Categories
Poetry

Fall

By Mary Tina Shamli

Painting by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890)

FALL

I love the fall. When
Else is age admired

And death coveted,
The new despised,

Rejected in the cold?
Cold heart, look at the

Leaves! Crisp and spent,
Dropping in silence, not

All at once, in turns,
Scoring the hush of it all.

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Mary Tina Shamli Pillay is a writer and artist based in Chennai, India. Her poetry and fiction have been featured on the BBC, Kitaab, Blink-Ink, the Borderless Journal, the Mean Journal, Madras Courier and the Pine Cone Review among other places. Find her on Instagram @marytinashamlipillay

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Categories
Musings

Downpour

By Ian C Smith

Persistent rain soaks my senses, the lively past’s good fortune knocking on memory’s door, or is that just the beating of my heart?  Does being surrounded all night by an alluvial tattoo promote this hearkening back?  Beckoned as if by a distant porch light when lost in a storm, I embraced rites from times swept by in the long steady dying since Gloucestershire when, open-eyed, I took it all in.  An exhilarating melancholy floods me recalling standing inside a Norman chapel in the Cotswolds’ slanting light.  I breathed ancient mortar’s microbial odour, imagining a careful congregation in the Middle Ages, rough-sculpted, their murmuring voices long gone into the cold earth, willowherb and meadowsweet dormant.  That winter of my naïve yearning, fields of frost under a murderous owl’s moon, I shucked the duvet to fill pages rearranging words.  Trying to make sense of life’s stampede instead of slouching off early to work as I had in Australia since I was thirteen, was life changing?

If possible before final darkness, I still want to picture our quaint haven with the snugly warm smoky pub where I bumped my head in the low doorway, and we won a Christmas raffle.  I yearn for embedded images of that ilk to which I cling.  Yet to discover Edward Thomas’s poem about Adlestrop station written after his friendship with Robert Frost began — I didn’t know that — bereft of trains and poems, it slept nearby.  The poem was published days after his death in action.  With an adventurous partner, wind and rain rattling our sanctuary, ruffling rooks perched high above the tennis courts, horses sheltering in Larkin’s ‘cold shade’, my blood quickened.  Our first bus trip for shopping, the route wending through golden villages of stone between hedgerows hemming narrow roads, was studded with stops.  Women wearing hats, carrying baskets, and elderly couples sticking together, filled the bus with their soft, cidery accent.  Spotting travellers’ colourful caravans before reaching Moreton-in-Marsh, we messaged with our eyes to attract each other’s discreet attention.

Part-time servants, our Upstairs, Downstairs situation inverted, we hauled backpacks up flights of stairs.  In our bower we scrubbed greasy gunk from the stove and bathed in several inches of costly hot water in an antiquated iron bathtub.  I blue-tacked maps of our travels to damp walls under the roof where, on hushed evenings, dark so early, we read by lamplight.  Borrowing a gas heater on castors, I decorated it with an Olympic pattern of coffee mug rings, starting my blind attempts at a writing apprenticeship.  Each lunchtime, my bedmate, younger than me, living her antipodean dream, glowing after exercising hunters across frosted terrain listening to Ted Hughes’ ‘quake of hooves’, listened to me read what I, laughing at my own jokes, had written.  She astonished her workmates once, choosing not to hang around after work to see a future king of England ride one of their horses, coming home to my self-congratulatory words instead.  At other times she crossed her fingers for Reynard whenever we heard the hunting horn.

Born in England, an early boyhood memory was the story of my missing aunt.  My father’s last sighting of his runaway sister was from the bus he was driving.  For years I pictured this as a cinematic scene in monochrome with a grainy film-noir quality.  A brave woman pushing a pram flees along a street, wet, like the beginning of this piece.  Dim lighting casts shadows as she glances over her shoulder (a close-up).  She has no-one to defend her, to help.  Saddled with this unfinished business of finding her, Births, Marriages, and Deaths became my gripping reading.  We bought a cheap, used car with a good heater.  London’s records led to Liverpool, a city recently battered by riots.  By simply driving there from the Cotswolds we transitioned from poor to posh.  Absorbed, I accrued and sorted all this marvellous new material.  Gold.

