Tag: British

Categories
Excerpt

The Courtesan, Her Lover and I 

Title: The Courtesan, Her Lover and I 

Author: Dr Tarana Husain Khan

Publisher: Hachette India

Dagh’s presence in Calcutta was magnetic. The city, resplendent and cosmopolitan, embraced him. This was Dagh’s second visit to the city. He had come with Nawab Kalb e Ali Khan in 1866; he found the city even more grand than on his earlier visit. Dagh’s arrival had been announced in poetic circles and the nobility. Invitations to mushairas started pouring in. His baithak became the hub for poets, nobles and admirers as people flocked to meet him and spend time with him. He found the people of Calcutta cultured and affable and made hundreds of friends. Among his visitors was Abdul Ghafur ‘Nassakh’, the deputy collector of Midnapur, who had questioned Dagh’s lineage in his tazkira, somewhat insultingly referring to him as the ‘son of Chhoti Begum’, implying that Dagh, who proudly wrote his name as ‘Nawab Dagh Dehlvi’, was the offspring of a junior begum of Nawab Shams of Jhirka and not entitled to use the grand suffix. Nassakh was your tutor and a regular at your kotha. You had expected Dagh to snub him, but he surprised you by extending a warm hand of friendship. Nassakh, charmed by Dagh’s magnanimity, became a regular at all of Dagh’s mushairas, and his son became Dagh’s shagird. Dagh continued to write to Nassakh for years and often asked him to intervene in your frequent quarrels with Dagh. Nassakh was a typical British official, officious and correct. You privately accused him of being servile to the British. Dagh said Nassakh was redeemed by his love for Urdu poetry and his sensitive kalaam. He found Nassakh a man of old values, a wazeydaar—a reading that proved to be true. Dagh gave a lot of importance to lineage and family as a determiner of behaviour and attitude. He formed enduring bonds and kept in touch with friends and acquaintances all his life by writing numerous letters every day.

Dagh, you realized, was an open-hearted person. He harboured no grudges, even befriending known enemies and critics, and used to say mulaqat ko to safai se—cleanse your heart when you meet someone. You, on the other hand, were more guarded and suspicious of people, often judging them for their actions or reported words. Your outward geniality towards your clients was perfected over the years, but your unforgiving heart would never open to anyone you had once rejected. There were no two sides to Dagh’s personality—he projected what he felt inside and was nearly always affable and generous to a fault. You were astounded at Dagh’s innocent trust in people even after suffering reverses, mistreatment and insults throughout his life. Strangers who got to know him would feel loved, accepted and find comfort. Unlike his cousin, the great poet Ghalib, Dagh was never arrogant. You had heard that Ghalib’s sojourn to Calcutta in 1828 for reinstatement of his pension was marked by tussles and conflicts with old friends and he made new enemies. Dagh only brought harmony and affection wherever he went.

He would often ask you, ‘Why do you love me so? Dark and old as I am.’

You would laugh and reply, ‘Yes, no one would like your face; it’s you I love. I have never met a person like you.’

Monsoon rains swept through Calcutta, and Dagh enjoyed the salubrious winds, often going for moonlit drives along the Hooghly with you. He loved to watch the moon chasing the clouds on the bridge. The windows to his upstairs room were thrown open to the moisture-laden winds and the light spray of rain. Your life would forever turn back to look upon those days and nights as a time of contented happiness. You often sat receiving guests in Dagh’s salon, introducing him to the grandees, very much the mistress by his side. Every poet and connoisseur clamoured for his appearance at their mushairas. Dagh was kind and didn’t refuse even the humblest invitations.

You loved his quick humour, which matched your impetuous repartee. He could lighten everything with a witty remark; only you had the power to crumple his heart with a serrated sharp word. Ah, give me your prolificity you sighed; just that, and I can give you my life, my words, my soul. I shall be forever your slave and write at your command, you promised.

Dagh was at his most prolific at that time, reciting and penning ghazals every day from the wellspring of his lived happiness. He made you sit in the room as he wrote. You were his inspiration, and you felt words emanating from your pen almost as effortlessly as his. A touch, a look, a shared thought would pull you towards each other in the middle of a sher. You would float into his ghazal and he into yours. His nights after the mushairas were yours, and you had stopped hosting soirées at the kotha during his stay. This time was for the flowering of your love, unfettered by fear from Nawab Haider and mean-minded remarks by Dagh’s friends. The anxiety of the clandestine dissipated, and you relaxed in his arms, opening your heart to him. You observed his habits closely—his love for Indian attar, which he so generously sprayed on himself, and his abhorrence of drinks—you were his only vice, he said. Yes, I and all the other tawaifs you have loved—you couldn’t resist the barb, even when it found its mark in the hurt of his eyes.

