Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection...
Where The Mind Is Without Fear by Rabindranath Tagore, written in 1910 in Bengali as Chitto Jetha Bhoy Shunno and translated by the poet himself in 1912.
We celebrate Rabindranath Tagore(1861-1941) on his 165th birth anniversary with translations of his works by contemporary writers. We hope to woo our readers into experiencing Tagore as a visionary and a thinker who used his writing to showcase his convictions transcending divisive human constructs. Most are aware he was much more than just a poet or writer with his pet projects of Santiniketan and Sriniketan, that continue to flourish, even today — eighty-five years after his death.
He wrote a birthday poem every year. The last one was drafted as he lay sick on his bed in 1941. We have the lyrics translated by Aruna Chakravarti in her book, Daughters of Jorasanko with an imagined description of his last birthday celebrations.
The outlay includes stories translated by Somdatta Mandal and Chakravarti; essays brought to us in English by Himadri Lahiri and Mandal. And our piece de resistance is Professor Fakrul Alam’s translation of his full length ‘dance-drama’, Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders), with songs and theatre brought together, somewhat like in a musical. What absolutely amazes is that all his work can be read as comments on contemporary life. Enjoy the translations!
Tagore’s Last Birthday Celebration: This has been excerpted from Aruna Chakravarti’s Daughters of Jorasanko. It includes has her translation of the last birthday song he wrote in 1941 a few months before he died. Click here to read.
Short Stories
Daliya, a story by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.
Baraf Pora (Snowfall) : This narrative gives a glimpse of Tagore’s first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated by Somdatta Mandal . Clickhere to read.
Jun A. Alindogan gives an account of how an overgrowth of water hyacinth affects aquatic life and upsets the local food chain while giving us a flavourful account of local food. Clickhereto read.
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne…
The Canterbury Tales (1387-1400) by Chaucer, Prologue
This is the month Asia hosts sprays of new years across multiple regions. Many of these celebrate the fecundity of Earth, spring and the departure of bleak winter months. Each new year is filled with hope for the coming year. The vibrant colours of varied cultures celebrate spring in different ways, but it is a welcome for the new-born year, a jubilation, a reaffirmation of the continuity of the circle of life. Will the wars, especially the shortages caused by them and felt deeply by many of us, affect these celebrations? Had they impacted the festivals that were celebrated earlier? These are questions to which we all seek answers. We can only try to gauge the suffering caused by war on those whose homes, hopes, families and assets have been affected other than trying to cope with the senselessness of such inane attacks. But, in keeping with TS Eliot’s observations on Prufrock, most of us continue our lives unperturbed and as usual.
Some of us think and try to dissent for peace and a world without borders with words – prose or poetry. To reinforce ideas of commonalities that bind overriding divides, we are excited to announce a poetry anthology mapping varied continents with content from Borderless Journal, Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems. We are hugely grateful to Hawakal Publishers for this opportunity and to Bitan Chakraborty for the fabulous cover design. We invite you all to browse on the anthology which is available in hardcopy across continents.
Our issue this month is a bumper issue with the translation of Tagore’s Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders) by Professor Fakrul Alam. It’s the full-length play this time as earlier we had carried only an excerpt. The play is deeply relevant to our times as is Somdatta Mandal’s English rendition of his story, ‘Daliya’, set in Arakan. We also have also translated Tagore’s response to the idea of mortal fame and deification in poetry. Kallol Lahiri’s poignant Bengali story about the resilience of an ageing actress has been brought to us in English by V Ramaswamy. Isa Kamari brings us translations of his Malay poems exploring spirituality through nature.
But what really grips are the fables that Hughes will be sharing with us over four months. He calls them Rhysop Fables, after the ancient ones from Aesop’s with the ancient author himself being mentioned in one of the short absurdist narratives this time. In fiction, our regular fable writer, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao explores a modern-day dilemma, that of social media intruding into the development of children. Jonathon B Ferrini glances at resilience and mental disability while, Sangeetha G looks into societal attitudes that still plague her part of the world. Oindrila Ghosal gives a story set in Kashmir.
From Kashmir, Gower Bhat shares a heartfelt musing on being a first time father. Mohul Bhowmick writes of Eid in Hydearbad (Hari Raya in Southeast Asia) — echoing themes from Kamari’s poems — and Anupriya Pandey ponders over the quiet acceptance of mundane life that emphasises social inequities. Jun A. Alindogan brings home issues from Phillipines. While we have stories about Vietnam from Meredith Stephens, Suzanne Kamata muses about Phnom Penh, mesmerised by Cambodian dancers.
Farouk Gulsara writes of his cycling trip from Jaipur to Udaipur bringing to life dichotomies of values and showing that age can be just a number. Chetan Poduri reinforces gaps created by technology as does Charudutta Panigrah, a theme that reverberates from poetry to fiction to non-fiction and much of it with a light touch. Devraj Singh Kalsi sprinkles humour with his strange tale about hiring a bodyguard.
Keith Lyons has brought in Keith Westwaters, a soldier-turned-poet who seems to find his muse mainly in New Zealand. We have also featured an author who overrides borders of continents, Marzia Pasini. Her book, Leonie’s Leap, has a protagonist of mixed origin and her characters are drawn out of Russia, India, Bulgaria and many other places.
This rounds up our April issue. Do visit our content’s page and explore the journal further.
Huge thanks to the wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her art. They help bring together the colours of the world to our pages. Huge thanks to contributors who make each issue evolve a personality of its own. And heartfelt thanks to readers who make it worth our while to write.