Neither of us adequately masked our scorn of protocol’s scripture, smirking at our employers’ gross snobbery undercut by their practical helplessness.  Exacerbating this was my partner’s rising popularity among the local casual workforce, and our now interesting missing person sleuthing.  Irked by supercilious nonsense early, ad-libbing po-faced about the difficulty of finding decent racing saddles for kangaroos, my ludicrous irony had been taken as authentic.  I believed my Aussie bullshit humour leading the snobs from attempted humiliation to pathos was forever unforgiven.  Perhaps it was my multiple errant triggering of their burglar alarms.  That magical Christmas Eve, my birthday, befriended villagers invited us for carol-singing by flickering lantern lights from mansion to mansion for charity.  The ethereal beginning of We Three Kings was a goosebumps highlight, my missing aunt never far from my thoughts.  We also attended a pantomime at Chipping Norton, Jack and the Beanstalk, where I wondered what the Hooray Henrys might have made of this bewitchment.

For a joke when she who still dogs my dreams visits, I squeeze into my naval pea-jacket worn everywhere those years ago.  Finger-fiddling a never used spare button in its silken pocket solicits past voices.  I could display other memorabilia from then though she sternly advises just sticking to writing in the past tense.  My lightweight phone speedily locates those places we slowly discovered, their wonderful names – Bourton-on-the-Water – biro-circled in a bottom drawer heavy with old maps I sometimes sniff to transport me.  From there we journeyed all the way across another ocean, and prairies, the sky storybook-sized, hitchhiking to Alaska, sometimes at the edge of danger.  And there was more, much more, but it is to that soft privileged borough, despite the more dramatic, risk-laden zones of our sojourns, that my mind constantly returns.

My phone can also conjure up the television programme episode we researched, resulting in a moving family reunion watched from the Green Room.  It can’t locate the snappy words my partner exchanged with the famous ex-pop star presenter who complained about people fuddled with age after the show when she entered our descending lift in the studio.  I want to grasp the smells, sights, and sounds of where this all began that lure me like a secret love.  Time-travelling, from our attic window, transposed unscathed by age’s scourge – that raw cold would fell me now – breath fogging like the future we cannot see, I would gaze lingeringly once more on what shall be lost, therefore precious.

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 Ian C Smith’s work has been published in BBC Radio 4 Sounds, Cable Street, Griffith Review, North of Oxford, Rundelania, The Spadina Literary Review, Stand, & Westerly. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island.       

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Categories
Musings

Looking for that Goodness…

By Farouk Gulsara

From Public Domain

Another of my favourite pastimes is immersing myself in true-crime dramas. After listening to case after case, I noticed a particular pattern. The spouse or a close family member would invariably[1] be the guilty party whenever there is a murder. It’s only in fiction that the butler does it!

Then I start wondering: why is there so much evil? I thought the crux of any relationship was the need to protect one’s own kind. How could a loved one have the heart to look into the eyes and see the living daylights just disappear like that? Is that all the human bond is about, protecting and nurturing?

Some talk about the suppressed reptilian mind having to act in accordance with what is deemed normal in civilised life. There is a demand that society act in a particular way. If all our actions are merely acts, and we are just actors playing our roles, then what happened to the ‘humanity’ that humans are so proud of?

In 1961, the world was curious to find out what a man who sent people to the gas chambers looked like! What they saw at the Nuremberg trials was an unremarkable civil servant who made killing a banal act. His aim in life was to be a good worker and to complete the tasks he was assigned. He did not see beyond his duty. As long as his i’s were dotted and his t’s were crossed, he had a good night’s sleep. 

Following that observation, Stanley Milgram[2], a psychologist at Yale University, devised a series of experiments to show that ordinary people are willing to inflict severe harm on others when instructed by a figure in authority. In these experiments, participants were asked to administer electric shocks to subjects taking part in a memory test under the experimenter’s scrutiny. The recipients of the shocks were actors who were heard but not seen. The voltage was progressively increased as more mistakes were made. It was shown that 65% of the participants were willing to inflict fatal shocks when prodded. This overrode personal conscience. 

