Category: Stories

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Stories

The Art of Letting Go

Plamen Vasilev

By Plamen Vasilev

 Noemi traced the rim of her wine glass, the condensation leaving damp circles on the worn wooden table. The bistro buzzed with Friday night energy – the clinking of glasses, bursts of laughter, the low hum of conversations – but to Noemi, it all sounded muffled, distant. Opposite her sat Liam, his hazel eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, clouded with a seriousness that mirrored her own.

 They’d been coming to this exact table, in this exact corner, every Friday night for the last seven years. Seven years of shared secrets, whispered dreams, and unwavering support. Seven years of a friendship so profound it had become the cornerstone of their lives. But tonight, the familiar comfort felt brittle, fragile, threatening to shatter like cheap glass.

“So,” Liam began, his voice a low rumble, “you’re really going through with it.”

Noemi nodded, avoiding his gaze. “I am. I have to.”

“Even after everything?” He gestured vaguely, encompassing years of shared history with a single, sweeping motion.

“Especially after everything,” Noemi corrected softly. “Staying would be… unfair. To both of us.”

The ‘it’ Liam referred to was a job offer. A dream job, really, working as a curator’s assistant at a prestigious art gallery in Florence. Noemi, a struggling artist who supplemented her income by teaching art classes to unruly teenagers, had never dared to dream of such an opportunity. It was everything she had ever wished for, yet accepting it meant leaving Liam behind.

Their friendship had always been an intricate dance, a delicate balance of platonic affection and unspoken longing. They understood each other in a way no one else ever had, anticipating each other’s thoughts, finishing each other’s sentences.

There had been moments, particularly in their early twenties, where the lines blurred, where the possibility of something more hung heavy in the air.

But fear, or perhaps a deeper understanding of the potential for catastrophic heartbreak, had always held them back. They were afraid of ruining something so precious, of losing the unwavering support and unconditional love they found in each other’s friendship.

“Florence,” Liam sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy brown hair. “It’s a long way to go for art.”

“It’s a long way to go for a chance,” Noemi countered, finally meeting his gaze. She saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, and a pang of guilt shot through her. “Liam, you know I’ve always wanted this. I can’t let fear hold me back anymore.”

“Fear?” He scoffed, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “Is that really what you think this is about? Fear? What about us, Noemi? What about what we have?”

Noemi winced. This was the conversation she had been dreading. The one where they laid bare the unspoken truths that had hummed beneath the surface of their friendship for years.

“What do we have, Liam?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “A carefully constructed comfort zone? A safety net woven from years of shared experiences? We’re so afraid of rocking the boat that we’re content to drift aimlessly in the same stagnant waters.”

Liam leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. “That’s not fair. We have something real, something special. You can’t just throw that away for a… a pipe dream.”

“It’s not a pipe dream, Liam! It’s a chance to finally pursue my passion, to grow, to evolve. And,” she added, her voice softening, “it’s also a chance for you to do the same.”

He looked at her, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been stuck in that dead-end accounting job for five years, Liam. You hate it. You dream of opening your own brewery, but you’re too afraid to take the leap. You’re comfortable, Liam. Too comfortable.”

Liam opened his mouth to protest, but Noemi held up a hand, stopping him. “I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m terrified. But I also know that if I stay here, if we keep doing the same thing, week after week, year after year, we’ll both end up resenting each other. We’ll resent the missed opportunities, the unfulfilled dreams, the unspoken words.”

Silence descended upon the table, broken only by the clatter of cutlery and the muffled conversations around them. Liam stared at his hands, his expression unreadable. Noemi held her breath, waiting for him to say something, anything.

Finally, he looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding. “So, this is it then? This is goodbye?”

“No,” Noemi said firmly. “This isn’t goodbye. This is… a new beginning. For both of us. We’ll still be friends, Liam. Maybe even better friends. But we need to let go of this… this comfortable stagnation. We need to allow each other to grow, even if it means growing apart for a while.”

Liam managed a weak smile. “Easier said than done.”

“I know,” Noemi replied, reaching across the table to take his hand. His skin was warm and familiar beneath her fingertips. “But we’re strong, Liam. Stronger than we think. We’ve been through so much together. We can handle this.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, holding hands, absorbing the weight of their decision. The bustling energy of the bistro seemed to fade away, leaving them alone in their quiet corner, grappling with the bittersweet reality of change.

“So,” Liam said, finally breaking the silence, “Florence, huh? You’ll send me postcards, right?”

Noemi laughed, a genuine, heartfelt laugh that eased the tension in the air. “Of course, I will. And you’ll come visit. We can explore the Uffizi together, drink Chianti, and you can tell me all about your brewery.”

Liam grinned, a hint of his old mischief returning. “Deal. But only if you promise to try my experimental Grapefruit IPA[1].”

“Grapefruit IPA?” Noemi wrinkled her nose. “Sounds… interesting.”

“Trust me,” Liam said with a wink. “It’s an acquired taste. Just like our relationship.”

The weeks leading up to Noemi’s departure were a whirlwind of packing, goodbyes, and last-minute errands.

Liam was her rock, helping her navigate the logistical nightmare of moving to a new country, offering a steady presence amidst the chaos. He drove her to the airport, his face a mask of forced cheerfulness.

As she stood in the departure gate, tears welled up in her eyes. She turned to Liam and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

“I’m going to miss you too, El,” he replied, his voice equally thick. “But you’ve got this. Go make your dreams come true.”

Noemi pulled back, wiping away her tears. She looked at Liam, really looked at him, for what felt like the last time. She saw the years of friendship etched on his face, the unwavering support in his eyes, the love that had always been there, unspoken, yet undeniable.

“I will,” she said, her voice filled with newfound determination. “And you go open that brewery, Liam. Don’t let fear hold you back.”

He nodded, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “I won’t.”

Noemi turned and walked through the gate, her heart pounding in her chest. As she boarded the plane, she looked back one last time. Liam was still standing there, watching her, his hand raised in a silent farewell.

The first few months in Florence were challenging. Noemi struggled to adjust to the new culture, the language barrier, and the demanding workload at the gallery. She missed Liam terribly, their Friday night dinners, their easy banter, their unwavering support.

 She sent him postcards, as promised, filled with descriptions of Renaissance art and quirky Italian customs. They Skyped regularly, sharing updates on their lives, their triumphs, and their struggles.

One evening, as Noemi sat in her tiny apartment, surrounded by art books and half-finished paintings, her phone rang. It was Liam.

“Hey,” she said, her heart leaping with joy at the sound of his voice. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he replied, his voice sounding different, more confident. “I have some news.”

“What is it?” Noemi asked, her curiosity piqued.

“I quit my job,” Liam announced.

Noemi gasped. “You what? You quit your job? Are you crazy?”

“Maybe,” he chuckled. “But I couldn’t do it anymore, El. You were right. I was stuck. I was comfortable. And I was miserable.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Noemi asked, her voice filled with anticipation.

“I’m opening the brewery,” Liam said, his voice brimming with excitement. “I found a great space downtown. It needs a lot of work, but it has potential. I’m calling it ‘The Letting Go Brewery’.”

Noemi’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s amazing, Liam! I’m so proud of you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, El,” he said softly. “You inspired me. You showed me that it’s okay to take risks, to chase your dreams, even if it means leaving something comfortable behind.”

“We inspire each other, Liam,”Noemi replied, her voice choked with emotion. “That’s what friends are for.”

“Yeah,” Liam agreed. “That’s what friends are for. And maybe… maybe someday… more than friends.”

Noemi smiled, a slow, knowing smile. “Maybe,” she said. “But for now, let’s just focus on our dreams. Let’s focus on letting go.”

A year later, Eliza returned to her hometown for the grand opening of “The Letting Go Brewery.” The place was packed with people, friends, family, and curious locals, all eager to sample Liam’s experimental brews.

 Noemi stood in the corner, watching Liam work the crowd, his face beaming with pride and happiness. He looked different, more confident, more alive. The dead-end accountant was gone, replaced by a passionate entrepreneur, a man who had finally found his purpose.

As Liam caught her eye, he excused himself from a conversation and walked over to her.

“So,” he said, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Noemi replied, taking a sip of his Grapefruit IPA, “that you’ve created something truly special. And I think… that it was worth letting go.”

Liam smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. He took her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers.

“Me too, El,” he said softly. “Me too.”

And as they stood there, surrounded by the joyful noise of the brewery, Noemi knew that they had finally found their way back to each other, not as the comfortable, complacent friends they had once been, but as two individuals who had dared to chase their dreams, to let go of the familiar, and to embrace the possibility of a love that was stronger, deeper, and more rewarding than anything they had ever imagined.

They had learned the art of letting go, and in doing so, they had discovered the true meaning of friendship and love.

[1] A variety of beer

From Public Domain

 Plamen Vasilev is an award-winning author with big dreams who loves to help others. He has 2 cats.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

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Stories

The City that Refused to be Found

By Rabiya Rehman

From Public Domain

Rim and I decided that it was for the best that we pinned Thursday as the day we commemorated change. Rim said it carried value, that good deeds showed exponential impacts on Thursdays. I was always a sceptic, but I also loved to play along with her antics, believing that maybe her beliefs carried, if nothing, than at least unwavering faith. Like a wild moth that circumambulates light bulbs, I liked hovering around people with warmth in their convictions, even if I didn’t feel the heat myself.

That Thursday, with Lahore’s weather melting our bags and shoes, we took an Uber to the centre of the city. Sweating and stumbling under the weight of books, we had decided that the world needed our attention. Particularly the newer lot;  simple, untouched, sensitive kids, who were victims of a declining reading culture. Our project was simple. Revive the ancient literatures of our land and encourage youngsters to read Urdu, Punjabi, Sindhi, Pashto, Siraiki writings. It was a social action project, tinted strongly with the pressing need to fulfil our community service hours, get our undergrad degrees, and leave the country for good.