Title: No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata
Author: Ashoke Mukhopadhyay
Translation from Bengali by Zenith Roy
Publisher: Niyogi Books
No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata by Ashoke Mukhopadhyay, translated with sensitivity and nuance by Zenith Roy, is a strikingly contemporary novel that brings into sharp focus the precarious lives of urban gig workers. Set against the pulsating yet indifferent backdrop of Kolkata, the novel explores a world that is at once hyper-connected and profoundly isolating.
At the heart of the narrative is Sriman, a food delivery worker whose life is defined by anonymity and transience. He delivers meals to strangers, navigating the city’s labyrinthine streets, yet remains invisible within the very system he sustains. Mukhopadhyay captures this paradox with quiet precision: Sriman’s labour is essential, but his existence is expendable. The gig economy, as portrayed in the novel, demands efficiency, obedience, and silence—qualities that gradually erode individuality and agency.
Equally compelling is the character of Mrittika Sen, a bike taxi driver whose experiences foreground the gendered dimensions of gig work. Through her, the novel examines the additional vulnerabilities faced by women in an already unstable ecosystem. The constant threat of being “logged out”—a chillingly impersonal metaphor for economic erasure—hangs over her life. Mukhopadhyay does not sensationalise her struggles; instead, he presents them with restraint, allowing their quiet intensity to resonate.
What elevates No. 1 Akashganga Lane beyond a social-realist narrative is its imaginative and philosophical layer. The titular word, Akashganga, is a century-old house and serves as a refuge, both literal and symbolic. Within its walls resides Bishan Basu, a figure who introduces Sriman, Mrittika, and others to the stars. This shift from the immediacy of urban struggle to the vastness of the cosmos is one of the novel’s most poignant devices. It offers a counterpoint to the claustrophobia of gig work, suggesting that even in the most constrained lives, there exists a yearning for transcendence.
The recurring motif of the stars and the speculative question—whether these workers might one day need another planet to call home—imbues the narrative with a subtle dystopian edge. It reflects not only ecological anxieties but also a deeper sense of displacement. The idea that gig workers might carry their labour into another world is both darkly humorous and profoundly unsettling, underscoring the inescapability of systemic exploitation.
Mukhopadhyay’s Bengali prose, as rendered in English by Roy, is measured and evocative. The translation deserves particular commendation for retaining the cultural texture of the original while ensuring readability for a wider audience. Kolkata itself emerges as a character—its rhythms, inequalities, and fleeting solidarities shaping the lives of those who inhabit it. The author’s background in documenting the city’s social history is evident in the authenticity of detail and atmosphere.
The novel also succeeds in capturing the fragile solidarities that emerge among gig workers. Friendships, though often transient, provide moments of warmth and resistance. The shared experiences of precarity create a sense of community, however fleeting. Akashganga becomes a space where these fragmented lives intersect, offering not solutions but solace.
No. 1 Akashganga Lane is a timely and thought-provoking novel that captures the human cost of the gig economy with empathy and insight. Through its blend of social realism and philosophical reflection, it offers a nuanced portrait of contemporary urban life.
Ashoke Mukhopadhyay has crafted a narrative that is both rooted in the specifics of Kolkata and resonant with global relevance, while Zenith Roy ensures that its voice travels beyond linguistic boundaries. The result is a work that lingers, prompting readers to look more closely at the invisible lives that sustain modern cities.
.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Story by Kallol Lahiri: Translation from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy
Kallol Lahiri
Kallol Lahiri teaches cinema, makes documentary films, writes screenplays for films, television and OTT series, and writes blogs of various flavours in between. He is the author of four novels, Gora Naxal (2017), Indubala Bhater Hotel (2020), 1990, A Love Story (2022) and Ghumiye Porar Aage (2024), and a memoir, Babar Yashica Camera (2021). He was awarded the Sadhana Sen Memorial prize in 2021 for the novels Gora Naxal and Indubala Bhater Hotel by the magazine Bhumodhyosagor.
In memory of all the forgotten nameless actors and actresses of the world
If one woke up very early in the morning, the city looked different through this window. It seemed as if the city was encircled by three whole mountains. But actually, that wasn’t the case. Pray tell me, where would three mountains appear from in the middle of this city? Is this Darjeeling or Kalimpong! After all, these are all mountains of garbage. The garbage of the entire city has been brought here to create mountains. It has been given a mouthful of a name too, “Dhapa”. Sarala smiled inwardly. What did the word dhapa mean? Was it dhappa (meaning, bluff)? Perhaps Notu Babu would have said that had he been around.
“Can’t you see the torn clouds at the crest of the mountain?”
“O Notu Babu, that’s garbage.”
“So what if it’s garbage! Doesn’t it take on the appearance of a mountain and bluff us! Hey … play a tune in Behag on the flute … let me hear that.”
The flute would have sounded, together with the harmonium and tabla. Sarla would have advanced with small steps towards the middle of the stage. The light from the spotlight would have fallen on her. Afar, concealed by the wings, was Bani Babu, the prompter notebook in hand. And in that enchanting atmosphere, Sarla Debi gazes at the audience and begins singing.
Just that much. If she remembered any more, her mind would go awry. She would feel like just sitting and remembering all the tales from way back when. The morning would then be ruined. Wasn’t there a lot of work to be done! She had soaked two saris last night. And a bedsheet. The mosquito net was dirty too. All those had to be washed when it was time for water at the standpipe. She had to clean the house and then bathe. After that, all she had to do was boil a bit of rice and dal on the stove, and then she was done.
