.

“OK. No problem.” Tania agreed. “But it should be closed from your side too.”

“Yes. Done.”

Tania messaged Gavi that she was busy and, for this reason, she couldn’t come. After that, on several occasions, Gavi tried to make plans with her, but Tania made some excuse or another. She began to ignore Gavi.

For some days, Siddarth was working from home. One day, Tania finished her work early and returned home quickly so that she could spend some time with Siddarth. She took the duplicate key from her purse, unlocked the door, and went inside.

From inside, she heard a girl’s voice filled with anger. “Bastard. Scumbag. Have you no shame in having relations with me even though you are married? Did you tell me that you are married? I didn’t know anything. Either divorce your wife and marry me, or give me 2 Crore Rupees. Otherwise, I am going to the police station.”

Tania was astonished hearing this.

She went to the bedroom from which this noise was coming. She saw Siddarth begging this girl to forgive him. Tania didn’t know what she should do. She felt pity for Siddarth as well as anger.

Seeing Tania, the girl left quietly.

Siddarth told Tonia that he had been in a relationship with her for the past five months, and now this girl was blackmailing him. “She kept some videos and photos of our private moments, which she is threatening to make viral,” he added.

Tania didn’t know how to help Siddharth.

During this dilemma, she went to her evening yoga class. When the class finished, Gavi asked her why she was so sad, “What happened. Is your health okay? You are absolutely ashen. What happened?”

Tania needed a friend at this time. She went with him to a nearby coffeehouse. While drinking coffee, Tania told Gavi everything. It was like icing on the cake that Gavi was a friend but also a police officer.

Gavi listened to the entire thing and said, “Don’t worry, Tania. These kinds of groups, which ensnare people, are very active these days. They take their photos. Make videos. Then they blackmail them. Sometimes, these people don’t personally meet the victim. They do sexting and then record the phone sex. On this basis, they blackmail them. This is an elaborate net that has been cast. Our entire department is searching for these people. Don’t you worry. I will help you as much as possible.”

“Thank you so much, Gavi. I had no idea what I should do.” Tania felt as if a burden would be lifted.

The next day, Gavi called Tania and Siddarth to the police station. Sitting them in his office, he took the First Information Report and began to take action. It turned out that the girl was a member of such a group. The police wiretapped the entire group and arrested them.

During this, the way Gavi took care of Tania drew her even closer to him. She felt as if she had always needed a wise companion like him. She saw in Gavi’s eyes love and honour for her, something she had always wanted to see in Siddharth’s eyes. But apart from emptiness, there was nothing in his eyes.

Siddarth returned from the bathroom and became engrossed again in watching a movie.

Siddarth had taken his phone to the bathroom. She was very bothered by this. For the past few days, she was feeling that Siddarth was hiding something from her, whereas they both had agreed that they would not hide anything from each other.

“Should I ask him straightaway?” Tania thought to herself, but she thought it better to wait a bit. He may tell me himself. Is he still?…”

“Tania, tomorrow I am going to Pune for two days, for a workshop,” Siddarth told Tania while looking at his screen.

“Okay. Alone?” Tania asked.

“Of course. Can I take friends to a workshop?” Siddharth said in irritation.

The film was over, but in Tania’s mind, the phone’s notification kept playing. She could not stop thinking about this.

In the evening, when Tania was in the kitchen working, Siddharth’s phone was on the dining room table when a message came. Tania saw that Siddarth was taking clothes out of the armoire and packing them.

Tania picked up the phone, but it was locked. She was very baffled. Previously, Siddarth did not lock his phone. She tried to unlock it. After some efforts, she managed to unlock the phone. She saw that a message had come on WhatsApp. When she opened the message, she saw a girl in a transparent nightie. The girl wanted to confirm that she should bring this nightie to Lohkhandwala if Siddharth liked it.

Tania, seeing this, was stunned. She messaged Gavi, “Can I stay in your house tonight?”

“Why not. But what happened?” Gavi quickly responded.

“I’ll tell you when I get there.” After messaging Gavi, she went to her armoire and took out clothes and necessary documents and began to pack them in a bag.

Seeing her do this, Siddarth repeatedly asked her where she was going? Why is she packing?

Tania did not answer. When she was leaving the house, she left the key to the flat on the shoe rack, and Siddarth grabbed her arm.

“Where are you going? What happened to you? Why aren’t you talking?” Siddarth didn’t understand what was going on.

“Wherever I may be going, I am definitely not going to Lokhandwala,” she said looking straight into Siddarth’s eyes.

Hearing this, Siddharth knew he was busted. He said nothing, and his grip loosened.

Tania left, closing the door behind her.

[1] Friend

Lakhvinder Virk obtained her PhD from Punjabi University, Patiala in the department of linguistics and lexicography under the supervision of Professor Joga Singh. She lives in Chandigarh and serves as the head of the Punjabi Department in JDSD College in Kheri Gurana, Banur in Punjab. Her first book of short stories, Colors That Were Not Red, (Rang Jo Suuha Nahin sin) was published in 2024. This story was published in that volume.

