Nazrul’slyrics ofMor Ghumogore Elo Monohor (In my Sleep, Came the Enchanting One) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
The Heartless, a Balochi story by AbdulQayum Sarbazi, has been translated by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Dragonfly 2 has been composed and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem, Amra Choli Somukhpane(We Look Forward and March), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Clickhere to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: Pink Dreams is an autobiographical narrative by Priyanka, written and compiled by Deeksha Vats. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Clickhere to read.
Larry S Su, who migrated from a mud cave in Shaanxi province to America, shares his story of the changes he sees during three visits to his home and muses on the gaps he has observed between these two places. Clickhere to read.
Summer, Dune in Zeeland by Piet Mondrain (1872 – 1944)
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.
‘Burnt Norton’, Four Quartets (1941) by TS Eliot
If we look back in time, we have a better life than that of our ancestors. Though conflicts rage and climate change is a reality that we all dread, it can safely be said, we have progressed beyond the imagination of those who lived a hundred years ago. The fact that some books from the past still reverberate with echoes of what the present holds says much for the outliers or authors who could think out of the box. Despite this complex intermingling of ideas and times, perhaps the world will change more now than before. We do not know anything for sure though experts are always predicting a future that for most of us remains unknown. What we can present is our own estimate of what can be and a definite assertion of what is. Truth as such is a matter of perception. That complicates it further. However, one of the changes that is definitely here to stay is climate change and our changing environment. Given that this is the month that homes World Environment Day, we have a smattering of writings that revolve around nature and also the human spirit that defies age.
We have featured a writer who revels in nature and is an ageless voice that bridges multiple cultures, Ruskin Bond. As he turned ninety-two last month, he published multiple new books. We have an excerpt from one of them, Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond, a brilliant collection of snapshots of his interactions with nature over time — be it frogs, snakes or just trees. Some of the vignettes are humorous and some, as all classics are, thought provoking. Bond puts into words how he chose to work in Landour (a small town in Himalayas) and continued to write from there for sixty years. He talks of the spell the mountains cast on him, “I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape.” The other book excerpt is a contrast to Bond’s, a non-fiction called Burnout Highway by Anmol Diddan. It explores the collective suffering of stress at work where achievements distance humans from nature and a fulfilling life and urges readers to be open to changes.
In keeping with the theme of environment, Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Stephen Alter’s The Fragrance of Rain: A Brief History of the Monsoon. He tells us: “The Fragrance of Rain is much more than a history of weather. It is a meditation on nature, culture, memory, and belonging… Like the season it celebrates, the book is refreshing, nourishing, and lingering in its impact…” While Rakhi Dalal expresses her delight with Shyam Manohar’s The Cold War of Sadanand Borse, a novella translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto, Meenakshi Malhotra revels in Giti Chandra’s debut book of poems, Setting Traps for Light.
In translations, Professor Fakrul Alam has captured the flavours of Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics, which also echo of the rainy season or monsoons. Isa Kamari brings to us more of his Malay poems in English and Ihlwha Choi shares a rendering of his Korean poem, ‘Dragonfly 2’, into English. One of Tagore’s poems from Balaka (Flight of the Cranes, 1916) has found its way into this issue after being translated. We also have a touching Balochi story around social gaps from the late Abdul Qayum Sarbazi, brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes has continued sharing his short fables, which are absurd but also, comical! A sensitive story about the natural world mingled with Maori concepts by Keiran Martin seems so much in sync with the oceans while Jeena R Papaadi has woven a strange narrative located in a land that only one man could visit. Plamen Vasilev shares a human-interest story set in Europe and Rabiya Rehman takes us to Lahore in quest of a missing destination! Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s narrative takes us back to a village that opted for trees, thus enriching the environmental lore in this issue.
We have a real life heart rending story from a young girl in our Pandies Corner, written and related by Deeksha Vats, based on the story told by a victim of familial violations and violence.