There had been plenty of days when Sarala had eaten only muri[1]both times. In this old age, she no longer felt like cooking just for herself. Nonetheless, if Notu Babu had been around, he would have gone to the market. He would surely have brought back tender pui spinach, pumpkin, fresh potatoes and the head of a carp fish. And said, “Here you are, why don’t you make some chyanchra[2] today, Sarala …” Or he would have gone to the market close to noon and brought back whatever fatty viscera of fish he got, and said, “Cook this, make a fish oil chochchori[3]with ground chillies.”
Sarala used to apply attar[4] on her body after her bath. Nizamuddin, the attarwala[5], used to bring it for her. All those days were of a different kind. Coloured in the hues of a rainbow. As spectacular as the backdrop in a theatre. No one would believe it if they heard about it now. There were so many nights when Notu Babu did not return home. He read out page after page of a new play to Sarala. He did rehearsals. He was really keen that Sarala had a baby boy on her lap. He would carry on with this theatre. The intoxication. The madness. But what would his paternity be? Would society accept a dancing woman’s son? O Notu Babu, will your wife accept the child? Your family? The theatre world of the babus and bhadraloks[6]? You yourself would accept him, won’t you, O Notu Babu? Notu Babu had emptied the bottle of whisky and returned home before dawn without answering Sarala’s query. He needed to sleep till noon. Or else he wouldn’t get any play ideas in his head. It couldn’t be taken to the stage quickly. The audience wouldn’t cram the hall.
There was a routine of offering puja in Dakshineshwar on the day a new play was being staged. Sarala used to go to Sri Ramakrishna’s room and seek his blessing, “Let it go well, thakur[7], I’ll give you an offering of hot jilipis[8].” And so, all those plays did well very quickly. There wasn’t even space for a sesame seed in the packed hall. There was repeated applause. People used to scream out, “Encore! Encore!” And then one had to act out a scene once again. Or sing a song. Sarala enjoyed it. People learnt from theatre. Notu Babu believed that. He reminded people of Sri Ramakrishna at every moment. Everyone held their folded hands at their foreheads in obeisance. On the day of the New Year, and on the day of Rathayatra[9], there was always a puja[10]in the drama group’s premises. It was a small group, but so what? All the etiquette and civility of a large group were always in place. Notu Babu saw to that. Sarala used to visit Kashipur on the day of the Kalpataru festival. She prayed inwardly that Sri Ramakrishna came alive and stood before her. That he placed his hand on her head, blessed her, and said, “May you attain enlightenment.”
But where did that happen? Had she been able to shed the veil of illusion? Or this body? She was still standing somehow on her weak legs, a lump of flesh and blood. So then was everything not finished as yet? Did that mean something else was left? What exactly was that? Sarala had not been able to figure that out. When she was about to carry the bucket with the soaked linen to the standpipe on her wobbly legs, she stopped with a start. The morning sunlight that had fallen on the dilapidated wall with exposed bricks beside the main door looked exactly as if someone had cast a theatre light there. Sarala took small steps and went and stood in that light. She shut her eyes. The sound of the third and final bell came wafting from somewhere.
The play, Binodini, the Dancing Girl, was being performed one time. That role had been a longtime dream of Sarala! Binod Babu, the emperor of theatre, had overwhelmed everyone in the role of Sri Ramakrishna. He had been brought after having been paid a hefty advance. The drama group had to pay him a huge fee. Sarala herself had given up the twenty-gram gold necklace that she had received as a prize from the mistress of the Dutta household of Syankrapara. But that play went down really well. The crowd that had come simply to see the play had overflowed beyond the hall and the road and gone all the way to the five-point intersection. Notu Babu used to say in jest, “You seem to have surpassed even the matinee idol, Sarala, my dear!” After rehearsing all night long, when she went to the ghat[11] at dawn and dunked her head in Ma Ganga, she felt refreshed in mind and body. Her wavy hair went down to her waist then. The skin on her body was the colour of gold. Everywhere men ogled at her, as if they were about to pounce on and devour her. After all, they had devoured Binodini. Hadn’t they? Men devoured her. The theatre devoured her. And what about Sarala?
*
A huge crowd at the water-tap today. Apparently, there had been no water at night. And so, the children, the pots and pans, and men and women all seemed to have flung modesty to the winds and exposed themselvesin front of the water-tap. Sarala did not want to go there. There had been none of all this trouble when she lived on a platform on the ghat by the Ganga. There was an open, gaping sky there. And Ma Ganga was with her. Yes, it was a bit difficult during the rainy season and in winter, but what could one do about that?
Sarala had enlisted herself in the ranks of all those folks in this city who did not have a roof over their heads, who lacked a permanent address, who had no one to call their own, let alone a son! It occurred to the actress who had once stood in front of the footlights on stage that the arrangements were complete for the antarjali (the ritualistic act on the bank of the Ganga of immersing the lower part of a dying person’s body)! She spread out her old copy of Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata everyday and recited the verses. After all, that too was an acquirement from way back when Notu Babu himself had schooled her. He has said, “Hey you, what on earth have you learnt of acting if you haven’t read the Mahabharata?” His finger moved from one word to the next. Sarala would sway from side to side to the auspicious cadence –
Offer puja to the Lord of the Universe With the lotus from the grove where the maiden was born Her name was formerly Lakshmi Haripriya She took birth and arrived after a sage’s curse Because of which the Sindhu was churned But it can be reversed if Lakshmi finds Narayan.