That study suggested that ordinary people are surprisingly willing to inflict severe harm on others if instructed to do so by who they consider a legitimate authority. Authorisation may be expressed through words or through inanimate objects that signify power, such as uniforms or white coats. When people view themselves as instruments of something bigger than themselves, they shift their moral responsibility to the authorised persona. Obedience also increases when participants do not see their subject and the environment is imposing, such as when the task is conducted in a university or government institution. 

So, where does it leave us? Are humans mere automatons with no agency, easily moulded, moving in herds according to the whims and fancies of the dominant group? As thinking beings who consider ourselves superior to animals and capable of compassion and empathy, we should be able to do better. 

Are the events depicted in William Golding’s 1954 classic Lord of the Flies[3] not merely fiction but inevitable consequences of a society descending into violence, savagery and mob mentality?

Despair not. The Milgram experiment has been re-evaluated[4] with particular attention to the 35% who stood their ground and did not bow to the pressure of authority. The original experiments were also conducted with a series of setting variations. When the experimenter was not wearing a white coat, obedience decreased to 20%. When there were two experimenters, and they started arguing with each other, obedience fell to zero. There is also a possibility that conscience overrode authority in these people. Some empathised with the ‘victims’ and felt personally responsible for causing pain.

In 2002, Reicher and Haslam, through their BBC Prison Study, reported findings that were quite contrary to those of Milgram’s. In a simulated prison setting, in an oppressive environment, the prisoners formed a cohesive bond to fight the injustice in the system. They do not conform to the oppressive authority and challenge inequality. The outcome is quite different from Zimbardo’s 1971 Stanford Prison Experiment[5].

All is not lost. There is hope in humans to think, evaluate, and make a mindful decision about what is best for their kind and humanity at large. We are not automatons or psychopathic maniacs who can be programmed to be a wrecking ball. We have the capacity to distinguish right from wrong, moving from blindly following orders to making informed decisions based on lessons learned from life and our past.

There remains a sliver of hope for mankind.

[1] https://bjs.ojp.gov/female-murder-victims-and-victim-offender-relationship-2021

[2] https://www.simplypsychology.org/milgram.html

[3] https://blog.nls.uk/william-goldings-lord-of-the-flies-is-70/

[4] https://www.simplypsychology.org/milgram.html#Critical-Evaluation

[5]https://static1.squarespace.com/static/557a07d5e4b05fe7bf112c19/t/5b84796f352f53d4e6a1ee86/1535408496256/ConsensusStatement.pdf

Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.

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

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Categories
Poetry

How Brilliant is the Sky Tonight by David Mellor

From Public Domain
HOW BRILLIANT IS THE SKY TONIGHT 

How brilliant is the light tonight
how brilliant is it

Flashes like meteors boom and bang
A festival of fireworks
Heading here and there

How brilliant is the sky tonight
how brilliant is it

But some won’t see it
Others will
A child points at a flashing light
And then they are in it


How deadly is the night tonight
How chilling is it

David Mellor has been published and performed widely from the BBC, The Tate, galleries and pubs and everything in between. Now, resident in Turkey he has continued his literary career with his work appearing in journals including a weekly column in Canakkale Gündem about his observations of Turkish life. His poems and writings are autobiographical, others topical and several his take on life. 

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Categories
Tribute

Mark Tully: A Citizen of the World 

By Mohul Bhowmick

Sir Mark Tully (1935-2026), From Public Domain

There were very few things that Sir Mark Tully touched which did not turn to gold. In his later years, disenchanted by journalism, he resorted to making documentaries on steam trains. Accompanied solely by a production crew and armed with the knowledge that comes with instinct, Sir Mark established that the locomotives pulling these trains — running on steam — did exist in India, even if he had to crisscross his way to the western peripheries of Kutch to make his point. By then, the BBC, whose outstanding representative he had become, and whose torch he held aloft in times of crises, had become enamoured by the crony capitalism of the centre-right, which we would go on to see in later years.