Our non-fiction section homes Larry Su’s essay on how his life took him from a rural mud cave in Shaanxi province to the glamour of Chicago. Reflecting on the changes he has experienced on his rare visits to his original homeland, Su muses on the cultural and socio-economic gaps he has observed between the two places. Charudutta Panigrahi – as if in direct opposition — shares similarities between two diverse geographies.
Suzanne Kamata explores a custom which may not be that eco-friendly in her column from Japan. Jun A. Alindogan brings home the impact of climate disasters while dwelling on blessings with his narrative about a narrow escape from the Typhoon Ondoy (2009). While Meredith Stephen writes of sailing to Timor Sea with photographs by Alan Noble, Farouk Gulsara takes us on a cycling adventure around the mountains of Titiwangsa. In another musing, he also explores the idea of good and evil in a sardonic tone while Sai Abhinay Penna dwells on the grandeur and vastness of the universe over his morning jog. Gowher Bhat writes of a man for whom age seems to be just a number as he publishes his debut book at 93! One wonders at the frequency of such occurrences — we have writings about two authors above ninety in the June issue. In contrast, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in mortal fears while writing of visiting doctors with a soupçon of humour – some of it directed at himself.
Perhaps, laughter is really the best medicine to keep well! Ruskin Bond makes us laugh and writes of nature in a way that touches hearts and makes us forget the contrasting glitzy world, where we suffer stress and burnout. Our environment makes a difference, doesn’t it?
With that we wrap up our June issue. Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. To all our contributors, heartfelt thanks — we are because you are. And gratitude to our readers who make it worth our while to write and publish here.
We will next meet you during the monsoon months of South Asia though, near the equator, it rains almost every day and, in the Southern Hemisphere, it will be peak winter!
Story by Abdul Qayum Sarbazi: translated from Balochi Fazal Baloch
AbdulQayum Sarbazi (d. 2022) was a Karachi-based fiction writer who began his literary career in the mid-1980s. Deeply influenced by the tradition of social realism, his stories illuminate the struggles, inequalities, and everyday realities of ordinary people. The story translated here first appeared in Monthly Balochi (a magazine in the public domain) in May 1988 under its original title, Bey Maarag.
The doctor checked the unconscious child’s pulse and said, “You have almost killed the child before bringing him to the hospital.”
He lifted the child’s eyelids and examined his mouth and throat. Then he placed a thermometer in his mouth and rolled up his shirt slightly. Looking at the child’s hollow stomach and protruding ribs, the doctor began critiquing the parents in a stern tone. “He is suffering more from starvation than illness. If you cannot take care of your children, why do you bring them into the world?”
The doctor removed the thermometer from the child’s mouth and blinked arrogantly before continuing to scold the father. “May God guide you. Such a high fever. He is standing at the edge of death. Why didn’t you bring him here earlier? Though I know people like you are not entirely to blame. This is what happens when people have too many children and assume they will somehow grow up on their own. Such children do not become responsible human beings; they become a burden on society. But what do you care? For the sake of ‘momentary pleasure’, you bring children into the world only for others to carry their burden.”
The boy’s father lowered his pale face and listened silently to the doctor’s taunts. It was nothing new to him. He had long grown used to harsh words from the police, the coast guard, and the dealer. Rubbing one palm against the other, he let out a weary sigh and looked helplessly at the doctor. His eyes drifted toward the swollen veins in his hands and feet before he sank into a dark cloud of worry.
The doctor cleared his throat, washed his hands with soap, dried them on the hanging towel, and resumed his sermon. “The way you treated this child… not even do we treat our worst enemy so harshly. Anyhow, I will give him two vitamin injections. He also needs glucose. There is barely any sign of life left in him, but I will do whatever I can within my capacity. The rest depends on the boy’s fate.”
The boy’s father lowered his head even further as darkness clouded his already blurred vision. In that moment, a terrible wish rose in his heart: that the earth would split open, the four-storey hospital building would collapse, and everything would be buried beneath the rubble.
