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Conversation

Overland to India with an American Hippie Named Ed: An Interview with Lily West

By Suzanne Kamata

Lily West in front of Mount Fuji
Photographs provided by Suzanne Kamata

In Lily West’s travel memoir West goes East she recounts venturing from her native England overland toward India in the early 1970s with an impulsive American named Ed, a pro-Palestine fellow hippie whom she meets en route, on a shoestring budget. With the brazenness that comes with youth, they become entwined with all sorts of shady characters, finding themselves the guest of a charming conman in Amman, and being mistakenly deposited in a brothel in Cairo. Among other adventures, they rescue a polar bear from heat stroke in a zoo in Khartoum, are arrested twice in Egypt (and not for climbing to the top of a pyramid, which they do), and find themselves spectators at a public hanging in Iraq.

Many of the places they visited, such as the West Bank, Sudan and Afghanistan, are even less accessible now. West, by the way, is one of the few people who have traveled to every country on earth recognised by the UN. Although she made these travels as a man, she now lives in Japan as a woman. This award-winning book is a wild ride into the treacherous terrain of a bygone era. Lily generously agreed to answer a few questions.

Suzanne Kamata: First of all, congratulations on launching this book into the world! It has had a very positive reception, including an award for NomadMania Best Travel Book 2024. In the introduction you write that you hadn’t intended to write a book about traveling with your friend Ed, and that the idea came to you decades later. Can you tell us about the writing process? Also, how did you manage to recreate the scenes so vividly?

Lily West: I had often been urged to write a book, but never found the time or energy to do so. Then a friend introduced me to a publishing agent from English Agency Japan, who on hearing some of my travel stories, begged me to write a sample chapter which I eventually did. Then he demanded another and another until somehow after a year the book was finished. I guess the scenes in “West goes East” had remained vivid in my memory, because I had had some fifty years to remember them.

SK: Could you tell us a bit about the road to publication?

LW: The road to actual publication was a long one. My agent took six years only to come up with two concrete offers from publishers. Lots of offers that turned out to be pie in the sky though! I rejected both, the one because they wanted to edit the book down to half its size, the other because they wanted the chapter about Israel and all mention of Palestine removed. No! So, the manuscript continued to sit in my computer. Then Harry Mitsidis, the founder of the NomadMania extreme travel group, and arguably the world’s most travelled man, came over to Japan to verify that I really had been to the 193 UN member countries and thus was qualified to join the group. He was amazed that I was so easy to verify. Luckily, I had sent a postcard to my parents from every country I had been to. And my parents had kept them all! So, we became friends; I mentioned to him that I had written a book, and he asked me to send him a couple of chapters. He was so impressed that he said he would write a foreword and get the book published on Amazon. (This was technically beyond my ability!)

But he made it a condition that I include an epilogue about Lily’s much harder and longer journey, the journey to be accepted as the woman I knew I was. To be honest, I wasn’t very keen on this, because nowhere in the travel book do I mention or hint that I am a “transgender” woman. In fact, in 1972, the year the events in the book happened, it was still my Big Secret, something which could never be divulged to anyone, so I can understand its absence. However, as requested, I wrote the epilogue, which I have heard has caused some readers to cry. Naturally, Harry also wanted Lily West to be credited on the cover as the author, which was fair, because Lily had written the book!   

SK: What was the first foreign country you ever visited? What activated your wanderlust?

LW: Well, I was brought up in England, but my mother was German, so we went there most summers. But I think you mean the first country visited by myself. I’ll give you two. I HATED the cruelty of school so much that at 17, I ran away and hitchhiked to Madrid which improved my Spanish enormously. Then that summer the local Education Committee paid for me to spend three months in the Soviet Union studying Russian.
My German grandfather collected stamps, interesting enough, but what fascinated me were the names of the countries. Not just looking at the exotic names, I knew I wanted to go and actually see them! So, after I graduated, I said goodbye to England and set off on my second overland trip to India, as described in West goes East, but this time with no intention of returning.     

SK: Early on in the book it becomes clear that Ed has the potential to get into trouble. You write that you were unlikely traveling companions, with very different personalities, and yet you stuck together. Was there any point in your travels that you at least considered going your own way?

LW: Yes, in Baghdad over the Donkey Boy incident! I was so angry with him! But we had gone through so much together that it would have been difficult to split up. Of course, I knew we would part in Delhi, and I would be going off on my own, which eventually landed me in Japan. (After I had been there just under a year, Ed arrived with his wife and son.)

SK: What does it mean to you to be a UN master (one who has visited all 193 countries recognised by the United Nations)?

LW: The end of one lifelong journey! This April, I took part in the largest gathering of UN Masters ever. 64 of us in Azerbaijan! Some had taken considerably less time than the 49 years I had taken, but Harry Mitsidis explained that many more people had been in space or climbed Everest than had visited every country in the world, so we had achieved something very special. Now I do appreciate meeting people from every country and know I can chat about their homeland. 2016 was a significant year for me, as that was when I finally visited No.193, Equatorial Guinea. I was very happy that I had managed this, but to put things into context, something more meaningful for me happened two months later when I was invited to join a 500-strong group of foreign women in Japan. Actually, that was more important for me!  

SK: You’ve visited every country in the world recognised by the United Nations, but some have changed greatly since you first visited them. Are there any such countries that you would like to return to? And why/why not?

