Category: Stories

Exorcising Mother

By Fiona Sinclair

In the taxi from the station, Emily hugged her freedom as if it was an expensive handbag. At twenty-nine, she was returning from her first ever weekend away from home.

London had meant an orgy of sightseeing that her old friend Hannah was happy to accommodate. Like a time poor tourist, Emily had galloped through St Pauls, The Tower of London and Westminster Abbey until her friend had begged for a sit down and some food. “These buildings have been here hundreds of years,” she panted, not understanding that Emily’s default setting was playing catch up.

Now Emily trotted up the bungalow’s short driveway, a suitcase in one hand and, in the other, shopping bags ripe with new clothes. ‘No more hand me downs’ she thought with a smile.

It was an exceptionally warm spring that year, as if the weather, too, was in cahoots with her. Inserting the key into the front door, Emily knew from experience that the pokey bungalow trapped extremes of weather. So, with windows and doors shut up for four days, she knew it would be like entering a forge.

But, stepping into the hall, she was struck by an uncanny chill, as if an air conditioner had been switched to its maximum setting and left unchecked for many hours. It did not provide a welcome contrast to the unseasonable spring weather outside. Instead, she began to shiver, the hairs on her arms raised like hackles and a rash of tiny goose pimples spread across her skin.

Emily instinctively pulled on a cardigan and wrapped it around her. She waited for the chill to dial down. It did not. In fact, if anything, it intensified. Her next response was to move into the small kitchen to see if the freezer door had swung open, reasoning that in a place little more than a bedsit, the chill from the freezer might well have filled the place with cold air. But the door was secure. She then went methodically room by room, trying to find some other source for the cold. She found no answers, but the bedrooms, bathroom and sitting room, were all equally as chilled as meat lockers.

This frosty atmosphere did not frighten her. Emily was accustomed to weird and little phased her now. Standing with her hands on her hips in the sitting room she suddenly recognised the atmosphere as the brooding anger that was her late mother’s trademark. Since childhood, she had been familiar with this withdrawal of affection for some minor misdemeanour, anything from ripping her jeans in some Tom boy escapade to playing out with friends, ignoring her parent’s curfew. At these times, her mother’s beautiful features became an ice queen mask as maternal love was switched off, a punishment that stung far more than a slap or being confined to her bedroom.

Now the adult Emily, suspecting that death did not dissolve a person’s worst traits, knew that the house was overwhelmed by her mother’s disapproval of her daughter’s behaviour in the aftermath of her death. From her mum’s perspective, she had betrayed her on many counts. So, this was, Emily suspected, a sort of supernatural sulk.

Decades before, her mother’s life of delicious domesticity was ruptured by dad’s sudden death at 40. Now there were bills to settle, a living to be earned and a daughter to raise. But mum was unable to face the challenges. She was proactive only in seeking a replacement for dad, a knight on a charger who would solve her troubles. However, she soon found that she was considered more mistress material than wife. Her beauty was too showy for a rural backwater and millionaires with money to purchase shiny things were in short supply.

She had begun drinking just to take the edge off her problems, in the days following her husband’s death. Failure to find a new man sent her mother’s moral compass spinning off its course. Liaisons with a series of rogues paid the bills. Sex was anaesthetised by copious amounts of booze then. It also helped to blur the truth of herself in the dressing table mirror.

For Emily, her dad’s death was the death of her childhood. As family and friends peeled off with mother’s plunging reputation, at eleven she was promoted to confidante. By eighteen, when her own life was becoming fecund with opportunity, her mother’s needy ‘You won’t leave me too’ tethered Emily to her and the bungalow. She procured her wine in the morning and put her to bed when it finally overwhelmed her.

Emily did this because she adored her mother. She was absolutely partisan, saw her as a beautiful victim relentlessly kicked by fate. Decades passed in this dreary routine. Mother and daughter’s lives contracted to the parameters of the tiny bungalow. Even the rogues fell away, except one who visited weekly, left money discreetly on the sideboard, claiming he expected nothing in return. However, his eyes constantly alighted on Emily like a fly, suggesting he was, in fact, watching an investment develop.

Then, in her mid-fifties, the knight she had always sought rode in to save mother. Sadly, it was more black than white and arrived in the guise of a tumour. Turning her back on treatment and determined that cancer would not run riot in her body as it done with her husband, she decided that suicide would be the cleanest exit.

The finding of the lump winded Emily. She crawled like an invalid through those early days of diagnosis. All the while mother insisted there would be no discussion and life would default to their version of normal. Emily’s shock was compounded when she understood that her mother expected her to facilitate death. Sick to her stomach, she nevertheless agreed, thereby giving her mother peace of mind. But she secretly offered up desperate prayers that it would not come to it.

The origins of the suicide pact were hazy. Looking back, it was like trying to accurately recall a nightmare. Had her mum suggested it? Or had Emily been unable to contemplate life without her? Either way, mother’s relief was evident. In her addled mind, it was an elegant solution to an ugly problem.

From her contracted perspective Emily could not envisage a future for herself. She was isolated as a heroine in a Victorian novel, having had no contact with her family since she was eleven. In a sense she had grown up supernumerary to her mother who took precedence even in something as basic as clothes. Emily had not had her own new garments since childhood. As she grew into a young woman, mother would rummage in her own chest of drawers to provide underwear, jeans, and tops. Largely because all surplus money must go on alcohol.

Mother had also guessed that the one remaining rogue who kept a seemingly friendly eye on them, in fact had an agenda. Whilst Emily lacked her mother’s beauty she had the asset of youth. Some residual maternal instinct must have kicked in here. She knew that her protection was finite now. The rogue was playing a not so long game for the prize of a vulnerable young woman. In retrospect, Emily thought mother’s advocacy for the suicide pact was a blur of all these factors, with perhaps a jigger of jealousy as well for her daughter’s youth and health.

In the months before the cancer overwhelmed, Emily basked in her mother’s praise, “You are so brave.” Even at 28, she still craved the approval that was dealt out so meagrely. Of course, mother had no idea that it was all bravado, but it helped ameliorate the prospect of the pact and almost made her decision worth it.

But in truth Emily was horrified. It was as if the cancer had invaded both their bodies, decided both their fates. At times she was able to park her terror by bingeing on classic literature and junk food. Other times, at night, she lay awake, horrifying images running riot in her mind, silently screaming, “I don’t want to.” At these times, her love of life fought with love for her mother.

Mum sensed when the cancer was making its final move. Laying claim to her brain, it was gradually stealing her mobility and reducing her voice to a whisper. That day, Emily downed a bottle of wine herself to take the edge off proceedings. Unaccustomed to alcohol, she worked in a haze. The afternoon took on a ‘down the rabbit hole’ unreality. She talked her way through the preparations. This served to focus her mind and subdue fear. But there were still moments when she felt like a prison warder forcing her petrified body towards the noose.

A lack of basic physics saved her. The flex caused the water in the bath to merely ripple like a mini tide. There was an element of dark humour about the botched attempt, but neither laughed. Emily took the failure as an intervention by fate. As she clambered from the bath the truth tumbled from her mouth. “No, I don’t want to.”

In contrast, her mother sobbed at the abortion. Having lost all agency to cancer, she could not now determine her own death. Her daughter, with strength gained from years of practice, now supported mum back to bed.

And then her mum performed the only selfless act of the past twenty years. She instructed Emily to phone her estranged grandmother. As is often the case, the two hit it off. Whilst Emily had never resembled her mother, she now saw her genes were gifted from this woman. They shared the same brown hair and eyes. Their temperament was similar, too. The granddaughter inheriting her indomitable spirit.

Of course, Emily knew there would be a reckoning in the future. At some stage she would have to make peace with the guilt she had stashed away in a corner of her mind; the broken promise of living on after her mother, the disloyalty of accepting her grandmother’s protection, the process of carving out a future for herself. But, at the moment, Emily was distracted by the sheer novelty of living.

And now, suddenly, she began to throw open all the windows and doors. The heat waiting outside burst into the bungalow, seeing off the cold from every corner, melting the ice of her mother’s anger until, standing bathed in sunlight, Emily smiled, knowing that, for now, her mum was routed.

Fiona Sinclair lives in a village in the UK. She is a poet with several collections published by small presses. Fiona has just begun writing short stories especially about subjects that cannot be covered by poetry.

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Tags Fiona Sinclair, London, St Pauls, The Tower of London, U K, Westminister Abbey

Stories

The Fog of Forgotten Gardens

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date September 15, 2025
No Comments on The Fog of Forgotten Gardens

By Erin Jamieson

It’s always the same: rose petals, plucked from our apartment’s community garden.

Gray, misty day. The kind of day that Mom will spend asleep in her bed, curled up like a cat who doesn’t care about anyone or anything else.

Not quite raining. Just threatening rain. That heavy feeling in the sky, that tension that I feel now as I arrange each petal.

There’s a rumble of thunder just as I lay the last petal on Dad’s grave.

But the rain won’t come.

It never does.

I toast two slices of sourdough bread and slather butter on one and peanut butter on the other. I’ve tracked mud into our kitchen, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now. It’s already way later than it should be, and if I’m too late…

I actually don’t know what happens if I’m too late, or what too late even means. Dr. Hansen never really explained that. Probably on purpose.

What Dr. Hansen doesn’t get is that I’m the one taking care of her, not the other way around. Mom is a great actress: last appointment, she even put on makeup and ironed the pants she used to wear to work.

I fill a glass with soy milk and then take out her pills.

One purple one, one blue one. I set them beside the piece of sourdough with butter, then set the soy milk on the plate too. It makes it easier to cram everything on one plate like this. I learned the hard way, when this started. Ended up cleaning shards all over our apartment for the next half hour. And even then, I found some later — by slicing my foot open.

“Mariella?”

I nearly drop the plate I’m carrying. I can count on my hands the number of times she’s been awake this early — usually I just place her breakfast on her dresser. The same dresser they were going to sell in a garage sale before everything went to hell.

I race to Mom’s room– which, with a teeny two-bedroom apartment, it doesn’t take long. When I swing the door open, she’s sitting upright in bed. Her hair is damp, and even though there are still shampoo suds, it makes me feel something I can’t describe.

“Hey, I have breakfast for you.”