Christine Fair did her Ph.D. in South Asian Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago. She is currently a professor of Security Studies at Georgetown University. Her translations have appeared in LIT Magazine, Muse India, Orientalia Suecana, The Bangalore Review, Borderless, The Punch Magazine, The Bombay Literary Magazine, and The Bombay Review.

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

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

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Tags Ajeet Cour, Amrita Pritam, C Christine Fair, Chandigarh, Delhi, Georgetown University, India, Indian Police Service, JDSD College, Lakhvinder Virk, Mumbai, Ojj Prakashan, Patiala, Punjabi, Punjabi University, Rang Jo Suuha Nahin Sin, State bank of India, United States, University of Chicago

Stories

The Onion

By JK Miller

I used to go to the beach and run and play and fly a kite. As an afterthought, I would reach into the picnic basket for a piece of Mama’s taboon bread. That was when we had a house, and in the house, we had a kitchen and my mother— I loved being by her side—- stayed up the night before mixing the flours and kneading and placing the dough in the clay tabun oven with river rocks which gave the loaf its dimples. Mama would pinch my cheeks and say she must have had some river rocks in her womb. That was when I had a mother.

When we had a house in Khan Yunis, I had a father, and he would take me to Asda’a amusement park. We would ride the miniature train together. Now, the trees in the park have all been cut down. The wood is used to make shelters and prop up tents.

Now I live on the beach, and I dribble sand and make the shape of taboon bread.

I play marbles with the other boys. The beach is a good place for that. There are stretches without rubble, though once we found a hand reaching up out of the sand.

The rubble is good for hide and seek.

It’s not all play for me. I sweep the tent each morning. I repair the tent poles. I line up for water. That can take hours. Because of my size, I am shoved aside and lose my place. That makes me want to pick up a stone and throw it at the guy who pushes me, to pretend it is an F-16 missile, but every guy looks somewhat like my father, the eyes numb and the mouth flattened, so I drop it.

I make kites from scrap materials—plastic bags, woven rice sacks, pieces of wire from broken appliances, fishing line, that kind of thing—- but I don’t fly them anymore. I sell them for pocket change. Ten kites will buy an onion at the market. At least it did this morning. Maybe not tomorrow.

We sweep the dirt with our hands and collect lentils that have fallen from the aid packages. We wash them with the precious water, and when we boil them, the onion really helps to spice things up. That’s what Aunt Tala tells me. I do it for her, for the smile it brings briefly to her face. Like an ocean wave washing away the old trudging footprints and making a smooth place to dance.

JK Miller lives on the edge of cornfields. His poems have also been recently published, or will be, in shoegaze literary, Midsummer Dream House, Harrow House, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Rat’s Ass Review, 50-Word Stories, Verse-Virtual, Paratextos, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Lighthouse, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Up North Lit. and Eunoia Review. In the summer of 2025, he completed a solo 1,335-mile bicycle ride from his house to his son’s house to see his newborn grandson.

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

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

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

Tags JK Miller, Khan Yunis, Palestine

Stories

Disillusioned

By Sayan Sarkar

“Belepole, Santragachi, Dhulagarh! Belepole, Santragachi, Dhulagarh!”

The singsong voice of the conductor filled the air in the busy intersection of Rabindra Sadan.

Sanjib crossed the road hurriedly, raising his hand to attract the conductor’s attention lest the bus left the stand before he reached it. The conductor nodded assuredly, indicating they had no intention of leaving so soon.

Sanjib boarded the bus and occupied a window seat near the front. Flicking his wrist, he looked at his watch — 4:15pm. He had ample time to make the trip to Belepole and return by 9pm

After a couple more minutes of waiting at the stand, the engine revved and the bus slowly made its way towards the Second Hooghly Bridge. As the conductor made his customary gesture for the ticket, Sanjib handed him a 50 rupee note.

“Belepole,” he added with excitement.

Sanjib’s heart was fluttering in his chest. He was going to visit Belepole, the place where he was born, after almost two decades. He had spent fourteen years of his life in that place — almost his entire childhood. But when he was in grade 9, his father — a central government officer —got a posting in Delhi, and they moved there permanently after selling their house to a promoter. Things became very hectic after that. There was school, then college, then masters, then PhD, then a post-doc in Europe, and finally a teaching position in a reputed central government institute in the capital city. The years passed by like a whirlwind, starting and ending within the blink of an eye. Sanjib had come to Kolkata only a handful of times within that period but never found the time or opportunity of visiting his birthplace.

This time, however, was different.

This time, he had come to Rabindra Sadan to attend the inauguration of an art exhibition hosted by his school friend and renowned artist Pulak Banerjee. The interactions with his old friend brought back memories of his birthplace — which was only half an hour from the gallery on the other side of the Hooghly River — to his mind, and he was filled with an intense desire to pay a visit to the locality where his journey had started. Pulak supported this idea wholeheartedly, but he let Sanjib go on the sole condition that he be back for dinner at Peter Cat around 9 pm.