Our Uber halted on a wayward road and the Google Maps app on my cell phone pinged. Wiping my brows, I looked tiredly at the man sitting in the driving seat with cheap, tinted shades. Rim was already getting out, pulling out cartons. I followed, paying the man his due, and straightening my sweat-drained kurti[1]. The uber hurried by, leaving us alone on a deserted road, paralleled by a graveyard. A man spraying roses with ether sat outside. The graveyard looked empty. The dead was left to their accord in the unflinching heat, even mosquitos seemed suspended mid-air.

We looked around and couldn’t see the library we were looking for. Aside from an occasional car passing by, hardly any signs of life were visible, let alone a signboard. The man with the roses followed our movement, his eyes trailing us with an intent too steady to be casual.

Rim jogged to him. Stooping low to match his gaze, she inquired, “Baba jee[2], is there a library close by?”

The man stared back and with a disfigured thumb pointed to her back. A tomb-like structure, which we ignored for some kind of local monument, stood stall and decaying in the centre of a park. It had caricatures of half-fairies, half-children painted on it. Beneath it were some quotes from popular Urdu poems that the harsh heat of Lahore had eroded.

“Umm, that’s the library?”

“I think so.” Rim said with a quizzed expression. “Let’s walk closer to see the main entrance. I can hardly see anything from this side of the road.”

The tomb indeed had a heavy polished brass door which contrasted sharply with the rotting situation of its grey structure. I pulled at the door and we stumbled inside an elaborate, red-carpeted, and red-walled hall. The woman behind the desk peeked as soon as Rim entered.

The room was beautiful, with landscape paintings of old Lahore and the river Ravi. Air conditioner blasted at full speed, and the old hum of different electronics created a soothing and numbing atmosphere. I could feel my shirt drying as the woman crossed the hall towards us, her red dupatta[3] following her trail.

“My bachas[4], what brings you hear in this heat? It’s an old library, are you looking for some antique books?”

She wore red chipping nail paint which emphasized the thinness of her dark hands. Old but strangely young, the woman fixed her silky drape, staring at us with glassy eyes.

“We got your address… our university’s administration gave it to us. Umm… they said you work with students who are particularly interested in the development of local literatures?” I responded, still-focusing on her hands.

“Yes. We have a separate office for that. Bacha, you’re at the wrong place. We relocated our main office a few months ago. It’s not far from here.”

While the woman spoke, Rim had walked to the furthest end of the library. Only her hunched back remained visible, focused on something out of my sight.

“Alright, that sounds good. Can you please give me the address of the main office?”

“Sure, and call your friend back. Visitors are not allowed today.”

I turned a bit and whisper-shouted, “Rim, let’s go!”

Rim didn’t look back and as I walked closer to her, I made out a rugged looking pit in the middle of the library floor. I crossed the distance, careful not to disturb the silence that clung to every surface like a curse. Inside the pit were a few books, some miniatures paintings, plastic cars, and three children with pale, almost colourless hair, sleeping peacefully in the sunken space. Such was the hush that not even an inch of their hair moved. We stared at their faces quietly. An eeriness had quietly descended the hall. The silence was broken by a soft hand on my shoulder.

“I said no visitors today, bacha.”

The woman’s voice came from behind. My conscious jolted as I felt her hand melting on my shoulder. I turned around and hurried out the door, with Rim on my heels. Before the door was completely closed, we saw the woman bent down, staring at the pit, her silk dupatta quietly trailing down her side. The image was like a water-painting, old, blistered, and grotesque.

“That was strange.” I breathed the moment the sun blared at us again.

“I know, Biya, that woman is like a hundred years old. Who dresses up like that at a hundred years old?”

“I don’t know, she appeared… timeless.”

“Yeah, she made me uncomfortable.” Rim shuddered and rubbed her shoulders. “Anyways, it’s still mid-day. I think we better hurry to that office. I promised Ammi[5] that I’ll come home early today.”

“Let’s go. Let’s walk. I don’t see any rikshaw or Uber passing.”

We walked passed the graveyard. Soon, as our shadows began to lengthen, we embarked a highway. Recognising it immediately, we understood that now we were close to a boulevard.

I jogged and Rim followed pursuit. My sneakers were pinching at my toes, and the sun grew larger and larger. We walked with cartons pulling our shoulders down. In a few minutes we were at the entrance of a colony.

“Okay, so Google says five more minutes. You aren’t dehydrated, right?” I asked Rim, staring at her pale face with concern.

“Ah… I am fine, I think. Lets just keep moving.”

We moved further until my phone pinged again. The notification showed that we had arrived at our location. I looked around. The place seemed abandoned, except huge mansions lined each side of the street. It was staggering, coming from a less developed area of Lahore, it always took me by surprise that houses could be so extravagant. Lush, elaborate lawns, freshly-polished doors, razor wires that covered kilometres of walls, and shiny marble which covered every inch of the buildings. We walked around the silent place, looking for signs of life. Not a single person was in sight.

We walked slowly, looking at the mansions in awe. Most gates were open, with expensive cars lining porches. A particular mansion had a driveway as big as the distance we had walked from the library. The house only appeared like a glimmer in distance. It had a glass structure at the entrance, fifteen foot tall and thirty feet wide. From what we could see, it was filled to the mouth with paintings, statues, and old artifacts.

“I have never been here before, Biya, and I was born in this city!”

“Same, but why is it so abandoned?”

“That’s what I was wondering. People have their BMW’s and Bugatti’s parked with gates wide open. There isn’t a guard in sight.”

“But where’s the office?”

“Let me check.”

Google Maps pointed at a house on the right. It stood forlorn, the only one on the right of that particular block. The raven-coloured gate was only slightly ajar. I pointed towards it and Rim pushed the gate with a slight force. It swayed easily, uncovering a pathway lined with wild cactus and primroses.

We cautiously walked the path. The house loomed before us, exhaling and inhaling with our every step. Its windows were tainted, reminding me of someone who hadn’t slept in years. Like the rest of the colony, there was a sense of restlessness in the air that cut through our skin like knife. While the house appeared pristine at first glance, a deeper look revealed cracks that ran through like capillaries in sea-green coloured walls. Bougainvillea climbed the side pillars and bloomed furiously, as if trying to revive a place that had stopped expecting visitors. I felt uncomfortable and tugged at Rim’s sleeve anxiously.

Under my touch, Rim froze.

“Biya”, she whispered, clutching my arm.

I looked up.

There, on one of the walls, a barred window gleamed with peeling paint. A woman was standing there. She was waving; slowly, deliberately. Like a pendulum of an old grandfather clock. She swayed, one hand clutching the bars of the window. It was ominous. Her dark gown fluttered faintly with the breeze.

I slightly raised my arm, unsure how to respond. Was this a greeting?

Before we could understand, a loud metallic clatter filled the air suddenly. Dogs barked viciously in a fit of madness. We spun around, trying to look for the noise. The place was empty. From the main door, a man burst forth. His shirt stained, barefoot and eyes bloodshot, he ran towards us. As he came closer, time stood slow. The hollowness of his eyes appeared like sunken pits in a dried riverbed. His hair screamed past air the closer he moved.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” He exploded, spitting with rage.

 “This is a private property! Don’t you dare come here! Go back! Go back!”

I let out a startled yelp and felt blood leaving my feet. Rim grabbed my arm and turned, sprinting down the gravel path as the man’s shouting mixed with the ear-splitting barking. The cactus needles brushed our clothes as we half-ran, half-stumbled. The gate we had nudged open without a second thought now felt like an exit from a spider’s web. Before we left, my eyes saw a trembling cage covered with a moth covered cotton sheet.

Rim ran for a long time, dragging me along. Reaching the main road again, panting, books rustling inside the carton, she stopped. Her arms were shaking. She stopped and looked at me nervously. In what sounded like a hysterical laugh, she breathed, trying to regain her senses.

“Biya, that wasn’t the office.” Rim said, exhaling.

No brainer, I thought. The sun was now trying to spin westwards, bleeding into the smoggy, dry sky of Lahore. Rim and I dragged ourselves, noticing our shadows getting longer and longer. We walked back to the colony, stopping at a office which read “Samia Wellness and Fertility Centre”. We decided to flag down a rickshaw. Rim was now oddly quiet, and my throat felt like it was scratched with sandpaper.

“Some local rickshaw-wala might be familiar with the office. I don’t have the energy to walk and this place seems too cursed for random exploration.”

Rim silently nodded, too exhausted to share her thoughts. The rickshaw stopped in front of us.

“Where to, beti[6]?” the driver asked, as I again fumbled with my cell phone and gave him the address to the office. The Google Maps app kept acting up, rerouting like a compass held close to a magnet.

“Just take us to this stop,” I said, waving the screen in his face.

The rickshaw sputtered, coughing like a chain-smoker and off we went. We looked outside carefully, tracking the map with the roads that passed by. We passed the graveyard again. The man who ether-sprayed roses had gone. Five minutes later, the driver halted and pointed outside.

“Beti, this is it. Fertility Center. It will be 300 rupees.”

We blinked and looked outside. We were at the fertility centre again. Fresh paint covered the building and the sun was now casting orange hues. Rim and I exchanged a look.

“Bhai[7], are you playing tricks with us? You got us back to the same place!”

“This is the location you gave me,” the man shrugged with obvious irritation.

“That’s not where we want to go,” Rim cried in frusruration.

