Bon Festival – Borderless

Storm in purple by Arina Tcherem. From Public Domain

If we take a look at our civilisation, there are multiple kinds of storms that threaten to annihilate our way of life and our own existence as we know it. The Earth and the human world face twin threats presented by climate change and wars. While on screen, we watch Gaza and Ukraine being sharded out of life by human-made conflicts over constructs made by our own ‘civilisations’, we also see many of the cities and humankind ravaged by floods, fires, rising sea levels and global warming. Along with that come divides created by economics and technology. Many of these themes reverberate in this month’s issue.

From South Australia, Meredith Stephens writes of marine life dying due to algal growth caused by rising water temperatures in the oceans — impact of global warming. She has even seen a dead dolphin and a variety of fishes swept up on the beach, victims of the toxins that make the ocean unfriendly for current marine life. One wonders how much we will be impacted by such changes! And then there is technology and the chatbot taking over normal human interactions as described by Farouk Gulsara. Is that good for us? If we perhaps stop letting technology take over lives as Gulsara and Jun A. Alindogan have contended, it might help us interact to find indigenous solutions, which could impact the larger framework of our planet. Alindogan has also pointed out the technological divide in Philippines, where some areas get intermittent or no electricity. And that is a truth worldwide — lack of basic resources and this technological divide.

On the affluent side of such divides are moving to a new planet, discussions on immortality — Amortals[1] by Harari’s definition, life and death by euthanasia. Ratnottama Sengupta brings to us a discussion on death by choice — a privilege of the wealthy who pay to die painlessly. The discussion on whether people can afford to live or die by choice lies on the side of the divide where basic needs are not an issue, where homes have not been destroyed by bombs and where starvation is a myth, where climate change is not wrecking villages with cloudbursts. In Kashmir, we can find a world where many issues exist and violences are a way of life. In the midst of such darkness, a bit of kindness and more human interactions as described by Gower Bhat in ‘The Man from Pulwama’ goes some way in alleviating suffering. Perhaps, we can take a page of the life of such a man. In the middle of all the raging storms, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in a bit of humour or rather irony with his strange piece on his penchant for syrups, a little island removed from conflicts which seem to rage through this edition though it does raise concerns that affect our well-being.

The focus of our essays pause on women writers too. Meenakshi Malhotra ponders on Manottama (1868), the first woman-authored novel in Bengali translated by Somdatta Mandal whereas Bhaskar Parichha writes on the first feminist Odia poet, Bidyut Prabha Devi.

Parichha has also reviewed a book by another contemporary Odia woman author, Snehaprava Das. The collection of short stories is called Keep it Secret. Madhuri Kankipati has discussed O Jungio’s The Kite of Farewells: Stories from Nagaland and Somdatta Mandal has written about Chhimi Tenduf-La’s A Hiding to Nothing, a novel by a global Tibetan living in Sri Lanka with the narrative between various countries. We have an interview with a global nomad too, Neeman Sobhan, who finds words help her override borders. In her musing on Ostia Antica, a historic seaside outside Rome, Sobhan mentions how the town was abandoned because of the onset of anopheles mosquitos. Will our cities also get impacted in similar ways because of the onset of global ravages induced by climate change? This musing can be found as a book excerpt from Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome, her book on her life as a global nomad. The other book excerpt is by a well-known writer who has also lived far from where he was born, MA Aldrich. His book, From Rasa to Lhasa: The Sacred Center of the Mandala is said to be “A sweeping, magnificent biography—which combines historical research, travel-writing and discussion of religion and everyday culture—Old Lhasa is the most comprehensive account of the fabled city ever written in English.”

With that, we come to our fiction section. This time we truly have stories from around the globe with Suzanne Kamata sending a story set in the Bon festival that’s being celebrated in Japan this week for her column. From there, we move to Taiwan with C. J. Anderson-Wu’s narrative reflecting disappearances during the White Terror (1947-1987), a frightening period for people stretched across almost four decades. Gigi Gosnell writes of the horrific abuse faced by a young Filipino girl as the mother works as a domestic helper in Dubai. Paul Mirabile gives us a cross-cultural narrative about a British who opts to become a dervish. While Hema R touches on women’s issues from within India, Sahitya Akademi Award Winner, Naramsetti Umamaheshwararao, writes a story about children.