As the bus raced past the innumerable cables of the Second Hooghly bridge, countless fond memories of his youth flooded Sanjib’s mind. Memories of their three-storied house — which was almost a hundred years old, memories of the pond where he used to swim summer and winter, memories of his neighbors and their smiling faces, memories of all the childhood mischief and scoldings. They started appearing one after another, like hours-long video fast-forwarded to finish within only a few seconds.

But even amid this deluge, the memory of a single person stood out sharply against the rest. The memory of his childhood friend — Anil.

Anil, who was only one year his senior, had been his next-door neighbor. The two friends had grown up together and were almost inseparable. Not a single day had passed in those fourteen years that the two friends hadn’t played or spent some time together. Wherever one went, the other followed. Whatever one did, the other copied. They were up to all sorts of mischief together, and had become the terror of the locality for an extended period of time. Anil belonged to a relatively poor family, and could only afford education in a Bengali medium school. Sanjib, and his parents always welcomed him into their household with open arms, and he went on multiple trips with Sanjib and his family.

Anil wasn’t very good in studies, and barely passed his examinations is school. But what he lacked in intelligence, he more than made up for in athleticism. He was a great cricketer and an expert swimmer. He participated in many state level competitions and even won a few medals over the years. The two friends had a pact — Sanjib would help Anil with his studies, and Anil would help Sanjib improve his batting and swimming forms.

For fourteen long years, they had laughed and cried and fought and grown up together, until one day, Sanjib had to move away. It was the most difficult moment of their young lives, and a lot of tears were shed and promises were made. Anil didn’t have a landline at home at that time, so it was decided that he would visit a nearby shop every other day at a pre-determined time and Sanjib would call him there.

This ritual was followed religiously for nearly two years before Sanjib’s tuition timings and the pressure of his impending board and competitive examinations finally caught up with him. Slowly but surely, the two friends drifted apart. Pretty soon, Anil was relegated to Sanjib’s subconscious mind, waiting to be liberated again by some external stimulus.

That stimulus finally arrived nearly two decades later, and Sanjib’s mind was once again filled with the memories of his dear old friend and companion.

“Belepole is coming. Belepole is coming,” the conductor announced in his characteristic voice.

Sanjib got up from his seat.

Alighting from the bus, he slowly made his way towards the familiar by lane that led to his neighborhood — his para. As he walked along the alley, his mind was once again crowded with incidents from his childhood. These streets were once his playground, and there was a time when he knew every square inch of this locality like the back of his hand. Every nook and cranny of this place was filled with memories. Some of the old buildings he could still recognise, but many of the old ones had given way to more modern apartments. His para had undergone a transformation with time, confirming the old saying that change is the only constant in the universe.

Sanjib soon reached the location of his old house and found a modern four-storied apartment standing tall in its stead. He had seen pictures of this apartment in his father’s phone, but this was the first time he saw it with his own eyes. He stood rooted to the spot, mentally drawing the outline of his old house and comparing it with the present architecture.

He could still visualise every detail clearly against the modified backdrop — his bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, the dining room. It was as if he was seeing through the new apartment and staring into his long-lost past.

“Heyyy maaan. What’s your problem?”

A hoarse voice suddenly interrupted Sanjib’s reverie.

He turned around in surprise — a bit ashamed that he had been caught staring at a building for so long — and found a tramp sitting a little way off along the edge of the street. His clothes were in tatters, and it seemed like he hadn’t taken a bath in years. His long hair and beard had become matted with oil, dirt, and dead skin cells. His frail frame shook with every word he said. Even from afar, Sanjib could realise that he was inebriated by the intonations of his voice.

“Get outta hereee!” He shouted again. “What’re you doing standing and staring in the middle of the streeeetttt!”

Sanjib’s face filled with disgust. He felt an overwhelming sense of aversion towards the tramp. He quickly turned away from him and walked towards the new apartment.

Beyond the apartment was Anil’s house, and Sanjib had half expected to find his friend at home. It was, after all, a Sunday evening. So, chances were higher than usual.

But he was taken by surprise when he found Anil’s house barely standing at all. One of the walls had completely crumbled, and the rest were ready to follow suite. The entire plot had become a garbage heap with dogs and crows roamed around ravenously in search of leftovers. Nature had already started reclaiming the land and the dilapidated building was covered with creepers and crawlers.

The juxtaposition of the dazzling new apartment and the crumbling old house in such close proximity had a great effect on Sanjib’s mind and he stood dumbfounded in front of his friend’s former residence.

“Sanjib?” A second voice broke out in the background. “Is that you?”

There was uncertainty in the voice, but it sounded very familiar.

Sanjib’s brain had already started connecting the dots, and by the time he turned around, he had matched the voice with a face from his past.

“Bimal kaku[1]!” He nearly shouted with delight. “How are you?”

The warm and welcoming smile of Bimal Das felt very soothing to Sanjib’s eyes.