But Sarala had never attained Narayan, ever. She had never ever been able to hold on to the one she desired. Meanwhile, a dark shadow seemed to fall on the visage of the professional theatre halls and they began to close down. The Five Pandavas could not be staged after the opening show. People slandered it saying the female body had been exposed. They vandalised the theatre. The government declared that it was a perversion of culture.
Notu Babu seemed to have been battered and crushed. The scion of such a distinguished family was humiliated. Evil was spewed against him. He contracted a deadly disease. But could he give up theater even after all that? Not at all. His final wish had been to play the monk Nimai. He had promptly written the script too. At the very centre was Vishnupriya. Could Nimai have become a renunciant without her? This magnificent woman had given up the lotus of the age, something she had been urged to hold on to firmly by everyone. Hadn’t she lamented? Suppressed tears? You have to cast all these aspects like pearls on the stage, Sarala! Only then will your Vishnupriya come alive. Notu Babu had called her close and said to her. “Will you make me a paan[12] with that rose water of yours? Put some wet supari[13] in it. And some Surabhi zarda[14].”
Sarala used to lay out the paans, folded into small quids. Notu Babu would fill up a silver box with them to eat later. He used to stuff a paan in his mouth and then sit with his eyes shut on an easy-chair. His colourful Kashmiri shawl used to droop down on the floor. It was as if Sarala could see it all hazily even today. That’s why she kept talking covertly, behind the scenes, inwardly, all her life, with that man alone. She badly wanted Notu Babu to at least see this play about the one whom society had deliberately abused. Made dishonourable. Let that same society come and sit in front of the monk Nimai now. Let them realise what theatre was. But that was not to be. Notu Babu suddenly fell off the rickshaw one day on his way to the rehearsal. He never rose again after suffering that fall. How the big and hefty man seemed to have shrunk and become one with the bed!
The rehearsals came to an end. As did the theatre. What a tug of war there was regarding money. The house rent was due. Money was owed at the grocer’s shop. Keshto Chatterjee ran a theatre in the commercial district in Dalhousie Square. He came often to their troupe. He had told Sarala quite a few times in the past to come and act there. She had beauty, glamour, and fame. They would pay her well. ‘What’s the harm in being intimate with educated babus?’ Sarala paid no heed.
When she stood on stage, the entire hall broke into applause. When the audience liked the dialogue, they screamed, “Encore! Encore!” Some people placed bouquets of flowers near her feet at the end of the show. They threw paper planes of love letters at her. Those who dared, came up to her and said they would give her the life of a queen. But Sarala shut the door on all their faces and loved the theatre alone — the theatre in which Notu Babu alone was the presiding deity. How on earth could that very same Sarala go to Dalhousie Square and rent herself out!
But she had to go, much later. When she was completely broken in body and mind. She had applied make-up and acted in a theatre which was a hobby of some babus. She had wanted to share her innermost thoughts with Notu Babu. But the people of his household did not let Sarala enter. She had to return from the main door that bore a lion motif. She had rushed to the cremation ground as soon as she heard about his death. All she saw there was the pyre burning afar.
*
There came a time when the dramas in Dalhousie Square too vanished. Her youth vanished. Her beauty too. Nor were there any more people who wanted to have fun with her body of flesh and blood. When the house she lived in was going to be demolished for redevelopment, Sarala had gone to the ghat on the bank of the Ganga one night. She stood there clutching the Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata to her bosom. She had wondered, had anyone else ever rendered Draupadi more naked than this? “Did you ever get such a large stage anywhere, Notu Babu!” This platform beside the Ganga. Under an ancient banyan. Next to such a big crematorium, with an electric furnace. If Sarala died that night, who would care a whit?
But Sarala didn’t die. She wanted to act again one final time. After dunking herself in Ma Ganga, she had sat on the platform in the ghat and spread Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata in front of her. Those who had come to bathe in the river in the morning saw an ancient lady opening a tattered book and reciting something tunefully. None of them were competent to say whether that was the Mahabharata, or the Ramayana. Some of them were hurrying to work. Some others had come to earn merit by immersing themselves in the river.
As noon approached and her throat grew parched, Sarala had noticed that there was a collection of loose change in front of her. Considering it to be the grace of Ma Ganga, she had knocked her knuckle to her forehead in obeisance and tied the coins in a corner of her anchal[15]. She had bought an earthen basin with the money. Rice. Some fuelwood from the shop in the crematorium that sold the items for the purificatory rites. A bit of ghee. Sarala had fetched and laid two bricks on the bank of the Ganga and prepared the sacred hobishyi,[16] or rice semi-cooked with ghee. She had rolled the rice into large spherical lumps and she had inwardly declared to Ma Ganga, “I performed the funerary rites of my earlier life, Ma. Grant me a new life.”
Her eyes had glistened. She had then gobbled the lumps of rice to feed her belly that had starved for several days. In truth, she was born anew that day. With a new identity too.
So many people used to come to hear Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata! They sat around Sarala in the light of dawn. It was as if she was seated on a large stage, sometimes enacting the Sage Vyasa, sometimes Arjuna, sometimes Bheema, sometimes Draupadi, or sometimes the truthful king Yudhishtra. What an assemblage of simultaneous roles! “If only you saw your matinee idol, Notu Babu, wouldn’t you have been inwardly happy?” Sarala muttered to herself. Yet, it seemed she could not have such happiness for very long. That was the destiny that the Almighty had written on her brow when she was a tiny infant in the delivery chamber.