LW: There are some countries I don’t want to return to, because war has changed them almost irreparably. It would be too sad to see Syria, Iraq, Palestine, or Afghanistan. Or for that matter my two visits to Israel sufficed for me to see what this country was like. Whereas others such as Vietnam, Cambodia, Uzbekistan or Peru have become too touristed and I would rather remember them as they were. I visited Africa 30 times, but on my final visit in 2017, I survived a bad car accident in the Comoro Islands, in which my head broke the windscreen. Surely the Gods were telling me that’s enough!

SK: What is Ed up to now? Has he read the book? If so, what was his response?

LW: Sorry to say that Ed passed away suddenly in 2022. Yes, he had read the book at the insistence of my agent. I knew he would not be happy, even though his full name and where he came from are never mentioned. He wanted all reference and memories of his hippie past erased. For instance, he destroyed all the photos he had taken as well as his diaries. He never told his wife about my book; in fact, she only learned of it from me after his death. She bought the book, read it and then paid me the biggest compliment anyone ever has regarding West goes East: “Thank you so much, Lily. You brought Ed back to life!”

SK: You mention in your epilogue that female Japanese students responded to you differently as a woman; “less daunting,” you wrote. Have you noticed any difference in how you are treated when traveling as a woman versus traveling as a man?

LW: Yes and no. Generally, I find people, especially women, are kinder and more friendly to Lily. Of course, it’s always easier to talk to someone of your own gender. Also, I’m more outgoing and confident in myself as a fellow woman in the company of other women.

But like any other woman, I find myself much more on my guard, while not being paranoid about men, just more watchful in their presence. Luckily, Japan is safer for women than let’s say the UK or the US, but as a woman, I can’t take that personal safety for granted as I would if I were a man.

SK: I realise that this is a book about your travels with Ed, but you drop tantalizing hints about other episodes in your travels. For example, in the epilogue, you write that you and your Japanese partner were taken hostage on a trip to the Central African Republic. What???? Could you share a bit about that?

LW: Very long story from 1996. Fifteen of us were on an overland truck going from East Africa to West Africa. We had budgeted 10 days to go through Congo, but the “roads” were that awful, little but bog holes and mud, that it took us 56 days. During which time three passengers died: snakebite, malaria and cut to pieces by our own tyre chains. However, we felt lucky it had not been more!

Within two weeks, there were no more shops and as cook, I had to go into the villages and exchange stuff for food. Luckily, I found they wanted empty bottles in which to store the poison they used for hunting. I was the cook, but I wouldn’t use meat because I am a vegetarian. One evening, the two Australians who did most of the digging came back from a village with some meat, which they barbecued. A couple of days later, we ran into the first Westerner we had seen, a Belgian in the lumber business. He invited us to eat with him. One of the Australians started to tell him about the meat they had had. The Belgian asked where the village was, then he raised his and asked “Did it have fur?” No. “Did it have a hoof?” No. “I think you ate a baby!” One Australian just vomited, but the other said: “Tasted OK!”

And so, in such a dilapidated state, we finally reached the ferry over the Congo River to Bangui in the Central African Republic. By this time, we were down to 9 or 10 functioning members, for this didn’t really include a French Canadian, our only native French speaker. But he had lost his mind, and would never speak to anyone again during the rest of the trip. So that left me as the only actual French speaker. Anyway, we were at last on the ferry, chattering away about which hotel in Bangui we were going to stay in and really excited about having a shower as opposed to bathing in rivers with crocodiles and snakes.

We parked our truck on some waste ground by the river and I went exploring. The town of Bangui seemed eerily quiet as I found my way to the Novotel. Entering the hotel, I knew all was far from well when I saw a cloud of flies buzzing around the dead man at the check-in desk. Back at the truck, I told the others about the hotel and that we had better leave Bangui first thing in the morning. Everyone agreed, but at about 4 o’clock in the morning, soldiers arrived and started to knock down our tents and force us on to our truck. Those who argued or were too slow were jabbed with their rifles.

So off we went with two armed soldiers on the truck to guard us, but where were they taking us? Back to Congo or somewhere to shoot us?

We hastily formed an escape plan. At a given signal, the two hefty Australian diggers knocked the soldiers to the floor and stood on their guns, while the driver drove like mad overtaking the accompanying jeeps. I had found where the US Embassy was and it was there we headed. All other embassies were closed. We had one American in our group, so we figured that was our best chance. At five o’clock in the morning, our English driver smashed into the gates of the US Embassy at full speed. But the gates were so sturdily made that they did not give way!

In the shock, the soldiers recovered their guns and were screaming “Tirez-le!”, (Shoot him!). The driver got out of his cab window, flung himself into the embassy grounds and hid behind a wall. The soldiers opened fire and lights came on the embassy. They forced the co-driver to turn round and we were taken to a large building where we were all herded into an underground cell at gunpoint. To make matters worse, we could hear the screams of someone being tortured.

At noon, our driver arrived accompanied by personnel from the US Embassy and the Central African Republic Army as well as government officials. Slowly I pieced things together.

The soldiers who had captured us had taken part in a failed coup d’etat and now needed us as human shields to get past the checkpoints and out of Bangui. A deal was struck. They would take us 700km to the Cameroon border where they would set us free. Everyone shook hands and we set off. It took several days to drive, for we had to stop along the way many times as the soldiers constantly tried to intimidate us. Once they lined us up firing-squad style, but shot over our heads. Their idea of a joke, I guess.