“I am fine, Sanjib.” The man replied with a touch of warmth and emotion. “How big you’ve grown! It’s been such a long time since I last saw you!”

Sanjib embraced his Bimal kaku lovingly.

Bimal Das used to own a grocery shop in the neighbourhood, and he had always been very fond of all the kids in the locality. He often used to give them free snacks below the counter, and invited them to his house whenever there was an occasion.

“Come,” Bimal led Sanjib by his arm. “We’ll sit and talk in my house.”

The next half an hour was spent in fond recollection.

Sanjib leant that Bimal’s shop was not running very smoothly ever since the advent of online shopping. His sons, however, had all gotten jobs outside the state, and they regularly sent him money to ensure he never lacked the basic amenities required to live a modest life. They had also suggested that he close the shop and stay with them, but Bimal had always felt a strong affection towards his shop and refused to shut it down.

He opened his shop regularly, sat behind the counter like old times, and spent most of the time chatting with the retired people of the locality.

“You see Sanjib, I will continue running the shop as long as my body permits,” he concluded with a defiant tone.

Sanjib looked admiringly at his Bimal kaku. He had aged significantly, but his vigour and liveliness were worthy of praise.

“Bimal kaku,” Sanjib spoke apprehensively. “What happened to Anil? His house is in ruins.”

A pall of gloom suddenly descended on Bimal’s smiling face. He looked down towards the floor and sat silently.

Sanjib’s heart sank. With each passing moment, his mind grew heavier with anxiety.

When Bimal started speaking again, Sanjib braced himself for the worst.

“Around five years after you left,” Bimal spoke softly. “Anil lost his mother — who was his biggest well-wisher and who loved him the most in the world.”

“Anil was heartbroken,” he continued.

“Still, he had his father to look after him, guide him, and reign in his emotions. The father-son duo clung onto each other and battled the storms of adversity. Anil gradually recovered from the shock and tried his best to live his life to the fullest.

“But alas. The fates had marked him as a child of misfortune. Five years later, his father passed away as well. Anil was all alone.

“Although all of us, his neighbours, tried our best to console him and help him in his time of need, he never recovered from this second shock. He left his house, started roaming about the streets aimlessly, got drunk, and all but lost his mind. We tried numerous times to bring him back to his senses, but it was not to be. Anil would be absent for weeks at an end, and then suddenly, one morning, we would find him sleeping unceremoniously near the edge of the main road.

“Those of us who felt sorry for him gave him food and clothes from time to time. While he ate and drank to sustain himself, he rarely touched the clothes. After a few years, he stopped recognising us completely. He just came and went as he pleased.”

Sanjib couldn’t believe his ears. Every word that Bimal spoke appeared to drive a nail through his heart. He felt an indescribable pain and sadness for his friend.

“Coincidentally,” Bimal continued morosely. “Anil is here now.”

“He came a couple of days ago. Just this afternoon, I found him sitting and blabbering at the intersection. I gave him some food and water. He was quite drunk. His clothes were in tatters, and he looked more dead than alive. Oh, how it pained me to see him in such a condition.”

Bimal covered his face to hide the tears that flooded his eyes.

Sanjib jolted upright, as if struck by lightning. His mind had already raced half an hour back into the past.

He recalled the hoarse voice that had interrupted his day dream.

He recalled the countenance of the tramp that had disgusted him so much.

He brought forth every feature of that haggard body in front of his mind’s eye. The unkempt hair and beard, the tattered clothes, the frail frame.

His friend had spoken to him after twenty years. And he had turned and walked away disgusted. His friend, who probably had a bright future as a cricketer or a swimmer, but was reduced to nothingness. His friend, who had lost his sanity thanks to the cruel workings of fate.

The image of the modern apartment and the crumbling house flashed in front of Sanjib’s eyes. He was the modern apartment, shining and well established in life. Anil was the crumbing house, battling against insanity and counting his days.

In the face of this incomprehensible truth, the contrast seemed even more cruel.

Sanjib sat still. His vision had become blurry and his cheeks were hot with the stream of tears that flowed down like water from a dam.

At the intersection, Anil was still sitting on the road, speaking gibberish, and cursing anyone who passed the street.

[1] uncle

Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.

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

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

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

Tags Belepole, Bengali, Europe, Hooghly, Hooghly Bridge, Kolkata, Peter Cat, Rabindra Sadan, Sayan Sarkar

Stories

The Beaten Rooster

By Hamiruddin Middya: Translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy

Babu, I am merely a poor Santhal. Please don’t take offence at anything I say. After all, we people who belong to the forest have always been losing. We are day labourers. We neither have nice houses nor do we possess any cultivable land.