Born in the southern suburb of Tolluygunge in Calcutta to parents who were Indian in all but name, Sir Mark was sent to study in England at the age of nine before joining the organisation which would, for better or worse, be the making of him. Known essentially for his factual reporting, albeit with the possession of a nuanced eye that made his stories seem humane, Sir Mark’s passion for conversation with his subjects made him highly esteemed in the eyes of his peers. The added benefit of reporting on events that shaped modern India — the Bhopal gas tragedy, Operation Blue Star, Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination, the Babri Masjid demolition, et al — was the ream of concepts he had up his sleeve, and of which he made good use when he started writing books.

Amritsar: Mrs Gandhi’s Last Battle was Sir Mark’s first book, but it was No Full Stops In India that embellished him as a legend who could comfortably balance storytelling with a subtle hint of refinement, and who had the repertoire of knowing his subjects inside. Despite being born in the country, he was only given the privilege of being an Overseas Citizen of India (OCI), but this did not deter Sir Mark from his goal — to tell the stories of real Indians and real India to those who did not know where to look. All his life, he rallied behind the cause of religious pluralism and batted for the inclusion of marginalised communities and minorities into the mainstream, but died a man broken by the scars of battle.

Much like the Ashokan rock edicts that were unknown to the ordinary Indian till James Prinsep deciphered the Brahmi script in the early 19th century, Sir Mark’s work went largely unnoticed in the country until he left the BBC. Harassed and harangued by the Indira Gandhi government, he had also been forced to leave the country when the Emergency was imposed. However, return he did, to his country of birth, and stayed loyal — to its people and to the truth — and continued challenging those in power with constant, if gratifying, attacks.

Telling stories with a precision that most remain unaware of despite the possession of all-seeing eyes, Sir Mark’s work remained a terrifying but ambitious challenge for any aspiring journalist to recreate. He left just the way he had wanted to leave, in the country of his birth, known as an Indian who had struck roots in its soil, blossomed in its spring and withered at its dusk. A man ahead of his times by several generations, Sir Mark Tully was an Indian we did not deserve.

Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, sports journalist, poet, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published five collections of poems and one travelogue so far. His latest book, The Past Is Another Country, came out in 2025. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.

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Categories
Poetry

Be Good to me on Sunday

By Stephen Druce

From Public Domain
BE GOOD TO ME ON SUNDAY


I don't need your devotion --
your attention -- or to listen,
connect with my emotions --
or to tell me I'm forgiven,

I don't need your affection
or to feel your tender touch,
I don't need your protection --
your support -- to be my crutch,

I don't need adoration --
all your compliments and thanking,
your true appreciation --
all your patience -- understanding,

I don't need all the accolades --
your gratitude -- respect,
your sympathy -- your serenades --
your charming intellect,

I don't need all your lavish gifts
and all your good advice,
don't save me in a snowdrift -
I don't need your sacrifice,

I don't need your agreement
or to see my point of view,
just be good to me on Sunday --
and be good to me on Monday too.

Stephen Philip Druce is a poet and surrealist from Shrewsbury in the UK. He is published in the USA, Hungary, India, Canada, Ireland, the UK and South Africa. Stephen has also written for London theatre plays and BBC Radio 4 extra.

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Categories
Celebrating Translations

Connecting Worlds with Words

While mankind started out perhaps speaking the same language in the heart of Africa, now there are more than 7, 100 languages in the world. The differences in languages, cultures and rituals could be fanned as unsurmountable divides for political needs. However, translators build bridges with cultural and linguistic comprehension to create an overarching rainbow that shimmers with the colours of shared emotions. We celebrate International Translation Day with a discussion with five translators from South Asia on how they create links not just across vernaculars, but across cultures, time and space. We also have gathered together the colours of 28 languages and cultures and some unique discussions about books that have been translated recently.

Bridging Cultures across Time and Space: An exclusive discussion with Aruna Chakravarti, Radha Chakravarty, Somdatta Mandal, Fakrul Alam and Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

We are the World: Celebrating writers and translators who have connected us with these ideas across boundaries of time and place, we bring to you translated writings in English from twenty eight languages. Click here to read.