On one such pleasant evening, on the insistence of Nassakh, you organized a mushaira at your kotha. It was to be a grand event, with the members of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s family arriving from Metiaburj along with his noblemen. You had helped to make all the arrangements, hoping that the mushaira would finally win you an invitation to one of the Metiaburj soirées, where you would sing under the benign eye of the corpulent Nawab Wajid Ali Shah. Metiaburj was the epitome of culture in all of Hindustan, and if Nawab Wajid Ali Shah invited you for a recital, it meant you had made your mark in the world of poetry, you told Dagh. He laughed, saying, ‘Your heart is the only mark my poetry seeks.’

The mushaira was a great success, a convergence of all the renowned poets and grandees of Calcutta. Phaetons and carriages choked the road as guests were ushered in by liveried guards. Dagh was not well off, and Nassakh and you had financed the expensive soirée. Your presence there underlined your association with Dagh as his muse and lady love. When finally the lamp was kept before Dagh, signalling that he would be reciting his new ghazal, his words were for you and Calcutta.

Roknā dil ko ke shauq zulf e dilbar le chalā

Thāmnā mujh ko ke saudā merā sar le chalā

Ye ḥasīñ ye mehjabīñ ye shahar aisī lehar ba lehar

Dāgh kalkattey se lākhoñ Dāg̣h dil pe le chalā

My heart is swept away with the tresses of my beloved

This transaction of passion has numbed my reason

This town with its waves of luminescent beauties

Dagh leaves Kalkatta with his heart bearing numerous marks (dagh)

Nawab Kalb e Ali Khan’s letter summoning Dagh back to Rampur came like a death sentence. It had been a little more than two weeks since he arrived—how could there be such little time for you? Dagh requested for a two-month extension of leave, which was refused. You tried to persuade him to stay back. Whatever I have, is yours, stay with me here, you reiterated. He was so popular in Calcutta that there were many who would happily sponsor him; together, you could make a good living. But Dagh was a faithful servant of the Nawab, indebted by the latter’s many favours—Rampur riyasat had supported Dagh when he lost his father and again when his mother was expelled from the Mughal court. Besides, Dagh was a married man, and that was also an article of faith. Once again, he invited you to accompany him back to Rampur, but you couldn’t leave your obligations towards your family and sever all relations. These were familiar arguments, fuelled by the pain of impending separation and the inevitable stalemate between you. Within a few days, Dagh left, feeling, he said, like a corpse leaving the city. He had to reach Rampur before Ramzan.

Is this how it will end, you asked yourself. For how long can this continue? As Ramzan fasts and sehri sounds buzzed around you and him in different parts of Hindustan, you heard of him writing a masnavi, Faryād e Dāgh, a plea from his grieving heart. Would it be an obituary to your love?

About the Book

In the royal courts of nineteenth-century Rampur, courtesan–poet Munni Bai Hijab captivates the legendary Urdu poet Dagh Dehlvi, who immortalizes her in his verses while inadvertently eclipsing her voice. More than a century later, Rukmini, an aspiring writer, stumbles upon Dagh’s letters in the archives of the Rampur Raza Library and finds herself drawn to the fierce, flickering presence of Munni Bai Hijab.

Torn between worlds—a Hindu woman in a Muslim household, a cosmopolitan spirit in a conservative town—Rukmini begins to trace the forgotten threads of Hijab’s story, even as her own life starts to unravel. Her husband chases yet another doomed business idea. Her daughter walks away from medical school. And when her friendship with Daniyal, the stoic guardian of Rampur’s past, deepens into desire, Rukmini must confront her greatest fear: becoming her mother, the woman who once walked away from their family. The Courtesan, Her Lover and I is a haunting novel of longing, ambition and women who dare to write themselves into history.

About the Author

Dr Tarana Husain Khan is a writer and food historian based in Rampur. She is the author of a bestselling historical fiction, The Begum and the Dastan (Hachette India), and Degh to Dastarkhwan: Qissas and Recipes from Rampur (Penguin Random House India). She has co-edited and contributed to the anthology of food writings, Forgotten Foods: Memories and Recipes from Muslim South Asia (Pan Macmillan India). Her writings on food, culture and gender have been published in Global Food History Journal, Gastronomica Journal and prominent media outlets. She was granted a Research Fellowship at the University of Sheffield for an AHRC-funded project. This is her fourth book. She lives between Rampur and Nainital with her husband.

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

Categories
Interview

From Sword to Pen: Keith Westwater’s Journey with Words

Keith Lyons in conversation with Keith Westwater

Keith Westwater. Photo Courtesy:
Lainey Myers-Davies

There is something quietly paradoxical about Keith Westwater, a writer shaped as much by military discipline as by imagination. His journey begins in the structured world of the army and unfolds decades later into a distinctive poetic voice grounded in place, memory, and observation. He’s in dialogue about a life shaped by experience and reflection.