Rangakul, Kusumkanali, Nabindanga and Mohulboni were all small Adivasi villages in the forest. Nearby were farmers, and people of the Ghosh, Mahato and Sinha communities. All the land belongs to them. We gaze at the sky in the hope of rain and cultivate a single crop. Some people have taken up the timber business and become rich and arrogant overnight. Why would they care about farming! It’s us who want to farm the land. A one-third share to the landlord, or else a monetary arrangement. We are poor folk, where will we get so much money! So, we cultivate the land on a crop sharing crop basis. But can one survive the whole year with that? The moment there’s no more rice for the cooking pot, we queue up beside the metalled road, wave out to any bus going eastward and get on board. After all, there’s no shortage of jobs there. With water from the canal available there, the fields yield golden paddy twice a year. By the grace of Marang Buru, all we want is to work our bodies so that we can feed our bellies.

When water is scarce at the edge of the forest where we live, famine looms. What’s new about that!

Singh babu is the big warehouse keeper here. He’s in the timber business. His house is at the fringe of the forest, across the railway line. It’s not a house but a fortress. He has done well in business with the help of his sons. Our men and women carry dry wood gathered from the forest to the babu’s warehouse across the railway bridge. He weighs our bundles and buys them. Even if the price is higher in the marketplace, who wants to go there if you have someone close by!

I cultivate a bigha-and-a-half of the babu’s land. It’s his warehouse that Lokha’s Ma carries wood to. There was a terrible drought this year. Fields, pastures and ponds were all parched, gasping for water. The paddy harvest was not good. The stalks were not tall. Just like a mother’s milk dries up if she is unable to eat, it’s the same with the ears of paddy. What will we eat the whole year? An unpared bamboo in the arse! How will I go to the babu and tell him?

I got the opportunity. Lokha set a trap somewhere and caught a waterhen. I told him, “Give me the bird, son. Let me give it to the babu.”

But Lokha did not want to part with it. “Why should I give it just like that?”

I said, “It’s not just like that, son. I have to make the babu happy, he’s very fond of bird meat. After all, we survive by cultivating his land.”

Who knows what Lokha thought but he did not argue any more.

I went with the bird at dusk. Singh babu was sitting with his son on a platform under the mango tree in front of the warehouse, he was doing some calculations. As soon as he saw me, he exclaimed, “Arey[1] it’s Hansda! What’s that in your hand?”

I went close to the babu. The babu studied the bird and exclaimed, “Wow! You’ve brought a waterhen!”

The babu never called me Sanatan Hansda, only Hansda. I could see that he was very happy to get the waterhen. His middle son, Haru, took the bird from me and left. Their house, surrounded by walls, was just behind the warehouse. I sat down below the platform.

The babu asked, “Has the paddy been threshed?”

“Babu, that’s what I came to tell you about. All the paddy has been destroyed in the drought! After threshing the remaining stalks, I could only get six sacks of paddy.”

The babu’s face turned grave. He blurted out angrily, “What the hell are you saying, bastard! Six sacks? I went to the field and saw for myself, it was full of swaying stalks.”

“Yes, babu, it was like that then. But there was no rain in Magh[2]. The plants began to droop after that!” I pleaded with the babu.

“Enough of your nonsense! Haru will go tomorrow and see how it’s only six sacks. Don’t try to be cunning!”

“Sure, send him then, babu. I am not telling you lies.”

Haru didn’t come. The next day, Singh babu himself arrived in haste. He came in the middle of our festivities. I was anxious wondering where I would ask him to sit, and what I would feed him. All of us, men and women, drink hanriya [3]and dance. Ours is a small village. We can’t afford to buy a dhamsa or a madol. We had everything earlier, but they broke long ago. When the boys and girls of the village grow up and it’s time for them to get married, we get those drums on rent. During our festivals, the boys in the youth club play music on the mic. We dance to that. Seeing our song and dance, Singh babu later whispered to me, “Give me a glass of hanriya too. Let me try it. But mind it, don’t tell Haru!”

“Oh no, babu. Don’t worry about that. Have as much as you want.” I thought it was funny. The father drinks out of his son’s sight. After all, we have none of all that. Father and son drink together to their heart’s content.

Why were Singh babu’s eyes so bloodshot today? I was scared. I said to him, “Come, come babu. Come inside and sit comfortably.”

The babu said angrily, “I haven’t come to sit, Hansda. Show me the paddy quickly.”

So, I showed the babu the paddy. He looked at me sternly and asked, “You haven’t hidden it somewhere, have you?”

“No, no babu. I would never do something like that in my life,” I said, holding my ears with my hands. “Why don’t you ask someone?”

“Chandmani and Gona Murmu got a good harvest. What kind of farming are you doing?”

“They got a pump-set from somewhere and irrigated their fields twice. There’s a shallow tubewell in the field there.”

The babu was about to leave with a sullen face. I said to him, “Let us keep the crop this time, babu. It’s a meagre harvest. My family can survive for a few days with that. I’ll repay you next time.”

The babu came to a halt with a start. He lowered his voice, and said, “Why should you go without food – am I not there! You have a young wife at home. Send her to the warehouse in the evening. After all, you can’t send her when people are around!” And saying so, the babu left. There was a strange smile on his face. Seeing that smile, my chest heaved. What on earth did the babu say before he left! How could I send Lokha’s Ma to the warehouse with wood now?

