Nazrul’s ‘Aamar Shyamla Boron Bangla Mar Roop’(The Dusky Beauty of My Mother Bengal) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Who can Blow Out the Sun?, a Balochi poem by Ghulam Hussain Shohaz, has been translated by Fazal Baloch. Clickhere to read.
Chapter 3of Isa Kamari’s novel, The Throne,has been translated by the author from Malay. We will be running the whole novel as serial through the year. Click here to read.
Half-a-beat Behind, a poem, has been written by and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.
Pothik (Traveller), a poem by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Art by Salvador Dali (1904-1989). From Public Domain
Humans for a long time lived in a world that was centred around them. The planets, plants, animals existed to serve them. The resultant effect was not exactly what could be called ‘pleasant’. Climate change and extinctions are proof of that. One cannot of course be held responsible for the extinction of giant dinosaurs for they were long gone before us. Would we have existed in our current form if they had not become extinct?
Perhaps, part of evolution is extinction of the old and birth of the new. However, we are the only species to have used the planet to suit our own needs. We evolved technology. Technology birthed computers and eventually, artificial intelligence. Almost a century ago, Isaac Asimov spun out science fiction about robots terraforming worlds for men. In these novels, he had instituted the laws of robotics, so that they would not harm humans. His robots were humanoids with AI.
As humanity races towards a tech savvy existence with AI taking on roles which were essentially human tasks, perhaps, we have to ask ourselves some salient questions. Ravi Varmman K Kanniapan has voiced such valid concerns over the deployment of AI in his essay. He writes: “The question should not merely be whether artificial intelligence can make institutions faster, cheaper, or more productive. The deeper question is, for whom?” While pondering over this issue, if we take a look at Farouk Gulsara’s experiences pedalling through Kyrgystan and Kazakhstan, one wonders if AI impacts the whole world or will it deepen divides between technocrats and people who live closer to nature! Sailing through the Australian seas, Meredith Stephens takes us on an adventure to Port Hedland. Her narrative is accompanied by beautiful photographs by Alan Noble.
While Suzanne Kamata introduces us to mores on the artistic ethos of Japan, Jun A Alindogan expresses concerns over linguistic forays. Saeed Ibrahim steps into nostalgia taking us to a tiny town called Deolali and Kuldip Raj Chopra muses philosophically gazing back and forth to reflect on life lessons. In a contrary vein, Devraj Singh Kalsi splashes comic frivolity as he describes his attempts at purchasing bedsheets!
Niaz Zaman has shared a learned essay on women writers in Nazrul’s magazine, Dhumketu (Comet), in the early twentieth century, while Professor Fakrul Alam has translated the lyrics of a song by the poet from Bengal. Fazal Baloch has brought to us a powerful Balochi poem by the late Ghulam Hussain Shohaz in English. Isa Kamari has shared the third chapter of his self-translated Malay novel, The Throne, weaving in life in the newly-minted Singapore of the mid-twentieth century. Ihlwha Choi has translated his own Korean poem on how he found poetry. Winding up the translations, is a poem by Tagore called Pothik (traveller).
We have an interesting excerpt from a ‘The Brown Hand’, a spooky story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from The Raj in Ghostly Light, edited by B.C.Dutt. One has to realise while reading such stories that what is seen as a controversial attitude in today’s world could well have been an accepted norm a century or two ago. We have another excerpt from a more modern non-fiction — Bhaskar Parichha’s recent translation from Odia of Janaki Ballav Patnaik: An Unfinished Memoir. Describing the art of tattooing is yet another excerpt from a story by Hannah Stevens, a writer shortlisted for the W&A Working Class Writers’ Prize, which follows her conversation with Keith Lyons.
Short stories have wound their way into our reviews section too. Somdatta Mandal has discussed Geetanjali Shree’s Once Elephants Lived Here: Stories, translated from Hindi by Daisy Rockwell. Mandal writes: “The book…presents a great challenge to the layman reader who cannot simply pick it up and start reading at leisure. One must read meticulously, ponder over the distortion of the usual short story genre, keep track of the convoluted or sometimes half-finished sentences and wonder where the narrator or the protagonist of the story is leading you – sometimes round and round and without reaching a denouement. All said and done, one must pick up this book to savour how post-modern storytelling can become an art in itself.” Rakhi Dalal has written about Teresa Rehman’s Her Hajj Story: Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assamwhile Farah Imam elaborates on Raina/Rituparna Khan’s Her Story: Beyond Dimension. Parichha has brought to us Reetika Khera’s Freebies or Rights: Rethinking India’s Social Policy. He writes: “Freebies or Rights presents a case for seeing social protection not as charity, but as part of the infrastructure of a democratic society. Its central message is both simple and consequential: dignity cannot be secured by economic growth alone. For millions of Indians, it also depends on whether the state can make basic rights real in everyday life.”