 Joining the army at the age of 15 years must have been a key point in your life. How do you think that experience shaped you both as a person and later as a writer?

I will partly answer that with a poem. First though, some context: In 1964, I joined the NZ Army’s boy entrants’ scheme with 140 classmates. We marched-in to Waiouru military camp and as I had just turned 15, I was the third youngest in our cohort. This meant, because we couldn’t graduate until we turned 18, I had to spend three full years as a Regular Force Cadet. All of us were moulded by the military in ways we would never forget. We still get together in class reunions and ‘swing the light shades’ with stories from those days. In 2004, for our 40th anniversary get-together, I published a booklet which recorded a lot of our more memorable recollections. One piece was a poem which I crafted from answers by my classmates to the question ‘What were the best and worst parts of being a Regular Force Cadet?’ It captures how we were all shaped as people by that experience:

The best and the worst of it
 
Learning how to march and swear
Church parades and mess fatigues
 
Isolation and feelings of loneliness
The long-term friendships made
 
Having to shave every day
Standards by which I have lived the rest of my life
 
Rigid enforcement of petty rules
The effect discipline has had on our lives
 
My best friend cutting his wrists
The unsurpassed esprit-de-corps
 
Wearing BDs without underpants
Foundations for coping with life’s challenges
 
A lack of female company
Being part of a family of brothers
 
Time spent in the bush
The lack of time for one’s self
 
Doing change parades on CB
Getting into trouble and not getting caught
 
Barrellings from senior class pricks
Trust and faith in your mates
 
Fish and chips on Sunday afternoons –
It wasn’t such a bad place

Note: 
BDs were a serge blouse and trouser uniform worn in winter months (short for ‘Battle Dress’).

CB is ‘confined to barracks’ which was a form of military punishment involving lots of physical and menial tasks, given for everything from dress or drill faults, and a 'dirty' rifle to disobeying an order or if your hair was too long.

The army also helped tremendously in shaping me as a writer. It is probably not generally known, but the NZ Army (and probably all armies spawned by the British military) place great store on education for their officers and soldiers. In fact, there is an army corps, the Royal New Zealand Army Education Corps, into which I was to graduate from Cadets, that is tasked with some of this work. When I was a Regular Force Cadet, I was able to continue my secondary school journey and so was introduced in my School Certificate and University Entrance English classes to poets of current interest in the New Zealand curriculum. These included the New Zealanders Baxter, Glover, and Fairburn and also the British (anti) war poets. Re-reading Naming of Parts (Henry Reed) still brings a wry smile.

After graduating from RF Cadets and as a young officer, I was taught how to write logically and in an arcane military style, which abounds (as you might imagine) with rules and regulations, but it was a great foundation for learning how to craft compositions that develop arguments.

Discipline and structure are central to military life. Do you see any parallels between military training and the discipline required for writing poetry?

Other than getting up early and ordering the day, making sure you gather as much information as possible before making decisions, and planning things out before starting, not really (though, when I come to think of it, sometimes good poems happen without planning). Also, there are parallels between the amount of polishing we had to do in the Army and the constant polishing that some poems seem to need.

 What was it about Writing the Landscape” course at Victoria University of Wellington, or that moment in your life, that sparked something lasting for you?

I wrote briefly about this recently in my latest book, Sing to me of home Selected Poems (The Cuba Press) due for release in October, 2026:

I came late to the writing of poetry [I was in my mid-fifties]. Like many others, my interest in poems began in school. In 1969, in my last year of undergraduate studies at Canterbury University, I was fortunate to have Mervyn Thompson as a poetry lecturer. I got a bad case of the tingles when, from the stage of the old town site’s Great Hall, he orated old ballads like The Twa Corbies and Sir Patrick Spens, to hundreds of English I students. I still have the foolscap-sized book of Narrative Poems (which includes these ballads) that the English department gave us as a resource.

I attempted in those days to write poems in the angsty, poor imitation of T.S. Eliot style that young would-be poets did. (Some of these works – their genesis now unrecognisable through countless and more informed revisions – have ended up in this volume!) It wasn’t until decades later, when I was in my mid-fifties, that I picked up my pen again. I have my wife to blame for this. At the time, she was about to engage on some major post-graduate study, and I think she wanted me out from under her feet. As you do in this country, she phoned one of New Zealand’s best-known authors, Dame Fiona Kidman (whom she didn’t know), and asked her for advice on how a husband could be taught to write poems.