*
The number of people at the riverbank suddenly waned. Apparently, an epidemic had spread all over the world. And everyone was dying of that disease. The government had prohibited anyone from leaving their house. Don’t go to work. So, then what would people eat! So many hundreds of corpses wrapped in plastic sheets had arrived at the crematorium. The furnaces had burst into flame. But Sarala had cheated death even after all that! It seemed that Yama, the Lord of Death, had developed a distaste for her!
And then something happened during this time. Phuleshwari, the woman who swept the riverbank with her broom, who Sarala used to call to drink tea, and whose tales of joy and woe she listened to, the one whose husband Dumureshwar drove a hearse – one day Phuleshwari simply refused to listen to Sarala’s protests and took her along to a basti[17] beside Dhapa. To their neighbourhood. “Stay here, Ma. There’s an epidemic outside.” Sarala had remained there ever since. But she was not one to be a burden on anyone. After all, she had worked to feed herself from an early age!
Every time she wanted to return to the bank of the Ganga, Phuleshwari, Dumureshwar, their child Bundi, and quite a few city street sweepers had blocked her way. After all, it was they who were her family now. A son-in-law of one of them was a driver for film shooting crews. He took along groups of people from the basti. Apparently, all of them acted. They got a meal and two-hundred rupees in return. One day Sarala too got into the crowded vehicle. Hoping to get work. To feed her belly. And out of the love of acting from way back when.
*
An old woman was frequently spotted in the film studios locality, either behind some major artist, or in a crowd, or sometimes in a procession. Her hair was the colour of jute yarn. A kindly face. Of slender build. Her sun-scorched skin had a copper hue. This old lady didn’t seem to get annoyed at anything at all.
The fussiness over particulars that was prevalent among those who came to swell crowds was completely lacking in the old woman. She could beautifully execute whatever she was told. Most astonishing of all, she could memorise and rattle off any bit of dialogue. She was completely unfazed by the camera. Gradually her circle of acquaintances in the film studios locality began to grow. She got more and more work. And Sarala Debi, who had stood on stage in front of the footlights way back when, kept on performing. Although she never spoke to anyone about her memories of the past. Because she herself had performed her funerary rites, hadn’t she!
“What can I tell you, Notu Babu, you’ll laugh if you hear it. These people do a scene so many times, and the camera is placed in so many angles. And each time, one has to do exactly what one did before. Look back, smile, speak, everything has to be exactly the same. Like our encores. I really like it, you know. So many people, so many lights, so many stories. And do you know what I like most of all, Notu Babu? When all the lights in the set come on, one after another. The Director Babu shouts out, ‘Action!’ We rush and stand in front of the camera. At once, I can clearly see a stage. The black heads of the audience. And far away, very far away, you are sitting in the last row. Watching me act. Do you know what they call me, Notu Babu? No, no, not your Sarala. She died a long time back, didn’t she! I am now “Shooting Dida[18]” in the film studios locality!”
.
V. Ramaswamy is a literary and nonfiction translator of voices from the margins. His translation of the novel, The Struggle, by Showkat Ali, was published in 2025.
War erupted… Oh, not the kind waged between nations This one, far more ferocious, far more, algorithmically blessed A verbal duel, a digital fuel, a full-blown culinary followers’ fight
From Bengal came Ranu. Calm, yet cunning, Queen of aloo posto, marching strong, with four thousand firmly on her side. Bhanu, from down South, popularised her sambar with vegetables sliced and at thirty-nine hundred, felt deeply troubled. “This simply will not do,” she muttered, “I must outscore her score.”
So up went Bhanu’s spicy rasam on her YouTube channel with drama, spice, and just enough sass. But tucked between the tamarind tang, she made a rather pointed pass: “Ranu’s dish? AI-made, I’d say! I followed it step by step… and yawned my taste away.”
The comment section crackled. Pickle jars nearly popped. Was this a recipe review? Or a subtle character swap?
Ranu read. Her face turned red. No time for grace or pause she posted posto chingri, bold and unapologetic, a dish that would invite no reply from Bhanu, a hard-core herbivorous.
Then, fingers flying, she struck back: “Hmm… that ‘original’ rasam? A sure lift from a Hawkins cookbook, with a pinch of extra seasoning.”
And just like that, every foodie knew Culinary lines had split into two. Between mustard zing and poppy seeds, flavours blurred and egos bruised
YouTubers paused. Then shrugged, half-bored: Is this about food, or nitpicking of some kind One laughed, adding a comment, new “Why trust your tongue? Let AI review.” And there it simmered, seasoned with despair flavour eclipsed by follower flair.
Glossary:
posto – poppy seeds aloo posto – Bengali dish made with potatoes and poppy seed paste posto chingri – Bengali dish made with prawns and poppy seed paste sambar – South Indian lentil-based vegetable curry rasam – South Indian spiced, tangy soup
Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books and a lifelong lover of words, writing across genres. Based in Bangalore, writing and travelling continue to remain her lifelong passions.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Meenakshi Malhotra writes of the diverse ways histories can be viewed, reflecting on the perspective from the point of view of water, climate, migrations or women. Click here to read.
Sometimes, we have an idea, a thought and then it takes form and becomes a reality. That is how the Borderless Journal came to be six years ago while the pandemic raged. The pandemic got over and takeovers and wars started. We continued to exist because all of you continue to pitch in, ignoring the differences created by certain human constructs. We meet with the commonality of felt emotions and aesthetics to create a space for all those who believe in looking beyond margins. We try to erase margins or borders that lead to hatred, anger, violence and war. Learning from the natural world, we believe we can be like the colours of the rainbow that seem to grow out of each other or the grass that is allowed to grow freely beyond manmade borders. If nature gives us lessons through its processes, is it not to our advantage to conserve what nurtures us, and in the process, we save our home planet, the Earth? We could all be together in peace, enjoying nature and nurture, living in harmony in the Universe if only we could overlook differences and revel in similarities.