However, after 500km, we reached the town of Bouar, which was rebel-held territory, so they felt safe and saw no reason to release us. They kept us in the camp, under guard with no indication as to what might be our fate. After ten days or so, I determined to try to find a way to get out of this camp. Most of the others seemed to sunk into despondency or were just too sick to move.

There were 30 soldiers holding us and I tried reaching out to those who seemed a bit more friendly. I persuaded two of them that we were running out of food, so they took me into the market. The next day, I asked them to take me in again, this time with Takako, my partner. Then while they were drinking beer in a bar, she and I ran for it to another bar which I had spotted the day before.

Were there any foreigners in Bouar, I asked. Yes, there were two and someone offered to take us to their house. The two foreigners turned out to be French Jehovah’s Witness missionaries! By this time, I would have joined! And as I hoped, they had a radio. It was hidden under the floorboards and they let me use it to contact the US Embassy. “You still there”, was the surprised response. “We’ll get you out in the morning,” they promised.

Very early in the morning, a helicopter landed and after more bargaining, the rebels finally let us drive to the Cameroon border. We crossed the border and those of us who could still walk were in the very first bar on the Cameroon side celebrating. Suddenly, in walked the rebel soldiers still with their guns! Oh, no, surely not, I almost exclaimed! Then, the two I had befriended came up to me and asked me to translate. “Don’t worry! We’re so glad we didn’t have to shoot you and would like to buy a beer for you all.” I answered: “We’re also very glad you didn’t shoot us!” To general laughter, everyone raised their beer bottles: “Salut!”

Three days later we arrived in Yaounde, the capital of Cameroon. With our driver, I went to the British Embassy to report the three deaths, all Commonwealth citizens. The Ambassador listened as we told our story.

Then he stood up and shook our hands: “Jolly good show, chaps! Let me get you a drink!” The brandy was welcome.

Takako and I were able to contact our families for the first time and reassure them that we were not dead as they feared. We flew to Europe from Cameroon and then on to Japan, arriving three months late. Astonishingly, I was able to keep my job. While I know I went to Africa for adventure, sometimes you can get more adventure than you bargained for!

SK: Wow! What a harrowing experience! Thanks for sharing that! Are there any other travel memoirs or travel writers that you admire and would recommend?

LW: The Roads To Sata by Alan Booth, In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin, An African in Greenland by Tete-Michel Kpomassie.

SK: What’s next? Will there be another book?

LW: I could write another book, yes, but I doubt that I am able to write another book that would be as good as this one. I feel that this is my masterpiece. Every time I look through it, I think, wow, I wrote this! Many travel books nowadays have the author writing about doing many different trips over the years, one chapter per country. I certainly could do one of those too, but I, and others, think that a major strength of West goes East is that it is a story of one continuous journey rather than many short ones. It describes eight months of travelling overland from Syria to India via Afghanistan in 1972, in a world that no sadly longer exists and the people we met along the way, both locals from those countries and other Westerners.

SK: Thank you so much! I, for one, am glad you got this book out into the world.

Lily West and her Japanese students. Photo provided by Suzanne Kamata.

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

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

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

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

Categories
Poetry

Why Can’t I Remember My Dreams

By SR Inciardi

From Public Domain 
    WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER MY DREAMS

Why do they evaporate when they were just there, 
      those moments before I woke 
when I can sense I was just with you, 
when time held no relevance,  
       but now I can’t remember a thing? 

Why can’t I remember the sounds we just shared 
and why do I sense they’re still waiting 
       as if behind some thin door 
       when in the morning darkness, I can still hear 
the sound of steady rain 
and its slowed dripping when stopping? 

I lie here listening, but wonder: is this forgetfulness 
a kind of hardened armour—a line blocked from crossing, 
     a mental habit keeping me from further harm? 

And in these empty moments, am I to accept 
that real-life is all I’ll know—that dreams will forever end 
in nothing? Or is the lost recall not a protective shield, 
but safe-place built-in: a dream not really a dream, 
        just a limit to what goes on living?

SR (Salvatore Richard) Inciardi was born in New York City and attended Brooklyn College and New York University. SR Inciardi’s poetry has appeared in in various online and print magazines including Green Ink Poetry, Harrow House Journal, Front Porch Review, Grey-Sparrow Journal, Borderless Journal, Written Tales among others. He was a contributor to Green Ink Poetry for their publication on Kennings: Equinox Collections: Autumn released on Amazon in October 2024. SR Inciardi currently has two books of poetry on Amazon that speak to loss and navigating grief. 

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

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

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

Categories
Poetry

Confessions by SR Inciardi

CONFESSIONS
 
The pages are dotted by camouflaged confessions 
in black ink like blackened darkness, 
past the reaches of quieted streetlamps 
and the empty calls from birds in the moment, 
yet oddly settling the mind, flipped through 
with snippets of light caught in each instant—
past tense becoming present language 
combining with softer music, air exhaled 
with each turned page, and when each page settles, 
it’s as if a leaf floating to rest, its jagged edges 
smoothed to finish a dream or relive a past—
as if reading what’s written 
could now speak to the rest of my life. 
But once a certain word count is passed, 
there’s so little it can do, reading about who I was then 
and in a second, gone-on to now 
often with empty hands: moments I’d take back, 
the light I thought I saw yet remains unseen, 
the whitened pages of nothing left, 
the aches in the lost print, the fear 
of what will be replayed or come next     
isolated     exhausted     but curiously jumping ahead 
in the light in another early morning.