Though we reflect on diverse themes in this issue, the collective concern is for the welfare of our species, our planet and our very existence, occasionally drizzled with humour. Do pause by our contents page to browse on our October issue.
We are hugely grateful to all the contributors, our team who step in to help create the content and put it before all our readers, especially Sohana Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. We remain thankful to all our readers without who our efforts would be in vain.
Balochi poem by Ghulam Hussain Shohaz, translated by Fazal Baloch
Ghulam Hussain Shohaz (d. 2007) was a distinguished Balochi poet whose poetry expresses a profound attachment to his people, land, cultural traditions, and heritage, alongside a deep reverence for nature. A defining feature of his poetry is the revival of classical poetic diction within a modern idiom. So far, three collections of his poetry have been published, two during his lifetime and a third posthumously. This poem is taken from his second collection, Jalhar, published by Baloch Sangat Adabi Majlish Muscat in 2000.
WHO CAN BLOW OUT THE SUN?
Every day as dusk falls, a sun-bright thought slips beyond the mountain peaks, dejected, downcast, sinking into mourning. Yet— the world goes on unchanged.
Another dawn breaks, and the hide-and-seek between day and night begins again.
How can one who sails each day on the wings of sunlight let the darkness of night stain their face?
Night descends, slips away, leaving silence behind. But— who can blow out the sun?
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Robihara 2 (Sunless 2) by Nazrul has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Chapter 1 of Isa Kamari’s novel, The Throne,has been translated by the author from Malay. We will be running the whole novel as serial through the year. Click here to read.
An excerpt from Aslam Dostain‘s novel, Sótkál, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click hereto read.
A Sudden Shower has been written and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Clickhere to read.
Jhor or Storm, a poem by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Rain, Steam, and Speed – The Great Western Railway, 1844, Painting by Joseph Mallord William Turner
Perhaps, the only constant that makes a difference in this ever-transforming world is how we react to changes around us. How do we interact with not just humans but our whole planet with its climate, contours, its plethora of flora and fauna? Will that impact our survival in the long run? And yet with our focus on legacies, traditions, beliefs, we tend to ignore the call to adapt to the new that might help us move towards an unpredictable future. We forget perhaps that these systems had all been made by our ancestors to ensure survival. Somewhere along the way, these have become like fences caging us into small subsets. The strange thing is we continue to allow that to happen and create enclosures which we fight to maintain. The future that we face now seems even more tumultuous with climate change, rising sea levels and global warming taking a front seat while influx of refugees from war and natural disasters have already started making themselves felt. Add to that the shortages of resources that we have taken for granted for centuries. How would we survive these?
Is it by redefining the constructs we have created or just meeting in corners and finding commonalities as suggested by Ryan Quinn Flanagan in his poem ‘Corners’?
Corners are a meeting place, they hold a room together
Our poetry section often reflects what we experience, feel or see around us. We have poems on how nature overrides human constructs by Khayelihle Benghu. In ‘Passport for the Rain‘, she writes:
If rain possessed a passport, it would read: Citizen of every place that drinks.
We also have poetry in our translations with Ihlwha Choi giving us a glimpse of Korean life. Professor Fakrul Alam has brought to us in English a Bengali poem by Nazrul written on the death of Tagore, a poem that was read out in Calcutta radio by the poet himself in 1941. Tagore’s poem, Storm, has been translated in keeping with the heavy downpours in Asia this season. Fazal Baloch has shared an excerpt in English, which reads like a short story, from Aslam Dostain’s Balochi novel, Sótkál, giving us a flavour of the hard life in their region, where self-reliance is a felt need for survival. We have mental heath issues woven into this section with Isa Kamari’s translation of his own Malay novel into English, The Throne. We will be running a chapter every month from this novel.
