Charudutta Panigrahi introduces us to to the eighteenth century literary giant, Upendra Bhanja, who gave up his crown for the love of words. Click here to read.
Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan highlights the contemporariness of Sangam Literature with discussion about a narrative based on trust and power politics. Click hereto read.
Art by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775–1851). From Public Domain
Floods, heatwave, hurricanes and storms — wild weather rips parts of the earth. While experts attribute these to El Niño and climate change, one wonders if peace and lifestyle choices could have any impact to reverse the changes on our home planet. Do wars add to our deep distress? We lose people, homes, what we nurtured and loved, the beautiful cities and structures we built, even forests, fields and rivers. The nuclear holocausts, the killing fields of the World Wars, the mined fields of Cambodia and Vietnam which continue to maim farmers… all these should have taught us to avoid wars but now when the television throws up images of war-torn zones, one wonders if those are worse than climate disasters?
In climate disasters we lose lives, homes and cities too — but people can step in to help and rebuild after the disaster. In a war setting, rescue workers are at a risk as bombs mow down terrain and destroys the tenor of daily lives. The disasters born of climate change too can be irreversible — especially with rising water levels, depleting shorelines and warmer climes ripped by storms. Which is worse — wars or climate disasters? What do you think? Could we go back to a pollution free world and reverse the darker impacts of climate change?
Just as history accepted wars and moved on, perhaps the time has come when climate change has to be accepted as a part of the new reality, and we have to find new ways of life. Exploring such stories is a book by Rajat Chaudhuri,The Climate Crossroads: Literature’s Encounter with a Planet on Fire. It has been reviewed by Bhaskar Parichha who tells us: “It reminds us that the climate crisis is not solely a scientific or political problem but also a crisis of imagination. Rajat Chaudhuri demonstrates with remarkable insight that stories are among humanity’s most powerful tools for understanding uncertainty, confronting ecological loss, and envisioning more just futures.” Somdatta Mandal, on the other hand, has brought in more on environment with her discussion of Siddharth Kak’s A Fire over Mount Everest. Andreas Geisbert adds colour to this section with his exploration of Angel Ramon’s Requiem of a Lost Nation. Satya Narayan Misra has reflected on Bhaskar Parichha’s Icons of Odisha – Lives that Shaped a State, a non-fiction whose excerpt tells us much about the journey of the author to bring to us community builders in various streams of life. We also have a bit from Kanupriya Dhingra’s non-fiction about a book bazaar that flourishes despite bookshops finding it hard to survive, The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi.
Our interviews this month touch upon environmental issues with Keith Lyons conversing with Helen Townsend, environmental entrepreneur and plant enthusiast who is high on sustainability and earth friendly solutions while Suzanne Kamata has interviewed Lily West who has travelled to all the countries in the world and has put it all down in her memoir, West goes East. Like Kamata, she teaches in Japan now. Kamata has also given us a humorous piece on remote controls. Humour is a sentiment that has also been wrought into our nonfiction with a flourish byDevraj Singh Kalsi too. He writes of his wedding sherwanialmost with a passion like the Dickensian Ms Havisham[1] exhibited for her crumbling wedding gown, except it has a different tone — that of wry tongue-in-cheek irony. Farouk Gulsara has a similar twinge of sarcasm as he muses on uncertainties in the future. Ian C Smith brings in a bit of the weather as he muses on a rainy day while Subramaniam Cheemalapati muses on the star-studded sky, dwelling on his anecdotal childhood experiences. Gowher Bhat introduces us to an aid worker who helps war victims. Meredith Stephens continues on her sailing adventures in Western Australia with photographs by her husband, Alan Noble. The photograph of the pink jellyfish is awesome. Do check it out!