We have a powerful Punjabi story by Ajit Cour translated by C.Christine Fair. Our translations host two contemporary poets who have rendered their own poems to English: Angshuman Kar, from Bengali and Ihlwha Choi, from Korean. Snehaprava Das has brought to us poetry from Odia by Aparna Mohanty. Fazal Baloch has translated ‘The Scarecrow’, a powerful Balochi poem by Anwar Sahib Khan. While Tagore’s Shaishabshandha (Childhood’s Dusk) has been rendered to English, Nazrul’s song questing for hope across ages has been brought to us by Professor Fakrul Alam.

Professor Alam has surprised us with his own poem too this time. In August’s poetry selection, Ron Pickett again addresses issues around climate change as does Meetu Mishra about rising temperatures. We have variety and colour brought in by George Freek, Heath Brougher, Laila Brahmbhatt, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snigdha Agrawal, William Miller, Ashok Suri, Scott Thomas Outlar, Dustin P Brown, and Ryan Quinn Flanagan. Rajorshi Patranabis weaves Wiccan lore of light and dark, death and life into his delicately poised poetry. Rhys Hughes has also dwelt on life and death in this issue. He has shared poems on Wales, where he grew up— beautiful gentle lines.

 In spring warm rain will crack
the seeds of life: tangled
roots will grow free again. 

('Tinkinswood Burial Chamber' by Rhys Hughes)

With such hope growing out of a neolithic burial chamber, maybe there is hope for life to survive despite all the bleakness we see around us. Maybe, with a touch of magic and a sprinkle of realism – our sense of hope, faith and our ability to adapt to changes, we will survive for yet another millennia.

We wind up our content for the August issue with the eternal bait for our species — hope. Huge thanks to the fantastic team at Borderless and to all our wonderful writers. Truly grateful to Sohana Manzoor for her artwork and many thanks to all our wonderful readers for their time…

We wish you all a wonderful reading experience!

Gratefully,

Mitali Chakravarty.

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow (2015) by Yuval Noah Harari

Click here to access the contents for the August 2025 Issue

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Suzanne Kamata shares a story from 1999, set during Obon or the Festival of Bon, a Japanese Buddhist custom that honors the spirits of one’s ancestors.

My husband is dancing.

The name of the dance is “Awa Odori,” “Awa” being the ancient name for Tokushima, where we live now, and “odori” being Japanese for “dance.” Its origins are unclear. Some say fertility rites, others claim it is a celebration of a good harvest.

My husband is thinking about none of these things as he dances with his friends of fifteen years. No doubt he is drunk on beer and fellow feeling, absorbed in the revelry of this annual festival.

I am at home alone in our apartment.

I could have gone, too, but I declined by way of protest. I’m demonstrating because while I am welcome to, indeed expected to, celebrate Japanese holidays, my own country’s holidays go ignored. When I’d wanted to do something special a month ago in observance of the Fourth of July, Jun had refused. “This is Japan,” he’d said, as if that would explain everything.

When I married Jun, I’d had a concept of international marriage as the combining of two cultures, not the elimination of one. True, I’d expected compromises, but on both sides, not just mine.

This time, however, I’m not giving in. I’m not going to budge. I didn’t go with him to visit his ancestors’ graves, and I am not going to don a cotton yukata[1] and dance in the streets to flute and drum. If he won’t see me halfway on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Independence Day, then I’ll just sit this one out.

During Obon, the whole family usually gathers at some point. I’ll admit that I did go along with Jun to his parents’ house where his sister Yukiko and her family, his aunts and uncles and cousins, and his grandmother were assembled.

Uncle Takahiro said, “Hello. How are you?” in English, and everyone laughed as if he’d just told a joke.

I answered politely in Japanese, then my husband’s sister pushed her three-year-old toward me. “Go ahead. Say it, Mari-chan,” she said, beaming with motherly pride.

Dutifully, Mari recited the litany of English words that she had learned since I last saw her: “Horse. Cow. Pig.”

Yukiko looked to me expectantly, and I indulged her with words of praise for her daughter.

I can see it now. Yukiko will be the worst kind of “education mama,” as they call mothers who obsess over their children’s school performances.

“They’re teaching English at Mari-chan’s nursery school now,” Yukiko told me. “A foreigner comes once a week.”

Then, unbidden, Mari launched into a song. It was “Eensy Weensy Spider,” complete with gestures. Though she garbled some of the words, she earned a hearty round of applause from the adults.

Even after all this time, Jun’s relatives still don’t know how to talk to me. I make them uncomfortable, and sometimes I feel that I should apologise for being there, or better yet, just disappear. They have never tried to talk to me about everyday things like popular TV shows, bargain sales at Sogo, the big department store in town, or new recipes. When conversation is flagging, someone usually says to me, “Don’t you miss your home? Isn’t it hard being so far away?”