There was a fair in the nearby village of Mohulbani. As the Shalui festival is not celebrated with much fanfare in our village, it’s to the fair in Mohulbani that everyone dresses up and goes. There’s a cockfight every year during this time. This year, I too was a hauchi. Someone who participates in a cockfight is called a hauchi. I had never put a cock to fight. But the idea of doing that during this year’s festival caught my fancy.

Lokha’s Ma had brought the rooster as a tiny chick from her father’s house. I saved it so many times from the jaws of wretched mongooses and civets. It was big now, and sparkling red in colour. It crowed, konk konkkor konk, in the semi-darkness of dawn. Hearing its crow, the birds on the trees then began chirping. It hovered around every hen in the village, all by itself. It walked with its chest puffed out, as if it was the king of the forest. If such a rooster could not fight, then why on earth was it born?

Lokha tugged at my lungi and demanded, “I’ll go too, Baba. Take me along with you to see the fair.”

Lokha’s Ma said, “Take him along. He’s my little boy. On a festival day, he’ll go to see the fair, he’ll eat jilapi[4], but no – what kind of a father are you!”

“All right. Come along then.”

Mustard flowers were in bloom in the fields. It was yellow everywhere, both on the lowlands and the uplands. After all, it was a festival of flowers now. Men and women, old and young, were walking to the fair along the narrow boundary ridge. Some raced along on bicycles on the red laterite road, ringing their bells, kring kring. Close to the forest was the field known as Bhangatila Maath, which was where the fair took place. Shops with captivating wares, flutes for children, toy drums. Such a variety of food items, telebhaja[5], jilapi. Earthen pots and utensils were selling somewhere under a tree canopy. Rows of bicycles and pick-up vans were elsewhere. An old Santhal man was going around selling bamboo flutes. He himself was rapt in the melody he was playing. There was a cloud of red dust. Girls and young men were walking around holding hands, disregarding the dust. The crowd at the fair was made up of people from all the nearby villages.

Was it only Santhals? No, babu folk too had come to have fun. Everyone was dressed in new clothes, looking their best. Girls had applied mahua oil on their hair and parted their hair, with wildflowers adorning their coiffure.

Hidden away from the fair, in a clearing inside the forest, there was a crowd of people. That’s where the cockfights took place. It used to take place in the fair ground itself earlier. But a few times, police vans had arrived and pulled down everything. It has moved its venue into the forest ever since. I went there with Lokha. Sal-wood poles had been planted, and the spot had been encircled with a rope. Everyone was standing around the rope, Some of them were hauchis, with roosters in their hands. Others had come only to watch.

I asked Lokha to stand under a tendu tree, and told him, “Don’t go anywhere, son. Just stand here and watch the cockfights. I have to find us an opponent.”

I was going around with my rooster, looking for an opponent, when a suited and booted babu with a camera on his shoulder pushed his way through the crowd. Everyone gaped at the man.

A few kaatkaars, those who tied blades to the roosters’ feet, had gone into the enclosure through the boundary rope. Seeing the babu, they said, “Hey babu, what business do you have here? You want to publicise the cockfight? Stop taking pictures, we warn you!”

The babu put his camera into his bag following the threat.

As I went around searching, who should I encounterbut Singh babu — a pleasure-seeking man indeed! He frequently participated in cockfights to indulge his fancy. From time to time, he also wagered money on the days of the weekly market. There was a spirited rooster in the babu’s hands. Seeing me, he said, “What’s up, Hansda, have you brought one too?”

I nodded my head, and said, “Yes, babu. I did it for fun.”

“But you’re in bad times! So how come you’re indulging your fancy?”

Seeing the rooster in my hand, the babu’s rooster stretched its neck, fluffed the feathers on its neck, and glared agitatedly. When I had told the babu about the six sacks of paddy, the babu had glared at me in the same way. My rooster’s eyes too emitted fire. They were a fine pair, but how could I tell the babu that! He was a well-known man, why would he agree to a cockfight with me?

The kaatkar Hiralal, from Panchal was nearby, tying blades toa rooster’stoes. Seeing our two roosters, he burst out, “The two make a fine pair! Why don’t you get them to fight?”

Had Hiralal lost his head or what! What’s this he was saying! Would someone like Singh babu agree to a cockfight with my rooster! I was a poor Santhal. I survived by farming the babu’s land. But I was astonished to hear the babu’s response.

“Hey Hansda! Are you willing?”

I replied hesitantly, “Whatever you wish, babu.”

Hiralal began tying blades to the two roosters’ toes. We didn’t call them blades. The blades were known as heter. Kaatkars had arrived to tie the heter to the toes of all the fighting roosters. After all, there were so many roosters for the cockfight! If there had been only one kaatkaar, it would be night by the time the contests were over.