The man shrugged again, clearly uninterested in our predicament.

We decided to give it another try. Rebooted the app and entered the address. The same pin drop appeared.

“Let’s just do one more round,” Rim told the driver.

We took another round. Moving in circles, again passing the neighbourhood, the library, and the graveyard. We passed the same mansions. Same roads. The rickshaw stopped again.

It was the same fertility centre. The same man who sat outside the pharmacy holding a file looked at us with amused suspicion.

“This place is cursed”, Rim shouted.

We got off the rickshaw, paid and shooed the driver away, and decided to walk again.

“Google thinks our project is a lost cause.” I said quietly.

It was as if the old city of Ravi was itself draining us, trapping us in a loop of mythic punishment, reflecting its forgotten literatures, the very stories we aimed to revive.

This time we let instinct lead, trying to follow the directions our university’s management had told Rim verbally. Soon, the road of the fertility centre opened up into quitter rows of offices. One of them read in small plaque: “Pakistan’s Centre for Indigenous Literatures”.

Rim jumped and placed a hand over her mouth. “That’s it! This is the office!”

I knocked on the door carefully, half expecting another madman or a ghost to burst forth and envelope us.

However, this time, a middle-aged man with a plastic clipboard opened the gate and looked stratled at our sweaty and wild-eyed state.

“Umm, the volunteers, I presume?”

“Yes.” I replied with a pause and we both entered.

During our meeting, the lady in charge said something that stuck with me through many years. She shared the history of her organisation, which deeply intertwined with the history of Lahore. She remarked that Pakistan is a land of promise, but lands have a way of oozing decay. You can build highways, install fancy street lights, and create grand elaborate structures, but the degeneration, the last faltering breath of a city rampant with the destruction of ideology, of morality, and of faith, that cannot be swept under covers. It stares back from the layers of funds and aids thrown at it. So, you may close your eyes, put cotton in your ears, and even numb your hands, but the horrors of a city destroyed by its own people never really become silent.

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

[1] A short shirt cut like a kurta, but often short sleeved

[2] A polite term to address an older man

[3] A scarf or veil

[4] Children

[5] Mother

[6] Daughter

[7] Brother

Rabiya Rehman is a Staff Editor for Chartium, and the Poetry Feedback Assistant at ECHO Review. She is an English Literature grad student based in Pakistan, a place known for its centuries-old tradition of Sufi poetry and searching questions about the self. Her research and interests lie in speculative fiction and the ways stories shape both culture and selfhood.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

Categories
Stories

The Sea of Loneliness

By Kieran Martin

Kraken. From Public domain

The seas teem with danger; any fool can tell you that. Someone with a little learning might be more specific. One uncle told me about waters so deep that divers die of nostalgia. There are kraken: huge monsters with bodies of aliens and hearts of chaos. There are spots where things disappear and others where storms rise like panic attacks, smashing hearts into eyes and even exchanging arms and legs till everyone aboard understands how hastily assembled we are. Self-help gurus know nothing of the ocean.

Few speak of the most dangerous place, so quiet while I tell you. In the Pacific, where tuna are at their boldest, the very young and the very old pass each other going to and from the fresh waters of Aotearoa. Tuna, by the way, is the Māori name for ‘eel’, as well as type of fish. We’re talking about the eel here. We figure the Sea of Loneliness is in that part of the ocean because tunas can be seen there.

Aotearoa is the Maori name for New Zealand, means “Land of the Long White Cloud”. From Public Domain

One morning the crew awakes and everyone is alone. Jacko in the crow’s nest, Lippy on the deck. Everyone else down under, but no one with company. First, it was curious, then it was fun, then it felt scary, and after that brave. But a few days in, it felt like only one thing. Lonely.

Had the crew been warned about the Sea of Loneliness? I can’t really say. Jacko wouldn’t pay attention, Lippy would forget, Grandma might talk about another sea when she was young, but that would all be make-believe. Even if you knew, as the days dragged on, you’d probably replace it with your own story to pass the time.

The tuna though of all the creatures in the ocean, they were the ones who weren’t affected. You knew before long. You see one cod, and one gull, but thousands of tunas. All comfort and hope depended on them. By seeing their number, you could start to believe the others were still there. You knew that there was a chance for this to end.

They are so, so silent. There’s a laconic dryness to their manner as if they swim without touching water. They didn’t need to speak: to be in their presence is to discover that you don’t really understand time. Whoever looked into the water would know. The others are still there. They’re thinking about you too.

I’m not saying there weren’t some desperate days. And every day was hard. Our little crew made it through. The next day they were fighting over coffee beans and lightning. Hoo-boy, we like to keep moving. And we, who made it across that body of water, when we stop and mop a floor very, very slowly, we can see those tuna again and thank them for never leaving us.

.

.

Kieran Martin wrote a couple of short pieces 14 years ago when living in a very small town. He also writes lyrics, essays and code. His kids taught him how to narrate; one of the many gifts they came to him with.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

Categories
Stories

The Silent Valley

By Jeena R. Papaadi

From Public Domain

They found him wandering, kilometres away from where he was lost. Starving, malnourished, dehydrated. Hair, like straws, rising in all directions. Unkempt. Untidy. But with stars in his eyes, and head in the clouds.

To their questions as to what had happened, where he had been all these years, he only pointed backwards to the forbidding mountains. His replies didn’t make any sense. There’s a world out there, he said. People. Lots of people. A community. Life was such a dream. A fantasy. Perfect. Ideal.

Expedition after expedition set out into the deep dark jungle, which, generations ago had been explored and abandoned as uninhabitable, unattainable. They sent their best women and men. They found nothing, no one could pass, climb or survive; nor did they see anything when they flew over, but thick green canopy.

The mountains and the forest stood firm like a wall, unnatural. Yet he persisted, and his words were met with scorn.  Because, as he spoke, he giggled like a child and said, of course you will never understand. You’ll never see. You’ll never find it. That’s its beauty. That’s how it’s designed. Life is not what you think it is. You live in a fool’s paradise. They’ll never let you in. Actually, you’re in and they are out. You just don’t get it.And never will.

Everything you see is an illusion.

He was the only one to ever slip out of the Valley. That had been an accident too. He would never have returned of his own accord.

*

Months would pass before his delirium came down. He woke up gradually to the reality of who he was, where he was. As time passed, he grew more and more confused as to the time he spent in the Valley. He always called it the Valley, because that’s what the people over there did. The Silent Valley or the Shielded Valley, he couldn’t recall which.

“Do they exist, these people?” they asked.

“I—I think they do.”

He would try to explain it with theories, the well-wishers convinced him he was hallucinating, but no one could explain how he survived fifteen years in the wild. Least of all, himself.

Five years after his return, with the memory of the Valley but a dream, he set out himself to find it again, if only to satisfy his curiosity. He remembered people working, living, with animals and birds, peacefully and collaboratively. A world more naturally advanced, without the technology of this side. There was something otherworldly about it. Almost magical.

Now, back home, in control of his senses, he could feel it. He flew once again into the woods and parachuted roughly where he had crashed the last time, though the wreckage was never found. He had his gadgets, recording devices, tools, everything a human could think of. All he had to guide him was the memory of a tunnel he had passed through.  He believed he could find it again.

He wandered, lost his way. When he slept, his stock of food was taken away, stolen. The bag was ripped open and the food was gone. None of the equipment was touched, they were only discarded in the search for food; some were damaged. It must have been a monkey, he concluded, although he could see none. But now he had a new problem—food.

He looked around and sensed a familiar aroma, so strong that it dislodged memories which then fought for his attention. He walked towards it. The mountain approached. Ominous, grim, hostile.

He was hit again by images, one after the other, by déjà vu, everything spiralling inside his head. He knew he was on the right track, and the reason why the others before him could not find it. Abruptly, he came across a clearing, where a shrub grew in large numbers, not exactly by happenstance, but cultivated.

He remembered this. He remembered its roots: fresh, juicy, nourishing. And the cool, low shade it provided. This—this was why he had left the Valley in the first place.

At that moment, he also realised that the Shielded Valley or the Silent People were closed to him forever. He opened his backpack and pinged his location for the pilot of the helicopter to find him and made his way to the centre of the clearing.

*

Back home, to the eagerly awaiting community—his family, well-wishers, scientists, health care professionals, and curious onlookers—he said that he had found nothing. He had lost his way, his food was stolen, and he wandered for a while and came back.

He had been gone one whole week.

Everyone was disappointed. They had been looking forward to the solution to the baffling mystery. No one noticed the same starry-eyed, head-in-the-clouds look he wore. He returned to the routine he had created for himself in this new, post-disappearance life, happier than he had ever been.

He turned down book and movie offers, interviews, documentaries, and invitations to study the forest and the mountain. He declined everything. When new expeditions were proposed, he refused to assist or guide. Leave them alone, he said. Nothing could entice him.

“Do they exist, the people?” they asked again.

“Yes, they do,” he would say with a smile, no longer any doubt in his eyes.

Every once in a while, a group would set out to find the silent, shielded Valley. They would battle the wild, and most of them would return, drained, spent, disheartened, injured. Some died. He never showed any interest whatsoever in those missions.

The unsolved mystery—and the fact that one person knew the answer and refused to divulge it—disturbed the collective human mind.

Sometimes, when alone, he would bring out the ripped backpack and settle back in his armchair. And his heart would return once again to the peace of the Valley and its People, float to the stars and kiss the clouds.

I’m not the one hallucinating. You are. All of you.