A young poet Nma Dhahir says it all in her poem that is a part of our journal this month —
This is how we stay human together: by refusing the easy damage, by carrying each other without calling it sacrifice, by believing that what we protect in one another eventually protects the world.
Translations has more poetry with Professor Fakrul Alam bringing us Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics in English and Fazal Baloch familiarising us with beautiful Balochi poetry of the late Majeed Ajez, a young poet who left us too soon. Isa Kamari translates his own poems from Malay, capturing the colours of the community in Singapore to blend it with a larger whole. And of course, we have a Tagore poem rendered into English from Bengali. This time it’s a poem called ‘Jatra (Journey)’ which reflects not only on social gaps but also on politics through aeons.
Christine C Fair has translated a story from Punjabi by Lakhvinder Virk, a story that reflects resilience in women who face the dark end of social trends, a theme that reverberates in Flanagan’s poetry and Meenakshi Malhotra’s essay, which while reflecting on the need of different perspectives in histories – like water and nomads — peeks into the need to recall women’s history aswell. This is important not just because March hosts the International Women’s Day (IWD) but because one wonders if women in Afghanistan are better off now than the suffragettes who initiated the idea of such a day more than a century ago?
This time our non-fiction froths over with scrumptious writings from across continents. Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos muses on looking at numbers and beyond to enjoy the essence of nature. Farouk Gulsara ideates about living on in posterity through deeds and ideas. Gower Bhat shares how he learns story writing skills from watching movies. Meredith Stephens talks of her experience of a fire in the Australian summer. Bhaskar Parichha writes with passion about his region, Odisha. We have a heartfelt tribute to Mark Tully, who transcended borders, from Bhowmick. And an essay on Arundhati Roy’s memoir, Mother Mary Comes to Me, from Somdatta Mandal, which explores not just the book but also the covers which change with continents. Prithvijeet Sinha travels beyond Lucknow and Suzanne Kamata brings to us stories about her trip to Phnom Penh.
Keith Lyons draws from the current crises and writes about changing times, suggesting: “Changes aren’t endings, but thresholds.” Perhaps, if we see them as ‘thresholds of change’, the current events are emphasising the need to accept that human constructs can be redefined. I am sure a Neolithic or an Australopithecus would have been equally scared of evolving out of their system to one we would deem ‘superior’. Life in certain ways can only evolve towards the future, even if currently certain changes seem to be retrogressive. We can never correctly predict the future… but can only imagine it. And Devraj Singh Kalsi imagines it with a dollop of humour where tails become a trend among humans again!
Humour and absurdity are woven into a series of short fables by Hughes while Naramsetti Umamaheswarao weaves a fable around acceptanceof differences. In fiction, we have stories of resilience from Jonathon B Ferrini and Terry Sanville. Bhat gives us a story set in Kashmir and Sohana Manzoor gives us one set in Dhaka, a narrative that reminds one of Jane Austen… and perhaps even an abbreviated version of the 2001 film, Monsoon Wedding.
In reviews we have, Mohammad Asim Siddiqui discussing Anisur Rahman’s The Essential Ghalib. Rituparna Khan has written on Malashri Lal’s poetry collection reflecting on women, Signing in the Air. And Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Deepta Roy Chakraverti’s Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor, a book that reflects on the resilience that makes great women. Thus, weaving in flavours of the IWD, which applauds women who are resilient while urging humans for equal rights for one half of the world population.
While we ponder on larger realities, Borderless Journal looks forward to a future with more writings centred around humanity, climate change, our planet and all creatures great and small. This year has not only seen a rise in readership and contributors — and the numbers rose further after our unsolicited Duotrope listing in October 2025 — but has also attracted writers from more challenged parts of the world, like Ukraine, Iran, Tunisia and Kurdistan. We are delighted to home writing from all those who attempt to transcend borders and be a part of the larger race of humanity. I would like to quote Margaret Atwood to explain what I mean. “I hope that people will finally come to realize that there is only one ‘race’—the human race—and that we are all members of it.” And I would like to extend her view to find solidarity with all living beings. I hope that there will be a point in time when we will realise there’s not much difference between, a lizard, a fly, a human or a tree… All these lifeforms are necessary for our existence.
I would want to hugely thank all our team for stretching out and making this a special issue for our sixth anniversary and Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for being with us through our journey. Let’s change the world with peace, love and friendship!
An introduction to Aruna Chakravarti’s Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories, published by Penguin India, along with a discussion with the author.
Ghosts are evocative of a past… of history one could say. Then who could be a better storyteller of the past than an author steeped in colours of historical fiction — Aruna Chakravarti! In the past she not only translated novels set in colonial India but evoked the Bengal Renaissance to perfection in her two Jorasanko novels and details of a court hearing in her retelling of the Bhawal prince! This time the diva of historical fiction brings to us a book of spine chilling, ghost stories, Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories. It is her third collection of short stories.
Aruna ChakravartiPublished in 2026
The narratives are so vivid and visual that they could be worthy of being made into films. They are distinctive in that she has mostly created her own very horrific ghouls – not the traditional ones. They pop up and frighten the reader with their bizarreness and terrifying presences which linger even when you try to sleep at night! She has given us thirteen stories — a spooky number in itself — spread across multiple communities in Asia.