From Public Domain

SR (Salvatore Richard) Inciardi was born in New York City and attended Brooklyn College and New York University. SR Inciardi’s poetry has appeared in in various online and print magazines including Green Ink Poetry, Harrow House Journal, Front Porch Review, Grey-Sparrow Journal, Borderless Journal, Written Tales among others. He was a contributor to Green Ink Poetry for their publication on Kennings: Equinox Collections: Autumn released on Amazon in October 2024. SR Inciardi currently has two books of poetry on Amazon that speak to loss and navigating grief. 

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

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

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

Categories
Interview Review

How Marzia Pasini Explores the ‘journey  back to the heart’

An introduction to Leonie’s Leap (published by Atmosphere Press) by Marzia Pasini and a conversation with the author

Maria Pasini

 Leonie’s Leap by Marzia Pasini is a novella that explores the inner recesses of a teenager’s mind till he finds clarity, perhaps a kind of bildungsroman, if realisations can happen in thirteen days! Leonie technically leaps to self-realisation as he tries to run away from an exploitative orphanage somewhere in Hungary.

It’s an unusual story, with a commentary by an inner voice which addresses the fifteen-year-old Leonie as “dearheart” and leads the teenager towards self-realisation. With a background in Philosophy and a Master’s in Comparative Politics from the London School of Economics, Pasini began her career in international development and has moved on to become writer and life coach. This is her second book which she has dedicated to her two children, William and Maria.

The narrative travels through Leonie’s subconsciousness to his coming to realisation about his life’s choices. Colours are woven into the tapestry of his subconscious experiences with a Buddhist monk called Hridaya, Leonie’s own mysterious Indian mother who might have an interesting backdrop, colourful circus characters — Isabelle who plays violin to  her elephant named Grace, Astrid, the chief of the circus’s daughter who wants to be a ballerina, clowns, a lady that wrestles with a tiger, a Russian oligarch and more. Young Leonie meanders through an adventure of his own making, a bit like Pinocchio’s experiences in the circus except the teenager soul searches where the puppet was just mischievous.

The plot is simple you realise at the end of the book, but as you meander onwards, you pause to wonder if it’s child labour, underage marriage or unsafe working conditions you’re grappling with. The conclusion is clear cut. You realise you have been led along a maze. All the action was in Leonie’s subconscious.

For all those, who like to discuss spiritual development and growth, this book could well be like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince (1943), though in that the author reached out to not just within an individual but to pertinent social issues. Leonie’s Leap is more about personal growth — about the teen taking a leap towards adulthood — perhaps because Pasini has opted for a career as a Life Coach who has travelled many countries to make a home in India. Let’s ask her to tell us more:

What led you to write this book?

For many years, I felt called to explore the journey back to the heart—not as an idea, but as something lived. The kind of return that happens when roles fall away and you are left with your body, your breath, and a reality you can no longer sidestep.

The book took shape after a life-altering health crisis that brought me close to death. Writing was no longer optional. It became a responsibility to the life still moving through me and to the vow I made: if I am still here, I will not delay what is mine to live.

You started out as a master’s from London School of Economics in comparative politics, worked for the royal family of Jordan, and then became a life coach. Tell us a bit about why you made these choices and what stirred your muse towards becoming a writer.

I’ve always wanted to be of service. Studying comparative politics at LSE came from a desire to understand how power moves and decisions shape lives. Working for the Jordanian royal family and the UN was a natural extension of that impulse.

In my late twenties, my health redirected that trajectory. It pulled me into myself with no escape. Though I had always been drawn inward, I could no longer outrun what I was being asked to face. 

Over time, it became clear that all real possibility begins within. The shifts I later supported in others were first ones I had to move through myself. Writing became the place where I let the truth hold me. 

What made you leave Italy? Why did you opt to live in India? What has your journey through six countries done for you and your writing?

I’ve always been adventurous. I left Italy at fifteen to attend boarding school in the UK, driven by a curiosity to discover something larger than the life I knew. Looking back, I see I was chasing aliveness, perhaps even a kind of magic I believed lived somewhere else. 

Life later carried me across six more countries. My husband’s work with the United Nations placed us in the Middle East, South America, and eventually India. Each relocation reshaped me, dismantling the illusion that identity is fixed.

India, in particular, asked for radical honesty. There was little room to hide. In that rawness, I began to see where I wasn’t fully inhabiting myself.

That changed my writing. The listening deepened. Stories became less about what happens and more about what is revealed beneath the surface. Today, I carry many worlds inside me. Home is no longer a place.

Has your own life impacted the diverse colours of humanity in this book? Please Elaborate.

I write about the human journey—the longing to belong, the fear of stepping into the unknown, the courage it takes to choose oneself. These are not experiences confined to one story.

My life shaped the book because I have known those edges, too. Uncertainty. Illness. Loss. Love. Each deepened my understanding of what it means to be human, and that depth gives my characters their colour.

The story could have taken place anywhere in the world. Why did you choose Hungary as the locale for your story over all other places?

Hungary sits at a crossroads between East and West, carrying beauty alongside a sober melancholy. When I walked around Budapest, I sensed an emotional gravity that resonated with Leonie’s sense of in-betweenness. 

There is also a long tradition of Hungarian acrobatics. The circus in the novel isn’t just spectacle; it represents the inner balancing required to hold contradiction, leap without certainty, and trust oneself first.

Is this book impacted by your choice of career — being a life coach? Please explain.

My work as a life coach has given me a deep respect for the inner process. Leonie’s Leap invites readers into wonder, inquiry, and direct seeing. It isn’t a self-help book in the traditional sense, but it engages questions that draw the reader back to their own heart. 