Translations have brought in a shower of poetry with Tagore’s poem on a rainy-day hinting at shared confidences. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated Bengali lyrics Nazrul wrote for his friend and mentor, Rabindranath Tagore. Ihlwha Choi has brought to us a whiff of the Korean summer with his verses and Fazal Baloch has brought to us soulful poems from Balochi by Mohammad Hussain Anqa. Isa Kamari’s translations carry a flavour of Malay life in Singapore, and this set of verses bring to a close his book, The Lost Mantras. We are very privileged to have his entire book translated solely in our pages. Isa Kamari is an eminent literary voice of the Malay Singaporean community.
We have news about our hardcopy poetry anthology. We have had six media coverages in less than three months. Professor Malashri Lal deems: “For those of us who still believe in principles of care and compassion, humanism and amity, Wild Winds is a lifeline to keep afloat…It is especially commendable for wrapping global concerns in the fine tissue of hope.” And Mandal tells us: “Reading through these one hundred poems is indeed a pleasurable experience even for readers with a more prosaic temperament.” We are delighted that the book has had a warm welcome. Huge thanks to our publishers for giving us a hardcopy platform.
Thanks to all our contributors, readers and the fabulous team that make borderlessjournal.com come alive each month with a vibrant soul. Huge thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Do pause by our contents page for the July 2026 issue.
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble of their sailing adventures in the Southern Hemisphere
East Falls, King George River, Western Australia
“Shall we bother going to the East Falls?” Alex asked me.
“I’m a bit worried about crocodiles, not to mention jellyfish,” I replied.
Jellyfishes in King George River
I looked overboard and saw tens of large pale pink jellyfish. We had spotted a crocodile the day before on the banks of the King George River. I felt safe from the height of the boat, but would we be safe in the tender? I was tempted to decline and head back to the ocean. After all, the previous day we had taken the boat all the way along the river to see the Twin Falls. It had been in the late afternoon and the sun was punishing. I had walked around the boat trying to seek out shade. The heat alone had exhausted me. After having seen the Twin Falls perhaps we didn’t need to see the East Falls, but my curiosity prevailed.
Twin Falls
“Let’s do it! We’ve come this far,” I relented.
We donned our lifejackets. Alex lowered the tender into the water. He held it with a rope while I gingerly hopped into the centre. Then he stepped in behind me and started the outboard motor. It was still early morning and the sun was low. Our bodyclocks were not adjusted to the standard Western Australian time but were rather in synchrony with the sunrise and sunset. The gorge walls provided shade, and we motored to the waterfall in an exquisite coolness. We were alone at the waterfall apart from a small fishing boat. Mist from the waterfall enveloped our bodies and my toes started tingling. It was that hallowed feeling that reminded me of Salisbury Cathedral, when you enter into a higher plane and dissociate yourself from both the outside world and daily life. The hardships we had endured to get here, the seemingly endless crossing of Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, the fierce sunshine, and the stress of having to retrieve furling and fishing lines that had become entangled in the propeller, were worth it.
“Let’s stay here, Alex!”
“Sadly, we have to head back to the sea while the tides are still in our favour,” he explained.
We motored back to the boat and climbed back in. He raised the tender and we set off down the river towards the ocean. Tens of tenders loaded with tourists headed towards us. They must have come from a cruise ship. Because we had anchored at a mid-point at the East Arm anchorage in the river, and had risen early, we had had the waterfall to ourselves. We kept the rudder half-raised to manage the shallow waters of the river enclosed by gorge walls and once at sea, witnessed a large and a small cruise ship. This confirmed that we had chosen the right destination.
Next, we were to sail to several locations that were the site of ancient rock art. We obtained permission and paid the requisite fee to the traditional owners, the Wunambal Gaambera people, and spent a day sailing west to each of the locations. All the while I was terrified of bumping into a crocodile. The first of the locations was Jar Island. We anchored and took the tender to the beach.
The tender on Jar Island
“Is that a rock or a croc?” I asked Alex.
The dark object protruding from the water looked to me like a crocodile.
“They’re just rocks,” Alex reassured me.
Then as the water splashed over them, he moved closer to observe them more closely and confirmed that they were indeed rocks.