A discussion with Somdatta Mandal on her translation of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas. Click here to read.

A conversation with Nazes Afroz, former BBC editor, along with a brief introduction to his new translations of Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Jolay Dangay). Click here to read.

Professor Fakrul Alam discusses his new book of Tagore translations, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore. Click here to read.

Saint Jerome (the patron saint of translators) by Domenico Ghirlandaio (1448-1494). The International Translation Day is celebrated on the the feast day of St Jerome, 30th September each year. From Public Domain

Categories
Poetry

Poems by David R Mellor

Art by Salvador Dali(1904-1989) From Public Domain
BEHIND BARS  

I write about what I see…

If you don’t want me to see it
Close the TV channels down

I write about what I see…

If you don’t want me to scroll up and down
Close the internet down

I write about what I hear…

If you don’t want me to listen
Put all the people behind bars

Though I fear, the truth
May slip through the cracks


COME BACK THE COUNTRY I LOVE

Come back the country I love
Come back and put
Food on my table

Come back and bring me
Peace and Love

No one is excluded
and I belong here again

Not trembling over words
Or the bang at the door

It is you who don’t belong here
anymore


Come back
Come back
the country I love

THIS IS HAPPENING

This is not happening
This you can’t see
The prison cells are filling
Whilst you digest the lies on TV

This is not happening
This you can’t see

You play deaf dumb and blind
Until you see

This is happening
This you can see
Your brother your mother your father
Taken away
Live on TV

CHEERING YOUR GENOCIDE

Every time I let the tap run, I feel guilty
Every time I fill my belly, I turn away from the screen
Every time the key clicks to my door, I can open and walk around
But you and yours are raised to the ground,
No guilt from those who cheer on your genocide.


DEAD SOUL

There is no limit
Because babies are still born
And each by being alive is dead

The last straw a family of nine wiped off this earth

But there are fields and fields of such dead souls.

SOMEONE IS KILLED

Everyday someone is Killed on your street. . .
No one says or does anything to help . . .

It’s not your street. . .
But everyday someone is killed on a Gaza Street
A human being just like you and me.

David R Mellor is from Liverpool, England. He spent his late teens homeless on Merseyside. He is currently writing and performing in Turkey. His work has been featured by the BBC and the Tate, and his published collections of poetry are What a Catch (2012, Some Body (2014), Express Nothing (2019) and So This Is It (2020). His collection of stories An Englishman in Turkey (Turkiye’De Bir Ingililiz) has recently been published .

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Categories
Contents

Borderless, February 2025

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

The Kanchejunga Turns Gold … Click here to read.

Translations

Tumi Kon Kanoner Phul by Tagore and Anjali Loho Mor by Nazrul, love songs by the two greats, have been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Tumi to Janona Kichu (You seem to know nothing) by Jibananda Das has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Where Lies the End of this Unquenchable Thirst?, a poem by Atta Shad, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

The Bird’s Funeral a poem by Ihlwha Choi  has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here read.

Kheya or Ferry, a poem by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Michael Burch, Shamik Banerjee, John Drudge, Ashok Suri, Cal Freeman, Lokenath Roy, Stuart McFarlane, Thompson Emate, Aditi Dasgupta, George Freek, Gazala Khan, Phil Wood, Srijani Dutta, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Akbar Fida Onoto, Ryan Quinn Flangan, Rhys Hughes

Musings/Slices from Life

Just Another Day?

Farouk Gulsara muses on the need to observe various new year days around the globe and across time. Click here to read.

Of Birthdays and Bondings…

Ratnottama Sengupta reminiscences on her past experiences. Click here to read.

As Flows the Gomti: A Palace of Benevolence

Prithvijeet Sinha takes us for a tour of the Bara Imambara in Lucknow with his words and camera. Click here to read.

The Midwife’s Confession and More…

Aparna Vats shares a narrative around female infanticide centring her story around a BBC interview and an interview with the journalist who unfolded the narrtive. Click here to read.

Juhu

Lokenath Roy gives a vignette of the world famous beach. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In The Heroic Fall, Devraj Singh Kalsi explores dacoits and bravery. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Finding Inspiration in Shikoku’s Iya Valley, Suzanne Kamata has written of a source of inspiration for a short story in her recently published book. Click here to read.