The rooster belonging to Budhon Ghosh, the ration-dealer from Harindanga village, was fighting now with the one belonging to Fatik Ghosh from Panchal. There was a circle made with lime powder within the roped-in enclosure. The two roosters were made to face each other within the circle. The roosters in the hands of other cockfighters in the crowd raised their necks and crowed. The cockfight was going to be a lively one.

Meanwhile, the beats of the dhamsa and madol came wafting from the fairground. Intoxicated with mahua [6]and hanriya, our young men and women were dancing in a circle, hand in hand. A tide of joy washed over the hills. The whole forest was in a state of intoxication with the drim drima drim beat.

Budhon Ghosh won the cockfight. The spectators clapped and whistled to congratulate him. Fatik’s defeated rooster was his now.

It was our turn next. Singh babu and I entered the roped enclosure. We held the tails of the two roosters and stood them face to face in the middle of the lime circle. Singh babu and I too were face to face. These weren’t roosters! They were like magnets drawn to iron. They could not be restrained, they kept pulling forward. As soon as the whistle blew, fweeeet, we released the roosters. The fight began. They flapped their wings, torn feathers flew into the air. Neither of them spared the other.

When the babu’s rooster was overcoming mine, the spectators applauded, and cried out, “Singh babu! Singh babu!” Again, when my rooster was beating the babu’s rooster, a few spectators behind me excitedly burst out, “Hansda! Hansda!”

I was witnessing another battle. After all, the two roosters weren’t roosters. They were Singh babu and me. We were down on our hands and knees, both of us had become roosters. We were in an unflinching face-off. Behind me were rows and rows of Santhal men and women, mothers, brothers and sisters, standing with bows and arrows, battle axes, and spears in their hands. And behind the babu were row upon row of diku, as outsiders were known.

I suddenly heard the Santhals cry out excitedly, ‘Sanatan! Sanatan!’ I realised I had lost my concentration. I saw that my brave rooster had pierced his blade into the breast of the babu’s rooster and felled it. I had won!

I rushed and picked up the babu’s rooster. It was mine according to the regulations. The kaatkaar too had to be paid for fixing the blades. There was no end to Lokha’s joy! The next fight had already begun.

Lokha’s Ma had forbidden me again and again. “Hey, what if this fully grown rooster loses? How about indulging yourself with food only at the festival instead?” But I paid her no heed. How happy Lokha’s Ma would be now!

But as soon as I glanced at Singh babu, I had a strange feeling. Why had his face turned so ashen? After all it was merely a battle between two roosters…

I felt no joy despite having won. What had I done, oh dear! I had beaten the babu. How could I take his rooster home and eat it?

I said to Lokha, “Go, my son. Go and give the rooster to the babu.”

Lokha asked me, “Are you very angry? We won! So why should I give it?”

What was Lokha saying! That we won? After all, we had never been able to win! We had been beaten time and again, my dear! Ever since some distant time. What had I done now, oh dear, by beating the babu! My eyes turned moist. I went with the rooster to the babu.

The babu did not say a single word to me.

I said, “Hey babu! Take this. Let your boys have a feast. I have one already!”

The babu said, “No, Hansda. I won’t take a beaten rooster home.”

Hearing that, I shook my head. The babu patted my shoulder and said, “Let’s see what happens next year.”

[1] Oh!

[2] Bengali month starting mid-January and ending mid-February

[3] Local liquor

[4] A fried sweet

[5] Deep fried snacks

[6] Local liquor

Hamiruddin Middya was born in 1997 in Ruppal, a remote village in Bankura district in West Bengal. Born in a marginal farmer’s family, he has been in agricultural fields and farming from his childhood. His passion for writing started from his school days. He has worked as a domestic helper, a migrant construction mason, and travelled to rural fairs to sell wares. Hamiruddin’s first story was published in the magazine Lagnausha in 2016. Since then, three collections of his short stories have been published, Azraeler Daak (2019), Mathrakha (2022), and Ponchisti Golpo (2025). The story collection, Mathrakha, received the Yuva Puraskar for 2023 from the Sahitya Akademi, India.

V. Ramaswamy took up translation following two decades of engagement in social activism for the rights of the labouring poor of Kolkata. Beginning with the iconic and experimental writer Subimal Misra, he then devoted himself to translating “voices from the margins”, both in fiction and nonfiction. Besides translating four volumes of Misra’s short fiction, Ramaswamy has translated Manoranjan Byapari, Adhir Biswas, Swati Guha, Mashiul Alam, Shahidul Zahir, Shahaduz Zaman and Ismail Darbesh, among others.

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

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

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Tags Adhir Biswas, Bankura, Bengali, Hamiruddin Middya, India, Ismail Darbesh, Kolkata, Manoranjan Byapari, Mashiul Alam, Rupal, Sahitya Akademi, Shahaduz Zaman, Shahidul Zahir, Subimal Misra, Swati Guha, Translation, V. Ramaswamy, West Bengal

Stories

Santa in the Autorickshaw

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date February 16, 2026
No Comments on Santa in the Autorickshaw

By Snigdha Agrawal

The December breeze had turned nippy in Bengaluru, carrying with it the aroma of roasted peanuts and freshly fried banana chips from roadside stalls. Fairy lights blinked across MG Road, and plastic Santas dangled from shopfronts. Ravi watched the sparkle through his rear-view mirror as he waited for his regular passenger, Ananya, to emerge from the Barton Centre, where she worked at a real estate firm.