The “dearheart” letters woven into the narrative are not instructions. They are a voice that sits beside you and says, stay. It is tender here. You are not alone.

Did you imagine all the characters in Leonie’s journey towards self-hood or were they based on some experiences? Please elaborate.

I don’t believe we ever write from a neutral place. Even when characters are fictional, we create through our perception—our wounds, our longings, our questions. The characters in Leonie’s Leap are imagined, yet carry the landscapes I have traversed. They hold the mess of being human and the possibility of grace.

Leonie’s mother would have had a back story—a lonely Indian woman. Is she an illegal immigrant? Where’s his father then? What would be her story? Is Leonie an immigrant?

I left her backstory intentionally open because some spaces don’t need to be filled. Leonie’s mother is a woman who lived a complicated life, marked by abandonment, illness, and loss. What matters most is the imprint she leaves on Leonie—a gentleness and fierceness that fuel his longing for freedom.

Your book has a discussion on fear in chapter one. Your first book, Satya and the Sun, also dealt with fear. Does overcoming fear become a theme in both your books? Is the first one also a psychological adventure? Why is overcoming fear so important to you?

Fear has been central to my life. I have been in more surgeries and hospital beds than I can count. In those moments, fear became breath. Today, I no longer see it as an obstacle to overcome, but as a catalyst for deeper embodiment.

Satya and the Sun is also a psychological adventure, though written for children. It follows a girl afraid of the dark who sets out to find a place where the sun never sets. Inspired by my own fear of going blind, it explores what happens when we turn toward what terrifies us and discover that light exists even there. 

Are you on the way to writing more books? What are your plans going forward? 

I recently completed a poetry collection centred on devotion and heartbreak—an exploration of love when it strips you to your essence. I have also begun a new novel set in the Amazon—a story of initiation, surrender, and what survives when identity falls apart. 

 (This review and online interview by email is by Mitali Chakravarty)

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Click here to read an excerpt from Leonie’s Leap

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

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

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

Categories
Poetry

Three Poems by SR Inciardi

SENTIMENT

The ocean breeze swipes the water 
page after page turned in waves of succession, 

one after another sweeping the air and stirring it 
in the sounds of coming and going. 

The waves move as the wind dictates: 
some taller, some more shallow, still others less certain. 

These are the waves of times, when Fall just begins 
and the air knows nothing of Summer— 

in days blessed by what came but were cursed 
when they left, with just the newest day now with me, 

where only what left is what I wanted— 
where only waves of its time came and are now over. 

Water comes then recedes motion upon motion, 
each one pulled from the edge of the sea,

each one returned to where it once came. 
I do not see its subtle direction-change 

except its withdrawal, except to see them  
extracted in distant sentiments of their own. 

Can it be that this is what was always meant to be, 
and did I miss more than I could have remembered?

Did I not notice them when they were there one after another  
in chances I hadn’t realised were given? 

But now I see I was wrong: each day the shore 
doesn’t forget each wave’s sentiment, 

each wave holds its own where there is no end to them, 
where I’m offered a memory wrapped by the pain 

of their leaving, but stays bound to every one 
where I hold on to the gift each one carried. 

DESIGNS

so much of what consumes me  
is mired in redundancy     mental gymnastics 
wound ‘round and ‘round like an old watch spring 
and even when encased as permanent 
and making promises of permanence     revolve 
with the earth in an air of inconsistency—
both tensioning and reverting 

maybe sorrow was designed this way     maybe 
it was honed from some common metal 
where fissures stayed hidden but are the cause 
of its denigration     over and over 
daylight comes     deepens     then fades 
mired in a cycle where change speaks only to change       
‘round and ‘round in steps that hold its own brightness  


A STEP AT A TIME

I can’t walk far 
once sunlight begins leaving, 
once the sweet music 
of unnamed birds 
begins to end, after rain 
fell again in the morning 
and clouds regrouped 
in early evening, the day without 
a before or after, only itself 
with two hands 
giving all I come to breathe—  
the two of us here 
in waning sunlight 
remembering: another day 
only mine to take, 
only the day to give—
whether I cherished it 
or had choices when it ended, 
a day in the light 
that remains 
with an intensity of its own.

SR (Salvatore Richard) Inciardi was born in New York City and attended Brooklyn College and New York University. SR Inciardi’s poetry has appeared in the USA and in Europe in various online and print magazines including Green Ink Poetry, Harrow House Journal, Grey-Sparrow Journal, Borderless Journal, Written Tales, among others. He was a contributor to Green Ink Poetry for their publication on Kennings: Equinox Collections: Autumn released on Amazon in October, 2024.

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

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Categories
Stories

Two Black Dresses

By Jonathon B Ferrini

From Public Domain

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

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

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

*

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

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

*

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

“Could I try these on?”

“Of course, dear.

“The fitting rooms behind me.”

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

“How does it look?”

Minerva stepped closer.

“May I ask, why this one?

“It doesn’t seem to fit you properly.

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

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

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

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

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

The girl’s eyes shimmered with tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The girl looked up, surprised.

“Does it ever get easier?”

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

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

“I can’t afford both dresses.”

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

“But… why?”

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

Tears spilled down the girl’s cheeks.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,”

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

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

The girl nodded, clutching the box to her chest.

“I will.

Thank you.”

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

“I love you.”