I carried the boat hook with me to defend myself, as we carefully walked the path and clambered over rocks to reach the ancient art. This was to be repeated at the next two locations. We would anchor at a safe depth, calculating the change in tides during the time we were ashore, and then take the tender to the island, monitor the shore for crocs, and locate the rock art.
Crocodile, King George River
The second site of rock art was Swift Bay. We anchored a long way from the shore and hopped in the tender. Alex motored towards where the co-ordinates had indicated the art.
“The map is wrong! The inlet on the map doesn’t exist. Let’s go to the other side of the bay. Maybe it’s over there.”
We turned towards the other side of the bay. The tender skipped over the rough waters, and I was drenched in sea-water. I could taste the salt entering my mouth. Finally, we arrived at the beach. I kept my shoes on as I clambered out of the tender for fear of stepping on a jelly fish barefoot. We hauled the tender to a higher place on the shore and tethered it to a rock. Then Alex checked the co-ordinates on his phone map.
“It’s over there, about two kilometres away!’
We walked along the beach, over rocks and rock pools. There was no sign of human habitation on the shore, nor was there any rubbish. I kept scouring the shore for crocs, holding my trusty boat hook. Alex consulted his map again.
“It’s over that rocky hill! The tide has receded and the inlet on the map has appeared. It’s better to go back to the tender and head to the newly revealed inlet.”
“I’m too tired!” I whinged. “Can’t you go and get the tender and pick me up here?”
“Yes. It’ll take me about half an hour.”
Then I thought it might be scary to wait by myself. How would I defend myself against a crocodile?
“I’ll come with you. We should stay together.”
He grabbed my hand, and we hurried back to the tender. Light was falling. Just as well I had got drenched in the previous tender ride because my damp clothes were keeping me cool. We untethered the tender from the rock and dragged it into the water. I hopped in first and Alex pulled it to a suitable depth. Then he boarded and we motored to the inlet.
Once at the inlet we disembarked with our shoes and socks on, as usual, and dragged the tender across the sand to a rock.
“Not far now,” Alex reassured me, following the map.
After walking through bushes and climbing rocks we deduced that there must be a better way to get to the ancient art. We retraced our steps and found a well-trodden path. We just had time to view the rock art in the sunset. We couldn’t afford to linger though. We needed to return to the boat before nightfall. I kept nagging Alex to take photos of the sunset, but he urged me to hurry. What if it were too dark to take the tender back to the boat and we were stuck here with little food and water, and the fear of crocodiles?
By now the tide had turned, and the tender, which we had beached earlier, was floating. We untethered it, pulled it into the sea and I hopped in. Alex pulled it further and hopped in behind me. The tide was strong and it turned the tender around to head back to the shore. Alex pointed it back out to sea, turned on the engine, and headed towards the boat. The tender bounced along the water, and I was again splashed with sea-spray. The boat was a small object in the distance. Would we make it? As darkness progressed, we could just make out the anchor light at the top of the mast. The boat grew larger and larger. Alex turned off the motor, and I grabbed the rail at the stern. I pulled myself up and received the dry bag from Alex. After securing the tender Alex boarded, fixed some snacks, and we sat at the stern, savouring the relief from the sun, the solitude, and the purple and orange lights flickering on the water in the sunset.
The third location was Wary Bay on Bigge Island. By now I had had enough of the heightened tension that came from being vigilant for crocodiles. Maybe it was just me. I decided to do a search for the dangers of crocodiles in the Kimberleys, and my fears were confirmed.
“Maybe we should just enjoy Wary Bay on board?” I suggested.
“Don’t you want to see the rock art?” he countered.
‘Will you protect me from the crocodiles?”
“Of course.”