“Sorry, Ravi bhaiya,” she said, sliding into the back seat. “The office party ran late. You know how these Christmas celebrations are: too much food, too little meaning.” She sighed, glancing at her half-open goody bag stuffed with unopened chips and chocolates.

Ravi smiled politely. He liked Ananya. Always punctual, always courteous, never haggling over the fare. But her words lingered. Too much food, too little meaning.

That night, after parking his autorickshaw near his rented room in Ejipura, Ravi noticed a group of slum children huddled under a flickering streetlight. They were watching a television through the open window of a well-to-do home. A Christmas carol drifted out, and the children sang along, slightly off-key.

“Santa will come!” one of the younger ones shouted.

“Arrey, fool,” another replied, “Santa only goes to rich houses.”

Their laughter carried a quiet truth. Ravi walked past them slowly, his chest tightening. What if Santa came here—just once?

The thought stayed with him.

The next morning, Ravi tied a cardboard sign inside his auto:

CHRISTMAS DONATION BOX – HELP BRING A SMILE TO CHILDREN LIVING IN SLUMS

An old plastic box sat beneath it. Some passengers glanced at it and looked away. Others smiled. A few dropped in coins or notes.

“What’s this for?” many asked.

“I want to buy small gifts for the children near my place,” Ravi explained. “Like Santa.”

An elderly woman patted his shoulder before slipping in a hundred-rupee note. “Good man. May God bless you.”

Within days, the box filled faster than Ravi had imagined. One evening, he counted the money: over three thousand rupees. More than a week’s earnings. His hands trembled slightly as he folded the notes.

At the market, he bought candy packets, crayons, and small notebooks. In a second-hand shop near Shivajinagar, he found a faded red Santa coat, a cotton beard, and a cap. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

On Christmas Eve, Ravi transformed his green-and-yellow auto. Fairy lights ran along the roof. Paper stars swayed gently. A hand-painted ‘Merry Christmas’ sign was fixed to the back.

His neighbours laughed. “Ravi, have you gone mad? You’re a Hindu. Why Christmas?”

Ravi grinned. “Santa doesn’t ask who you are before giving gifts, right?”

By evening, the narrow lanes were alive with whispers and giggles. When Ravi stepped out dressed as Santa, a cheer erupted.

“Santa has come! Real Santa!”

He handed out candies, crayons, and notebooks. Laughter echoed between the tin roofs, mingling with jingling auto coins and distant church bells.

A barefoot little girl with bright eyes tugged at his sleeve. “Santa uncle, will you come next year also?”

Ravi bent down, his beard slipping sideways. “Only if you promise to study well and share your chocolates.”

She nodded gravely. “Done.”

Ravi laughed, blinking back, gripped by a sudden ache in his throat.

Later that night, he removed the Santa costume and counted the remaining money. Rs 1,800 still lay in the box. Someone had quietly slipped in two Rs 500 notes during the evening crowd. Ravi sat silently for a long moment, overwhelmed.

The next morning, he went to the Hanuman temple, where he prayed every Tuesday. He placed the leftover money before the priest as a thanksgiving.

The priest, an elderly man with cataract-clouded eyes, listened patiently as Ravi explained: the happiness he had brought to the slum children with the donation box, the costume, the Christmas star.

“I know it’s not our festival, Swamiji,” Ravi said apologetically. “But I wanted to do something good.”

The priest smiled. “Tell me, Ravi, did you ask those children their religion before giving them sweets?”

“No, Swamiji.”

“And did they ask yours?”

Ravi shook his head.

“Then where is the difference?” the priest said gently. “Whether one calls Him Krishna, Allah, or Christ, God smiles when His children care for one another. This is the true spirit of dharma[1].”

He placed his hand on Ravi’s head. “May your auto always carry light, not just passengers.”

That evening, Ravi drove through Bengaluru once more. Some fairy lights on his auto had dimmed, but a few still twinkled. The donation box remained inside. Though Christmas had passed, coins continued to clink into it.

For the first time, Ravi understood that Christmas wasn’t about religion, decorations, or abundance. It was about sharing warmth in a world that often forgets to care.

The road stretched ahead, glowing with city lights that shimmered like stars. And in the soft hum of his modest auto, Ravi felt as though he carried a small piece of swarg[2] through the streets of Bengaluru.

[1] Faith

[2] Heaven

Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books, a lifelong lover of words, and the writer of the memoir Fragments of Time, available on Amazon worldwide. She lives in Bangalore (India).

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

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

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Tags Allah, Amazon, Bangalore, Bengaluru, Christ, Christmas, Hanuman, India, Krishna, Santa