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

*

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

The hardest blow came when the doctor informed her,

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

*

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

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

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

From Public Domain

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

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

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

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Categories
Poetry

If Only… by SR Inciardi

IF ONLY 

It’s those words in the smaller pairings that offer 
imagined depth but inexact dimension     with eyes 
that cannot see newness     in weakened light     absent colour 
words that can be read from the ashes 
of what never was     in a time escaping 
into the dimming sunset: if only I could see my choices 
replayed     if only I could hold them 
when the air was younger     when they floated 
on a gentle breeze and were touched by an earlier sunlight 
when I knew what it was to be in the moment 
and I was captured by words still to come.     If only 
they were here     if only 
the words I heard then continued to speak now.

SR (Salvatore Richard) Inciardi was born in New York City and attended Brooklyn College and New York University. SR Inciardi’s poetry has appeared in the USA and in Europe in various online and print magazines including Green Ink Poetry, Harrow House Journal, Grey-Sparrow Journal, Borderless Journal, Written Tales, among others. He was a contributor to Green Ink Poetry for their publication on Kennings: Equinox Collections: Autumn released on Amazon in October, 2024.

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

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Categories
Stories

Santa in the Autorickshaw

By Snigdha Agrawal

An autorickshaw. From Public Domain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought stayed with him.

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

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

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

“What’s this for?” many asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santa has come! Real Santa!”

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

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

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

She nodded gravely. “Done.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Swamiji.”

“And did they ask yours?”

Ravi shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

From Public Domain

[1] Faith

[2] Heaven

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

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

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

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Categories
Stories

Used Steinways by Jonathan B. Ferrini 

Jonathan B. Ferrini 

  “Where’s Momma?”

“Passed out cold from her morning fix.

“My gang members are lookin’ for a score and think there’s money inside a storefront full of old pianos.”

“How’s your gang going to steel a store full of pianos?”

“Those are Steinway pianos and handmade from the finest woods, metal, and copper. We’ll bust ‘em apart and sell the salvaged metal and wood. Get your ass over there and scope out the inside of the store for me.”

“You have until the end of the week or I’m throwin’ you out on the street.”

*

I never expected to find friendship in the most unlikely place, a dusty old piano store on Whittier Boulevard in an East Los Angeles barrio[1].

I stepped inside, greeted by the musty scent of wood and rusting metal. The store was quiet, almost sacred, and I was drawn to a black grand piano in the corner. As I pressed the keys, their voices rang out clear, strong, and unexpectedly comforting.

Suddenly, a head popped up from behind the piano.

 “What are you doing here?”

“I just came into look around, Sir.”

“I’m Saul Bernstein, the store’s owner and a piano tuner by trade.”

“I’m Lupe Jimenez.”

“Do you play the piano?”

“No, but I’m curious about all these pianos. Do you sell them?”

“I run an orphanage for Steinways. These orphans are used, broken, abused, and seldom sell. They have souls and require a home just like people.”

“Where do they come from?”

“Some were rescued from burnt out homes, piano teachers with arthritic fingers who could no longer teach, and some from great performers who passed away. I gave them all a name. The gold grand Madame is ‘Goldie’. ’Red’ was owned by a famous singer songwriter who used it in his longstanding Las Vegas act. The others are called ‘Blackie’, ‘Ginger’, ‘Mira’ and ‘Rose’.”

Saul showed me the intricate insides of the Steinway, explaining how each string and key were crafted from beautiful wood and metals. The Steinways, he said, had personalities and stories including joy and tragedy just like lives. I watched as Saul spoke to them, dusted their keys, and shared memories of their former owners. In those moments, the store felt less like a place of business and more like a House of Worship.

Saul beckoned me over to “Goldie”, his hands steady as he opened the lid to reveal the intricate strings and hammers inside.

 “Tuning a piano isn’t just about tightening strings. It’s about listening to what each note wants to say.” He pressed the key, and a slightly sour note rang out.

“Hear that? It’s off. Now, watch.”

He placed the tuning hammer on the pin and gently adjusted it, his ear close to the strings.

“You don’t force it. You coax it, like you’re persuading an old friend to sing again.”

He invited me to try. My hands trembled as I fitted the hammer onto the pin. Saul guided my fingers, showing me how to turn just enough, then play the note again.

“Now, listen for the waves resemble a beating sound. When the waves slow down and disappear, you’re in tune.”

I listened, adjusted, and played the note. The sound grew clearer, steadier. Saul smiled. “That’s it…You’re tuning not just the piano, but learning patience, care, and respect for the instrument.”

Saul became my mentor and friend. He taught me how to tune pianos, how to listen to the subtle differences in sound, and how to care for each instrument as if it were alive.

His passion was contagious, and I found myself returning day after day, eager to learn more.

*

My uncle pressed me for information, convinced the Steinways were worth a fortune if stripped for their materials. Torn between loyalty to my family and my growing affection for Saul and his Steinways, I invented stories to delay any plans for theft. Each day, the risk grew, but so did my resolve to protect the store and the friendship I’d found there.

The bell rang above the doorway one day and an ominous looking man with arms of steel, full of tattoos, wearing a red cap embroidered with “Ace” approached the counter. I witnessed that look of desperation in a man’s face many times before and feared for Saul’s safety.

“Where’s Saul?”

“Saul is over here tuning ‘Blackie’. How may I help you?”

“I’m Ace Menendez. You sold me a piano on an installment plan for my little girl.”

“I seem to remember you and a friend came in a big truck and picked up the piano. Is the instrument out of tune?”