Essays

Reminiscences from a Gallery: MF Husian

Dolly Narang recounts how she started a gallery more than four decades ago and talks of her encounter with world renowned artist, MF Husain. Click here to read.

In The Hidden Kingdom of Bhutan

Mohul Bhowmick explores Bhutan with words and his camera. Click here to read.

When a New Year Dawns…

Ratnottama Sengupta writes of the art used in calendars and diaries in India. Click here to read.

What Is Your Name?

Fakrul Alam recalls his mother as a person who aspired for fairplay for women. Click here to read.

Stories

Vasiliki and Nico Go Fishing

Paul Mirabile gives a heartwarming story set in a little Greek island. Click here to read.

Naughty Ravi

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao writes of an awakening. Click here to read.

The Wise One

Snigdha Agrawal gives a touching story around healing from grief. Click here to read.

Conversations

Ratnottama Sengupta converses with Joy Bimal Roy, author of Ramblings of a Bandra Boy. Click here to read.

A discussion on managing cyclones, managing the aftermath and resilience with Bhaksar Parichha, author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage, and Resilience. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Bhaskar Parichha’s Cyclones in Odisha, Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Joy Bimal Roy’s Ramblings of a Bandra Boy. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Amitav Ghosh’s Wild Fiction: Essays. Click here to read.

Meenakshi Malhotra reviews Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Shabnam, translated from Bengali by Nazes Afroz. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Abhay K’s Nalanda: How it Changed the World. Click here to read.

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Categories
Review

…My Heart Wanders Wailing with the Restless Wind…

Book Review by Meenakshi Malhotra

Title: Shabnam

Author: Syed Mujtaba Ali

Translator from Bengali: Nazes Afroz

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Shabnam (1960) by Syed Mujtaba Ali is a love story that is set in the third decade of the 20th century. ‘Shabnam’ in Persian means a ‘dewdrop’. The polyglot scholar Mujtaba Ali’s love story becomes a vehicle for articulating the profundities of life which extends beyond the plot and the telling just like that of his teacher, Rabindranath Tagore. To quote the words of another reviewer: “His novel can be compared to a dewdrop which assumes rainbow hues during sunrise as it encompasses not only the passionate cross-cultural romance of Shabnam and the young Bengali lecturer, Majnun, but also shades of humanity, love, compassion set against the uncertainties generated by ruthless political upheavals.” Sweeping in scope, set against the backdrop of the Afghan Civil War (1928-29) and beyond, the novel narrates an epic love story. That this has recently been translated by a former BBC editor stationed in Afghanistan, Nazes Afroz, and published for a wider readership, emphasises its relevance in the current context, where regressive curtailment of human rights and liberties are evident on a daily basis.

Shabnam is a young, upper class and educated Afghan woman, fluent in French and Persian. As we learn in the course of the narrative, she is daring and apparently fearless. She is proud of her Turkish heritage as she invokes it while introducing herself: “You know I’m a Turkish woman. Even Badshah Amanullah has Turkish blood. Amanullah’s father, the martyred Habibullah, realised how much power a Turkish woman—his wife, Amanullah’s mother—held. She checkmated him with her tricks. Amanullah wasn’t even supposed to be the king, but he became one because of his mother.” Given the current context, with its attack on womens’ freedom, it is perhaps difficult to imagine that a woman like Shabnam or anyone with a similar persona or voice could be found at all. She seems at times to inhabit the rarefied realms of her author’s imagination, beyond the earthly realm.

Shabnam’s knowledge of history and the world is extensive. She actively chooses and decides about her surroundings and her own life, which is more than what many women can do in today’s Afghanistan. Characters like Shabnam are also the result of the varied travels of the author Mujitaba Ali, who traveled and taught in five countries. On the power wielded by women, Shabnam offers a rejoinder to her lover/narrator: “In your own country, did Noor Jahan not control Jahangir? Mumtaz—so many others. How much knowledge do people have of the power of Turkish women inside a harem?”