Some of the narratives evoke the past, starting from the 1800s. ‘The House of Flowers’ is set in China partly and partly in Kolkata, where there is now a thriving Chinatown known as “Tangra” and a Kali temple that serves ‘noodles’ as its prasad or offering. The story has echoes of Pearl S Buck’s China interestingly. What comes as a surprise is the fluency with which she has woven in the influences that impact a community of migrants!
Chakravarti has used her skills as a writer of historical fiction in some of the stories like, ‘The Road to Karimganj’, in which a spook takes us back to undivided Bengal, when passports were not needed as in the story of the migrant Chinese. Hovering around history are more narratives like ‘Possessed’, where a courtesan who performs with the legendary Girish Ghosh1 of the nineteenth century Kolkata undergoes, along with the audience, a strange spooky experience!
Traveling down the century, closer to our times, is the story that is perhaps one of the most bizarre and yet most relatable, ‘The Necklace’. Set in the Anglo-Indian community and the glamour of Park Street — where Wiccan writer, Rajorshi Patranabis, claimed to have met a colonial ghost awaiting her lover — Chakravarti’s narrative is of black magic and betrayal. The fiction is far more impactful and frightening than the factual narrative, which too was spine chilling! You realise what makes fiction so much more gripping than facts — anything can happen in fiction. Chakravarti is imaginative enough to make it as creepy and shadowy as any regular horror writer!
Holding on to that thought, the author holds the key to our experiences as she skillfully outlines two demons grown out of poverty in ‘A Winter Night’. The conclusion has a sense of irony and tragedy. ‘Truth is stranger than Fiction’ weaves in more of the diversity in the historic annals of Bengal. The story that starts the book, ‘The Caregivers of Gazipur’, has an unresolved ending, like some of her other narratives. Though there is a frightful resolution in ‘They Come Out After Dark’. The ghosts play spine chilling havoc with fears of the living while recalling the senseless violence of 1947. ‘There are More Things in Heaven and Earth’…takes us back to the atrocities committed during the Sikh riots of 1984 in Delhi. The mingling of fact and fiction to create weird a fantastical narrative is addressed during a conversation on the supernatural. And there is an exploration of the lines from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, which probably is a touch of the academic as Chakravarti had a long tenure as the principal of a girl’s college in Delhi. It also defines the authorial stance in this story:
‘Don’t forget what Hamlet said to Horatio? There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’
What is unusual about these stories is the way she has created fictitious geographies and personas, evoking historic realities. They seem perfectly authentic to the reader, including the one set in China. There is a vast mingling of facts and fiction in these stories all to lead to spine-chilling ends with strange twists.
‘Grandmother’s Bundle’ stands out in its rendition as the ghosts given out are part of the mythical lore of Bengal — stories that were related to most Bengali kids of the twentieth century. They have a touch of humour and dry wit, perhaps introducing a sense of comic relief among very dark and horrific stories that transport us into different worlds.
‘The Motorcycle Rider’, set in modern times, takes us into a university campus to shock us with horrific spooks born out of tragic deaths, while ‘Twenty-nine Years, Seven Months and Eleven Days’, merges a modern outlook with an unfathomable past, touching upon strange tantric yearnings. ‘Vendetta’ twirls nature and supernatural to give a frightening narrative of how nature takes its revenge… a theme that reiterates in writings addressing our current concerns with climate change.
The ease and fluidity with which she has switched from history and realism to horror and fantasy is amazing. Let’s find out more from her about this new persona that inhabits her writerly self…
Till now we have had translations, numerous novels—many of which can be called historical fiction—and realistic short stories with their base in history or contemporary life. What made you think of writing ghost stories?
After writing The Mendicant Prince which involved extensive research into the life and times of Prince Ramendranarayan Roy of Bhawal, I didn’t feel up to writing a historical novel again. The work had demanded delving into sociological texts, court records, letters, insurance papers and medical reports. Apart from research, historical fiction also demands a certain amount of field work.
Published in 2013Published in 2016
Before writing the Jorasanko novels I visited the Tagore mansion thrice and while writing The Mendicant Prince, I went to Bangladesh to see the royal palace in Bhawal, renamed Gazipur. Though it has been totally neglected, with shopkeepers and squatters having overtaken most of the area, I was able to get some idea of the topography of the palace and its grounds. I saw the lake and the temple (which was locked) and was able to visualise where the halls and galleries and the apartments of the queens and princesses would have stood. All this work was exhausting. So, for a change, I decided to try my hand at short stories which emerge straight from the imagination. And while at it, I decided to break out of the mould of “historical fiction” writer in which I had trapped myself and try a completely new genre.
Published in 2022
I wrote the first one on an impulse and found myself quite enjoying the process. I didn’t even think of publishing at that time. The first story led to another and another. When eleven stories had been written I sent the manuscript to three publishers and was surprised when all three accepted it. It was then that I found out that ghost stories were the in-thing. That they were selling well and that publishers were looking out for them. I signed up with Penguin as you know. At one point my editor Moutushi Mukherjee suggested I write another two. Thirteen stories will make it even more spooky, she said. So, I wrote another two.
Would you list these stories as fantasies or fantastical? Or are they stories of personal experience? Please elaborate.