First, we had to anchor. Our chosen anchorage turned out to be too shallow. Alex raised the anchor and headed for deeper water. We repeated the process of heading ashore in the tender. This time it was a short ride, as was the walk to the caves. We congratulated ourselves on the ease of achieving our aim. We managed to return to the boat way before sunset. As the afternoon and evening progressed, we noticed a coral reef between the beach and us emerge from the water. The tide receded, and the reef grew more and more imposing. If we hadn’t anchored at a greater depth, our boat would have become grounded on the reef. If we had lingered in the caves, the reef would have blocked our route back to the boat in the tender. Instead, we would have been stranded on shore until the next high tide, scanning the water for crocs, or looking at rocks.
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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!
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & photographs by Alan Noble
I donned my fluffy hooded jacket on a wintery June morning in Adelaide, desperately trying to insulate myself against the cold. Today, Alex and I were due to fly four hours north to Darwin in order to complete the first leg of sailing his new boat back to Adelaide along the northern and western coasts of Australia. Darwin was in the same country, so I couldn’t conceive of it being much warmer than Adelaide. It was just over 2600 kilometres away.
What I was most looking forward to was dropping into the airport lounge before the flight. Later, there would be all sorts of deprivations and challenges, but in the lounge, I could put these thoughts out of my mind. For thirty minutes or so, I could savour being pampered. I could drink as much chai latte as I wanted and help myself to thinly sliced watermelon and cantaloupe. When I was in the lounge the prospect of being the only vessel on rough and unpredictable seas was unimaginable. But eventually, I was summoned from my indulgences when our flight to Darwin was called. Alex and I made our way to our economy seats, and relaxed in-flight for the next four hours. When we exited the airport in Darwin, the heat was tropical and the sunshine seared. Instead of using my fluffy jacket for warmth I held it over my head for sun protection. Was I really still in the same country?
I had declined the offer of sailing previous blue water passages. When Alex crossed the Great Australian Bight, over the Southern Ocean, I had insisted he be accompanied by a qualified sailor. How could I rescue him if something untoward happened? He had been accompanied by a much younger sailor, Sven, whose ancestry could be traced back to the Vikings. One day when they were twenty nautical miles offshore in the Blight, Alex had noticed that one of the lines had become tangled in the propeller. He tied one end of a rope around his middle and handed the other end to Sven, instructing him to hold it. Then he dived under the boat to untangle the rope from the propeller.
Sven was flabbergasted to have been asked to do this, but relieved when Alex emerged having untied the line. Hearing this anecdote, I felt vindicated in having insisted that Alex sail with a qualified sailor instead of me. Surely, I would never be put in the same position as Sven. But this time in the north of Australia it was just the two of us.
Alex is a qualified sailor, but I am not. I had thought I could manage because the seas would be calmer in the dry season of northern Australia than the Southern Ocean.
We made our way from the airport to the marina and spent the next morning provisioning the boat for the next three weeks. We didn’t make time for swimming because we were afraid of encountering crocodiles, Box jellyfish and Irukandji jellyfish. The following morning, we departed. The first step was exiting the marina through the lock. We booked our passage through the lock at 11 am and cautiously motored past the other boats to get there. The passage through the lock was narrow, so Alex reduced the width of the boat by folding the starboard hull. “Stand on the port bow so you can make sure we don’t scrape against the side of the lock,” he urged me.
I carefully walked along the narrow hull, so I could hold the lockside rope in order to create distance between the boat and the lock. I worried about losing balance. What if I fell into the gap between the lock and the boat and got crushed? I gave it my full concentration and maintained my balance. The attendant opened the barriers of the locks one by one, and the water in the lock levelled with the ocean. We called out our thanks to the attendant, as he heartily wished us a good day. I carefully turned around and retraced my steps back to the middle of the boat.
The sail to the Berkeley River across the Joseph Bonaparte Gulf took us three days. There would be no marinas and no shops along this long coastline until Port Hedland, over 2,000 km away, so every stop would be at anchor. The first two days of sailing and anchoring were uneventful.