“It’ll be different after you have children,” my friend Maki said. “They’ll accept you then.”

Maybe so, but it looks like children are a long way off for Jun and me. Although we have been married for seven years, we have no kids. Mari was born just nine months after Yukiko and her husband were married. Their second baby – a boy – came along a year later.

We want children. We have even tried. I know that there’s nothing wrong with my body because I’ve been to specialists all over town, but Jun doesn’t seem interested in getting checked himself.

His mother would never believe there was a problem with her son. I’ve heard her whispering with Jun’s grandmother. “It’s because she’s American.”

Jun’s grandmother, who doesn’t know any better, nodded her head and said, “Ahh, yes. I’ve heard that gaijin don’t keep the baby in the womb as long as we Japanese do. Gaijin and Japanese can’t make babies together.”

And Jun’s mother, who should know better, nodded her head and said, “Yes, yes. You may be right.”

My mother-in-law also tells Jun’s grandmother that I’m a lazy wife. She tells the story in a whisper loud enough for me to hear that sometimes when she drops by our apartment, Jun is loading the clothes into the washing machine! Another time, he was standing at the stove with an apron on, cooking dinner!

“He should have married a Japanese woman,” Jun’s grandmother says. “A Japanese woman would take care of him.”

Jun and I sleep together in the same bed. His sister sleeps apart from her husband, in another room entirely, with her two children. His parents sleep in the same room, but one of them sleeps in a bed, the other in a futon spread on the floor.

Just before we got married, we bought furniture for our apartment. At that time, Jun suggested getting separate beds. He said that it was practical. With two beds, there would be no tussling over sheets, no accidental kicking in the night. I cried because whenever I had thought about marriage, I’d had an image of us sleeping in each other’s arms, breathing in unison.

Finally, we got one bed, a “wide double” that we cover with a double wedding ring quilt. It’s true that sometimes one of us winds up wrapped in all the sheets while the other one nearly freezes, and sometimes I find myself pinned into an uncomfortable position by Jun’s heavy limbs, but I don’t care. For me, one of the great joys of this life is waking up close to him, close enough to kiss him and run my hand over his bare chest.

Jun likes carpet and sofas and colonial style houses. I have always admired the simplicity of tatami mats and just a few cushions to sit on, rooms enclosed by sliding paper doors. My ideal room is an empty one, totally void of any unnecessary object. From studying home decorating magazines while in the US, I’d come to believe that in Japan this minimalism was typical. When I got here, I found that that wasn’t true at all. Tiny spaces were crammed with every imaginable appliance, Western furniture, and tacky knickknacks from other people’s vacations.

Jun likes to live in the Western mode. Like most people of his generation, he rejects tradition, or says he does. He sometimes rejects Japan, but he will never leave this place.

He watches CNN via satellite, eats popcorn and s’mores and coleslaw. He sleeps in a bed and sits on a sofa and he’s married to me, an American.

Sometimes, when he’s tired or angry, he forgets that this is an international marriage. He says, “Why can’t you be more Japanese?”

I look at myself in the mirror and see what others see: my blonde hair, blue eyes, and white skin. I can’t help but laugh. “Because I’m not Japanese,” I say. Even if I changed my citizenship, changed my name, and acted exactly like a Japanese woman, people would still look at me and say “foreigner.” Even if I dyed my hair black, got a tan, wore contact lenses, and had plastic surgery, they would still be able to tell the difference.

At times like these, I look at Jun and say, “If you wanted a Japanese wife, then why did you marry me?”

And he always replies in the same way. “Because I love you.”

My friends Maki didn’t marry for love. She chose her husband in the same way that I chose a college, poring over applications and photos. She invited me to help her pick one out. I was puzzled by this process. I watched the reject pile become higher and higher and I felt sorry for all those men whom Maki didn’t want to meet.

“This one’s too short,” she said, tossing an application aside.

The next one she picked up went into the “no” stack as well. “He’s handsome, but I don’t want to marry a farmer. Farmers’ wives have to work in the field all the time.” She wrinkled her nose and studied her manicured fingernails. Her hand had never known hard work.

The few who went into the other pile had good jobs with decent salaries, respectable families, and compatible hobbies.

At first, I imagined that all of those men were clamouring to marry Maki, but then she told me she’d never met any of them. The profiles had been passed along by a matchmaker. Those men were probably going through pictures of women, too, picking and choosing, making little stacks.