Jeena R. Papaadi is a writer based in Bengaluru and Thiruvananthapuram, with six published books. Her work has appeared in several publications including The Hindu, Borderless Journal, The Hemlock Journal, Dissent Dispatch, The Wise Owl, Kitaab, European Association of Palliative Care and Aksharasthree. Jeena’s published work is listed at: https://linktr.ee/jeenapapaadi

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Stories

The Heartless by Abdul Qayum Sarbazi

Story by Abdul Qayum Sarbazi: translated from Balochi Fazal Baloch

Abdul Qayum Sarbazi (d. 2022) was a Karachi-based fiction writer who began his literary career in the mid-1980s. Deeply influenced by the tradition of social realism, his stories illuminate the struggles, inequalities, and everyday realities of ordinary people. The story translated here first appeared in Monthly Balochi (a magazine in the public domain) in May 1988 under its original title, Bey Maarag.

The doctor checked the unconscious child’s pulse and said, “You have almost killed the child before bringing him to the hospital.”

He lifted the child’s eyelids and examined his mouth and throat. Then he placed a thermometer in his mouth and rolled up his shirt slightly. Looking at the child’s hollow stomach and protruding ribs, the doctor began critiquing the parents in a stern tone. “He is suffering more from starvation than illness. If you cannot take care of your children, why do you bring them into the world?”

The doctor removed the thermometer from the child’s mouth and blinked arrogantly before continuing to scold the father. “May God guide you. Such a high fever. He is standing at the edge of death. Why didn’t you bring him here earlier? Though I know people like you are not entirely to blame. This is what happens when people have too many children and assume they will somehow grow up on their own. Such children do not become responsible human beings; they become a burden on society. But what do you care? For the sake of ‘momentary pleasure’, you bring children into the world only for others to carry their burden.”

The boy’s father lowered his pale face and listened silently to the doctor’s taunts. It was nothing new to him. He had long grown used to harsh words from the police, the coast guard, and the dealer. Rubbing one palm against the other, he let out a weary sigh and looked helplessly at the doctor. His eyes drifted toward the swollen veins in his hands and feet before he sank into a dark cloud of worry.

The doctor cleared his throat, washed his hands with soap, dried them on the hanging towel, and resumed his sermon. “The way you treated this child… not even do we treat our worst enemy so harshly. Anyhow, I will give him two vitamin injections. He also needs glucose. There is barely any sign of life left in him, but I will do whatever I can within my capacity. The rest depends on the boy’s fate.”

The boy’s father lowered his head even further as darkness clouded his already blurred vision. In that moment, a terrible wish rose in his heart: that the earth would split open, the four-storey hospital building would collapse, and everything would be buried beneath the rubble.

After wallowing in helplessness and grief for a short while, he slowly regained control of his breathing and looked again toward the doctor. His eyes faced the merciless man like those of a beggar pleading for mercy. The doctor ran his tongue across his lips as though sharpening a blade on stone and continued coldly: “This is not how a child should be raised. Children require care, sacrifice, and hardship. For breakfast, they should be given half-fried eggs, milk, butter, and bread. At lunch, boiled beans and minced meat. In the evening, fresh fruits and salad. For dinner, meat, chicken soup, and rice. And before going to bed, a glass of milk.”

The boy’s father’s already pale face darkened with despair. He shifted slightly, crushed beneath hardship and helplessness. The doctor glanced at his wristwatch and continued his barrage of words. “At this moment, the child is still not out of danger. Deposit five hundred rupees at the counter in advance for emergency medicines and treatment. The final bill can be settled later.”

The father felt as though he had been stung by a scorpion. His senses were already numb, and whatever strength remained in him now seemed to disappear completely.

For the first time, he spoke. Looking at the doctor with helpless eyes, he said softly, “I do not have five hundred rupees.”

The doctor struck him again with his words. “This hospital is not for the poor and needy. You see all these people working here? They have to be paid. Medicines come from companies, and they demand payment immediately. Do whatever you think is best, but let me make one thing clear: your child will not survive without medicine. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands.”

Then, lowering his voice slightly, the doctor added, “I took pity on your condition and asked for only five hundred rupees. Otherwise, we charge one thousand.”

The father’s dry lips trembled beneath tears that came too early and too painfully. Even the violent tides of the sea seemed less cruel than the doctor’s words. To him, the doctor appeared like a disciple of the Angel of Death, hardened by the complete loss of compassion. Closing his eyes, the father fell at the doctor’s feet and pleaded in a voice heavy with pain: “All I have is two hundred rupees. I do not know whether such a small amount means anything to you, but it is the cry of a helpless father’s soul.”

The doctor’s face darkened with anger. His arrogance swelled again as he replied coldly: “If your money is so dear to you, then take the boy’s dead body home. Perhaps you do not believe my words, but do whatever suits you.”

The boy’s mother stood silently in a corner, numb like a statue. Ever since they arrived at the hospital, she had not uttered a single word. Life had shown her only one face: hunger, poverty, humiliation, and endless helplessness. So she remained quiet.

The boy’s father was not very old, yet he looked far older than his years. He had spent his entire life in patience and endurance. And it was all the poor could afford. But sometimes humiliation becomes heavier than patience itself. Once again, he saw the bitter truth before him. A doctor, whose hands were meant to heal like those blessed by God, had turned his noble profession into a business. To the poor, such men seemed no different from heartless merchants or cruel officials.

Yet the father felt it wiser, perhaps easier, to fall at the feet of this “angel of death” if it might save his child’s life. Swallowing the anger rising inside him, he spoke softly:

“My helplessness lies before you as clearly as an open road. I listened carefully to all your words and hold them with respect. You said that people like us bring children into the world for ‘momentary pleasure’. I have only two children. One lies before you, struggling at the mercy of death, while the other plays in the dirt back at home. Luxury and comfort are sweet words, doctor, but I have never truly known them. The land has nothing to offer us. It is the sea that feeds our children. The old days were much better for people like us, but as time passed, the chains of circumstance tightened around our lives”.

He continued, “I returned home today after spending twelve days at sea battling rough tides. We managed to catch some fish, but the coast guard took their share as if it were their right. Some were taken by the police and customs officers, and whatever remained was bought by the dealers at miserable prices. In the end, my share came to only two hundred rupees. When I reached home, everything was in chaos. My wife was almost unconscious. One child lay unconscious with fever while the other cried from hunger. My wife told me the boy had been burning with fever for a week, but she could not take him to a doctor because she had no money.”

After revealing the bitter truth of his life, he placed the crumpled two hundred-rupee notes on the doctor’s table and said: “I leave both the money and the boy with you. If he survives, he will find his way home. And if he dies, bury him with a handful of dust, because I do not even have enough money for his funeral.”

With these words, he walked away.

The doctor stood silent, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

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

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The Village That Chose Trees

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

Every morning, the people of Greenvale woke up to the songs of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the cool shade of giant trees. The village looked fresh and beautiful in every season.

Much of this greenery existed because of two people — Mr. Ravi, the village teacher, and Grandpa Hari. They loved nature deeply. Wherever they found an empty piece of land, they planted saplings. They also encouraged everyone in the village to do the same. Soon, trees began growing in front of houses, beside pathways, and around the village pond.

One year, the government decided to build a factory near Greenvale. Officials soon arrived with a plan to widen the narrow village road and build a smooth tar road for large trucks carrying machines and goods.

But there was a problem.

Many huge neem and tamarind trees stood along the roadside. To widen the road, all of them would have to be cut down.

Some of the village youngsters said, “Roads and factories mean development. Why should we stop it?”

But Grandpa Hari stood silently beneath the trees, sadness filling his eyes. Just then, Mr. Ravi arrived.“Is cutting down so many trees the only way?” he asked the officials calmly. “There is another road around the village that can be improved instead. Development should not destroy nature.”

The officials replied, “The factory will bring jobs to your village. Why are you opposing this project?”

“We are not against progress,” Mr. Ravi explained. “We are only asking you to save these trees and use the other road.”

“That decision is beyond our control,” the officials answered. “If you wish, speak to the Minister or the District Collector. We can stop the work for two or three days. After that, we must continue unless new orders arrive.”

That evening, Mr. Ravi called for a village meeting.

“Cutting down fully grown trees,” he told the villagers, “is like destroying children we have raised with care. The world is already growing hotter. Summers are becoming harsher, rainfall is decreasing, and our ponds and wells no longer stay full throughout the year. If we lose these trees, our future will suffer even more.”

The villagers listened carefully.

“Let us request the authorities to improve the alternate road instead,” he continued. “I will prepare a petition. Together, we can protect our village.”

After many discussions, the villagers finally agreed. Everyone signed the petition, and it was sent to the Minister and the District Collector. A few days later, there had news and it was good.

The alternate road would be developed, and the trees in Greenvale would remain safe.

Mr. Ravi and Grandpa Hari were overjoyed.

Months later, the village elders decided to build a community hall. However, a large tree planted years ago by Grandpa Hari stood exactly where they wanted to build it.

“We may have to remove this tree,” the elders said.

“What difference will one tree make? The hall will help everyone.”

Grandpa Hari quietly went inside his home and returned with an old diary. Inside it was a faded photograph of him as a little boy planting the tree with his father.

“This tree is a memory of my father,” he said softly, tears shining in his eyes. “Please let it live. Build the hall around it if you wish.”

Mr. Ravi smiled and supported him.

“He is right,” the teacher told the villagers. “If we keep cutting down trees, will air conditioners save us from the dangerous heat of the future? Your parents once played under this tree. Let future generations also enjoy its shade.”

The villagers respected Mr. Ravi greatly. At last, they agreed to protect the tree.

Not long afterward, a young boy in the village developed severe breathing problems. His family rushed to town searching for an oxygen cylinder.

Watching this, Grandpa Hari called the children closer.