Banks of the Berkley River
The third day, aiming for the Berkeley River, was to be a very long day. Alex rose at three am and departed. The waters were rough, although not as rough as the Southern Ocean. In my case, seasickness takes the form of extreme drowsiness and minor nausea. I spent most of the day sleeping and relieved the nausea with dry ginger. Every now and then I would try to walk around the boat, steadying myself as I grasped furniture.
Then, as the sun was low in the sky I heard Alex gasp. “Oh no! The furling line has gone overboard! I can’t furl the reacher without it.”
Then he looked under the netting of the trampoline to the water below. “There it is! It’s twisted around the port propeller.”
“Excellent!” I replied. At least we hadn’t lost it.
“Not excellent,” he countered. “I have to dive in and get it.”
“No! Don’t put me through this. You know I can’t rescue you.”
“It’ll be fine.”
He had already tied one end of the rope around his waist. The other end was tied to a pole. Then it was twisted several times around a winch for extra safety.
“You just have to pay out the rope from the winch. You don’t have to hold it,” he explained.
After all my protestations, I was being placed in the same position as Sven. Only I wasn’t of Viking stock, and I was quite a bit older. I could feel my heart pounding. I couldn’t meet Alex’s eyes. This was the predicament I most wanted to avoid, being responsible for the physical safety of my irrepressible husband. But he wasn’t entering into discussion. Dismissing my objections, he slid into the water. I wasn’t even sure when to pull in the line, or when to pay it out. I was too scared to look over the edge of the boat. What if I fell into the water? But within a couple of minutes, I heard Alex’s triumphant voice.
“Success!” he shouted, clutching the line. Then he quickly pulled himself onto the boat.
“At least you weren’t eaten by a crocodile.”
‘We are too far away from the coast for that,” he explained.
“What about the Irukandji jellyfish?”
“That’s more of a possibility, but I was only in for a couple of minutes.”
Finally, Alex accepted the beach towel I proffered him. He was too exhilarated by the success of his mission to be sensitive to the cold you would normally feel after emerging from the ocean. The sun was setting.
“I would have been unable to do this in the dark,” he added cheerily.
There were five hours of sailing left to get to the Berkeley River. Night sailing is anathema to me, but there was nowhere to anchor at such depths. Alex used his chart plotter and radar to guide him into the bay. The moon was yet to rise. As we glanced upwards, we saw the Milky Way with a clarity we had never seen before. The level of the tides varied by about six metres every day, so he had to ensure the tide was right not just for when we anchored but also the next morning. Eventually the instruments told us we were in 3.9 metres and Alex decided to anchor, just after midnight. We celebrated with a gin and tonic and Toblerone. The waters were choppy, so that night it was not unlike lying in a sleeper car of an overnight train.
The next morning, we rose to the sight of waves crashing over a nearby beach.
“If I had known we were this close to the beach I wouldn’t have anchored here!” exclaimed Alex.
We had survived the first two hundred nautical miles of our voyage. Now only eleven hundred more lay between us and our destination on the west coast, Port Hedland.
Sunrise over the Timor Sea. Port Hedland is located on the Timor Sea.
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
In conversation with Teresa Rehmanwith focus on her non-fiction, Bulletproof: A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict and a brief introduction to her book. Click here to read.
Translations
Robihara(Sunless)by Kazi Nazrul Islam has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from Bengali. Clickhere to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
In a world torn by conflict, why would one mention hope or compassion? In an age of dystopian scenarios, why would we dream of utopias?