Book excerpts also has a translation this time with Ramananda Bharati’s Bengali travelogue, The Forest of Snow, brought to us in English by Somdatta Mandal. Aruna Chakravarti has reviewed this non-fiction for us. The other excerpt is from Hughes’ The Biscuit Thief, a book that reflects his distinct brand of absurd humour. Keith Lyons’ interview this time features an excerpt from interviewee Jayanthi Sankar’s short story set in Singapore. Mandal has written on yet another translation from Assamese by Ranjita Biswas of Arupa Patangia Kalita’s The Moonlight Saga. Bhaskar Parichha has discussed Rabindranath Tagore: The Myriad-Minded Man, co-authored by Krishna Dutta and Andrew Robinson. He claims that this book is “is indispensable reading for anyone interested in literature, intellectual history, cultural modernity, or the life of a man whose vision of humanity continues to speak powerfully to an increasingly interconnected world.”
This month’s non-fiction section has trotted around the globe. We have Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan’s essay discussing how to redefine norms. His take is a bit different from Flanagan’s. He tells us, using Huck Finn, Terminator and Sangam Literature, people need to ask not, “What is right?” but “How did I come to believe this is right?” Rengin Uçkan’s writes on the need for framing rules that are compassionate for refugees. And Farouk Gulsara with his inevitable gruff humour talks of climate change while stating things as it is: “Climate change not only shrinks our summer beachwear but also makes outdoor living impossible. Additionally, it’s proving to be more expensive to consume anything…” Jun A. Alindogan narrates how typhoons have increased in number in Philippines and how it affects them while Jeena R. Papaadi reflects on her literary journey. Meredith Stephens shares her sailing adventures in Australia with stunning photographs by Alan Noble. And Suzanne Kamata has brought us a flavour of the unique Zine Fest in Kobe, where both groceries and books find a place!
Devraj Singh Kalsi hovers between fact and fiction. He has a musing which seems like a hash of dark fiction but based on his experiences. He has also shared a story that is purely fictional. Yi-jung Chen brings to us a quirky love story set in Taiwan across time and space while Brindley Hallam Dennis tells a tale about a dog who sits at a table and sips drinks with a straw! Jay Samanta gives a narrative about a modern relationship based on social media output. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has shared a fable that talks of freeing nature. The issue is, can we really?
In Borderless Journal, we hope to create a space which will help reflect not just the times but also look forward to ideas that can move us towards surviving in a happier world, built on the basis of accepting differences, filled with love, kindness and compassion. While this may sound clichéd and repetitive, given the current climes, these values cannot be emphasised often enough and perhaps our content to an extent does reflect that, sometimes with a soupçon of humour. Do pause by our contents page for this August and tell us what you think.
Winding up this issue, we would like to thank our all contributors for their wonderful writings and photographs. Huge thanks to the Borderless team without who this issue would not have been as vibrant. Special thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Thank you all. All of you together make this journal come alive.
A physician by profession, Aslam Dostain is widely regarded as one of the prominent contemporary Balochi fiction writers. Although he has also written short stories, he is best known for his novels. To date, two of his novels have been published. The flexibility, fluency, and natural flow of language are among the most distinctive features of his novels. The passage under discussion is taken from his first novel, Sotkaal, which was first published in 2008 by Gaam Publications, Gwadar.
An excerpt from Aslam Dostan’s novel, Sótkál, been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
Whenever Asumi spoke of Noddranzán, his words seemed to brim with longing. He was often found talking about the coast of Noddranzán.
Asumi was my cousin, and we were the same age. In the beginning, he was a shepherd like me, but later he began travelling with camel caravans and took up trading. He spoke so admiringly of the coast simply to tempt me and stir my curiosity.
As far back as I can remember, I had never been beyond Sótkál, except once. I have only a faint memory of it. My grandfather had taken me with him down to the coastal region to offer condolences. After that, my entire world was Sótkál. There was hardly anything in Sótkál that escaped my eyes. I knew where water could be found, where the trees and the shades rustled, where the ravines and gorges lay, and which areas were infested with ferocious wild beasts.
Grandfather used to say: “A shepherd who does not know his flock, its ways, and its temperament can never truly be a shepherd. And here, in rain and storms, to be unfamiliar with the temperament of the river that comes surging from the far reaches of Sótkál is to invite your own destruction.”