“Did you see that?” he asked gently. “People had to travel far for one oxygen cylinder. But trees give us fresh oxygen every single day, free of cost. That is why we must never destroy them. If we continue cutting trees, one day people may have to buy oxygen just to survive.”

The children fell silent.

Then one little girl suddenly said, “Let us plant more trees!”

“Yes!” the others shouted excitedly. “Let us plant one hundred saplings near the village pond!”

The children worked together happily. They planted the saplings and cared for them every day.

Years passed.

The tiny plants slowly grew into strong trees, and Greenvale turned into a beautiful green paradise.

Rain fell regularly again. The ponds and wells overflowed with water. Birds from distant places filled the village with cheerful songs and bright colours. Farmers harvested healthy crops because water was plentiful. The cooler weather reduced the need for electrical appliances, helping families save money. Most importantly, the villagers became healthier because of the clean and fresh air.

One pleasant evening, Mr. Ravi and Grandpa Hari sat beneath the trees, watching the children play nearby.

“Look around,” Grandpa Hari said with a smile. “The small saplings we planted have become giant trees. They brought rain back to our village. Birds returned because of this greenery. Even community meetings are now held under the cool shade of trees.”

Mr. Ravi nodded happily.

“Always remember,” he told the children, “true development means growing together with nature, not destroying it.”

“We will protect every tree,” the children promised together.

And the trees of Greenvale danced softly in the evening breeze, as if blessing their promise.

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.

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Stories

Ephemeral Tears

By Abhik Ganguly

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” blared from the speakers of the Museum precinct. Two sanitation workers, minding their own business, walked down the hallway. In front of them, stood a giant plasma screen. Flashing dots of electronic lights, with the label under it curiously marked as ‘Humans, Earth-616’.

The Ancient Antiquities of Maldamore was winding down for the evening, its holographic exhibits dimming as the automated systems prepared for closure. The older sanitation worker glanced at the young recruit, curiosity softening her weathered features. “How will you get home on your first day?” she asked. The younger worker replied with a confident smile, “I’ll catch the inverted monorail at six.” After a brief, awkward pause, she extended her hand and added, “I’m Zendo. How long have you been here?” Renda chuckled softly, her eyes reflecting years of memories etched into the museum’s hallways. “Thirty Maldamorian years,” she said, her face tinted with a bit of pride and weariness.

Both of them chit-chatted for a while before wrapping up. The twin suns of Glasterboros crept above the horizon, painting the cityscape of Maldamore in shades of lilac crimson and molten gold. Towers of crystallised ferroglass caught the light, scattering brilliant rainbows that danced across the airways. The High Council in a rare moment of unity had passed bill on universal healthcare six Maldamorian years ago. Since then, Maldamorians live up to 250 years of age, an extension of average lifespan by at least a hundred years. However, beneath such reforms the Maldamorians were stuck in a never-ending cycle of consumption and labour.

The colossal plasma display pulsed with unending streams of shifting dots—two distinct panels, one radiating red light, the other one radiating blue. The lights seemed busy – lost in their own dance, sometimes, drawing closer as if attracted to each other, only to repel because of an inherent tension. The museum had witnessed generations of visitors, young awestruck schoolchildren, astronauts delivering keynote addresses, and on non-busy days, couples strolling hand in hand lost in their own orbits.

Once while working, Zendo asked Renda, “What are these dots of lights flashing? Who were these aliens called hoomans?”

Renda burst out laughing and corrected her, “Humans! Those were humans, you didn’t hear stories about their extinction?”

A quite frightened Zendo shook her head. “Let’s head over to the canteen in break time.” Both of them sipped their herbal syrups.

Renda began her tale, her voice laced with a mix of fascination and disbelief. “There was once a planet called Earth—now designated Earth-616. Life once thrived there, or so the archives claim. It existed in a galaxy far removed from ours and was home to a species known as humans. Unlike our unified society, their planet was fractured—divided into countless races and ethnicities, perpetually at odds with one another. Greed consumed them,” she continued, her tone growing somber. “Can you imagine? Those so-called doctors of science say they exploited their own mother planet to the brink of ruin. They tore apart the very world that gave them life.”

“And…. what about those lights? What exactly do they mean?” a visibly shook Zendo asked. “Well, legend has it,” continued Renda, who felt like an academic don now, “that our astronauts reached about a Maldamorian millennia later after the Earth-616 had perished. The astronauts only found a couple of capsules with recordings in the dead parched lands which looked like as if it had bled a thousand times. Though I must admit, they found escape launch-sites too, so maybe some of those humans might have survived. Who knows?”

Zendo, shifting uneasily, asked, “So… what are those lights?”

Renda, her voice tinged with a mixture of pride and reverence, replied, “We couldn’t decipher their language, couldn’t comprehend their words. So, our scientists transmuted their essence into electronic lights, hoping that someday we might finally understand their message. Those lights are, in essence, the ‘After-Lives’ of those aliens—every memory, every fragment of pain, suffering, and joy, preserved and immortalised. They’ve achieved a kind of eternity, encoded in light. How many of us can claim to be that fortunate, don’t you think?”

The bell signaled the end of their break, and they returned to the endless cycle of what is often called ‘life.’

Abhik Ganguly is a poet, writer, and scholar-practitioner. He’s from Santiniketan, Bengal. Currently, he’s a Junior Research Fellow pursuing his PhD at the University of Delhi.

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Courage

By Sayan Sarkar

From Public Domain

“Look at this, darling!”

Sunetra spoke, moving towards her husband with her finger pressed against an advertisement in the morning’s newspaper. Her face was glowing with joy and expectation.

Soumitra, seated opposite her in their living room and sipping his tea, put the cup down on the centre table and leaned forward with curiosity.

The advertisement read as follows:

CourageCorpTM – Bravery for the Masses

Are you sick of shrinking back in silence? Are you tired of your loved ones reminding you of your timidity? Well, we’ve got good news for you! At CourageCorpTM, our patent-pending BravaSerumTM infuses a dose of instant valour directly into your bloodstream.

Heroism has never been this easy.

Sign up today to avail limited special discounts on a first come first serve basis.

Don’t worry, if it doesn’t work, we’ll provide you with a full refund!

Hurry up and grab your daily dose of heroism!

Soumitra’s lips twisted into a look of ridicule. He was on the verge of responding with a sharp retort when, lifting his gaze, he found his wife looking on with eager eyes.

A feeling of uneasiness swept over his mind.

In his forty years of existence, Soumitra had never been a man of courage. Ever since his childhood, he had always shunned fights, stayed out of trouble, and crumbled in the face of adversity. Adjectives like timid, mild, and cowardly had stuck to him like stubborn stains unwilling to be washed away.

Even his wife Sunetra, who loved him with unwavering devotion, mourned his lack of intent and valour from time to time.  Although it had never caused any serious rift in their married life, Sunetra had always wondered what it would be like to have a husband who could take things into his own hands when the going got tough.

Today, confronted with this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she had already started dreaming and could hardly contain her excitement.

Soumitra wiped a bead of sweat that had formed on his forehead. He was no fool. He had realised that a moment of reckoning had arrived. “Do you really believe in this nonsense?” He tried to sound firm, but failed.

“What’s the harm in trying?” She replied with unabated excitement. “They have mentioned that they will give us a refund if it doesn’t work!”

“B-but what if there are, you know, side effects?” Soumitra whispered with desperation.

It was now Sunetra’s turn to look at his husband with ridicule. This was all too familiar. He was trying to run away again.

Just like in that trip to Kashmir, when Soumitra had refused to board a cable car, insisting that the cables looked too fragile to carry so many people. She had to board alone and returned to find her husband safely sipping tea in a restaurant.

Then there was another time at a wedding, when a fight had broken out between two of their drunken friends. Instead of rushing to break the fight like the others, Soumitra had conspicuously left the room in the blink of an eye.

And of course, who could forget the “lizard incident”, when a large house lizard on their bedroom ceiling had sent him scrambling for a broom to fend off the attack of the “venomous reptile” – as he termed it. But finally, it was Sunetra who had driven the lizard away, while her husband had looked on with broom in hand.

“For God’s sake, stop being so apprehensive!” Sunetra finally broke the silence. “Everything will be alright!”

“B-but,” Soumitra tried in vain to interject.

“No more buts, Soumitra,” Sunetra retorted sharply, and with authority. “We are going. That’s final.”

Soumitra heaved a long sigh, accepting his defeat and resigning himself to his fate. Not once in their fifteen years of married life had he ever gotten the better of his wife in a war of words.

*

That weekend, around eleven in the morning, the two of them were seen climbing into a yellow taxi from the curb near their house. As Soumitra shut the cab door, Sunetra opened the newspaper clipping and revealed the address of CourageCorpTM to the waiting driver. The office, located on Rashbehari Avenue near Deshapriya Park, was a forty-minute drive from their current location.

When the taxi finally stopped at its destination, the pair spotted the large three-storied building that housed the office to their left. It was quite modern, with balconies filled with potted plants forming an elaborate vertical garden. The façade was quite colourful, and a large sign bearing the company’s name hung from the centre – emblazoned in a sans-serif font.

“Looks impressive,” Sunetra remarked while stepping out.

Soumitra hesitated momentarily but finally got out and stood on the curb. His heart was thudding against his chest, and his mind was heavy with apprehension. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

Eventually, they approached the door, where a security guard in uniform stood up and saluted them with practiced gait. He showed them the direction of the elevator and told them the floor number of the main office.

 The elevator opened up to a spotless corridor with walls lined on both sides with glossy images of men and women smiling with an unnatural, and almost heroic confidence. A reception desk stood beside the elevator, and a smart-looking young woman sat scrolling on her phone.