Perhaps it’s wishful musings, but at some level what people need to survive is probably something to look forward to — a speck of light — a wishful idea called hope. Hope builds resilience. Utopias are built on hope, on love and compassion. Dystopias are built on desperation and despair. They take fear or horror to the extreme and play on people’s vulnerabilities. They might induce a cathartic effect and one might say— we are better off as we are in the present or we must act so that this never happens. Is that something we can really say in a world where wars are disrupting peace and lives of all humanity, where violence against civilians is becoming an accepted norm, where shortages could also be a reality for most of us? Utopias, on the other hand, build on the element of an ideal, a dream towards which we can move on the bleakest day of our existence. They could be used to stir hope and envision a reality devoid of violence. And perhaps, some of it would congeal into a real-world scenario with smaller doses of the bad and ugly. In a conflict-ridden world, which almost feels like a reenactment of George Orwell’s 1984 (only about four and a half decades after his predicted date) what would touch your heart, give you a sense of relief— hope for a better future or dwelling on doomsday predictions? What would you want for your progeny?
Just before the pandemic changed our lives, a book was published where while questing for their own utopia, a group of young people became part of a dystopian reality. They were known as the ULFA rebels[1] and their story was told in Bulletproof:A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict by Teresa Rehman. The current relevance of this book cannot be undermined because not only does it humanise the insurgents perspective, but it also shows how a centrist set up can neglect the needs of particular fringe communities. In addition, Rehman’s heartrending stories of poachers and people who live unaccepted in the margins only strengthen the need for an unboxed world where tolerance and compassion would transcend these artificially created fences that divide and lead to violence. This issue features Rehman’s book and an online discussion with her which stretches beyond the confines of pages.
We have more poetry in our translations, some sombre and some funny. A Bengali poem written as a tribute by Nazrul on the death of his older friend, Rabindranath Tagore, has been rendered into English by Professor Fakrul Alam. To add a lighter touch, we have translated a fun-filled poem by Tagore. Isa Kamari continues to translate his own Malay poems to bring in flavours of the culture. This time his poems seem to urge a need to transcend age-old stratifications. We also have a Balochi human-interest story by Younus Hussain brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes’ column too has fiction. His humorous and absurdist fables continue to urge re-evaluation of the world as well as genres. We also have a poignant narrative built around a Vietnamese migrant family by Mario Fenech. Sayan Sarkar shares a tale upending norms set in Kolkata while Naramsetti Umamaheswararao narrates a story about a young boy overcoming his fears. Abhik Ganguly gives us a strange fiction set in the future in a different galaxy, where Earth is seen as the original planet of human evolution.
C Christine Fair, who is an established translator, has surprised us — like Lyons — this time with a personal memoir which dwells on the deeply annihilating impact of norms that define gender roles. Upending the idea of an immutable ruler who can overpower us, is an essay by Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan with its roots in the ruins Rameses II — known as Ozymandias too — and Shelley’s poem of the same name.
We have had an overflow of writing about the unusual and redefining norms in our non-fiction section. Odbayar Dorj weaves an unusual narrative and shares photographs from a village of scarecrows in Japan that has a population of 27 humans and 370 scarecrows. She tells us: “In a place where people and scarecrows live side by side, I began to understand something simple but profound: sometimes, when human presence fades, we find our own ways to fill the silence with memories, imagination, and love.” Humanity never ceases to hope. Filling in silences are narratives by Arathi Devandran and Mubida Rohman on how they deal with the quietness left by departed loved ones.
We have more from Meredith Stephens with photographs by Alan Noble on their trip to Vietnam — as they travel to places that are less touristy while Gowher Bhat explores the Sunday Book Bazaar at Old Delhi. Farouk Gulsara travels back to Penang where he spent his childhood and reflects on changes. Are they always for the best?
Suzanne Kamata takes up changes with a soupçon of humour as she writes of how the AI finally conceded to her husband, “Your wife is not wrong…” while Jun A. Alindogan writes of how social media can create mayhem if misused to spread fake news. Devraj Singh Kalsi resorts to sardonic humour of a darker hue as he explores ways to make a living.
Gulsara has also explored Sam Dalrymple’s Shattered Lands: Five Partitions and the Making of Modern Asiawhich starts with the extent of the British Empire with its western-most point at Aden and stretching in the east to Burma. There was a period from 1839 to 1867, when it stretched from Aden to Singapore[2], which was a part of Malaya, leaving out Siam or Thailand which never succumbed to colonial rule. The book starts at a later date — 1928 — and talks of the piecing of the British Empire, with questionable stances taken by historically heroic figures, thus urging a critical relook at our own past — just over the last hundred years.