She watches me like I’m a stranger, or someone from another life. Her light brown hair is curly from the humidity– the only way we resemble each other. Her once full cheekbones (your Mom could be a model, seriously, Luis used to insist) are sunken. Even though she’s still several inches taller than I will ever be, she feels smaller than I am, her lanky arms and legs covered with not one but two bedspreads.

“It’s sourdough,” I say, and I’m annoyed that my voice shakes. This is my Mom after all. The same person who used to braid my hair before soccer games.

Who made me Jello Jigglers in heart shapes when I was sick on Valentine’s Day. (Valentine’s Day is 100 percent cursed for me, and no one can convince me otherwise. I get sick almost every single year — and now that most people I know are dating, it’s all the more sickening).

“Leave it on the dresser, Mariella.”

“I always do,” I mutter. For a Moment, I have a weird urge to throw off all those bedspreads and blankets. Shake her awake. Don’t you realize you’re supposed to be taking care of me, instead of the other way around? Don’t you even remember how to wash your own hair?

I turn to leave.

She grabs my hand. “Wait.”

I turn to face her, but I can’t look her in the eye. I’m scared of what I’ll see. No, I’m scared of what I won’t see. I’m scared I’ll see that glossy look the day he left us, like there was nothing left of her. Like whoever this was, was just inhabiting her body.

Luis would love that theory — love as in want to investigate it. He’s really into that kind of thing: the idea that we can exist in many ways at once, or live different lives. Even though he’s Catholic.

His parents absolutely love that.

But I’ve never told him. I haven’t talked to him, period, since everything happened.

“Are you going to prom?” she asks.

The question is so unexpected that I don’t speak for a moment. I stare at the dark bed board: this ugly tawny brown I’ve always hated. The apartment walls we’re not allowed to paint, so they’re this insipid beige-grey color that no one wants and no one asked for.

“Prom isn’t for a month,” I say, because it’s the easiest answer.

“Well, you need a dress.”

She studies my clothes: beige cardigan, ripped low rise jeans, both splattered with mud. In my defense, I left my rain boots in the kitchen. After tracking mud all over the tiles.

“I’m probably not going,” I say.

She sinks back in bed. “I need to call our landlord. The sink is leaking again. Could you get me his number?”

The leaking sink from the house we used to rent — before we couldn’t afford it anymore and had to downgrade.

“The sink is fine,” I say.

“Oh? I didn’t know they came.”

I bite my lip. “Hey, did you know you still have shampoo in your hair?”

She reaches to touch her hair. “I should probably take a shower,” she says. “You’re right. Well, you better get ready for school. Don’t want to be late.”

My eyes mist with tears, but I turn my back before she can see. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be late.”

Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over 100 literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. She is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including Fairytales (Bottle Cap Press) and a forthcoming poetry collection. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) was published by Type Eighteen Books. X/Twitter: @erin_simmer.

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Tags Erin Jamieson

Stories

The Anger of a Good Man

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

A wealthy man named Dharmayya hired a carpenter to do the woodwork for his newly constructed house. He handed over the timber required for doors and windows and asked him to begin the work.

The carpenter brought his tools and started working. By the end of the week, the doors and windows were nearly ready. He used nails extensively to join and shape the wooden pieces.

One day, when the carpenter said he ran out of nails, Dharmayya immediately went to the market and bought some more. Showing them to the carpenter, he said, “The price of iron has gone up, so nails are expensive now. Still, I didn’t compromise on quality. Strong nails ensure durability. One shouldn’t hesitate to spend for lasting quality.”

One of the nails overheard these words — a particularly arrogant one — and it swelled with pride. It already had a haughty nature, and now hearing the owner’s praise, it became even more boastful.

Using every opportunity, it began to taunt the wood: “You’re nothing without us! Your strength and durability come only because of us. If you’ve earned any reputation, it’s because of the nails like me!”

But the wood didn’t mind. It calmly replied, “No one can survive alone. If I stand strong today because of you, I’m grateful.”

The nail didn’t like this response. The other nails and tools added, “Don’t say that. In a way, it’s because of you that we have any purpose.”

The arrogant nail was not pleased to hear even the other nails side with the wood. It glared at the wood and muttered, “Just wait. The moment I get a chance to tear through you, I’ll make you cry!”

Two days later, the carpenter happened to pick up that same nail. He placed it on the wood and struck it with a hammer. But the nail refused to go in. Seeing this, the carpenter struck it harder on the head with the hammer. The nail bent sideways. Trying to straighten it, he placed it on a stone and hit it again. This time, the blow landed badly and broke the nail’s head off.

Now useless, the carpenter tossed it into a corner and continued his work with a new nail.

The arrogant nail was shaken by the incident. It had never imagined such an end. Not knowing what to do, it sat there, broken, and wept.

As dusk fell, the carpenter packed up and left, leaving behind the wood, tools, and materials.

Seeing the nail lying sadly in a corner, the saw said, “So, miss high-and-mighty, look what happened to you! You thought the wood’s strength came from you? You mocked the very material that patiently endures our harsh cuts, believing that we are helping it become stronger. You couldn’t recognize its silent strength and goodness.

“When the carpenter hurts the wood while crafting a beautiful home, the wood endures it in silence. We are only tools used temporarily. But the wood is not weak. After being used once, who thinks about nails like you again? You wanted to hurt the wood but ended up ruining yourself. By morning, you’ll be swept away and tossed in the trash. Your life now has no purpose.”

The nail was finally enlightened. “I misunderstood the wood’s kindness as weakness and spoke arrogantly. It’s true — when good people get angry, they leave no trace of those who cross them.”

The truth is, the wood refused to let that nail in — not because it was weak, but to teach a lesson to that arrogant nail. Its resistance came from strength. It proved that the truly strong remain silent and fulfill their purpose without pride.

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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Tags Anandalokam, Andhra Pradesh, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation, Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University, Sahitya Akademo Award, Telugu

Stories

The Storm

By Anandita Dey

The storm outside the room and one inside me were not different. Both were creating havoc. The one outside was wrecking, breaking trees and thatched huts. The other was breaking me into pieces, and I knew, I would never be able to return to my original state.

I lay on an unknown bed, with an unknown person. His left hand held my waist tightly. I could feel his heavy breath on my neck. I could barely move. I wanted to get up and run away from this, into the storm outside, to silence the storm inside me. I looked at the wall clock on the wall in front of me. It was half past five in the morning. I freed myself from the strong grasp of his hand and got up from the bed. I felt dizzy from lack of sleep. I opened the windows, and the heavy rain drenched me in a few minutes. The strong breeze made me shiver.

It’s been a few months now since I’ve been with him. He seems to be a nice person. Sometimes when I pretend to be asleep in the morning, he prepares breakfast for me and leaves it on the bedside table. Sometimes when I don’t prepare dinner, he orders food from outside. He never complains of anything. One day I had high fever. He skipped his work and stayed all day with me, feeding me with food and medicines.

We first met a year ago. My parents arranged a meeting with his family, and they came to our house. He’s the only child of his parents. His father’s a retired police officer and his mother a high school teacher. He’s an entrepreneur. We met a few times after that, all of which were vague meetings. I don’t remember where we met, what were the things we discussed. And after a few months, I was sent to his home. He doesn’t stay with his parents. We live in a small apartment, few kilometers away from my parents’ home. I am now officially his wife and he, my husband. He’s the kind of man every girl desires. He’s good looking, intelligent, caring and everything. But I already had my perfect man in my life.

My perfect man may not be very intelligent, but he knows how to make me smile. He is the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life. He is so charming that anyone would fall for him, but he chose me. He loves me as if I’m the most precious thing he has. And when he touches me, caresses me, kisses me and holds me in his arms, I feel like I’m the most precious thing in this world. He says I’m his muse. He writes poems about me. Some nights, when we lie down together, he recites those poems to me in his enchanting voice.

My train of thoughts stopped when my husband tapped me on my back. He closed the windows and asked me to get ready. He said we were going somewhere. I obediently got ready and prepared breakfast for us. We had our breakfast in silence and left for the ‘somewhere’. As we reach there, the place seemed to be familiar to me. I had been here before, but I could hardly recall. Few moments later we met a lady. She called herself Dr. Sunitha Swamy. She was beautiful with an appealing personality. She asked me a few questions about myself and my hallucinations. I didn’t know what she was talking about. And then she spoke to my husband. She said I had created an imaginary person in my mind who I thought was real and that’s why I was not able to accept my marriage or my husband. She said few medications and therapies could help me get rid of this.

Three months passed since we first visited the hospital. Dr. Sunitha said I was fine after taking medications and therapies. My husband’s no longer an unknown person to me. I never skip preparing breakfasts or dinners for him. His hands no longer feel like a tight grasp. And we make love too. But on days when no one is around, I go back to my man — the man whom I have loved ever since and whose embrace still makes me feel that I’m the most precious thing in the world.

Anandita Dey is a research scholar from Guwahati who enjoys experimenting with words as much as science. A lifelong book lover, she expresses her thoughts through poetry and fiction. Her writings have appeared in newspapers and online platforms, and she dreams of publishing her book someday.

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Tags Anandita Dey, Guwahati

Stories

The Sixth Man

By C. J. Anderson-Wu

Lin Yuan-Kai strode past the basketball courts, flanked by two prison officers, when a basketball suddenly flew toward him, striking his left hip. Though unhurt, the impact startled him. Laughter erupted from the players on the court—it was no accident.

Without hesitation, he picked up the ball and gestured his intent to join them. The officers didn’t interfere. The inmates, momentarily caught off guard, watched as he lined up a shot. He missed, but his confidence and performance impressed them.

For the next seven minutes, they played. Two inmates stepped forward as his teammates for a mano a mano match. Together, they seized victory, defeating their opponents 12 to 8. When the game ended, the officers resumed their duty, escorting Lin Yuan-Kai away, as if nothing had happened.

The sun hung mercilessly overhead, its heat absorbed and magnified by the endless concrete walls stretching in every direction. The prison yard of cracked pavement and sun-bleached barriers offered little relief. The air shimmered above the surface, thick with dust and the scent of stone baking in the heat. A few trees, sparse and struggling, clung to life along the far edge of the yard, their thin, brittle leaves barely moving in the stagnant air. The little tree shades were claimed by the few inmates lucky enough to lean against their trunks, eyes squinted against the glare.