The novel has a tripartite structure. In the first part, is the dramatic meeting of the narrator, Majnun, with the striking and unconventional Shabnam at a ball given by Amanullah Khan, the sovereign of Afghanistan from 1919 to 1929. The novel’s narrative is dialogic in nature and the introduction and subsequent exchanges of the protagonists  are peppered with wit and poetry. The first part concludes with the two of them acknowledging their love for each other.

In the second part of this novel,we witness more developments in their relationship. Shabnam assumes an agential role and makes a decision to marry Majnun secretly with only their attendants looking on. And then later, this decision receives a legitimate sanction since a wedding is organised for them by her father, who does not know they are already married. Despite the xenophobic approach in those times of many Afghans (and other South Asian communities) against marrying their daughters to foreigners, her family decides to marry Shabnam to Majnun as they wanted her out of conflict-ridden Afghanistan and in a safer zone. Her father hopes she will go off to India with her husband. This seems unexpectedly progressive in the Afghanistan of  almost a century ago. But instead, in the third part, she is abducted by the marauding hordes while her beloved attempts to organise their return from Afghanistan.

The last part continues with Majnun’s quest for his beloved. His endeavour leads him to travel, hallucinate and drives him almost insane, reminiscent of the Majnun of Laila-Majnun fame, a doomed union that resonates in and forms a motif in the narrator/lover’s repeated conversations with Shabnam. At the end of the novel, Majnun ascends the physical realm of love. He says: “Now after losing all my senses, I turn into a single being free of all impurities. This being is beyond all senses—yet all the senses converge there… There is Shabnam, there is Shabnam, there is Shabnam.”

The novel concludes with the realisation that “there is no end” (tamam na shud). This feeling seems to echo the idea of  “na hanyate hanyamane sarire”(“It does not die”) in Sanskrit signifying that love is eternal, even beyond the material realm. Both the luminosity and fragility of love is represented in the novel.

Mujtaba Ali’s wide and varied experience is in evidence at several points in the novel, as is his wit and satiric sense, some of which filters through to his created characters.   This can be experienced in the dialogues and descriptions even in its translated form. In order to conceal her identity from the marching and rustic hordes, Shabnam comes to visit her beloved in a burqa. She argues that it is not a symbol of oppression but a self-chosen disguise: “Because I can go about in it without any trouble. The ignorant Europeans think it was an imposition by men to keep women hidden. But it was an invention by women—for their own benefit. I sometimes wear it as the men in this land still haven’t learned how to look at women. How much can I hide behind the net in the hat?”

A valuable addition to the rich corpus of travel writing in Bangla Literature, the book remained unknown to the world outside Bengal despite its excellence as there were no translations. In 2015, Afroz had translated and published this book as In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan. It was subsequently shortlisted for the Crossword Book Award. That translations can provide a bridge across cultures is eminently clear from this work, which gives us a tantalising glimpse of a culture beyond our own and encourages us, the readers, to recognise that true love transcends borders or boundaries and that the language of true love is the same everywhere.

The novel’s title, Shabnam, is a natural choice, as the intelligent, courageous and beautiful Shabnam is the emotional centre of the novel. To describe her ineffable charm, we could draw upon Mujtaba’s teacher’s words, in Gitanjali (Song Offerings by Tagore):

She who ever had remained in the 
depth of my being, in the twilight of
gleams and of glimpses…

… Words have wooed yet failed to win
her; persuasion has stretched to her its
eager arms in vain.

Song 66, Gitanjali by Tagore

Majnun, the narrator lover is left, in Tagore’s words: “gazing on the faraway gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind.” Romance by its very nature, is fleeting and  transient and romantic love in its literary avatars/depictions acquires a bitter-sweetness when its founded on loss and longing. So it is with Shabnam.

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Dr Meenakshi Malhotra is an Associate Professor of English Literature at Hansraj College, University of Delhi, and has been involved in teaching and curriculum development in several universities. She has edited two books on Women and Lifewriting, Representing the Self and Claiming the I, in addition  to numerous published articles on gender, literature and feminist theory.  Her most recent publication is The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle.

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