Noticing the couple, she put her phone down and greeted them politely. Her eyes glanced at them with curiosity, trying to fathom which one of the two was the actual customer.

“Umm… Good day,” Soumitra stammered. “My wife and I had actually come for the…umm…” His voice trailed off, and his face turned red with shame at the thought of declaring his timidity to a girl nearly half his age.

 But before the silence grew too awkward, Sunetra took control.

Brushing her husband aside, she thrust the newspaper cutting towards the receptionist with authority.“My husband has come for the serum,” She declared without missing a beat.

“Oh, I see,” the girl replied with a mechanical smile. “Please fill in your details here, sir. I’ll send word to the office.”

Finishing the formalities, Soumitra took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs beside the desk. A storm was brewing in his mind, and he grew restless with each passing second.

The girl, in the meantime, had picked up a receiver and announced their arrival to someone on the other end.

After what felt like an eternity, the door at the far end of the corridor swung open, revealing a man in a white lab coat who started approaching them briskly.

“Welcome, sir and ma’am!” He greeted them with rehearsed politeness – a broad smile plastered across his face. He was tall, lean, broad-shouldered, and looked to be in his mid-thirties. He had a certain intensity about him, and an unnatural gleam in his eyes – the same kind spiders get when they feel a tug in their web after several hours of waiting.

He took Soumitra’s hand in his own and gave it a firm shake – too firm for Soumitra’s liking.

“I’m Dr. Anjan Sen, head of R&D,” he said with intent.

“Please – this way,” he spoke, gesturing down the hall. The smile never left his face.

The couple walked down the hall – their shoes squeaking on the polished marble tiles below.

They reached a large room filled with a multitude of high-tech equipment. The room was part laboratory, part cabin – a curious hybrid, the best of both worlds. The walls were lined with steel counters, dotted with strange instruments that served unknown purposes. In one corner of the room, two men in similar white coats were sitting huddled together and whispering in a conspiratorial hush. They glanced up briefly at the pair before resuming their dialogue.

“Please take a seat, sir and ma’am,” Anjan pointed towards a pair of chairs opposite the only desk in the room.

As they settled in, he took the chair on the opposite side of the table, staring long and hard at Soumitra as if studying every feature on his uncertain face.

Soumitra felt uneasy under that gaze and looked down towards the floor.

 “You have done a wonderful thing by deciding to take this leap of faith, sir.” He spoke with enthusiasm. “This will definitely change your life.”

“But, doctor,” Sunetra interjected. “The serum is safe, right?”

Anjan’s lips curved into an assuring smile.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” He spoke warmly. “We’ve treated five patients till now. None of them have reported any anomalies. They all have shown remarkable results.”

Over the next few minutes, he launched into a well-rehearsed explanation of the serum – highlighting its benefits, its groundbreaking inception, and the hours of tireless work by the top minds in the country to bring their plan to fruition.

The eloquence and unshakable confidence in his voice slowly melted away the doubts in Soumitra’s mind. With every syllable he heard, his faith in the drug seemed to grow exponentially. By the time doctor Anjan had finished his speech, Soumitra was bubbling with enthusiasm – eager to get a taste of a better, and braver, life. He was convinced that this was the best decision of his life.

“We will run a few preliminary tests on you before injecting the serum, sir,” Anjan explained. “It’s just a formality.”

“Alright,” Soumitra replied. “Let’s get to it then.”

“This way, sir.” Anjan motioned to the two men in the corner of the room, and the three of them led Soumitra towards a room on the right. “You can wait here, ma’am,” He further added, turning towards Sunetra.

Sunetra nodded, remaining seated as her husband disappeared into the adjoining room. Sitting alone, she eventually took up a magazine from the table and began flipping through the pages. Her mind, however, was in the other room, and she was trying to imagine how the events were unfolding inside.

Seconds turned to minutes, and she felt herself growing restless with unease. It had been her idea, and now, in the face of the silence, she hoped that things would turn out all right.

Nearly half an hour later, the door finally opened.

Anjan appeared with his trademark smile on his face. Sunetra stood up, her face fraught with anticipation.

“Your husband has successfully received the serum, ma’am,” Anjan spoke in an assuring tone. “There’s nothing to worry about. You can come in and see him now.”

Sunetra rushed into the room.

There, on a narrow cot, Soumitra sat bare-chested, rubbing a spot on his right hand where the needle had left its mark. The two assistants stood behind him in strict vigil, watching his every movement with keen eyes.

Upon seeing his wife standing eagerly at the doorway, he broke into a laugh.

“Hello, darling,” He greeted her. “Feast your eyes on your knight-in-shining-armor.”

Sunetra heaved a sigh of relief.  The joke had lightened the mood and made it clear that her husband was doing fine. Drawing closer to the cot, she whispered slowly, “How do you feel now?”

“Not that different, to be honest,” Soumitra admitted. “But then, Dr. Anjan says that most patients don’t notice a difference until a decisive moment.”

Anjan gave a nod from the doorway. “Your husband has to stay here for half an hour more, ma’am,” He added further. “Just as a precaution. Then, he’s free to go. You can sit here and chat with him in the meantime.”

The three doctors withdrew, leaving the two of them together. The couple slipped into conversation, their thoughts filled with the possibilities unlocked by their bold experiment. When the thirty minutes were over, Soumitra was told to fill out a few more forms, and then they were free.

Soumitra clasped Dr. Sen’s hands in thanks, said goodbye to the assistants, and stepped into the elevator with his wife. Once on the street, they slowly made their way towards the main road, hoping to find a cab to take them home. But just as they were about to cross the busy intersection, one of the assistants came running after them – shouting something unintelligible in their direction. Startled by this sudden arrival, the pair froze mid-crossing and turned back in confusion.

However, unbeknownst to them, a speeding car was hurtling towards them from the opposite side. As the shrill sound of the horn split the air, they swung their heads back to find the half-ton metal frame charging towards them at breakneck speed.

Soumitra’s mind raced.

He realised that the window to act was narrow, and any false step would lead to a disaster. But to his surprise, without even the slightest hesitation, he did something unthinkable.

He lunged towards his wife and shoved her clear of the incoming car. The following moment, his body struck the asphalt with a sickening thud, and his head slammed against the road.

As his consciousness began to slip, he could hear the deafening screech of tires and his wife’s desperate cry.

*

Soumitra groaned and opened his eyes slowly. A sharp pain emanated from the left side of his head.

His vision soon cleared, and he realised he was in the same cot where he had lain to take the serum a while earlier. It became apparent that he had been carried there and his injuries had been treated while he was still unconscious.

Struggling to sit up, he noticed Dr. Sen and his two assistants standing by the far wall with their backs to him. They were speaking quite animatedly, albeit in whispers, without knowing he had gained consciousness.

“How could you give him the wrong vial?” Dr. Sen was asking with alarm.

“We’re sorry, sir,” One of the assistants said nervously. “It was kept beside the original vial, and we mistook it in our hurry.”

“Did you manage to inform him in the street?” Dr. Sen asked anxiously, his voice still muffled.

“No,” the assistant replied. “He met with the accident before I got the opportunity.”

“I see,” Anjan remarked. “Then it’s best that we keep the facts from him.”

The two assistants stared in disbelief at their superior.

“A-are you sure?” One of them ventured to ask.

“Think about it,” Anjan said. “He acted out of his own courage, but he will believe it was the serum. That belief will serve us just as well, leaving us at no apparent disadvantage. Don’t you agree?”

The assistants nodded slowly, unable to counter this line of thinking. Just as Anjan turned towards him, Soumitra quickly feigned waking and pretended to stare around the room in a daze. The three doctors rushed towards him with concern.

“How’re you feeling now?” Anjan asked.

“I feel…. okay,” Soumitra replied, clutching his head. “How long was I out?”

“For nearly an hour, sir,” Anjan responded. “Thank God the car managed to stop in time.”

“My wife,” Soumitra spoke. “Is she alright? Where is she?”

“She’s absolutely fine, sir. All thanks to you.” Anjan said with admiration. “She’s in the next room, waiting eagerly for you to regain consciousness. I’ll call her in.”

“You’re a real hero, sir.” Anjan paused at the door, looked back, and added softly.

 Within seconds, Sunetra burst into the room, rushed towards her husband, and threw herself into his arms. She clung to him desperately, as if afraid he would disappear as soon as she let go. “For a moment,” She sobbed uncontrollably, “I thought I’d lost you forever.” Her hot tears seeped through his shirt.

Soumitra stroked her hair gently and comforted her with words that never went above a whisper. But within him, a storm was brewing. The words of the three doctors were echoing in his mind, and questions were forming in his mind. Questions he dared not voice.

Was his courage real? Or merely an illusion of it?

Did he leap into danger because he believed that the serum had armed him with bravery? Would he have acted the same way if he had already known that the vial contained nothing but a placebo? In the quiet room, amidst his muffled wife’s sobs, Soumitra delved desperately in his mind for answers.

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.

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Categories
Stories

Flour, Water, Yeast

Mario Fenech

By Mario Fenech

Phan pounded the dough, the recent argument with his wife Diu fresh in his mind. The customers in the bakery could hear them trading insults today just like many other days. It was not always like this. When the children were small, he was a happier more outgoing person. The gradual change began when the eldest son was eight. They were getting ready to return home from a beach holiday when they swiped against another car. Luckily, no one was seriously hurt but the incident had marred what had been an otherwise perfect holiday. 

This was not the only factor in his withdrawal from emotional engagement.  Instead of having pride for the academic achievements of his three children, to him it seemed to be another wedge making them seem superior and seemingly condescending when they spoke to him.       