Most others had no such luxury. They paced in the open, sweat slicking their skin. Conversations were short and clipped, words drowned out by the hum of cicadas whining from somewhere beyond the towering perimeter walls. The walls themselves, reinforced with layers of thick concrete, absorbed the heat like a furnace, turning corridors into suffocating tunnels of stifling air.

Two years ago, Lin Yuan-Kai was commissioned by the Archives Bureau to conduct the analysis of political archives and the gaps left behind after multiple rounds of legal document collection. The task was immense, and many researchers had approached it by pinpointing missing records and overlooked events. However, that method lacked structure and rarely led to meaningful conclusions.

Given the limited timeframe, Lin Yuan-Kai devised an approach that combined institutional records, yearbooks, and interdepartmental meeting minutes to identify relevant agencies involved in political documentation. Not every agency maintained comprehensive records, and many yearbooks only covered relatively recent years, which complicated the search. Another method involved a quantitative breakdown of archival cases and items.

With these comparisons and insights gained from studying archives and conducting interviews, Lin Yuan-Kai suspected that there were unfound prison archives that might have been hidden, abandoned, or destroyed. Traditionally, archives had been collected by searching institutional catalogs through keyword and classification code queries. But that process had two major flaws—some documents were not indexed due to oversight, and institutional catalogs were often incomplete or poorly organised. The true scope of political archives lay not only in recorded files but also in the unindexed stacks of storage, filled with materials that had never been officially recognized as archives.

Determining which institutional catalogs to consult was another challenge. For instance, searching for prison records during martial law meant looking beyond the former Garrison Command and into its subordinate and sub-subordinate agencies that had been dismissed after the abolishment of martial law. Despite the obstacles, direct access to storage rooms was the most effective solution. That required perfect timing, coordination, and support from the right people. Fortunately, the Archives Bureau’s careful planning made it possible, allowing as much as possible access to the storage rooms where records had long been buried. Several times, young staff members had initially claimed that certain archives did not exist, only to uncover them once inside.

It was a rare opportunity, shaped by luck and determination, and it offered a glimpse into the missing history hidden in forgotten shelves.

Nevertheless, bureaucracy was a major obstacle of Lin Yuan-Kai’s mission. Authorities were never eager to be scrutinized, in the past as well as at the present. As he arrived at the former Alapawan prison, now a correctional institute, Lin Yuan-Kai felt the old walls, though renovated, still carried the weight of their history. Inside the building, the scent of disinfectant and old settings filled the air as he approached the front desk. A stern clerk barely glanced up from his files when Lin Yuan-Kai introduced himself and explained his purpose, citing his authorization letter from the Archives Bureau. The clerk took his paper, skimmed it for a brief moment, then sighed.

“The records you’re looking for don’t exist.”

Lin Yuan-Kai had anticipated resistance. Bureaucracy had a way of stalling progress, and Alapawan’s past was no exception. He tried to reason with the clerk. “These events happened only fifty years ago. Surely there are still some transcripts or reports? Can I enter your archive room and look for myself?”

Half a century ago, political prisoners in Alapawan attempted to seize weapons and ammunition from the prison guards, hoping to break free and ignite a large-scale revolt across the island—ultimately aiming to establish the Republic of Taiwan. But they failed.

Following the prison break, a Joint Command was formed, consisting of the Garrison Command, an army corps, and the police force, tasked with tracking down the fugitives. Within days, five chief conspirators were captured, and within months, these rebels previously imprisoned for separatism, disrupting social harmony, or sympathizing with communists were sentenced to death. This time, the charges were far graver: instigation of social disorder, treason, and espionage.

This chapter of the insurgence had been thoroughly investigated and studied. Lin Yuan-Kai had pored over nearly all available historical materials, including the official reports on its suppression and subsequent rehabilitation. To him, their plan had always seemed doomed from the start—too few participants, none of whom had ever been trained in combat, armed or unarmed.

Even if many sympathized with their idealism, organizing them into a unified force, let alone securing enough supplies to sustain an uprising, was nearly impossible.

What pressed on Lin Yuan-Kai’s mind, however, was not how they had failed—but what followed. How many more were purged in the aftermath?

Determined, he waited for the clerk’s response.

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ll need an official request submitted through proper channels. A paper from the Archives Bureau can’t order us to upheaval our archive.”

Upheaval, Lin Yuan-Kai thought, that’s how they saw a search of the archive, it means the documentation must be in very bad condition. “Is there anyone I can speak to in person? Former officers, anyone who might have firsthand knowledge?”

The clerk shrugged.

“What about inmate logs? Medical reports?”

The man hesitated. “Accessing them requires approval from the warden’s office. But the documents don’t include materials from fifty years ago.”

Lin Yuan-Kai saw his chance. “Let me speak to the warden, please.”

After several more rounds of procedural explanations and lingering doubt from the clerk, Lin Yuan-Kai was finally escorted to the warden’s office. Warden Liu, an aging man with years of institutional experience behind him, sat at a desk cluttered with paperwork. His eyes held neither warmth nor hostility, just the weariness of a man accustomed to endless trivial administrative tasks.

“I understand you’re seeking records on the insurgents,” Liu said, leaning back in his chair. “Officially, we have no ties to the former Alapawan prison, and our institute does not comment on past political events.”

Lin Yuan-Kai sat forward. “I’m not here to stir controversy, only to understand what happened. The prisoners’ perspective, the conditions, their treatment during the conflict, those details are crucial to preserving history.”

What he withheld was the conversation with a relative of one of the cellmates. She had approached him upon learning about the Alapawan prison project.

“Dr. Lin, my granduncle disappeared after the prison insurgence, after the sentencing and execution of the five chief conspirators. We never found out why or what happened. There is no governmental paper detailing his release, or his death.”

The young woman, Hsiao Yi-Chun, retrieved a worn photograph: a man in a white shirt, his hair neatly trimmed in a business cut. “This is the only photo we have of our granduncle.”

Lin Yuan-Kai, who had spent years studying the White Terror, had seen countless images of its victims. Each one struck him deeply. In the faded photograph, the man’s dark eyes stared back at him—he was likely around his own age.

What would happen to his own family if he were to vanish?

Carefully, Lin Yuan-Kai wrote down the man’s name, his charge, the year he was sent to Alapawan prison, and snapped a picture of the worn portrait with his smartphone.

After their meeting, Lin Yuan-Kai tried to edit the portrait with his phone—unblurring it, brightening it a little, strengthening the contrast 20%, and testing almost all special effects. But, at last, he saved the original without keeping any edited image. Hsiao Yi-Chun said they were told that her granduncle was the “sixth man”, but no one knew what it meant.

Standing in the warden’s office, Lin Yuan-Kai wondered if there was any clue that could lead him to the “sixth man”. The air was thick with the scent of stale paper and old ink, the kind that lingered on documents left untouched for years.

A single overhead lamp flickered, casting erratic shadows over the cluttered desk, its surface scarred by decades of use. Forgotten files lay in disarray, stacked haphazardly, their edges curling from time and neglect. The blinds were drawn, shutting out daylight, trapping the room in a suffocating stillness.

Officer Liu studied Lin Yuan-Kai for a long moment. Then, instead of responding, he rose from his chair and crossed the room to an old, rusted cabinet. With a quiet click, he unlocked a drawer and pulled out a worn box of folders.

“These are the only personnel notes from that time, kept by a former officer,” Liu said. “Unofficial and very incomplete, but if you want insight, this might be your best chance.”

Lin Yuan-Kai wiped the dust from his sleeves as he leaned over the crate, its brittle edges crumbling under his fingers. The box, long forgotten in the corner of the archive, promised secrets. But so far, it had yielded nothing but empty envelopes, rusted paper clips, and a cracked ceramic cup with faded initials no one could recognize.

Lin Yuan-Kai stood by the desk, flipping through the box’s contents with growing frustration. Bent clips, drawing pins, a hardened eraser, outdated requisition forms, a dust-coated key, each item more useless than the last. But the warden said nothing. He sat slumped in his chair, fingers laced together, watching the archivist with weary indifference. His gaze held neither curiosity nor concern, just the detached patience of a man accustomed to fruitless searches. The dim light caught in the deep lines of his face, revealing decades of service worn into his skin.

Lin Yuan-Kai kept searching, brushing aside brittle folders until his fingers found something different—a single slip of paper, folded with deliberate care. Slowly, he unfolded it, scanning its brief message.

“Documents regarding Deng Tse-Shan must be burned before May, together with this note.”

Obviously, it was a secret order but was not obeyed. The recipient had neither destroyed the note nor, perhaps, the documents it referenced.

Lin Yuan-Kai’s pulse quickened. He scanned the note again, absorbing its implications. If the files had been moved rather than burned, then someone had deemed them worth preserving, just not in the way history had dictated. His grip tightened. He glanced at the warden, searching for any reaction. None came. Silently, Lin Yuan-Kai tucked the paper into his pocket.

Back at the AirBnB, Lin Yuan-Kai let the cold shower wash away both the sweat and the lingering excitement. He reminded himself that he might not find anything beyond the note.

Later, in the shared living room, he settled into a chair, sipping the icy beer he had stored in the fridge earlier.

A westerner with a ponytail walked in. Seeing Lin Yuan-Kai, he asked politely, “Are you Dr. Lin Yuan-Kai?”

“Yes, I am,” Lin Yuan-Kai replied, surprised. How did a foreigner know him?

The man extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Morris. They told me you’re an archive expert.”

Lin Yuan-Kai shook his hand. In this isolated place, any outsider stood out, especially one visiting the prison, the largest institution in the region.

He gestured toward the beer. “Want one?”

They moved to a high table with their beers. Dr. Morris, an American sinologist, studied the inscriptions on headstones to trace the tempo-spatial patterns of migration to Taiwan from different regions of the world.

“They told me there are many headstones that might be of interest, so I came to see for myself,” he said. “I walked around and found graves with inscriptions suggesting that people from diverse backgrounds lived here from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth century. Some came from China, some from Southeast Asia, others from Taiwan’s west coast, and some relocated from the mountains to farm.” Lin Yuan-Kai was amazed that one could re-establish such a history through headstones.