I thought about all the things that had made me fall in love with Jun – things that you can’t tell from a photo or a piece of paper, like the sound of his voice and the sweet strawberry taste of his mouth. I asked her if any of that mattered.

“You fall in love after you get married,” Maki said. “You Americans think that life is like a fairy tale, and then you get a divorce when you find out you were wrong.”

Maki has been married for two years and has one child. She is still waiting to fall in love with her salaryman husband. She doesn’t complain, though. He works for a good company, and she can stay home with their baby or go shopping whenever she feels like it. Sometimes she whispers to me about the possibility of having an affair with an American man.

I have known Maki for four years. When I met her, she was working for a travel agency and struggling to master English. I gave her private lessons which eventually metamorphosed into coffee klatches and late nights in discos. She is sometimes irreverent and wild and I can’t help but like her.

I can hear the chang-cha-chang-cha-chang of the festival music, a rhythm that never ceases or alters during the dance. I can picture the scene in my mind. The women are in yukata with hats that look like straw paper-plate holders folded over their heads. They wear white socks with the big toe separate, and geta, those wooden sandals. The men don’t wear any kind of shoes, just the tabi – the white socks, that will become soiled from the streets. They wear white shorts and the happi coats that brush over their hips. They tie bands of cloth called hachimaki around their foreheads.

The women dance upright, their hands grasping at the air above their heads as if they are picking invisible fruit. With each step, they bend a knee and touch a toe to the pavement, the thong driving between the toes and causing pain.

The men’s dance is freer and sometimes women deflect and join them. They dance bent over, arms and legs flailing. Their movements become wilder as the evening wears on. The dancers become more drunk, the music continues as before. Chang-cha-chang-cha-chang.

When I was a kid, we used to have big family picnics on the Fourth of July. My uncles and father and older male cousins played horseshoes, then later everyone would join in a game of volleyball. There was always too much food, and after gorging on fried chicken, potato salad, chocolate cake, and watermelon, we would hold our bulging bellies in agony. Then some of the adults would lie down and take naps while my cousins and I poked around in the creek, catching frogs and other slimy creatures.

As soon as dusk fell, and sometimes before, we would light sparklers under the close supervision of an adult. We waved them in the air, describing circles with crackling sparks, our faces full of glee.

Later, we’d all climb into my uncle’s station wagon and drive to the riverside to watch the real fireworks. Before the display began, the American flag was raised in a glaring spotlight and “The Star Spangled Banner” blasted out of loudspeakers. We all sang along, impatient for the show to begin. It always started out with small single-coloured bursts, like chrysanthemums or weeping willows in the sky. Then the fireworks got bigger, turning to rainbow blossoms worthy of our wonder. The adults oohed and ahhed and we said, “Wow! Look that that!” The very last was red, white and blue, and image of the flag we’d sung to earlier. Its shape hung in the sky for just a moment before falling like fairy raindrops.

During Obon, there are fireworks, too, but when I see them it’s not the same. I feel a tightening in my chest and the tears well up behind my eyes.

I go to a store nearby, one of the few businesses open during the holidays. The woman at the cash register greets me and smiles when I walk in the door. I wonder if she’d rather be dancing, and if she has been left behind while her husband parades in the streets.

I pick up a set of sparklers which are on sale and put them in a basket. I add a cellophane-wrapped wedge of watermelon. This one-piece costs more than the huge oval melons you can buy roadside where I come from. Into the basket also goes a package of frozen microwavable fried chicken and canned potato salad.

I pay for everything and go back to the apartment to prepare my feast. Night has already fallen. By the light of the overhanging kitchen lamp, I eat my chicken and potato salad. It’s the best meal I’ve had in a long time.

Later, when the dishes are done and drying on the rack, I take the package of sparklers and a box of matches onto the balcony. I light them one by one and watch them burn brightly in the darkness. I draw figure eights in the night air, write my name, etch zigzags of light.

When I’m finished, I lean over the railing and start to sing. I belt out “The Star Spangled Banner,” “America, the Beautiful,” and “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” My voice is so loud that a dog starts to howl.

I feel better. I go back into the apartment and push the kitchen table to one side. With my back straight and my elbows bent, I reach up as if I am about to pick an apple from a tree. There is a smile on my face as I start to dance. Chang-cha-chang-cha-chang.

Dance for Obon Festival by
Takahashi Hiroaki (Japan, 1871-1945). From Public Domain

[1] A casual, unlined cotton kimono

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

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