After wallowing in helplessness and grief for a short while, he slowly regained control of his breathing and looked again toward the doctor. His eyes faced the merciless man like those of a beggar pleading for mercy. The doctor ran his tongue across his lips as though sharpening a blade on stone and continued coldly: “This is not how a child should be raised. Children require care, sacrifice, and hardship. For breakfast, they should be given half-fried eggs, milk, butter, and bread. At lunch, boiled beans and minced meat. In the evening, fresh fruits and salad. For dinner, meat, chicken soup, and rice. And before going to bed, a glass of milk.”
The boy’s father’s already pale face darkened with despair. He shifted slightly, crushed beneath hardship and helplessness. The doctor glanced at his wristwatch and continued his barrage of words. “At this moment, the child is still not out of danger. Deposit five hundred rupees at the counter in advance for emergency medicines and treatment. The final bill can be settled later.”
The father felt as though he had been stung by a scorpion. His senses were already numb, and whatever strength remained in him now seemed to disappear completely.
For the first time, he spoke. Looking at the doctor with helpless eyes, he said softly, “I do not have five hundred rupees.”
The doctor struck him again with his words. “This hospital is not for the poor and needy. You see all these people working here? They have to be paid. Medicines come from companies, and they demand payment immediately. Do whatever you think is best, but let me make one thing clear: your child will not survive without medicine. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands.”
Then, lowering his voice slightly, the doctor added, “I took pity on your condition and asked for only five hundred rupees. Otherwise, we charge one thousand.”
The father’s dry lips trembled beneath tears that came too early and too painfully. Even the violent tides of the sea seemed less cruel than the doctor’s words. To him, the doctor appeared like a disciple of the Angel of Death, hardened by the complete loss of compassion. Closing his eyes, the father fell at the doctor’s feet and pleaded in a voice heavy with pain: “All I have is two hundred rupees. I do not know whether such a small amount means anything to you, but it is the cry of a helpless father’s soul.”
The doctor’s face darkened with anger. His arrogance swelled again as he replied coldly: “If your money is so dear to you, then take the boy’s dead body home. Perhaps you do not believe my words, but do whatever suits you.”
The boy’s mother stood silently in a corner, numb like a statue. Ever since they arrived at the hospital, she had not uttered a single word. Life had shown her only one face: hunger, poverty, humiliation, and endless helplessness. So she remained quiet.
The boy’s father was not very old, yet he looked far older than his years. He had spent his entire life in patience and endurance. And it was all the poor could afford. But sometimes humiliation becomes heavier than patience itself. Once again, he saw the bitter truth before him. A doctor, whose hands were meant to heal like those blessed by God, had turned his noble profession into a business. To the poor, such men seemed no different from heartless merchants or cruel officials.
Yet the father felt it wiser, perhaps easier, to fall at the feet of this “angel of death” if it might save his child’s life. Swallowing the anger rising inside him, he spoke softly:
“My helplessness lies before you as clearly as an open road. I listened carefully to all your words and hold them with respect. You said that people like us bring children into the world for ‘momentary pleasure’. I have only two children. One lies before you, struggling at the mercy of death, while the other plays in the dirt back at home. Luxury and comfort are sweet words, doctor, but I have never truly known them. The land has nothing to offer us. It is the sea that feeds our children. The old days were much better for people like us, but as time passed, the chains of circumstance tightened around our lives”.
He continued, “I returned home today after spending twelve days at sea battling rough tides. We managed to catch some fish, but the coast guard took their share as if it were their right. Some were taken by the police and customs officers, and whatever remained was bought by the dealers at miserable prices. In the end, my share came to only two hundred rupees. When I reached home, everything was in chaos. My wife was almost unconscious. One child lay unconscious with fever while the other cried from hunger. My wife told me the boy had been burning with fever for a week, but she could not take him to a doctor because she had no money.”
After revealing the bitter truth of his life, he placed the crumpled two hundred-rupee notes on the doctor’s table and said: “I leave both the money and the boy with you. If he survives, he will find his way home. And if he dies, bury him with a handful of dust, because I do not even have enough money for his funeral.”
With these words, he walked away.
The doctor stood silent, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.
.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
