Categories
Poetry

Testimony of a War-Seized House

By Shamik Banerjee

Before the bombings, I was not aware
That homes, like humans, could get orphaned too.
Built by a wealthy merchant's wealthy heir,
I've held this ground since 1992.

I've witnessed nicety, hope during pain,
Devoutness, goodwill, and pragmatic views
In those five souls I roofed, who once sustained
Me with dense quicksets, sconces, and bright hues.

They say love's sown with hopes of its return,
But I had failed to be a loyal friend
That ill-starred night, when swiftly, turn by turn,
Those cruel projectiles brought my family's end.

The lattices (my forearms) crumpled first,
And then the heavy gambrel roof (my head)
Fell on my sleeping members as the burst
Of asphalt shingles claimed them on their beds.

But greater is my guilt from treachery;
For now, I'm slave to foes, who triumph, shout
On my own land, spit at our dignity.
Oh, how I strongly wish to drive them out!

Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents and works for a local firm. His poems have appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and Westward Quarterly, among others, and some of his poems are forthcoming in Willow Review and Ekstasis, to name a few.

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Categories
Poetry

Why the Rivers Run Black

By Suzanne AH

A SONNET TO MAKE A WISH 

I am a conflicted woman, my love.
I understand as strongly as I wish.
I understand there’s no world without war,
Only wish for a sliver of a niche.
I understand why the rivers run black,
Why smoked skies once blue, sends no more relish,
Why that man on the pavement sleeps hungry
While kings at feasts seldom touch their plenty.
I know why there’s no joy without sorrow.
All want more. They may beg, steal or borrow.
Everywhere I see, ladders of deceit.
Climb darling climb, in this farce you’re to fit.
Someday our love may cease, I understand.
Wish till the end, I am holding your hand

Suzanne AH is an aspiring writer from Assam with a passion for words.

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Categories
Excerpt

Stories of Children Rescued From Slavery by Nobel Laureate Kailash Satyarthi

Title: Why Didn’t You Come Sooner? Compassion In Action— Stories of Children Rescued From Slavery

Author: Kailash Satyarthi

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

I seated a few of the children in my car, and drove away as fast as I could. The truck with the men and women followed me. The clothes of the children who sat with me in the car were tattered and torn. The wounds on their flesh could be seen through the holes in their clothes. Every such wound is a blot on human civilization. The frightened little girls were trying to hide their bellies and chests by hugging their knees. They simply could not make sense of all that had happened since morning. I made tentative attempts to talk to them. I tried explaining to them that they were now free from bonded labour and were being taken to a secure place. But they had never known freedom, or safety. How could they understand what I was trying to tell them? Maybe they assumed I was their new owner.

Just then, I remembered that there were some bananas lying in the back of the car. I asked the children on the back seat to distribute them among themselves. I thought they must be hungry, and might feel better after eating something. But no one picked up the bananas.

‘Go on, child. Pick up that bunch of bananas and pass it on,’ I gently repeated myself.

One of the children gave it to the child sitting in front. An emaciated girl and a little boy were seated next to me. I told them to pass on the fruit to everyone in the back and keep one each for themselves. The girl looked curiously at the bunch as she turned it around in her hands. Then she looked at the other children.

‘I’ve never seen an onion like this one,’ she said.

Her little companion also touched the fruit gingerly and innocently added, ‘Yes, this is not even a potato.’

I was speechless to say the least. These children had never seen anything apart from onions and potatoes. They had definitely never chanced upon bananas before. Upon further cajoling, some of them started chewing on the bananas. But they were trying to eat the fruit without peeling it. Some tried to swallow it while others were trying to hide it in their palms after having spat it out. My imprudence had for a moment pushed me back a few thousand years. The difference between an unpeeled banana and a peeled one was the distance between slavery and freedom. I quickly tried to rectify my error and taught them how to peel a banana and consume it. Most of them tasted the sweetness of the fruit and probably relished it too.

They began sharing this new experience among themselves in their dialect. I was feeling their joy too. Just then, the little girl sitting next to me tapped me on the shoulder and almost screamed.

‘Why didn’t you come sooner?’

I instantly turned to face her. Her innocent, tear-filled eyes and pained voice laced with anger pierced my heart. I could tell that these words had risen from the depths of her heart, where they lay suffocating for years.

Her younger brother had passed away for lack of availability of medicine. Once, the quarry owners had beaten up her father and uncle and branded them with burning cigarettes. They had raised their voice against the sexual exploitation of the women and tried to escape. Even the tiny hands of the children, when wounded, were never tended. They couldn’t even manage to get bits of cloth to tie around their wounds. This little girl had survived the entirety of hell in the eight years of her life. This was probably the first time that she could bring herself to trust someone enough to mouth the words, ‘Why didn’t you come sooner?’