Grandfather had another story to tell. Once, a group of the British came here determined to find the source of the Sótkál River. Starting from here, they travelled northward, covering some eighteen manzil[1], but eventually grew exhausted and turned back. They said they had done everything they could, but they could not find its source. That is why only those who live along its banks truly understand the temperament of this river, and that, indeed, is the truth.
For as long as I can remember, my entire universe has been these sheep and goats. Grandfather said only this to me: “Ghulamuk, my son! This flock is yours now. You know what to do with it.”
I had no other work besides this. From dawn until I went to bed at night, I was occupied with the flock. Grandfather had, with great wisdom, kept me busy. It took me many years to understand that there could hardly be a greater calling than this.
Whether it was the scorching sun, the freezing winter rains and storms, or the hot, blistering winds of summer, I could find no rest. I was forever responsible for guarding and tending the flock: making sure that no goat fell into a ravine and broke its bones, that none wandered off and got lost, that no beast of prey carried one away, and that no goat drank all of its own milk.
By virtue of being a shepherd, I came to know every corner of the wilderness. Sometimes I would take the flock to the ravine of Kachól, sometimes to the Basshám Pass. At times I could be seen wandering with them through the desert of Mojén Dém, and at others in Masháni. But there was still one place in Sótkál that I had never taken the flock: Jinnani Jomp—The Mounds of the Jinns.”
Grandfather had strictly forbidden me from going there. “Ghulamuk, my child! You may go wherever you please in every corner of Sótkál, but never, ever turn towards the Mounds of the Jinns.”
We were allowed neither questions nor arguments. Whenever such a thing seemed about to arise, Grandfather would stop us before we could even finish speaking.We were always under his watchful eye.
“Don’t put your hands on your head, boy!”
“Don’t stand on the threshold. It is the time of sunset.”
“Straighten your slippers. They’re lying upside down.”
We always carried within us the fear that whatever we did, Grandfather would see it.
Except for one occasion, he had never actually beaten us. But threats, scolding, and warning us with nothing more than a look were part of his everyday manner.
God knows whether we had a guest that day or what the occasion was, but that day Grandfather slaughtered the hen with black-and-white feathers and had it cooked for lunch. We all sat down together for the meal. Everyone began to eat, but Asumi kept his hands to himself.
“What’s the matter, boy? Why aren’t you eating?” Grandfather asked.
“Grandpa, I don’t eat chicken,” Asumi replied.
“You don’t eat chicken? Why not?”
“I don’t eat chicken because chickens eat lizards.”
A look of disgust passed over everyone’s face, but no one said a word.
“So, chickens have only just started eating lizards, have they? They were eating lizards before you were born, and they’ll go on eating them long after you’re dead. Come on, start eating, and don’t talk such nonsense.”
“No, Grandpa. I don’t eat chickens that…”
Asumi had not even finished the sentence when a slap landed just below his ear. Everyone was startled, but no one dared say anything.
“You think you’re clever enough to make arguments? Eat, and be done with it. Didn’t I tell you never to find fault with the food?”
Without uttering another word, Asumi lowered his head and began to eat.
From that day onward, Asumi stopped finding fault with things. I am certain that no sage, mullah, or learned man could have cured him of that habit so swiftly. Yet one hard slap from Grandfather set him right in a moment.
Grandfather would always say, “Don’t be in a hurry. With time, you will ripen into wisdom.”
No one ever sat us down to advise or teach us the ways of the world. With the passing of time, we learned and gathered our share of experience.
How right Grandfather had been!
***
One scorching day, one of the straps of my sawás[2] snapped. I tried as hard as I could to mend it, but everything I did couldn’t fix it. The earth was burning like an oven, with waves of heat rising from it, while the goats of my flock had scattered in every direction.
Reluctantly, I set out across the scorching ground and gathered the flock. When I finally returned and sat down beneath a tree, I looked at my bare feet and felt tears welling up in my eyes. They were covered in blisters, some as large as lemons.
At dusk, I drove the flock home. By then, I could hardly put my blistered feet to the ground. The moment I reached home, I went straight to Grandfather.
“Look at my feet. Just look at how badly they’re blistered! This broken strap has caused me so much trouble. Please make me a new pair of sawás, whatever it takes.”
When Grandfather saw my blistered feet, he replied with a touch of sarcasm: “All right, son. Go and soak the dwarf-palm leaves in water. After dinner, I’ll make you a new pair”.