No. They are not born out personal experience. I must confess that I have never seen a ghost in my life. I believe in sixth sense. As a matter of fact, I have acted on my sixth sense on occasions. I have had sudden impulses to do certain things and realised later that if I hadn’t yielded to the impulses, I would have regretted it. But I have had no brush with the supernatural. These stories were sparked off by sudden memories. Something I had read somewhere. Something somebody had told me years ago. A face I had seen in childhood which had stuck in my mind though whose I don’t remember. A conversation overheard which made no sense at the time but which, as an adult, seemed ridden with sinister nuances. A phrase from a book whose title and author’s name I had forgotten. In fact, I didn’t even remember the context from where the phrase had come.
Sudden flashes such as these triggered off the stories. But in the writing, they took on a life and soul of their own. I even feel, sometimes, that the pen took over and they were written by an invisible hand.
Your stories are set, sometimes in real landscapes and sometimes in fictional ones. What kind of research went into creating them? How do you make them so vivid and real?
There wasn’t any immediate research. I needed to look up a few facts, now and then, mostly to be sure of their authenticity. But nothing truly back breaking. The landscapes, both physical and of the mind, were culled from my travels and my reading of both English and Bengali writers over the eight decades of my life. Much of it stayed with me tucked away in some unconscious part of the mind. Although I write in English, you will notice that almost all the stories are about Bengalis. Bengalis living in Delhi, Kolkata, Bihar and the small towns and villages of Bengal. There are Anglo-Indians, Punjabis and Chinese, too among my characters. But having lived in Bengal for generations, they have adopted Bengali customs and a quasi-Bengali way of living. Many of the locales in which, they appear are fictional…gathered from my reading and observation of people from different strands of Bengali life.
You have a story set in China which also has the Chinatown of Kolkata in it. Have you been to China? What was the reason for the choice? Were you influenced by any Chinese writers? How did you visualise the Chinese migrants in Kolkata?
Yes, I have been to China. I visited the cities of Guangzhou, Shanghai and Beijing in 2004. Naturally, I have no personal experience of life as it was lived in the late 18th century which is the period covered in the story ‘The House of Flowers’. For this I had to rely totally on my reading of English authors writing about China like Pearl Buck and Amy Tan. Pearl Buck was a great influence on me while writing this story. It was from her books that I was able to catch the ambience of tea houses and brothels of the period. In depicting the Chinese family who lived in Calcutta in the early 20th century I had to rely on childhood experience, I knew some Chinese girls who had lived for several generations in Calcutta. And my imagination went into full play, of course.
In ‘Grandmother’s Bundle’ you have written about spooks from Bengal. It departs from your other stories in as much as it does not really introduce the supernatural except as a source of folklore. Do you feel it blends with the other narratives in your collection?
Well. It is different from my other stories in certain ways. Firstly, it is three stories rolled into one. Secondly, unlike the others, they are children’s stories. Thirdly, it is the only one that deals with ghosts and other supernatural beings with humour. Lastly, they have been drawn from folklore. I agree that it doesn’t quite blend with the others in this collection. But it is also true that each story in this collection is different from another. There are different time spans. Different locales. Different themes. Characters from different levels of society. That being the case, I think that this story lends variety and another flavour to the collection.
Your stories aren’t like the usual ghost stories one reads. The structure and content seem different. Your comments.
You are right. These stories do not belong to the gothic/horror genre. They are not about vampires, blood sucking bats, severed heads or violence heaped on violence. They are essentially human-interest stories with a supernatural twist at the end. I have taken my cue, you may say, from Coleridge’s demand for a willing suspension of disbelief before reading his poetry. These stories have innocuous beginnings. Two friends sharing an apartment, a boy walking from his village to an unseen destination, a dinner party in an exclusive area of the capital, a marital spat or a telephone call at dawn. Then, a few paragraphs later a subtle hint is dropped startling the reader into a realisation that it is not a simple story of human relationships. That it is headed in another, more sinister direction. Another hint is dropped and another. Then in the final sentence the bomb bursts. The last line is the most important line of the story.
Which is your favourite story? And why?
Just as a mother loves all her children, I love all my stories. But mothers also have favourites and so do I. “The House of Flowers,” “Vendetta,” “Possessed” and “The Necklace” are my favourites. That’s because their themes are unusual and posed a greater challenge. And, perhaps, because I had to work harder on them than on the others.
Are you planning any new books? Exploring any new genres? Any new book we can expect soon?
I always think of a new book even when I am writing the current one. Yes, I am planning to explore yet another genre of writing. But my ideas are nebulous at the moment. Still in a fluid state That being the case I cannot share them with you. All I can say is that the work will be a challenging one and I’m not even sure I’ll be able to see it through. So, we must both wait for some more time
Girish Ghosh (1844-1912) Actor and Director from Bengal ↩︎
(This review and online interview by email is by Mitali Chakravarty)
Nazrul’s lyrics of Mor Priya Hobe Eso Rani (My Sweetheart, Be My Queen) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
From Public Domain
MY SWEETHEART, BE MY QUEEN
My sweetheart, be my queen! Let me make a garland of stars for your chignon. Dear girl, your ears I’ll adorn With the spring moon’s third visitation. Your throat, dear girl, I’ll deck with a pair of dangling swans. I’ll make a ribbon too to tie your cloud-coloured disheveled hair Out of the lightening in the spring moon’s third visitation! A paste blended from moonlight and sandalwood Will be your body’s balm. The red of the rainbow Will be the lac-dye used to color your feet The seven notes of my song will compose Your bridal chamber’s decor While my muse’s bulbul bird will sing a song for you— in full-throated ease!
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
Borderless 