“No, Sir. I’ve come to apologize for being three payments behind and ask for more time to bring the account current. My trucking business hauling shipping containers is suffering due to the strike at the port, and all the truckers in the neighborhood are struggling financially. It would break my daughter’s heart if you came to repossess the piano. My wife and I fear that without the discipline and love for the piano; she’ll fall victim to the crime elements in our poor neighbourhood.”

“When you’re ready to settle your account, just stop by.”

“Thank you, Mister Berstein. You have a big heart.”

“Tell that to my family wanting me to sell this joint. Vaya con Dio’s, Ace.”

I came to learn, Saul, ever generous, offered installment plans and low interest rates, caring more about the music and joy the Steinways brought than about profit.

He lived a sparse existence upstairs with only a cot, hotplate, while surviving on canned food, crackers, fruit, and his love for the Steinways sustained him.

Saul shared stories of the Steinways he tuned over the years, each with its own history and quirks.

“Every piano has a soul. And every tuner leaves a little piece of themselves behind.”

With each lesson, I grew more confident not just in tuning, but of myself. The shop became a place of transformation, where the music we coaxed from the old Steinways echoed the changes happening within me.

Saul watched as I gripped the tuning hammer, my knuckles white with concentration. I turned the pin, but the note wavered, stubbornly out of tune. Frustrated, I pressed the key again, harder this time, as if force would tune it into harmony.

“You’re fighting the piano. It’s not about strength. It’s about finesse.”

He took the hammer from me and demonstrated his movements slowly and deliberately.

“Hear those waves? That’s the sound of disagreement between the strings.Your job isn’t to overpower them, but to guide them into agreement.”

He handed the hammer back.

“Try again, but this time, breathe. Turn the pin just a hair, then listen. Let the sound tell you what it needs.”

I followed his instructions, turning the pin more carefully, my ear tuned to the subtle changes. The waves slowed, then faded. The note rang true.

“Remember, tuning a piano is a conversation, not a battle. If you listen, the piano will tell you when it’s ready.”

Saul wasn’t just teaching me about Steinways. He was teaching me patience, respect, and how to listen, not just to music, but to the world around me.

“Let’s tune ‘Mira’ who I rescued from a closed piano bar. She was soaked in decades of spilled booze and witness to trashy cocktail bar conversations.”

Saul watched as I struggled with the tuning hammer, frustration tightening my grip. The note wavered, refusing to settle. He gently placed his hand over mine, stopping me.

He took the hammer and demonstrated, his movements calm and precise. “Tuning a piano is like tending a garden. You can’t yank the weeds or drown the flowers. You have to be patient, gentle always giving each note what it needs to grow strong and true.”

He struck a key, letting the sound linger. “If you rush, you’ll miss the moment when the music is ready to bloom. But if you listen, really listen, you’ll hear when everything comes into harmony.”

He handed the hammer back to me. “This time, treat each string like a seed you’re coaxing to life.”

I breathed, relaxed my grip, and turned the pin with care. The waves in the sound slowed, then faded. The note rang clear and bright.

Saul smiled. “With patience and respect, you help the piano find its voice and your own along the way. Life is much the same. Sometimes, you can’t force things to happen.You have to listen to what life is telling you, make small adjustments, and trust that, with time, things will come into tune.”

I realized Saul wasn’t just teaching me about tuning a piano. Saul taught me how to live a life of harmony.

*

The next time my uncle pressed me for information about the store, I remembered Saul’s advice.“You have to listen to what life is telling you, make small adjustments, and trust that, with time, things will come into tune.”

I paused and listened to my conscience. I could make small, careful choices to protect what mattered. I lied telling my uncle that the store was under CCTV surveillance including a silent alarm system, a warning that steered him away without confrontation.

*

When I struggled at public school, frustrated by lessons that never seemed to stick, I recalled Saul’s metaphor. I stopped blaming myself for not learning as quickly as others. Instead, I adjusted my approach, asking for help, taking breaks, and celebrating small victories. Gradually, things began to make sense, and my confidence grew.  I was told I could earn a scholarship to college to study music. I wanted to share the good news with Saul.

After school, I ran to the store and found Saul on his knees gripping his chest. I phoned for help. The paramedics told me Saul suffered a heart attack and invited me to ride to the emergency room with them. Saul gripped my hand and smiled. “I’m as tough as piano strings. I keep a card inside my wallet with my family emergency contacts for the hospital.Remember what I told you, ‘…every tuner leaves a little piece of themselves behind.’I hope a little piece of me is left behind inside you, Lupe.”

The doctor informed me Saul passed away, and the family was on its way. He handed me the keys to the store saying Saul had instructed him to place them in my possession.

Saul took a big piece of me with him to the beyond and the fate of the Steinways hung in the balance. I faced a chorus of doubts and obstacles, remembering,“Don’t force, listen.”

*

I reached out to the community, listened to their ideas, and coordinated efforts with patience and care. I was told to visit the neighborhood parish and speak with the priest who took me to a school for developmentally disabled children.

It was a room of beaten up, out-of-tune, upright pianos with eager students stridently following the teacher’s instructions. Others simply tried their best, pounding on the keys.

“Piano music is a miracle and enables these learning-disabled children to find joy and a sense of accomplishment in playing the piano. I’ll make inquiries with fellow priests, and we’ll pray for a home for Saul’s Steinways. The logistics of moving those heavy Steinways may be insurmountable.”

I learned to trust the process, and to believe that, with time and care, even the most troublesome moments could come into harmony like Saul’s garden metaphor.