I did exactly as Grandfather had told me. After dinner, Grandfather sat talking with the family for a while. Then he lay down and soon drifted off to sleep. I thought to myself that perhaps he would make them for me early the next morning.
The next morning, I saw Grandfather heading towards the fields, a shovel slung over his shoulder.
“Grandpa, what about my sawás?” I called out.
“Oh, damn! I completely forgot,” he said with a laugh. “Never mind. You go on. I’ll ask a man named Nakam to make you a pair.”
I took my flock, tucked the dwarf-palm leaves under my arm, and set off towards the jungle, hoping to find Nakam there.
I waited for him for a long time, but there was no sign of him anywhere. My feet were still covered in the blisters I had got the day before, and I had no strength left to walk under the blazing sun.
There was no sign of Nakam.
“What am I supposed to do now, O God?” I wondered.
To hell with him. Let him come or stay away. Why should he care? It’s my feet that are covered in blisters. With that thought, I set about making the sawás myself. I had watched people make them before, so I knew more or less what to do. They might not have been perfect, but somehow, I managed to make myself a new pair.
I was overjoyed. At last, I thought, my feet would no longer have to suffer the burning ground. When I returned home, Grandfather looked at me and, as usual, asked with a teasing smile: “So, my son, did Nakam ever show up?”
“Grandpa, why did you make me believe that a man named Nakam would come and make me a pair of sawás? I waited for him for ages, but he never came,” I replied, a little irritated.
“My son, the truth is, there is no man named Nakam in the whole hamlet. I told you about him because you are a shepherd, and you must learn to fend for yourself. If I make your sawás for you today, what will you do tomorrow?”
Then he added: “Ghulamok, my son, learn to take care of your own needs. Do not sit around waiting for someone named Nakam, because there is no such man in the entire hamlet.”
[1]Manzil: A Day-long journey equivalent to forty-eight mile
[2]Sawás*: Traditional handcrafted Balochi slippers made of dwarf-palm leaves.
Front cover images of the first and second edition of Sótkál
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. He has the translation rights of this novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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.
Mohammad Hussain Anqa (1907–1977) was a poet, historian, journalist, and political activist. He spent a significant portion of his life in prison because of his dissenting political views, an experience that is reflected throughout his poetry. Anqa’s most important contribution to Balochi literature was the introduction of a modern aesthetic sensibility into the Balochi ghazal. The selected fragments are drawn from various couplets in his ghazals, collected in Roken Poll (The Glowing Flower), a volume of his poetry published by the Balochi Academy in 2007.
(1)
Drop by drop, celestial honey flows into my ears— In midnight hours, when the chime of your bangles fills the air, I wonder whence the angels brought you this grace and modesty; No moon glows so purely, no blossom blooms so fair.
(2)
Whenever, in prayer, I lifted my hands, they were scorched. Like ember smouldering beneath ash was the sky. Tyranny's flames sear the earth like a griddle. I seek to rest a little while, but tell me, how could I?
(3)
If it bears not the fragrance of her perfumed tresses, Let this callous breeze fall dead — I do not care. In quest of my heart, I seek you — but you’re nowhere, My heart—may it lie tangled in a knot of your hair.
(4)
If you have seized my forbearance, along with your grace, The joy of love and longing will fade, you must know. At dawn, Anqa whispered to the nightingale in the cage: “Most of my captive days are gone, just a few left to go.”
(5)
The cloud burst forth and showed you — Ask your tresses how blessings are bestowed. A home is where the heart finds peace, Cots and couches alone make no abode.
(6)
I know not by what mysterious fashion, the Creator shaped this world— The shepherd dreads the wolf; the wolf fears the shepherd’s wrath. Anqa! I spilled my blood so blossoms might grace every garden in the land; Yet never once did I dive for pearls beneath the ocean’s path.
(7)
They crushed the only blossom I called my own May every garden wither, far and nigh. They show me not the path unto her abode May God rend every star out of the sky.
(8)
He rends the garment, only to mend it whole again. How artful this madness proves itself to be. Why does autumn fall to me, while spring blossoms for you, If from the selfsame clay are fashioned both you and me?
(9)
Like a night flower's fragrance adrift through the eerie darkness, O butterfly of my love, when will you come to me silently? Beside my pillow, there shimmered your outstretched hand. I reached to steal a kiss, but the sword cut through me.
.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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.