Dr. Morris continued, “I copied down some of the names carved into the stones, at least the ones still legible. Some graves bear only a name, with no other details. Tomorrow, I am going to check out the old village office, hoping some documents have survived. The neighbourhood chief, Mr. Huang, agreed to take me.”

“What is in the village office?”

“They said the office kept tons of unattended documents, and I might find some matching the names on the headstones.”

“Can I go with you?” Lin Yuan-Kai asked, as an archive expert, the prospect of an unknown collection set his pulse racing.

“Of course, that’s what I intend to do.”

Around 7 o’clock next morning, they met in front of the dilapidated village office, and Mr. Huang brought a key to carefully open the door. Lin Yuan-Kai thought it was just a gesture, for the door was so unhinged, anyone could just kick it open.

The archive room was in the deepest side of the building, lying in stillness, untouched and forgotten. As the pale morning rays filtered through its dust-streaked high windows, shadows stretched long across the floor, tracing the outlines of scattered folders and crumbling stacks of paper that had surrendered to time.

Metal filing cabinets, their surfaces pockmarked with rust, stood in rows like sentinels guarding history’s remnants. Some drawers hung open, revealing brittle documents curled at the edges, their ink faded. The air smelled of damp paper and aged furniture, memories soaked into the very walls, lingering long after the last searcher had departed.

A single overhead light flickered weakly, its bulb on the verge of surrender. In the corner, a toppled chair lay beside a desk strewn with yellowed index cards, each inscribed in careful, long-forgotten handwriting. The room exuded a quiet decay—a blend of dust, brittle paper, and the faint musk of fraying linen threads that once bound volumes now crumbling with age. The air carried a musty dampness, heavy from years without ventilation, tinged with the metallic trace of ink that had long since bled into the paper’s grain.

They stood uncertainly, unsure where to begin. Then, a sharp shriek from a bird outside the window cut through the silence, startling them. A single leaf fluttered in through the broken screen and landed atop a half-open drawer. Lin Yuan-Kai took it as a sign, so he would start there.

Dr. Morris unfolded the papers where he had recorded names over the past few days, studying them as he tried to decipher the document arrangement. The records were categorized roughly by the number of strokes in the characters of family names: Wong, with four strokes, was placed first; Wu, with seven, followed after; and Lin, with eight, came next in the sequence.

While Dr. Morris remained buried in the worn-out documents, Lin Yuan-Kai turned his attention to the files of surnames with the most strokes. He examined those for Yen but found little of note, only a handful of records for the name. The files of Tsai were similar.

The documentation was inconsistent; some individuals had more detailed records, including birthplaces, occupations, marriages, and even death dates, while others had nothing beyond a name. Women, in particular, were often documented solely in relation to their husbands—identified, for instance, as Madam Tsai when married, and again only when widowed.

Lin Yuan-Kai thought of Hsiao Yi-Chun’s granduncle as he sifted through the files under the Hsiao surname. Unsurprisingly, he found nothing; the man had disappeared in 1970, while these records dated back only to the late 19th century through the mid-20th century.

Still, experience had taught him that archives always held something—hidden traces, faint echoes of the past, as if the ghosts of those denied closure lingered, guiding his search.

Political prisoners of that era were often in their twenties or thirties. If some had been locals born in the 1930s or 1940s, their names might still be buried in these files.

He retrieved the note he had secretly pocketed the day before—Deng Tse-Shan, the man the authorities had tried to erase.

At first, the documents of the Deng families revealed nothing. But as Lin Yuan-Kai scanned names that might be connected, Dr. Morris unfolded his own notes and pointed to an entry—a name containing Deng and Shan, though the middle character was unrecognisable

“Could they be the same person?”

“Very likely,” Lin Yuan-Kai said, leaning in. “Where did you find this name?”

“In the mass grave. He might be the ‘sixth man.’”

Sixth man. It was the second time Lin Yuan-Kai had heard that phrase.

Dr. Morris explained that, according to Prof. Jiang Ming-Shun, after the five chief conspirators for Taiwan’s independence were arrested and sentenced to death, the national leader Chiang Kai-Shek remained convinced that a sixth man had played a role in the prison break and ordered that he be found at all costs.

No one knew how Chiang had obtained this information, given that he lived and governed from Taipei, far from the prison in Taitung. But his word carried unquestioned authority. His judgment was treated as truth, and his directive was followed without hesitation.

The result was a wave of arrests and executions carried out with little to no evidence, culminating in the mass grave near the prison.

“So, there were more than one ‘sixth man’?”

“Based on what we counted in the mass grave, there were likely eight to twelve. Some mounds might not be graves at all, and others may have disappeared over time, lost to floods or landslides.”

Lin Yuan-Kai took over Dr. Morris’s notes, searching for Hsiao Yi-Chun’s granduncle. One name shared a matching character, but it wasn’t enough to confirm whether it was the same man, or if Hsiao Yi-Chun’s granduncle was among the “sixth man.”

A clearer picture has begun to emerge beyond the well-studied prison insurgence. In addition to the five chief conspirators, eight to twelve other men were accused of being accomplices and executed on the spot—without trial, without due process. The scale of this slaughter exceeded even that of the major trials. Each of these men—who may or may not have been involved in the uprising, who may or may not have supported Taiwanese independence, who may or may not have identified as Chinese or Taiwanese—was killed as the “sixth man”.

To their families, they simply vanished. To history, they became little more than unmarked remains, whose existence were left to be debated as part of Taiwan’s sovereignty decades later.

C. J. ANDERSON-WU (吳介禎) is a Taiwanese writer who has published fiction collections about Taiwan’s military dictatorship (1949–1987), known as White Terror: Impossible to Swallow (2017) and The Surveillance (2021). Her third book Endangered Youth—Taiwan, Hong Kong, Ukraine has been launched in April 2025. Her works have been shortlisted for a number of international literary awards, including the International Human Rights Art Festival and the 2024 Flying Island Poetry Manuscript Competition. She also won the Strands Lit International Flash Fiction Competition, the Invisible City Blurred Genre Literature Competition, and the Wordweavers Literature Contest.

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Tags C.J. Anderson-Wu, Chiang Kai-Shek, China, Chinese, Hong Kong, Southeast Asia, Taipei, Taitung, Taiwan, Taiwanese, The White Terror, Ukraine

Stories

Nandu by Ajit Cour

Translated from Punjabi by C. Christine Fair

His name was “Nandu”. He was a servant in our neighbour’s house, where he did all of the household chores. He was a smallish boy. Who knows what his actual name was. Everyone just called him Nandu.

Sometimes he would finish his work in the afternoon and would come sit with me. Although he was from Garhwal, he spoke Punjabi well, albeit haltingly. His face always made it appear as though he were laughing. We gave him the nickname “Laughing Man.”

“Nandu, how many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“Four sisters and three brothers. All of the sisters are older than I am, and the brothers are younger.”

Then Nandu fell silent. It was as if he were thinking that if his brothers were older, they would be working, and Nandu would not have cuts on his hands from washing vessels all day at such a young age. Nor would he have been forced to leave his small house nestled in the mountains.

“Nandu, how did you manage to leave your parents and everyone else to come here?”

Then he smiled, and his lips spread out. “Who knows why?” he smiled, but it seemed as if the smile was trying to convince me that it doesn’t matter whether you want to or don’t want to do all of this work, you still have to do it. Right?

“Madam, back there, we barely eat twice a day. We cooked once a day, and we ate the leftovers for a second meal. Moreover, I was not free there at all. I would take the cows outside for grazing. I also bathed them sometimes. I would also feed them fodder. When my mother would milk the cows, I wanted to drink the milk fresh from the bucket. But madam…if we don’t sell the milk, then maybe we won’t even be able to cook one meal.

“And there, people must have their own lands?”

“What kind of lands, Madam? Just small parcels. And then you have to pay land tax and interest on the loan.”

When Nandu spoke like this, it seemed to me that this child was a fifty-year-old man. Yet he was hardly thirteen years old. He was eight or nine when he ran away from his village to come here. Perhaps, he couldn’t tolerate hunger. There had been a time when he had been self-respecting. He would go on saying, “Where I used to work before, the old woman was angry with me one day. And I left.”

I was astonished that now he is verbally abused all day long, but he has gone nowhere. The reason may be that he had grown accustomed to it.

Nandu only spoke Punjabi. He would say that he had forgotten Garhwali. And he never posted letters to his family. He would say that he only knew his father’s name and the name of his village. Nothing else. And the villages in Garhwal had such long addresses. Sometimes he would become very sad thinking of his mother and father. Once, I saw him outside, wiping his eyes with his dirty Ludhiana shirt. But usually, he would try to hide his pain in a smile from which his broad lips would stretch wide. He said carelessly, “According to them, I died long ago.”

Our neighbors were Sikhs. And Nandu bought a gutka[1] with his salary, even though he was completely illiterate. (He only took that part of his salary that he needed for necessities.) He also bought a picture of Guru Gobind Singh Ji and wrapped it in his spare shirt to keep it safe. When the shirt he is wearing gets dirty, he washes it, wraps the picture of Guru Gobind Singh in it, and wears the other shirt.

Over time, he began imitating the children of his boss, a Sikh man, and began wearing a turban. He also got the worn-out turban of his boss’s youngest son. For two annas, he bought some grey dye and dyed the turban. He also acquired a small kirpan[2], which he did not remove while bathing or sleeping. He went from Nandu to Nand Singh.

One time, a man from his village came to find him.

“Does someone by the name of Nandu live here?
“There’s no one here by that time. You’ve come here by mistake,” Nandu said with deliberation. He was already afraid that if some man from the village recognised him, he would have to send money home. And maybe he would have to return to that place, where, after caring for the cows all day, he got only one meal, and for the second meal, he was given dried pieces of roti. Here, he could satisfy his hunger at least twice a day. He didn’t need to worry a bit about work. And what about scolding and abuse? Ultimately, a person learns to tolerate these things.

Even though Nandu’s face had completely changed, seeing his wide laughing lips, the man from his village recognised him. He said something to Nandu in Garhwali. Nandu began to say somewhat angrily, “I don’t understand what you are saying. Don’t talk nonsense. Speak correctly.”

And the next day in the afternoon, when he told me that he no longer understood Garhwali, I suddenly let out a sigh. Maybe I sighed because Nandu had forgotten his mother tongue, which must have been the first words he heard when God threw him on this planet, thinking him to be disposable.