That challenging question deepened the restlessness and anger that the issue of child slavery aroused in me. The child who posed this question was none other than Devli. She had put it to me, but it is one that needs to be answered by every person who speaks of faith, law, the Constitution, human rights, freedom, childhood, humanity, equality and justice. That question is as pertinent today as it was on that day all those years ago.

According to an estimate, there are around five million labourers employed in stone quarries in India. Hundreds of thousands among them are child labourers. Contractors and their agents pay tiny advances to impoverished families in backward areas and get them to come to the quarries on some false pretext or another. This is the organized crime of human trafficking that is often dressed up as migration or displacement. Usually, there is no record of workers in the quarries. In other words, children like Devli and her parents do not exist anywhere in legal terms.

To break up the stone, deep holes are drilled in it with powerful machines by skilled or semi-skilled workers which are then detonated with the use of gunpowder. The large rocks that are exposed after the explosion are broken down into smaller stones by adult men and women as well as children. The smaller children are engaged in removing the soil before the detonation takes place as well as removing the small stone chips after. Death is far from uncommon among these unskilled labourers who often get buried under the rocks thrown up by the explosions or when a quarry, unsteady from the shock, caves in.

(Excerpted from Why Didn’t You Come Sooner?: Compassion In Action—Stories of Children Rescued From Slavery by Kailash Satyarthi. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2023)

About the Book:

The work of rescuing children from slavery is not for the faint of heart, as the twelve gut-wrenching accounts in this book will show. Harder still is to give them their life back, after they’ve been kidnapped, trafficked, sold, abused and made to work in horrific conditions, often for as long as they can remember. Pradeep was offered up for human sacrifice by his family, thought to be a bad omen; Devli was a third-generation slave in a stone quarry in Haryana, who had never seen a banana before her rescue; Ashraf, a domestic child labourer at a senior civil servant’s house, was starved and scalded as punishment; Sahiba was trafficked from Assam to be someone’s wife against her will; Kalu was abducted and made to weave carpets all day long, his injuries cauterized with phosphorus scraped off matchsticks; Bhavna was trapped in a circus, sexually abused for years by her owners; Rakesh was worked in the fields all year round like cattle, and spent the nights locked up with them in the stable; Sabo was born to labourers at a brick kiln, and never knew life outside it; and Manan lived his childhood mining mica in the forests of Jharkhand, barely given time to even mourn his friend who got buried when the mine caved in. Kailash Satyarthi’s own life and mission were entwined with the journeys of these children. Having lived through unspeakable trauma, they had lost faith in humanity. But behind their reticence, behind their scraggy limbs and calloused hands and feet, hope still endured. This book tells the story of their shared struggle for justice and dignity—from the raid and rescue operations of Satyarthi’s Bachpan Bachao Andolan, to international campaigns for child rights. It is a testament both to the courage of the human spirit and to the power of compassion.

About the Author:

Kailash Satyarthi (b. 11 January 1954) is one of the most well-known child rights activists in the world. He has led many national and international campaigns to protect child rights and promote their education over four decades and rescued countless children from slavery. He is a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, among many other human rights awards.

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Categories
Review

Writing South Asia in the American South

Book Review by Gemini Wahaaj

Title: South to South: Writing South Asia in the American South

Editor: Khem K. Aryal

Publisher: Texas Review Press

Taken together, the stories and essays in the new anthology edited by Khem K. Aryal South to South, Writing South Asia in the American South, offer an intimate, richly articulated expression of what it means to live in the American South as a South Asian immigrant. Several stories construct the enduring feeling of loss, both for new immigrants and old. Sixteen authors have been featured. Some have dealt with the issue through fiction and some, through non-fiction.

In “The Immigrant”, a short story by Chaitali Sen, a young immigrant man Dhruv tries to compose a letter to his parents describing his new life in America but fails to find the language. While dining next to the hotel where he is staying during  a work trip, Dhruv is upset by the disappearance of a small boy and the fruitless search of the distraught parents, which reminds him of his own state in America, where he seems to have lost his way. In “Pine” by Hasantika Sirisena, a young Sri Lankan mother of two small children tries to hold on to her customs from home. Her husband walks out on her in a bid to make a new, successful life in America, unburdened by the trappings of culture and religion. She seems in danger of losing her two children also, who are more interested in Christmas trees than the rituals she wants to share with them. In a startling turn of events, she comes to terms with her own uprooting with touching courage.