Our reviews include Rakhi Dalal’s take on Maithreyi Karnoor’s rather unusual stories fromGooday Nagar.Bhaskar Parichhahas wandered back to non-fiction with the late Kaukub Talat Quder Sajjad Ali Meerza’s Wajid Ali Shah: A Cultural and Literary Legacy, translated from Urdu by Talat Fatima, a history that makes us reassess views on the last of the Awadhi nawabs. Somdatta Mandal has also shares a discussion on Sushila Takbhaure’s My Shackled Life, translated from Hindi by Deeba Zafir and Preeti Dewan, a narrative that showcases the resilience of the author.
This issue could not have been put together without all our wonderful contributors. Heartfelt thanks for sharing your gems with us. Huge thanks to the Borderless team too who continue to support bringing in variety, colour and reinforcing our values. Much thanks to Sohana Manzoor for the fabulous cover art and to all those who share vibrant visuals with their writing. Many thanks to our readers too who make our efforts worthwhile. Do write in with your comments.
Look forward to greeting you all again next month!
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble
Bridge in Hoi An
The tour to the Mekong Valley had finished. Rather than return straight to our hotel, we left our luggage from behind the counter of the tourist office so we could explore the nearby markets unencumbered. Later, after we retrieved our bags and headed outside to wait for the taxi, our guide emerged from the office and smiled at us.
“Where are you going next?” he enquired.
“To Hoi An, and then Hanoi,” Alex informed him. “What’s it like up there?”
“I don’t know. When I was a uni student I went with my friends to Hanoi, but I didn’t have any money, so I just walked around the town rather than going anywhere. Now that I have a two-year old child I can’t travel anyway.”
“Does your wife work?” I asked.
“Yes. She works in a shoe factory.”
“Who looks after your daughter?”
“My mother does. Both my wife and I need to work to pay the bills so we can’t really go on holiday. I work seven days a week. Paying the rent, the bills, and our daughter’s education, are very expensive.”
Our taxi arrived, so we carried our luggage and put it in the boot. Our guide stood by the car, smiled at us, and waved us off. There was one piece of advice he had given us that stood out in my mind.
“If you need to cross the road, raise your hand to let people know and cross confidently!” he had advised.
We had alighted from the taxi too early to visit a cathedral, but it was closed, so we decided to walk the rest of the distance to the railway station. After all, it was only just over a kilometre. Or so we thought.
Cathedral at Ho Chi Minh CityTraffic in Ho Chi Minh City
It turned out to be just under three kilometres. The footpaths were blockaded by motorbikes and rubble, so we had to detour via the street to make our way forward. What was much more challenging was crossing the intersections. The pedestrian crossings were disregarded. Instead, you had to make eye contact with the motorcyclists, raise your hand, and stride ahead. Alex and I stood helplessly on the footpath watching hundreds of motorcyclists slowly turn the corner. A young motorcyclist looked at me as he slowly turned along with hundreds of others and gave me a wry sympathetic smile. The traffic turned to gridlock, so Alex held up his hand and weaved his way through the stationary traffic, with me following. Finally, we safely reached the other side. One of our tour guides, referring to traffic lights, made light of it saying that the drivers were colour blind. We did witness a minor accident, so there is no way I can advise how to safely cross the road in Vietnam.
We continued to pull our luggage along the footpaths, veering onto the road whenever the footpath was blocked, which was frequently. Then Alex decided to provide some relief by heading down a narrow lane, which he thought was a shortcut. Residents gave us surprised looks. A grandmother handed her grandson a lettuce which he placed in his bicycle basket. We greeted each other. At the end of the lane, we arrived at another main road clogged with motorcycles. We paused wondering which way to go. I saw something dark scurry towards me and brush across my sandals. It turned out to be a rat which rushed behind me under some buildings.