“What did he say to you, Nandu?”

“Nothing. He said only that ‘your mother is missing you a lot.’ But I know no one is crying for me. She must be thankful that there is one less hungry mouth to feed. She used to always say to me, ‘May you die.’”

But that man from Nandu’s village kept coming around. Over time, Nandu’s heart softened. Nandu remembered his mother, he remembered his elderly father, who must no longer be able to work the fields. And Nandu remembered his small, dirt shack, whose outside wall was plastered with rocks. The fragrance of fresh soil and paste made of cow dung and mud floated to his mind. And now Nandu was constantly sad. In the end, he was still a child, all of thirteen years old.

Then one day, who knows what happened, but cysts appeared near his ear. The boss, the Sikh, was charry of the illness, thinking no one would keep a sick man in his house. He tossed Nandu out. While leaving, Nandu cried copiously! He gave me the gutka and the picture of Guru Gobind Singh. He was going back to his village. He said he would take them back when he returned from his village.

So much time had passed without hearing from him. On several occasions, my eyes would well up looking at his things. Poor Nandu.

Then one day, there was a knock at my door. It was the afternoon. I opened the door. A smallish boy was standing there wearing a dirty hat and a filthy shirt, and in his hands was a smallish bundle. I thought someone must have come to meet our servant. But seeing those wide lips smiling in his laughter, I immediately recognised him. It was him. Nandu.

Nandu had cut his long hair. Now his name was Anand Ram. I asked him how he was doing and gave him some water. He spoke haltingly. While speaking, he said some words that I had difficulty understanding. In the end, embarrassed, he began to explain that due to living in his village, it was hard for him not to speak Garhwali. In the end, he was still Nandu, who had come to me in the afternoon and to tell me all of his sorrows.

“Your things are still with me, Nandu.”

“You keep them.” It seemed as if words were not coming to him. He didn’t know what to say, “I have another photo.” He began to open his bundle. There were a few pieces of clothing from which Nandu withdrew a picture. It was a picture of Lord Krishna.

I kept on thinking that hunger knows no religion. Wherever one gets food, one adopts that religion and that language. Then what is the essence of a person? A cog that has to fit into every machine because a cog outside of a machine doesn’t get oil, and it becomes rusty. And Nandu? What was Nandu? A thing without life? He was a ball rolling down the mountainside, which, moving very quickly down the hill, would get stuck on a rock momentarily, then again begin rolling. Maybe Nandu was like that same wind-up doll that my little brother has. The only difference is that the wind-up doll is fat, whereas every one of Nandu’s ribs could be counted.

After two years, Nandu came yesterday. There was barely any difference in his build. I recognised him immediately. But he could not recognise my little brother. In those two years, he had grown a lot. The wheels of time leave different marks on different people.

Now Nandu spoke Hindi. He spoke some words very quickly, which I had difficulty understanding.

“So Nandu, where are you these days?”

“I’m working for a woman from Madras. She’s terrible. She harasses me a lot. Otherwise, everything is fine. Initially, I couldn’t eat their food, but now I can.”

Then I thought he was doing this just to keep his belly full, just like sparrows and crows who eat to keep their bellies full. Just like wild dogs roaming the streets to fill their bellies. What is a meal? Whatever you get, you eat, whether it’s leftover food or something else. Something just to fill one’s stomach. But to feed himself, one has to sell himself.

I had thought that Nandu had sometimes become Nand Singh and sometimes Anand Ram. There was a time when he kept a picture of Guru Gobind and a gutka. Now he keeps a picture of Krishna. Sometimes he spoke Garhwali, sometimes Punjabi, and now Hindi. But Nandu kept on washing dishes. Nandu kept on sweeping. He kept on washing clothes. He went on cooking. And he continued to be scolded. Still, he’s a child. Poor Nandu!

“Sister, are you still writing stories?”

“Yes, Nandu. I’m writing now.”

“And you were saying that you were going to write my story?”

I smiled. Feeling demoralized, he began to ask, “But who will read it?”

Then it occurred to me that Nandu couldnot read his story himself, but many others would read it.

“Nandu, the people of future generations will read about Nandu and thousands of Nandus, just like the Bible. And these stories will be worshiped just like you worship these pictures. Because you all strengthen the foundations of the new world.”

Who knows whether he understood what I was saying, but he smiled.

[1] A quid of betel and tobacco

[2] Small dagger, a ritualistic thing carried by Sikh men

Ajeet Cour (born 1934) is an Indian writer who writes in Punjabi. She is a recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Award and the Padma Shri, the fourth-highest civilian award by the Government of India. She is the author of twenty-two books, including novels, novellas, short stories, biographical sketches, and translations. Her novellas include Dhup Wala Shehar (The town with Sunshine) and Post Mortem. Her novel, Gauri, was made into a film, while her short story Na Maaro (Don’t Beat) was serialised for television. Her works have been translated into English, Hindi, and several other languages.

C. Christine Fair (born 1968) did her Ph.D. in South Asian Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago. She is currently a professor of Security Studies at Georgetown University. Her translations have appeared in Muse India, Orientalia Suecana, The Bangalore Review, Borderless, The Punch Magazine, The Bombay Literary Magazine, and The Bombay Review.

Tags Ajit Cour, Dhupp Wala Shehar, English, Gauri, Georgetown University, Hindi, Na Maaro, Padma Shri, Post Mortem, Punjabi, Sahitya Akademi award, Translation, University of Chicago

Stories

Ali the Dervish

By Paul Mirabile

Whirling Dervishes, painting by Jean Baptiste Vanmour (1671-1737). From Public Domain

In 1976, I bought a small country cottage very pleasantly located near the town of Sheffield at Dronfield in South Yorkshire from an elderly woman who informed me she that had travelled quite extensively throughout Asia in the nineteen twenties and thirties before settling down here. She never married. The learned woman left no forwarding address.

Settling in took much time and energy because of my abundant belongings. At last, one rainy afternoon having nothing to do, I climbed the shaky stairway that led to the garret. The door had been left ajar. Inside the low-ceiling, ill-lite space, there was nothing but a large chest placed in the middle. The lid lay aslant. Its hinges were broken.

Curious about its contents, I began rummaging through the numerous newspaper and magazine clippings, booklets, letters and other documents. A particular envelop caught my eye because the red wax seal had been broken. Wax-sealed letters are very out-dated these days. When I opened the envelop I understood why it was sealed. A seven-page letter had been written in fine, elegant script, by Lady Sheil, dated 1869. Lady Sheil was quite a prominent woman in her time[1] . This indeed was a remarkable find. It baffled me why the former proprietor would leave in a chest of documents a letter of such archival interest. Since there was little light in the garret, I took the letter downstairs to read it. Unfortunately there was no addressee, so I assumed it was sent to the former proprietor. I must confess that a feeling of guilt touched me when I began my reading. Luckily I overcame this sensation because the contents of the letter proved extraordinary …

Lady Sheil details a very peculiar adventure of an Englishman who named himself Ali the Dervish -or as she spelt it, Deervish — who had undertaken a voyage to ‘Balochestan, Persia’[2]. As I read through her letter, I came to realise that the Englishman had abandoned his British ways entirely, adopting those of the semi-nomad Balochi. To such an extent was his assimilation that he even married a Balochi woman, something utterly unthinkable at that time — in the year 1856. Why Lady Sheil would write a long letter about this chap to an unknown reader or readers heightened my curiosity.

I began investigations at the Sheffield library and found Lady Sheil’s Glimpses of Persian[3] though I found nothing at all about Ali the Dervish. Lady Sheil mentioned something about his diary but nothing substantial came of this. Be that as it may, the letter fascinated me by its mysterious allusions and ellipses, especially concerning this unusual identity change. Not a simple task for a European in the nineteenth century, or even in our century for that matter. This Ali even outdid Sir Richard Burton’s bursts of outlandish impersonation …

Examining the letter carefully, I felt a strange, slight tremor goading me to do justice to this eccentric Ali. Something unsaid in the sentences urged me to read between them, to scrutinize the margins and the paragraph indents as if Lady Sheil had deliberately left out parts of her narrative for her reader to fill in those blank, yellowing spaces.

I picked up my pen, imagining myself to be both Lady Sheil and Ali the dervish, and began filling in the those blanks, writing in the gaps, the lacuna, the untold events and details so to speak. Indeed, I had convinced myself that the letter had been destined for me. And this resolution was enough for me to divulge the mystery of Ali …

Ali, whose English-born name was left unknown, had had the best of aristocratic educations in the fine arts, especially languages. He was fluent in Hindustani, Persian, Pashtun and Turkish, besides having mastered four or five European languages, including Hungarian. This was quite a linguistic feat, second only to Richard Burton whom, by the way, Ali had the occasion to meet in Lahore. A meeting which lasted two or three weeks according to a friend of Burton’s memoirs. Little, however, is reported about their relationship.

Prior to Ali’s arrival in India and that fortuitous encounter with Burton, he apparently had led a rather lukewarm existence in England, and this in spite of his family wealth, or perhaps because of it. His accumulation of capital was analogous to his successive accumulations of prolonged bouts of depression. They left him utterly exhausted. How and when he left England is not written in the letter, although he probably reached India by ship, then on horseback or foot into Northwestern India, accompanied often by erring minstrels and story-tellers. From whom Ali learned the art of dancing, chanting and story-telling. It was not a question of imitating these rituals and customs. Ali had integrated them as if they had been part of some distant, latent self that required jolts of recollection to surge up from the depths of the unconscious. In fact, Burton was quite taken aback by Ali’s very ‘unEnglish’ appearance. His manner of speaking English, too, possessed a curious twist of Persian and Hindustani syntax — a ring of their tonal stress.

To Ali’s pleasant surprise, he no longer suffered from bouts of violent depressions. The former Englishman on leaving Burton, perhaps in 1849, rid himself of paper money, donating it to missionaries, then rode off into the verdant valleys of North-western India towards Afghanistan carrying only the clothes on his back, two gourds of fresh water, several loaves of acorn-bread and a pouch of Arabic gum. Ali carried no weapon.

Ali’s sound knowledge of Hindustani, Pashtun and Persian offered him unparallel glimpses of these undomesticated lands. Lands of shifting desert sands whose rising heat conjured in the distance illusions of ravishing oases and sparkling cascades off tree-laden crags. Ali had been warned about these deceitful mirages (by Burton?) whose marvellous vision had been the death of many a brave adventurer.