*

Night had fallen over Whittier Boulevard. The streetlights flickering outside the dusty windows of the piano store. I stood inside the store, surrounded by the silent witnesses of my transformation, Saul’s beloved Steinways.

My uncle’s voice echoed in my mind, his demand clear:

“Tonight is the night!”

The gang was waiting. All I had to do was unlock the door and let them in.

I gripped the tuning hammer Saul had given me, its weight familiar and comforting. Memories flooded back about Saul’s gentle guidance, his stories, the metaphor he’d shared: “Tuning a piano is like tuning your life. You can’t force harmony; you have to listen, make small adjustments, and trust that, with patience, things will come into tune.”

My heart pounded. I could betray Saul’s legacy, give in to fear and loyalty to my uncle, or I could honour the music, the lessons, and the hope these Steinways represented.

I closed my eyes and listened to the notes from each piano signaling my decision. I imagined more children, their faces alight with joy as they played the rescued Steinways. I remembered Saul’s faith in me, his belief that I could choose a different path.

With trembling hands, I locked the door from the inside and dialed the police. As sirens approached, I stood by the Steinways, ready to face the consequences of my choice.

The gang sped away, but I remained, surrounded by the instruments that had given me a second chance. In that moment, I understood Saul’s lesson fully, “Sometimes, the hardest notes to tune are the ones inside us. But with patience, courage, and a willingness to listen, even the most discordant life can find its harmony.”

*

Without Saul, the piano store no longer felt like a happy orphanage for rescued Steinways but a dark, soulless, graveyard. His family, overwhelmed by grief and unable to afford to move the Steinways, decided to dismantle them for scrap. The thought of those beautiful instruments, each with its own story, each witness to Saul’s kindness being destroyed was unbearable.

Desperate, I remembered Saul’s lesson: “You can’t force harmony; you have to listen, make small adjustments, and trust that, with patience, things will come into tune.”

I reached out again to the community and anyone who might care. The parish priest had found a network of schools inside Mexico in need of pianos. Word spread, and soon a group of neighbourhood truckers led by Ace volunteered their time and their trucks. The plan was bold: we would transport the Steinways to poor schools in Mexico, where children with learning disabilities and limited resources could discover the joy of the Steinways.

*

On the moving day, a procession of battered trucks lined up outside the store. Men and women from the neighbourhood, some who had never set foot in the shop before, worked together to carefully load each piano. The journey was long and uncertain, but the spirit of Saul’s generosity guided us.

The Steinways found new homes in schools where children’s laughter and music filled the halls. I watched as students, many barely able to speak, some communicating only in sign language, sat at the old Steinways and played with wonder and delight. The instruments, once gathering dust, now sang again.

After betraying my uncle and the gang, I couldn’t return home. The priest arranged for me to move into a parochial school with boarding facilities run by a nunnery.

*

Years passed. I grew up carrying Saul’s lessons with me. Eventually, I returned to one of those schools, this time as a teacher. On my first day, I walked into a classroom filled with the very Steinways we had rescued. Their familiar shapes and worn keys greeted me like old friends.

“Hello, class. I’m Ms. Jimenez, your piano teacher. I was once a young person like you sitting in front of a grand piano called a Steinway. Don’t fear it’s size or complexity. Make it your friend, trust it, and it will take you on a journey into happiness you can’t yet realise.”

I realised that Saul’s legacy lived on inside me, not just in the music, but in every child who found their voice through these instruments. The harmony I had sought for so long was engrained inside my soul and spilled into the lives of those who needed it most.

And in the quiet moments, when the sun set over the schoolyard and the last notes faded, I would whisper a thank you to Saul, knowing that, together, we had tuned not just Steinways, but futures.

“With patience and respect, you help not just a piano, but your own life, find its voice.”

From Public Domain

[1] Spanish quarters in a town.

Jonathan B Ferrini has published over eighty stories and poems. A partial collection of his stories has been included in Heart’s Without Sleeves: Twenty-Three Stories available at Amazon. Jonathan hosts a weekly podcast about film, television, and music, titled “The Razor’s Ink Podcast with Jonathan Ferrini”.  He received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA and resides in San Diego, California.

.

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

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

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

Categories
Poetry

Poems by Tulip Chowdhury  

Tulip Chowdhury
SILENT GIVING 

Spring, summer, and autumn,
while the birds sang their seasonal tunes
humans beat loudly their own drums.

The bees collected their nectar well
while swans in the lake nearby
found their life-long mates
and yapped their love notes,

while sound and sights captured 
much of the yearly gifts to bless,
while in silence, a rose bush
gave her cloying fragrance 
and red flowers.

In life, we give of ourselves:
the best of what we have.


HOPES AND DREAMS 

The year 2025 found 
the world at a crazy stage
on which life danced.

Amidst the maddening politics, 
natural calamities and wars 
took the hardest hits.
In the turmoil, I feel like an ant under an elephant

When I wish to make a difference in life 
for someone in need — what have I to give?

Mother Teresa’s advice echoes
“If you cannot feed a hundred people,
then feed just one.”
I get up and venture out.

Surely, since I am alive and well;
there is something I can do for someone?

When hope for a better world crumbles like sand,
I send prayers up to heaven---
I know, they can move mountains.
And with prayers, 
I plant new seeds of dreams
for a peaceful world of tomorrow.

Tulip Chowdhury, a novelist, poet, and columnist, writes from Georgia, USA. Her books are available on Amazon. 

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