“Oh no!” Alex exclaimed. “My phone’s run out of battery and I’m not sure of the way to the station.”
I looked around for someone to ask, but the few people who weren’t on motorcycles appeared to be intent on whatever they were doing. More importantly, I didn’t have the Vietnamese language skills to ask them. Alex and I were stranded in rush hour and unable to find the station. Would we miss our train? We looked up and saw the sign Ga Sài Gòn. The first word sounded like it might have come from French gare, meaning ‘station’. We followed the signs and within a few hundred metres we reached our destination, the station. Alex’ phone had expired at the very moment that the sign had appeared.
We were in good time for the sleeper train and headed towards our carriage, fifteen minutes before departure. There were four beds in each cabin, and we had secured all four beds for just the two of us to ensure our privacy. The train departed exactly on time. My favourite cure for insomnia is lying on a train sleeper. Soon after the train had departed the gentle motion of the train rolling over the tracks, and accompanying sounds, sent me into a comforting sleep.
Iced Coffee on the Train
There was no dining car on the train. Instead, hawkers would board the train at the various stops. The next morning, we couldn’t start the day without coffee so we bought one from one of the vendors. A few hours later, we looked across the train tracks while the train was stopping at a station. We made eye contact with an elderly lady on a distant platform. She was holding two cups of iced coffee in plastic bags and calling out urgently to us. Normally, hawkers who are too insistent have the effect of turning me off, but not this woman. We nodded, and she ran across the tracks and held the coffees up to us. We took the coffees but were unsure of how much to pay. We held some cash out, and the conductor happened to be standing next to us. Unable to communicate with the vendor, we looked at the conductor. She took 20,000 duong from us ($1.00) and handed it to the lady. She took it and made her way back to the platform. The train departed and we returned to our sleeper compartment. The ice was in one cup and the coffee and condensed milk mixture in another. We tipped the ice into the coffee and savoured this new taste.
When we alighted at Da Nang many people touting for business made eye contact and called out to us. We looked for the driver we had booked. Finally, we found him, and followed him back to the taxi, from which he drove us to our destination, Hoi An. We briefly relaxed in our hotel room before walking the streets to the market. We crossed the streets in the same manner as we had in Saigon, making eye contact with motorcyclists and raising our hands, before making a show of confidently striding across. This remained stressful but instead of hundreds, there were tens of motorcycles.
Lanterns in Hoi An
We reached the river, alit with colourful lanterns. The streets were lined with throngs of fellow tourists speaking multiple languages. Touts and hawkers would stand directly in my path, call out ‘hello’, and try to engage me. I looked straight ahead and stepped around them. There were too many choices of where to stop, and the throng of displaced westerners, like us, was disconcerting. The westerners outnumbered the locals, but it was not a group of westerners with a shared culture, but a mixture of visitors from far-flung locales. When we decided on a place to stop for dinner, we shunned the ones who were standing in our way pressing us to stop, in preference to a stall-holder who did not even make eye contact with us.
There were two locals who stood out in my mind during our first few days in Vietnam. One is the lady who called across the rail tracks from the platform to sell us some coffee. Other hawkers, standing in my way and behaving like they are my best friend, I confess to have found annoying, but Alex and I completely dropped our guard down for this lady prepared to go the distance to sell a drink to strangers on a train that was passing through.
The second person was our tour guide in Ho Chi Minh. The tour itself was informative and fascinating, but the impression that lingers was our brief conversation after the tour when we were waiting for the taxi. The next time I purchase a well-priced and crafted product that is made in Vietnam, I will recall those who have brought it into my hands, maybe working seven days a week, paying exorbitant rents, and having others look after their children.
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Jun A. Alindogan gives an account of how an overgrowth of water hyacinth affects aquatic life and upsets the local food chain while giving us a flavourful account of local food. Clickhereto read.