He kept to the clayey track, accepting food and board from the hospitable villagers or sleeping under the silver stars on his woven kilim-saddle cloth. He rode days or nights penetrating landscapes of indescribable beauty, of terrifying singularity, of unbearable heat in the day and equally freezing nights. At one point in his wanderings, Ali, slumbering on his horse due to the rising heat and lack of food, looked up to discover a gigantic Buddha hewn into a tuft-like cliff. A small stream ran in front of the lithic niche along which flourished many date trees. There the Buddha stood, calm, reposed, sedentary, encased in his stone casket, home to a myriad birds who had made their nests on his rounded shoulders and shaven head. Ali jumped off his horse, filled his gourds with clean water, scouted about for fresh dates. With one last look at the towering Enlightened One he set off towards Persia, filled with equivocal sensations. He felt that his nomad days would soon be numbered …

A month or two passed. Now villagers tilling their fields or collecting wood no longer greeted or spoke Pashtun to him, but in Dehwari or Persian. He welcomed this language shift. Ali felt more at ease in Persian, albeit it be the Dehwari dialect, which he had learnt from one or two erring Zarathustrian talebearers in India. By then his uncombed beard touched his chest and his hair his shoulders. In one village he traded his khaki-coloured shorts for a shalwar[4] and his boots for goat-skin sandals. In another his Safari sun hat for a turban and his heavy flax shirt for a long, cotton tunic. Whenever he met tillers or merchants they would greet him with the customary ‘hoş amati’[5]. By their pronunciation and vocabulary Ali knew he was travelling southwards into Balochestan. Temperatures rose and rose — 37° C … 42° C. His horse trotted slower and slower. Her rider drooped soporifically over her mane. Ali no longer calculated his wanderings in farsakhs[6] but by the risings and settings of the sun …

Notwithstanding these discomfitures, the persevering Ali carried on. To his delight the track widened, hospitable shepherds driving before them their herds of sheep or goats offered the solitary traveller the warmth of their camp-fires, goat’s milk, cheese and acorn-bread. Caravans of transhumance nomads pressing towards the high plateaus nodded to him. The stony-faced herdsmen chanted in their own language which translated means —

 A breath of mountain breeze,
A breath of wind from the Sea,
In the middle,
We trudge
The pilgrims of the fountain…

Then they called after their huge, savage dogs. Ali seized upon that admirable chant and intoned it to himself or aloud …

One sparkling, azure day, Ali, road-weary, alighted from his horse in a large settlement of tents, called Sa’idi. There both Persian and Dehwari were spoken, judging from the scores of people who came to greet him. It was a charming settlement, surrounded by fields of red poppies, iris, bluer than the blue of the sky, crown imperials whose orange tints glowed like lit candles, and tulips. Horses, sheep and goats dotted the terraced rows of poppies on the hills and skirts of the low-laying piebald mountains, motionless. Ali, both dazzled and comforted by the undulating kaleidoscope colours decided to halt for the night in this welcoming settlement to rest his fatigued physical and mental state and his horse.

When he asked for the elder of the settlement, he was directed to a very large white tent. In fact, since his arrival the snowy-bearded elder had been eyeing the stranger askance. He threw open the flap of his tent and greeted him in Persian as custom would have it, inviting his visitor inside for tea. Sipping their respective glasses of sugared tea, the snowy-bearded elder’s deep-set black eyes peered into those hazel-brown of Ali’s. Though he was pleased to meet this curious traveller, he was confused about his identity. Finally he put the question point blank to his sipping visitor: “Are you Persian?”

Ali nodded neither yes nor no. His ambiguous nod set off the string of events that followed. events that transformed the already transforming Ali into a rather ambiguous Other …

The snowy-bearded elder had read that ambiguous nod as a sign of belonging. Ali’s sun-mat complexion, his extraordinary command of both Persian and Dehwari, his knowledge of social and religious habits and practices, mostly acquired during his years on the road, opened the elder’s heart and those of the Balochi people of Sa’idi, people who now had stepped into the tent, forming a large circle round Ali and the snowy-bearded elder. Out of this wide circle came the elder’s three sons and daughter to lead him to his own red tent at the outskirts of the settlement. His horse was led to pasture with the others.

On the thick carpets of his medium-sized tent, Ali sat and meditated upon that ambiguous nod. Had he really become the one of them? Deep within his heart, the former Englishman rejoiced … rejoiced at his ‘crossing over’. He had become what he really was …

Several years passed. Ali no longer felt guilty about leaving his past behind. His immersion seemed complete. He sang and danced round the ritual fire at night. He told stories night after night after a hard day’s work in the poppy fields, apple and peach orchards and the vineyards, the tribesmen chanted their chants of ancestral lore, joined him in his whirling dance, one palm to the Heavens and the other to the Earth, eyes staring into a void of quiescence …

It was in Sa’idi that he began to be called Ali the Dervish, whirling as he did before and behind the leaping flames. Ali taught his dance to the snowy-bearded elder’s three sons. In turn, the elder offered his daughter to him in marriage — a privilege since this signified entrance into the chieftain’s family.

Once the three-day marriage ceremonies were over, his lovely bride — for she was truly lovely — sat next to him in the nuptial red tent. His wife, whose name has never been recorded, demanded nothing of him. She accepted all his nightly hesitations … ‘failings’ … Her fruity laugh and obsidian back eyes spoke a language that communicated higher values … loftier treasures than uncertainty, physical gratification or hereditary obligations.

Ali slowly discovered that his young bride possessed the quality of a seer, perhaps even belonged to a long lineage of Central Asian mystics. Intense were her meditations and visions of the Other World, of events passed and those to come … His past … Their future … Ali, both bewildered and beguiled by this power of prophesy, would timidly question his bride about her unusual gifts. She would answer enigmatically: “One must remove the Husk before bringing in the Bride,” an adage he never fully understood, nor would she ever elucidate.

On other moonlit nights, alone within the sanctuary of their intimacy, Ali’s wife would envision scenes of his long aristocratic lineage, each member afflicted by physical or mental atrophies, plagued by wasting ennui. The Dervish listened in awe as she revealed events quite unknown to him. Yet, he remained speechless, peering into the almond-shaped eyes of this woman depicting scenes that could very well cost him his life. She said nothing. He yearned to avow everything to her but some fey voice prevented him each time. She read his mind and laughed her fruity laugh, delving ever deeper into his life … theirs !

Ali accompanied her with his eyes then turned them to the dying embers of the stove fire, the glowing logs sizzled lightly in the silence. Was he deluding himself? He knew that his wife had discovered his native idenity. But were all those past scenes his true identity? He indeed stemmed from that hoary lineage, the last scion. Was he the last to play a role on this world stage of masquerade and mummery? No ! He was Ali the Dervish … Here amongst these hearty tribesmen he played no role. He had overcome the hardships of childhood as a fatherless boy. That unknown gentleman had left for Africa never to return! Never a letter nor a message brought by acquaintances. Before dying of grief, his poor mother repeated to him everynight: “Look to the stars.” And the sullen boy looked, and believed that they would lead him to another life … another identity !

Once Ali began to cry softly listening to the sizzling embers and the light, rhythmical breathing of his strange wife.

Many years had passed and yet, they had no children. His hair and beard had greyed. Yet, no reprimand, no rebuke, no judgement ever came from the community, especially from her aging father. Was the power of her revelations known to him ? Would he be the last branch of that gnarled and rotten aristocratic tree ?

Ali rode often into the fields and mountains to gather wood to build tent-frames or glean fruit from the many apple and peach trees. During these solitary moments his past crept up on him, making him feel guilty. There seemed only one solution : speak openly, candidly to his wife about his British birth, his genuine desire to become the Other. She would surely understand since she had already read his former life by sounding his heart. That night he would go straight to his wife.

But, just then out of the blue sky his wife came galloping towards him, whipping up her stead. She jumped off, an odd expression wrinkling her forehead. Ali ran up to her, took her shoulders gently, admiring the sapphire blue that framed them so perfectly like a painting. There she stood, basking in the soft glow of the mellowing, evening sun. Before he could utter his rehearsed confession she put a hand to his lips.

“Father has just passed away,” she whispered softly, without emotion. “He has been freed from the trammels of worldly existence.” She smiled. “Now you too are free to divest yourself of a personage that has been conferred to you by the stars and the strength of your will.”

“But who am I really, my dear?” her husband wondered. She caressed his bearded, burning cheeks. She answered: “If you want the horse to neigh, you must slacken the reins.” Turning round, she rode back to the settlement to wash the body of her deceased father and prepare the three-day funeral rites with her brothers. Ali puzzled by that enigmatic counsel trudged to his horse.

He rode back far behind her, meditating his ‘freedom’. What other choice had he?

This sentence was the last in Lady Sheil’s long, detailed letter. On further investigation into this strange fellow at the London library, I discovered that Ali the Dervish had divorced and remarried his bride to one of her brother’s mates, then left Sa’idi. He was last seen in Tabriz, Persia. No document reports his whereabouts after his reaching that northwestern town in the lands of the Azeri people.

I have often wondered whether Lady Sheil ever knew who Ali the Dervish really was. I have my doubts. Only his Balochi wife knew, and of course, that mysterious person could have never been questioned. It’s also odd that Ali himself — whatever self that be– had never woven his thoughts and experiences into a book, never enlightened a Western public on integration and assimilation into a foreign culture.

As time went by I even considered that this letter might have been a hoax to hoodwink a naive fellow like myself into clothing Ali in legendary fashion. On second thought, though, who’s to arbitrate between fact and fiction ? Not I, in any case. For isn’t it a refreshing act of freedom to slip from one to the other without a pinch of guilt ?

[1] 1803-1871.

[2] Balochistan is in Pakistan but the Baloch community spreads to Iran and Ali’s story dates before the formation of Pakistan.

[3] Published in 1856.

[4] Large, light baggy trousers.

[5] ‘Welcome’ in Persian.

[6] A Persian measurement equivalent to 5.35 kilometres

Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.