Several stories remind us of the remarkable flexibility of South Asian immigrants, who transform themselves and become new people after putting down roots in a new place. One such story is Aruni Kashyap’s “Nafisa Ali’s Life, Love, and Friendships Before and After the Travel Ban”, about a young married woman from the war-torn region of Assam, whose mother and husband in India constantly worry about her safety. Nafisa lives next door to a couple as different from her as possible; they do not work, they drink and they have public sex – yet, Nafisa feels drawn to them as she embraces her new relationships and identity in America to escape her traumatic past. In “Nature Exchange”, Sindhya Bhanoo tells the story of a South Asian woman married to a white man whose relationship with her husband comes to an end when their son dies in an all too typical American phenomenon, a school shooting.

Repeatedly, we see immigrant women in a state of extreme desolation and isolation, left to their own devices to find meaning afresh in a foreign land. Whether they feel their children moving away from them or they literally lose a child, children seem to act as an anchor for the immigrant mother, but in each story, this most intimate of relationships only proves transitory. There are also contradictions. Whereas Sirisena’s story shows a man more willing to assimilate and adapt to America, in Kashyap’s story, the husband, sitting in India, draws easy conclusions about America (denouncing drinking, dancing, and their anti-immigration status), whereas the wife in America, tired of the stresses of living in a war-torn country, finds respite from her homeland’s history of trauma by partying with her office mates and Southern neighbors.

Parallel themes run through the entries. Both stories and essays articulate the craving for tea, one aspect of their identity that South Asians have carried overseas. Also poignant are tales of the early days of migration and the transformation people undergo over the years. Jaya Wagle writes of having an arranged marriage and making the long journey by plane with the man she marries to another country. The whole experience of her new marriage seems as unknown, fragmented, and mysterious as the new country to which they have come. The essay is poignant for the specificity of haunting details, and the transformation of an immigrant evident over the years.

But what makes these South Asian immigrant experiences uniquely southern? One pattern apparent through all the stories is the lack of public transport and public space. The new immigrants in these essays and stories are in cars and Ubers, tucked away in suburban houses or secluded apartments in small towns, the lack of public community accentuating their isolation. Added to this physical landscape is the South Asian immigrant’s alienation from the politics of the region.

The essays, compared to the stories, seem more concerned about identity and more strident about equating immigrant identity with patriotism and allegiance to the Democratic Party. In “Gettysburg”, Kirtan Nautiyal writes about playing the game Sid Meier’s Gettysburg based on the battle of Gettysburg, admiring Union army heroes, imbibing American history in school, and watching the film Gettysburg, wanting to prove himself an American. Throughout the essay, he seems to correlate being an immigrant with proving one’s patriotism towards his adopted country. He stretches it to a point where he would be willing die in a battle – a price, it seems, immigrants must be willing to pay to show their love for America. The essay, predictably, ends with the story of Captain Humayun Khan, who was killed in the Iraq war, told at the 2016 Democratic Convention. Anjali Erenjati writes about taking a fun car trip with her new immigrant friends who do not share her trauma of growing up in the deep South, where she faced a racist incident as a young teenager.

Essays, also, seem more directly to address the question of identity, specifically, being questioned about one’s identity. In Tarfia Faizullah’s humorous essay “Necessary Failure”, she is asked repeatedly where she is from, as her answer, “I grew up in Midland, Texas,” fails to satisfy her co-worker in a theater festival box office in Alabama. On Jaya Wagle’s first night in America, two policemen accost her husband in Texan English when she mistakenly calls 911. Later, the old women she meets at her library writing workshop ask her how long it took her to learn English, a language she has spoken all her life.

The editor Khem K. Aryal is an associate professor of English at Arkansas State University. He is a writer, editor, and translator from Nepal. His short-story collection, The In-Betweeners, is forthcoming from Braddock Avenue Books.

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Gemini Wahhaj is the author of the forthcoming novel The Children of This Madness (7.13 Books, December 2023) and the forthcoming short-story collection Katy Family (Jackleg Press, Spring 2025). Her fiction is in or forthcoming in Granta, Third Coast, Chicago Quarterly Review, and other magazines.

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

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Categories
Poetry

Autumnal Dirge

By Sutputra Radheye

Courtesy: Creative Commons
30 October 2008


there were

only black clouds

around ganeshguri


a sound

of high frequency 

distorted the crowd


they were

running in madness

all around


the motors

were burning

black


so were

the tiny pieces

of flesh scattered


minutes after

the bomb blasted

the city stopped


people were

glued to the televisions

and the radio


now after years

we have moved on

or have we?

This poem centres around 30th October, 2008, where a series of bomb blasts killed many in the Indian state of Assam.

Sutputra Radheye is a young poet from India. He has published two poetry collections — Worshipping Bodies(Notion Press) and Inqalaab on the Walls (Delhi Poetry Slam). His works are reflective of the society he lives in and tries to capture the marginalized side of the story.

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