When Anthony was twelve, he said, “Dad, did you know there are an infinite number of possible realities determined by what happens at a sub-atomic level. There’s a famous example called Schrodinger’s Cat which is in a box and is simultaneously dead and alive until someone looks in the box and sees which state it is in.”

Phan shook his head and suggested Anthony should not waste his time on such impractical matters if he wanted to get a job. From time to time the children would ask him for help with school projects but he always had an excuse. He would also say to Diu that he needed to work on a car they kept at another property, when in fact he was going to play at the poker machines.

Diu Sat at the dining room table going through photos of when the children were little, before the change came over Phan. Linh came home from work and saw her mother reminiscing.

“Hi Mum,” Linh gave Diu a hug and a kiss, “Mum I think it’s time for you to seriously consider leaving Dad.” Diu was silent continuing to look at the photos.

“Your father is in many ways like a child which makes it harder to separate as I feel an obligation to take care of him as much as I do for you and your brothers.”

Linh shook her head. “You don’t have an obligation to anyone Mum. You should be able to enjoy your life. You’re not doing any favours for Dad either as he won’t be able to move on if you keep protecting him Mum.”

Diu placed the palm of her hand gently on Linh’s cheek saying, “He did something some time ago. He came up to me, and he wanted so much to say something, but he couldn’t find the words… Maybe he was trying to say sorry.”

Linh could see that for now at least she could not persuade her mother to leave her father.

“I’ll make us some tea mum.”

Early next morning Diu drove the van loaded with supplies for the bakery. Traffic was minimal so she had a clear run with most of the lights green. Then as she maintained the speed limit while passing through another intersection, there was a terrifying sound of a truck braking. The truck driver who was trying to beat the light saw Diu’s van enter the intersection as she had a green light. The truck driver braked hard, but the momentum of the heavy vehicle was enough to crush the driver’s side of the van. In the eternity of those final seconds Diu recalled one of the perfect days when she was a young girl after her holy communion. Such a beautiful sun-drenched day…

Phan arranged the bread on the racks. The reality he found himself in was almost unbearable, so he busied himself in the bakery. The only person who understood him was gone now and his plan to change came too late. Phan turned at the sound of footsteps to see his two sons and daughter approaching him.

Phan cast his eyes down at the concrete floor. With their mother no longer here, there was no reason for them to hold back on their anger and hatred. The anticipated violence toward him, physical or verbal, did not happen.  His children embraced him. This simple gesture had a profound effect on Phan as years of pent-up emotions surfaced borne of a confusing mix of guilt, anger at himself, and relief at the chance for redemption. From deep inside him a groan came as he sunk to his knees supported by his children. His tears streaming onto the concrete floor.

In the front right-hand corner of the café, was a stand with a framed photo of Diu surrounded by fresh flowers. Behind the counter, there were also small shrines for the Madonna and Jesus with artificial flowers which Diu had arranged when the shop first opened. Phan made sure they were dusted and cared for just as when Diu was alive. Diu loved people and did all she could to support causes in the community and Phan vowed to continue to give back to the locals who had kept them in business. There were three customers in the cafe, two to get their bread but the slightly stooped grey-haired lady with the trolley was there for her daily coffee and cake. She joined Phan near the photo of Diu and she held his hand. “You know I used to ask your wife,’ where is your husband ‘ and she would always say, ‘he’s a very busy man’,” she paused. “Don’t worry, she’ll always be with you.” The lady patted Phan on the chest. Phan felt the emotions rising again as he saw the sincerity in the lady’s eyes

“Please take a seat I will get your coffee and cake.”

Phan considering employing another person to help in the cafe. When it was nearly closing time, he noticed a small creature in an ice cream container. It was the frightened skink he picked up from the floor in case someone stepped on it hours ago. He apologized to the lizard and took it to the garden at the back of the shop. Phan tilted the container and the lizard remained motionless momentarily before disappearing into the foliage. Phan smiled and said, “Chúng ta có cơ hội thứ hai.” [1]He looked up through eucalyptus leaves at the moon glowing behind clouds. It was time to close the shop and take a break before baking for tomorrow.

[1] Translation from Vietnamese: “We have a second chance.”

Mario Fenech is an artists and writer from Gzira, Malta. His sculpts and has had many exhibitions around Melbourne over the years. His has written ,ainly science fiction stories although he self-published a novella in 2013 titled, The Rock in Room Ten. He is currently two-thirds into his latest science fiction story.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

Categories
Stories

The Stillness in Ocean-deep Eyes

Balochi Story by Younus Hussain; Translated by Fazal Baloch 

Younus Hussain

The moment the story ended, I closed the book and tucked it beneath the pillow. It was one of the most fascinating stories I had ever encountered. Perhaps that is because the eyes of my mind are fixed on one place while yours are drawn to another. In the end, it is the eyes that measure the worth of what they behold. Just as my imagination began to shape the tale of those eyes, I felt as though the story, once finished, was beginning again from the very beginning. Soon, the tale seemed to whisper through the blazing winds that swept across the towering sand dunes of the Arabian desert. Most of the people in that hamlet belonged to the Al-Baj tribe, whose ancestors had migrated from Baghdad.

Among them was a young man renowned for the extraordinary power of his eyes. He could see far beyond the reach of ordinary sight, and even in the darkness of night, he saw as clearly as one does in broad daylight. The entire hamlet placed unwavering trust in his vision. More than once, he had warned the villagers of approaching storms and heavy rains before they arrived. The young man, barely twenty-years-old, was held in great esteem by the villagers, who respectfully called him Mullah. Yet despite their admiration, his faith remained humble and deeply devoted to God. While the rest of the village slept, he often stayed awake through the long nights.

Days and nights passed in this manner until, one day, as he lay in deep sleep, a dreadful plague swept through the hamlet.

“Mullah, wake up…”

“Mullah, while you sleep, calamity has fallen upon the village. Three people have suddenly gone mad. Even Abu Abbas has lost his mind!”

At the mention of Abu Abbas’s name, Mullah was stunned. He quickly slipped on his shoes and rushed outside. Abu Abbas lay upon his father’s cot, his eyes fixed lifelessly on the ceiling. Mullah stood frozen in shock as he gazed into those vacant, numbed eyes. A dark spirit had taken possession of him, and Mullah realised that he could hear the spirit’s voice.

Quietly, under his breath, Mullah began to recite prayers and sacred incantations. The spirit writhed in agony, and as it departed from Abu Abbas’s body, it spoke to Mullah: “I am leaving, but tomorrow evening this man will leave you all.”

Turning to the people around, Mullah said, “Only God knows His divine will, but by tomorrow evening, Abu Abbas will no longer be among us.”

His words proved true. By the following evening, the villagers were already digging Abu Abbas’s grave. The other two afflicted men also died within the very time Mullah had foretold.

Stories of Mullah’s extraordinary eyes spread far beyond the village. People from distant lands began bringing their insane relatives to him, hoping for healing and relief. With each passing day, the number of his followers and devotees continued to grow. Yet deep within, Mullah was troubled. Every few days, more people in the hamlet seemed to fall victim to evil spirits. Though he could foresee their fate and drive the spirits away, he felt powerless to stop the suffering itself. Each time one of his prophecies came true, he would spend the night in anguish and self-reproach, praying before God: “I am worthless. Among all these people, You granted this power to me, yet in doing so I have become an intruder upon Your divine will. Never once have You proven me wrong. You are greater and more powerful than these evil spirits. I am only Your sinful servant, while You alone are the Almighty. Protect our land from these evil forces.”

One day, there came a knock at his door.

“Is this the house of Saeed bin Hashim?”

Hearing his name, Mullah turned to his disciples and said, “This man seems to be in great haste. I will see him myself.”

Outside stood a man holding the reins of a camel.

“Sardar Aqrash of Al-Sawabi sends his greetings,” the man said. “He requests that you come at once. There is a patient in need of your help.”

Mullah asked, “Are their eyes fixed upon something?”

The man replied, “I do not know, for I have not seen them myself.”

The people of Al-Sawabi were of a different persuasion, yet Mullah, being a healer who understood the duty of his calling, agreed to go with them.

After traveling for half a day, they arrived at Aqrash’s settlement. Aqrash welcomed him warmly, then drew him aside and spoke in a low voice: “If the patient is possessed by an evil spirit, do not speak of it before others. Inform me privately. And if anyone asks, tell them nothing is wrong. I swear upon you by the holy prophets.”

The door to the room was locked from the outside. An elderly woman stepped forward, unlocked it, and silently withdrew into a corner. The moment Mullah entered, the heavy scent of burning incense and herbs told him that the patient had not yet received proper treatment. Upon the bed sat a young woman with disheveled hair falling across her face. Her head rested against the wall as she stared into silence, lost in distant thoughts. At once, Mullah understood that she was not yet possessed.

Something within him whispered, Your work here is done, you may leave now. Yet, he did not know what it was he found in the woman that had nailed his feet to the ground. Just as he turned to leave, a soft and melodious voice called out to him: “O man, come closer… Let me see those eyes of yours, the ones spoken of with such wonder.”

With his back turned to her, he stood deep in thought, struggling with his decision. Somewhere within, he sensed the coming of a storm. Then, in the stillness, he heard the soft chime of anklets halt just behind him.

“Saeed bin Hashim… is that your name?”

He turned.

Before him stood a vision of beauty and grace.

“Answer me,” she said softly. “Are you Saeed bin Hashim?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Then tell me… what illness do I suffer from?”

“You suffer from none.”

“I swear to you, I am mad.”

She looked into his eyes as though searching for something hidden within them. Yet, she seemed to find nothing.

“You swear without reason,” he said quietly. “You are perfectly well.”