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Tags Asia, Balochi, British, Buddha, Central Asia, England, English, France, Hindustani, India, Jean Bapiste Vanmour, Lahore, Pashtun, Paul Mirabile, Persia, Persian, Richard Burton, Tabriz, Turkish, Yourkshire

Stories

The Gift

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

It was a science class for the 9th grade. All the students were listening attentively as the teacher was explaining the lesson. Just as there were 15 minutes left for the bell to ring, the attendent walked in with the notice register.

After sending him away, the teacher looked at the class. He noticed Ramu and Gopi sitting at the back and talking to each other.

“Children! Are you all listening?” the teacher asked aloud.

All the students except Ramu and Gopi raised their hands to show they were paying attention.

The teacher felt that Ramu and Gopi were talking about something more important than the class. Curious, he quietly walked over to them.

At that moment, Ramu was saying, “Mohan’s gift wasn’t liked by anyone at our home.”

“I thought it would be something valuable because he told me he would give a special gift,” replied Gopi.

“You didn’t come to our new housewarming ceremony, so you don’t know. Honestly, I feel a bit embarrassed to talk about it,” Ramu said sadly.

Hearing Mohan’s name in their conversation, the teacher felt it was something worth discussing. He gently tapped their desk with a stick and asked them to explain what they were talking about.

Mohan was a smart and well-behaved student, so the teacher was surprised to hear any complaints about him.

“Ramu had invited his friends for the housewarming a few days ago. I couldn’t go,” said Gopi. “But we were just talking about how the gift Mohan gave wasn’t good when you came, sir.”

“I see… what kind of gifts did the other students give?” asked the teacher.

“They gave useful household items,” replied Ramu.

“And what did Mohan give you?” asked the teacher.

“A mango plant,” said Ramu with a laugh.

The whole class burst out laughing. The teacher looked at Mohan, who bowed his head in embarrassment.

The teacher scolded the students and asked, “How can you say that a plant is not a good gift?”

Ramu replied, “To grow a plant, you need space. You have to water it every day. If it grows into a tree, its leaves will fall everywhere. Cleaning up is hard. It would have been better if he gave something else.”

“So, is that all you know about plants?” asked the teacher.

“Growing and maintaining a plant is difficult,” said Ramu again.

The teacher turned to the class and asked, “Is Ramu right?” The students nodded.

Then the teacher told Mohan to stand up and asked, “You said you would give a valuable gift, but you gave a plant. Why?”

Mohan answered, “The other gifts may break or become useless after a while. But a plant won’t. That’s why I chose it.”

“Tell us more about why you think it’s valuable,” the teacher encouraged him.

Mohan began to explain: “When a plant grows into a tree, it gives us many benefits. It absorbs the carbon dioxide we breathe out and gives us oxygen in return. Trees give us clean air to live. Their branches and leaves spread out to give us shade. People rest under trees to cool down. That’s why trees are important.

“If this mango plant becomes a tree, it can give us mangoes. Raw mangoes can be used for pickles and other dishes. Ripe mangoes are tasty fruits. A tree can give fruits worth thousands of rupees in its lifetime. We can eat the fruits or share them with relatives. The branches can be used as firewood. Even the dried leaves can be used to cook food. There are so many benefits. That’s why I gave a plant. I hoped Ramu would understand.”

“Is that all? Most people know these things. Tell us what science says about plants,” said the teacher, encouraging him further.

Mohan continued: “Cutting trees reduces forests. Because of that, rainfall is not coming on time. Pollution is increasing. Holes are forming in the ozone layer, and the Earth is becoming hotter. If we give plants as gifts and grow more trees, it helps society. If every citizen does this, we can enjoy green nature. It also reduces air pollution caused by too many vehicles. People will become healthier.”

“Well said! You explained it beautifully. I’m proud to say you’re my student,” said the teacher, clapping.

The class clapped too, just as the bell rang.

Looking at Ramu, the teacher asked, “Now tell me, was Mohan’s gift a good one?”

Ramu replied, “I couldn’t understand the value of the gift before. I behaved wrongly. Mohan’s gift is truly valuable.”

The teacher concluded, “Children, be wise. If you want to give a gift to someone, give them a book… or a plant!”

“Yes, sir!” the whole class replied loudly.

At that moment, the next class bell rang.

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Tags Anandalokam, Andhra Pradesh, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation, Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University, Sahitya Akademi

Stories

I Am Not My Mother

By Gigi Gosnell

My name is Amina Salvador, 13 years old. I was born in the rural community of Santa Maria, Philippines. I want to share with you the events that prompted me to give testimony to the police. That day was the hardest day in my life. After it was done, two long months went by until my mother received the decision of the Prosecutor’s office, stating:

“A person here left unnamed raped me, while I was still a virgin. The charges against the perpetrator were two counts of rape of a minor by sexual assault and three counts of lascivious conduct.”

The course of my life changed abruptly when my mother Selina decided to leave for Dubai in search of work as a domestic worker. Before she left, she spoke to me with tears in her eyes, promising to give me a good future and proper home where I could have access to all the comforts of life, good internet access, and would be able to pursue my studies. She would also buy me new clothes and provide for adequate food so I would not starve.

My mother left me under the care of my father. He was 43 years old, a muscular and strong man. He worked as a painter for newly built church buildings. Initially, he started pampering me with fancy items, like trendy watches and expensive clothes. This might seem like he was an ideal father.

My mother is an attractive woman, rather plump, with a pleasant face. She had a difficult life. Her parents were poor and not able to give her an education. Now, she is 40 years old.

It was by accident that I found out that my mother ran away from my “father”, the man she had married. After daily beatings in the hands of her alcoholic and abusive husband, she had no choice than to go south where her parents lived.

With a small bag of clothes and photographs of the five young children she had left behind with her abusive husband, she returned to her hometown to start afresh. At the time when all this drama was unfolding, I was still not born.

I heard that I was conceived when my mother fell in love again with another man who promised her to love and protect her. I suppose that I came into life as the sweet fruit of that promise. It didn’t take long, however, for her to discover the true character of this man whom she saw as a savior from her former abusive husband. It turned out that her boyfriend was a womaniser and a very jealous person. He too was another wife-beater.

As a result, my mother ran away a second time, with a three-month-old baby growing inside her. Feeling she had nobody to turn to, she returned to the cruel husband she had left some months ago. In this way, my mother continued her old subservient life.

I was born in a dilapidated clinic in our town, and three months later I was baptized as Amina Salvador. I took my mother’s husband family name. Anselmo Salvador was the father I got to know while growing up, until my mother, black and blue from physical abuse and humiliation, fled once more. Sad to say she ran away once more to her previous lover boy, the jealous and cheater one. Are you confused by now?

I am too young to understand what was going on inside my mother’s head. All this time I just kept quiet and did not ask questions about adult matters. As a young girl, I just wanted to play with my friends, go to school, and be myself. I still considered myself a normal kid.

Dark clouds started to form a few days after my mother flew out to Dubai. As I told you before, my mother entrusted me to her live-in partner. As you remember, previously my mother had left her lover already pregnant with me. It turns out that Solomon, yes him, is my real father. That is what my mother thinks and I have no right to refute her own truth. I was only 7 years old when she and I took a long bus ride back to her old lover boy. She held my left hand tight when we reached Solomon’s house.

The fights between her and Anselmo, and her and Solomon left a lasting impression in my young mind, yet I could not understand the causes of all of this. I suppose I was just caught in the middle of some nasty adult fights, whether I liked it or not.

I remember exactly after I said goodbye to my mom at the airport, my papa started abusing me. I woke up once in the middle of the night feeling his hands sitting on me. I was crying almost every night. I didn’t tell anyone what was going on. I was too ashamed to talk to anyone. I felt dirty. I lost weight and became more reserved.

I tried to reach out to my mother, but my monster papa was controlling my cellphone and my Facebook account he had created himself. He interfered with the messages I tried to send out. I have no idea how on earth he did this.

My harrowing experience went on and on for several months until I finally got a chance to message my mother. I did not know what to say. I simply wrote, “Is it right for may papa to kiss me on my lips?”

Instinctively, my mother felt there was something completely wrong happening to me. She asked her sister, my aunt Lenny, to take me away from my papa’s house. Aunt Lenny took me to her house and stayed with me until my mother’s immediate return from Dubai.

I am in safe hands now, under the protection of my mom and aunty. My dad was arrested and is now in prison, currently applying for bail. Prior to his arrest, he posted sexually explicit materials about me and my mom on social media, exposing me and my mom to shame in front of our extended families and friends. He also tried to kidnap me at school before my mother could return from Dubai. He orchestrated a smear campaign against me to make me appear as a flirt and a lose girl. It was terrible.

I am relieved that he is in prison right now, although he is begging my mother to withdraw the charges against him in exchange for money, and all kinds of tricks to make us back down and settle out of court.

While I am happy to see the monster in prison, my mother has a different idea. She wants to protect me from the prying incursions of the court. She knows that my case may take a year or more to conclude. She keeps telling me that she just wants to me to move on with my life. She also plans to go back to Dubai to make some money so she can support me and the rest of my siblings from my other father. I tell her, “It’s up to you, mama.”

You see, I am traumatised like my mother, but I am trying to convince myself that what happened to me should not define who I am. I can’t be in a similar situation like my mother is. It is sad to say that while we are still busy with my legal case, she has met another man. At first, he appeared gentle and kind, but lately, I overheard him cursing my mother over money squabbles. So, what can I say. It’s her life.

I choose not to be broken by my story. I will fight the demons in my head. I know it won’t be easy. I will show my mother that there is another way to live, and it is to love myself.

Gigi Baldovino Gosnell has degrees in Psychology and Education. She lectures in Psychology, worked in various NGOs, and the public service in the fields of women empowerment, land reform, social development and local government.

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

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Tags Dubai, Facebook, Gigi Baldovino Gosnell, Philippines

Stories

The Archiver of Shadows

By Hema R

She restores textiles at the museum in Central Chennai. Her fingers work over ancient threads as if decoding messages from the dead. This is a job that requires patience, belief in the value of preservation and a certain kind of loneliness.

Every day she lets the early morning sunlight into her apartment, 308, which has walls the colour of abandoned hope.