“If only you knew,” she whispered, “that I am mad for your eyes.”

“You have seen them now,” he replied. “Did they bring you any peace?”

“I count myself fortunate,” she said, “for only a few days ago, I wished to see them.”

Then, gently taking his hand, she said, “Sit with me. I wish to ask your eyes something.”

Her delicate touch sent a strange calm through his entire being. In that moment, forgetting his role and purpose, he found himself unwilling to leave her presence.

“My name is Rabia,” she said softly. “I am Sardar Aqrash’s third wife. He adores me because I am still young. Tell me… what do your much-praised eyes say about my beauty?”

He looked at her from head to toe, as though seeing her beneath an entirely new light. A quiet fear stirred within him, for he sensed that his eyes might reveal more than his words ever could. As his gaze lingered upon her, Rabia seemed unable to endure its intensity. She drew her knees close to her chest and lowered her eyes.

“My delicate body cannot bear the heat of your gaze,” she whispered. “Do not look at me in this way. It feels as though I am melting from within.”

Without replying, he turned to leave.

“You may go today,” she said behind him, “but I will send for you again. I have faith in my beauty. One day, you will wait for my messenger with longing.”

A faint smile crossed his lips as he opened the door.

Outside, every eye turned toward him. “The patient is perfectly well,” he announced. “There is no cause for concern.”

Standing apart from the others, Aqrash waited anxiously for the truth. Mullah quietly shook his head, and relief immediately spread across Aqrash’s face. He stepped forward, embraced Mullah, and thanked him repeatedly. Moments earlier, his lips had trembled with fear, but Mullah’s words arrived like a cool wind, drying the beads of sweat upon his forehead.

Mullah departed for his hamlet. Though he returned home, his thoughts remained at Rabia’s doorstep. Her enchanting presence lingered within him. Her delicate nose, her dark cascading hair, her graceful fingers, and her heavy, drowsy eyes haunted his mind so much that he found himself waiting for the arrival of Rabia’s messenger.

.

On one side, Mullah remained occupied with driving out evil spirits; on the other, he was consumed by a restless longing to see Rabia again. The spirits feared his gaze, for he alone could truly see them. Whenever they fled the village, they would glance back at him with hesitation, and Mullah knew they were disciples of the Devil destined to return again and again.

One day, Rabia’s messenger came for him. From that time onward, he visited her every week, and with each meeting their bond grew deeper. Then suddenly, an entire month passed without a single message from her. Mullah became deeply troubled. During the day, his eyes remained fixed upon the road leading to her village. At night, when he lay awake in longing, the people mistook his sleeplessness for devotion and worship. Then, one day, Aqrash himself arrived.

“I came personally because we have already troubled you more than once,” he said. “After you left, she recovered completely and lived happily with her family for more than a month. But last night, her condition worsened again. Even the old healer of our village spoke your name. If you would come once more, I would remain forever grateful to you.”

But Mullah needed no persuasion. For days, he had already been waiting anxiously for even the smallest word from Rabia. That night, Rabia adorned herself like a bride, as though she had just been led into the wedding chamber.

“You were right,” he whispered. “Without you, I am incomplete.”

“Did you wait for my messenger every day?”

“The road to your village bears witness,” he replied.

“And I waited for you each day as well,” she said softly. “Ask the mirror.”

They drew so close to one another that no distance remained between them.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

“Do you wish to test me?”

Rabia’s lips trembled faintly. The beads of sweat upon her cheeks only deepened the radiance of her beauty. In a quivering voice, she said:

“If I ask something of you, will you grant it?”

“Ask it. And if my tongue refuses, I shall cut it out and lay it before you.”

“I cannot bring myself to say it.”

“Swear upon my life and tell me.”

“I will ask for something without which you yourself will remain incomplete.”

“Only do not ask me to live apart from you,” he said. “Without you, I would be nothing.”

Rabia lowered her gaze before whispering:

“Can you give me your eyes?”

“My life is dearer to me than even my eyes,” he replied, “yet if you asked for my life as well, I would place it before you. As for these eyes, I have long since laid them upon the path of your messenger.”

“I feel,” she said softly, “as though my beauty is incomplete without your eyes.”

Mullah slowly raised his hands toward the sky, “O my Almighty God…”

Yet in that moment, a strange feeling overcame him. It seemed as though his tongue no longer wished to bow in humility before any power greater than itself. The moonlit beauty of Rabia’s face stirred something within him, and his tongue began to speak like that of a plaintiff before destiny.

“O my Lord! Whatever You will, comes to pass. Life and death rest in Your hands alone. Nothing can happen without Your permission. Even the longing that arose within my heart was placed there by You. It is said in Alborz that a single bowl of water is worth a hundred years of loyalty. I, too, have pledged my loyalty. Do not look upon me as of different faiths. Look instead upon our love. O my Creator, grant us honor. Let the tale of our bond become known throughout the world, so that lovers may one day swear oaths in our names. O God, fulfill her innocent wish. Do not let me be humiliated before my Rabia.”

Then he fell silent. Tears of defeat slipped from his eyes, and in the depths of his sorrow, he whispered: “O God… if You refuse me this, then I shall go to Egypt and seek out magicians to fulfill my beloved’s wish…”

He continued mumbling in broken desperation until, suddenly, he felt his vision begin to fade. Darkness slowly gathered before his eyes, and just before the last trace of light vanished, he saw Rabia overcome with joy.

The moment he saw his eyes upon Rabia’s flower-like face, he fell into prostration and wept.

Rabia’s laughter rang through the room. Delighted by the new world before her, she gazed at her fingers in wonder, then gathered her hair into her palms and admired it. She lifted the edge of her scarf before her eyes, marveling at the beauty of her clothes. Everything around her seemed transformed, as though creation itself had been born anew.

“Go,” Mullah said proudly, “look at yourself in the mirror. If you were amazed merely by these eyes, then any desire to reverse this decision would only dishonor our love.”

She stood before him and looked into the empty sockets that had once held the eyes now belonging to her.

“Tell me, my beloved,” he asked softly, “what do you see within your eyes?”

“From what I can understand,” she replied, “they are filled with fear.”

“Good,” he said quietly. “What else do you see?”

“I see that your heart is trembling.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“My heart… afraid?”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Perhaps,” she whispered, “it regrets the choice it has made.”

“My heart would never commit such disloyalty,” he replied.

“And if it did?”

“Then I would tear it from my chest and lay it at your feet this very moment. My poor heart rejoices only because your wish has been fulfilled. It is these eyes that are afraid… afraid that, in your delight with this new vision, you may forget them and cast them out from the world of beauty.”

“Tell them they are a gift from you, a token of your love. They should take pride in belonging to someone as brave as you.”

“I swear,” he replied, “fear shall never find a place within your eyes. But as for waiting… I can promise nothing. Do not make me suffer any longer.”

“I will send my messenger soon,” she said softly. “And if he delays, then curse both him and me.”

“This tongue prays only for your well-being,” he answered. “How could it ever curse you?”

“I am fortunate that you love me.”

“And now, let me go. I will return to you.”

“Do not leave me.”

“I must travel far away. My world… grant me permission.”

As he departed, he said: “My prayer is that your beauty, along with your eyes, becomes renowned throughout the world. May the praise of your eyes travel as far as China.”

He left. In a sorrowful voice, Rabia called after him: “Rest assured, the moment you reach home, my messenger will arrive.”

But days passed.

A few days later, people found Mullah wandering in delirium and brought him back home. His followers said he had neither eaten nor drunk anything for an entire month. Now he sat against a wall, his sightless face turned endlessly toward the threshold, waiting for the messenger who would bring word from Rabia.

The endless waiting had robbed him of sleep. His followers and the villagers grieved for him, believing that his eyes had fallen beneath some terrible curse. The evil spirits, meanwhile, rejoiced. Physicians were summoned from distant places, yet none could heal him. His suffering became a source of anguish for the entire village.

One day, someone said: “I have heard of an old woman whose eyes can see deep into the soul of the afflicted.”

Preparations were immediately made to bring her. When the old woman finally arrived, she looked upon Mullah and spoke in a trembling voice: “The Lord is greatest… but your Mullah has only one day left to live.”

Tears filled the eyes of everyone present. A few doubted her words, but Mullah himself became convinced that it was his own eyes that had dared to pronounce such a fate.

“May God protect them,” he thought.

Nearby, two men whispered quietly: “She speaks the truth.”

“She is an experienced woman. It is said she once deceived Sardar Aqrash’s wife and stole her eyes.”

At those words, Mullah became certain that the old woman’s prophecy could not be false. For one brief moment, he longed to see his own eyes again. Yet he feared looking into the prison where they now lived. And in the silence of his heart, he whispered: “Rabia, do not blame me. It is your own innocence and foolishness that allowed fear to enter your eyes.”

After the old woman departed, Mullah stretched out his legs and slowly forgot the threshold he had watched for so long. Gradually, his eyes began to close.

Far away, he could hear the soft voice of a shepherd singing a lonely raga while guiding his flock.

Younus Hussain is widely regarded as one of the foremost contemporary short story writers in Balochi language. He is known for enriching the landscape of Balochi fiction with compelling narratives and literary depth. His stories are often cited in most discussions of Balochi literature on account of their artistic merit and narrative power. A hallmark of Younus’ writing is his exploration of individuals grappling with the tension between cultural expectations and the personal inner conflict. Most of his stories capture these recurring themes with clarity and emotional resonance, offering a vivid portrait of the human condition shaped by tradition and transformation. The translated story is taken from his first anthology “Be Dasten Sareechk” (The Armless Scarecrow) published by Balochistan Academy Turbat in 2025. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights to this story.

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

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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