Her grandmother named her Yazhini. “It originates from the name of a stringed instrument in Tamil,” she had explained to the young girl. A stringed instrument, a hollow vessel, designed to resonate with whatever touches it. To amplify what might otherwise go unheard. Yazhini has spent thirty-two years resisting resonance. She has built her life in measures: the precise fold of conservation tissue; the exact temperature of her morning filter coffee; the calculated distance she maintains from her neighbours and from herself.

She first noticed her shadow move on a Wednesday. It lingered on the wall after she had stepped away, like an afterthought or a question. Yazhini noticed and catalogued the anomaly in her mind under “phenomena: unexplained” and continued washing dishes.

But the shadows continue to persist in their small rebellions. They stretch toward one another when she isn’t looking directly at them. They pulse slightly, as if breathing. Waiting.

She watches her grandmother’s lacquered trunk, brought from their ancestral house after the funeral. For three years it has served as an oversized paperweight, holding down memories she has no interest in excavating. The trunk is red-black, the colour of dried blood, with brass fittings gone green at the edges. Sometimes, in the thin light between sleeping and waking, Yazhini imagines it breathes in time with the shadows.

On the night of the new moon, Yazhini returns home damp with rain. The power is out. She lights a candle, and in its uncertain illumination, the shadow cast by her hand seems to drift away from her fingertips.

Without thinking she reaches toward the disloyal shadow and brushes against it. Immediately it feels cool like silk underwater, substantial as regret. Her shadow peels away, a layer of herself she didn’t know could be removed.

She holds it cupped in her palms. It doesn’t weigh anything, but it carries something. Memory, perhaps.

The trunk seems the logical place for it. When she lifts the heavy lid, the interior smells of camphor, cloves, and memories. Her shadow slides from her hands to the bottom of the trunk, spreading and settling as if it has found its home.

This doesn’t frighten her. Instead, she feels the first vibration of a string, long silent inside her. An unheard note being played.

The trunk closes with a sound like satisfaction.

In the days that follow, Yazhini discovers what it is to be a collector of absences. Other shadows reach for her now. The barista’s shadow stretches across the counter, elongating itself unnaturally. The museum director’s shadow pools at her feet during budget meetings.

The shadows know. They have been waiting for someone hollow like her who’s sensitive enough to hold them.

She learns that permission matters. A shadow freely given slides easily into her hands, cool and weightless. A shadow taken leaves a residue like ash on her fingertips.

Mr. Renganathan from apartment 110, a man, eighty-seven years old, who feeds pigeons on the rooftop with the devotion of the religious, is the first to offer his shadow directly to Yazhini. “Take it,” he says, not looking at her but at the sky beyond the building’s edge. “It’s tired of following me.” His shadow has worn thin in places, gossamer with age, and the edges fraying like old silk. When it detaches from his feet, there is a sound like a sigh of relief.

That night, with Mr. Renganathan’s shadow nestled among the others in the trunk, Yazhini dreams of the flood. Not the sanitized version from newspaper archives, but the visceral experience of it: the roar of rising waters, the weight of sodden belongings hastily gathered, the sight of familiar streets transformed into rushing rivers. She wakes tasting salt, uncertain if the tears are hers or that of the memories’ from the shadow. The trunk is open a crack. A thin seam of darkness spills onto her bedroom floor.

Inside, the shadows are not still. They dance, or perhaps they struggle. Yazhini watches until dawn.

In the morning, she examines herself in the mirror. There is no visible difference. Her body casts a shadow. Weaker, perhaps, diluted like the tea she makes some evenings; steeped too briefly, but present nonetheless.

She has not become a vampire or a ghost, those staples of stories where the self is compromised. Yet something has changed. The stringed instrument of her name now plays notes she cannot control. She feels the absence of her original shadow like an amputee might sense a phantom limb, present in its nonexistence.

At the museum, she works on a fragment of brocade retrieved from a shipwreck. Three hundred years underwater, and still some threads hold their colour. Preservation is an act of defiance against time. Or perhaps an accommodation with it or a negotiation. As she works, she becomes aware of the shadows cast by ancient fabrics, the negative spaces between threads that have outlived their creators. These shadows too seem to recognize her. They lean toward her hands as she passes over them with her tools. She learns that history casts its own kind of shadow. She wonders what these textile shadows would feel like if she were to collect them. What medieval fingers might have left behind, what Renaissance whispers might still cling to the weave? She restrains herself. There are boundaries, even in the unprecedented.

That evening, she visits Mr. Renganathan on the rooftop. He sits with the pigeons arranged around him like attendants. His frail body is wrapped in a cardigan despite the Chennai heat. Without his shadow, he seems more substantial. Unburdened.

“You saw?” he asks, not specifying what. Yazhini nods.

“Madurai, 1993,” he continues. “When the floods came. I was 55 then, with my clockmaker’s shop well-established for over two decades. The waters rose so quickly.” His voice softens. “I carried my mother on my back through waist-deep water. My wife Lakshmi held our daughter’s hand, clutching our family documents in a waterproof pouch around her neck. We lost the shop, all my precision tools, everything we’d built. But we survived.” He tells her about rebuilding the clockmaker’s shop where he worked for the next fifteen years, the precision of gears and springs, the satisfaction of fixing what is broken; his wife Lakshmi, who died remembering the garden of her childhood home that she never saw again. As he speaks, Yazhini notices that a new shadow has begun to form beneath him, faint as a watermark. Shadows regenerate, apparently. The body forgives.

The shadows in her trunk multiply. Each night, they perform for her, or perhaps for themselves. Shadow theatre without the puppeteer. They blend and separate, forming patterns that remind her of the textiles she restores: mandalas, paisleys, intricate borders that tell stories in a language she almost understands. Sometimes she sees faces in the patterns, sometimes entire scenes: a child running through monsoon puddles; lovers meeting beneath a banyan tree; an old woman teaching a girl to play the Yazh, an instrument that resembles the harp. Their fingers move in unison across phantom strings. Yazhini begins to understand that she is not collecting shadows but stories, not capturing darkness but light impressed upon it. Memory, it turns out, has texture and weight, density and dimension. It can be archived like fabric, preserved against the ravages of forgetfulness.

As weeks pass, Yazhini decides to take only what is freely offered, and even then, she is selective. Some burdens are not hers to carry.

Mr. Renganathan’s health deteriorates. His visits to the rooftop become less frequent, then cease altogether. Yazhini visits him in apartment 110. His new shadow, still forming, has a different quality than the one she keeps. Cleaner somehow. Unburdened by memories, his body has learned to grow only what it can bear.

“I have a daughter,” he tells her on a Thursday morning when his breath catches between words.

“In Toronto. We haven’t spoken in eleven years.” He doesn’t explain why.

That evening, Yazhini brings a portion of his original shadow to him, the part that holds his daughter at age seven, spinning in a light blue dress. He cups it in papery hands, and for a moment his eyes focus on something beyond the walls of apartment 110.

She helps him record messages. Not the formal apologies of deathbed reconciliations, but everyday words: descriptions of pigeons on the rooftop, complaints about the building manager’s music, recipe of his wife’s biryani. The shadows know what needs to be said when words alone are insufficient.

One morning, “Twilight Towers” absorbs another absence, the way buildings do.

After the funeral, Yazhini finds Mudra, the daughter from Toronto, standing in the hallway outside apartment 110. She wears her grief awkwardly, like borrowed clothing.

“He left me a key,” she says, “and instructions to meet someone named Yazhini.” The resemblance to her father is not in her features but in the quality of her shadow, which stretches toward Yazhini of its own accord.

Back in apartment 308, the trunk waits. When Yazhini opens it, the shadows perform not their usual abstract patterns but a specific scene: a man teaching a little girl to repair a clock. Precise and tender movements. Mudra watches without speaking, her hand at her throat where a locket might hang if she were the type of woman who wore her memories visibly.

“What is this?” she finally asks.

“A type of conservation,” Yazhini answers.

That night, after Mudra returns to her hotel with a promise to visit again tomorrow, Yazhini sits with the open trunk. The shadows have settled into a new configuration. Among them, she notices something unexpected: a small patch of darkness the size of a thumbprint, containing no memory but rather the impression of potential. Not a shadow of what was, but of what might be. A beginning rather than an archive.

The seasons shift. Mudra extends her stay. She finds an apartment in Chennai city, ostensibly to settle her father’s affairs but really to settle something within herself. She visits Yazhini often. They drink coffee. They feed pigeons. Occasionally, they examine shadows together.

The trunk accommodates its growing collection, expanding inward in defiance of spatial logic. The shadows develop rhythms, preferences. Some cling to each other, forming composite memories that never existed but feel true nonetheless. Others maintain their integrity, reluctant to blend. All of them, Yazhini notices, seem to pulse in time with her heartbeat.

One morning Yazhini arrives at the museum to find her supervisor agitated. A rare textile has arrived. A fragment of silk believed to belong to an unnamed Tamil musician from the colonial era. “It needs your touch,” he says, which is as close to praise. The fabric, when Yazhini, unwraps it, carries a pattern she recognises instantly. It had the same configuration the shadows formed in her trunk the previous night.

She works with careful precision. As she does, she becomes aware of her own shadow on the workbench. She wonders how it has changed in these months of keeping others’ darkness. It carries subtle patterns now, impressions from all the shadows she’s collected. The outlines of her fingers contain multitudes: Mr. Renganathan’s clockmaker precision, the barista’s musical rhythm, the museum director’s careful assessment, and countless others.

In her apartment that evening, Yazhini sits before her grandmother’s trunk. “Is this what you meant me to find?” she asks the empty room. No answer comes, but she doesn’t expect one. The dead cast no shadows. They become them.

She opens the trunk and watches the shadows dance. In certain slants of light, she can see them extending beyond the trunk’s confines, threading invisibly throughout the building and beyond, connecting residents who may never speak to one another directly. Mr. Renganathan’s clockmaker hands. Mudra’s cautious smile. The barista’s fluid movements. The child who skips instead of walking.

Yazhini remembers her grandmother’s words about her name. That it meant not just any stringed instrument, but specifically one that requires both hands to play: one to create the note, one to shape it. One to preserve, one to transform. One to hold the past, one to invite the future.

She has become a keeper of shadows, yes, but more importantly, a keeper of the light that made them possible.

Hema R is a novelist, children’s author, and poet. Her short story is featured in Ruskin Bond’s “Writing for Love” anthology.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Tags Chennai, Ruskin Bond, Tamil, Writing for Love