The answer was that I should enrol in one of the courses at Victoria University’s International Institute of Modern Letters (IIML). My interest piqued, I did as I was told and in 2003 found myself in a class of 15 or so students undertaking a course entitled Writing the Landscape. As I had majored in Geography back in the day, I thought it might hold my attention and provide an easier bridge to learning the craft. The paper was tutored by Dinah Hawken, an IIML graduate and established poet with a growing reputation. Dinah’s expertise soon had us scratching out fair to middling pieces and learning about the forms and devices that a writer should have available in their toolkit. She also taught us how to read poetry out loud and provide critiques of our efforts to one another in ways that were ‘safe’ and didn’t bruise our fledgling-writer personas.

Before the 2000s, had writing been quietly present in your life?

Writing had always been a part of the requirements of my work life so writing poetry and creative non-fiction gave me a more enjoyable set of challenges. In a way, it took me back to the best part of being at school — ‘doing’ a subject I really enjoyed.

When you look back at your earliest published pieces, what do you notice about the writer you were then?

I think I was probably a bit cautious to start with and employed a limited set of tools in the range available to a poet. As I learnt more, I grew more confident, experimented more and worked out what appealed and seemed to work for me.

 How would you describe your poetic voice today, and how did you come to recognise it as your own?

It’s hard for me to describe, but the following words are in the mix — eclecticism (in both content and form), accessibility, past and place, memories, social comment, satire and parody, imaginative writing. The more I wrote, the more my pool of poetry seemed to fill with these flavours.

Was there a particular poem, publication, feedback or award that gave you confidence you were on the right path?

In 2011, Interactive Publications (IP), the publisher of Tongues of Ash, which was my first full-length collection of poems, awarded it the ‘best first book prize’ for that year, which both surprised and delighted me. The judges had this to say about the work, which certainly gave me the impetus to continue scribbling:

‘[It is] poetry that reflects beautifully on time and place and its effect on the human spirit. The joy of reading Westwater’s poetry is his obvious skill as a manipulator of language, delving into the reverent, the morose, the gleeful and the humorous without falter. He is fearless in his subject matter and confident in his use of words. The poetry is a true escape from the reader’s present world, a tour in the realms of the imagination.’

As someone whose writing journey began later than many, did you feel a different kind of urgency or clarity about your voice?

Not consciously. There may have been more to draw from in my well as a consequence, so maybe poems were queuing up to be written rather than me trying to write as much as I could.

How does landscape shape your writing — not just as scenery, but as identity?

I remember when we were in Dinah Hawken’s class, there was one session when Bill Manhire stood in for her. He started off by making what could have been taken as derogatory comments about ‘nature’ poetry, which I’m sure were designed to provoke us into questioning our choice of subject matter. I think that poems that are purely descriptive of scenery, or elements of nature (and early on I was guilty of writing a few of these), are weaker than those that include a person’s voice or memories in the scene. The former are more likely to be awe and beauty verses worthy of tourist brochures; the latter are tied to identity and provide the reader with the opportunity to bring their own memories and imagination to bear. If Wordsworth’s field of daffodils hadn’t had him wandering about the poem lonely as a cloud, it probably wouldn’t be remembered today.

How have the different places you have lived shaped you?

Enormously. Tongues of Ash gives testament to that. It includes a map I drew of New Zealand that shows the places that are referenced in the book’s poems (see below) — there are many and I have lived in or near most and visited the others. While in the army, I was posted to Singapore for two years, but funnily enough, that period of time, while hugely broadening my experience and knowledge of different Asian cultures and place, has yet to spawn any poetry.

Map provided by the interviewer

How has your academic background and work experience influenced how you observe and describe landscape?

My academic studies in geography have had a significant influence on my landscape writing. I have previously described the discipline as an enigmatic amalgam of subjects. Some unkindly question geography’s parentage, likening it to a jackdaw that picks the twigs out of other disciplines to build its own nest. I am happy that it borrows topic areas from which it fashions its own lens. For that reason, my poems often address or include references to elements of geographic studies — rocks, weather, beaches, to name a few. I once wrote a poem based on the geomorphological cycle of mountain-building (The love of rocks and water). It included lines that referred to ice as being the ‘hard, cold sister of water’. A critic (whom I’m certain was ignorant of how mountains are made, then over millennia are eroded into the sea only to be uplifted by earth’s forces and fashioned again as mountains) wrote a rather scathing review of it. I think he was using a personification yardstick on the poem, without questioning whether that form of critique (now over 100 years old) was appropriate today.

In what way has completing university writing courses helped, in ways that self-directed writing might not have?

Like with most university study, it provided the meat and bones, the breadth and width, the self-reflection and questioning, the positioning on continuums of knowledge, the variety of approaches that can be selected from and applied, the shades of colour, and the tools, techniques and methodologies available to the writer. Without the courses, I would have been a naïf poet, confined and defined by what I didn’t know I didn’t know. 

What does your writing process look like now? Are you disciplined and scheduled, or intuitive and responsive to inspiration?

I think all of these, depending on what is needed for where the writing is at.

Do poems begin with an image, a line, a memory, or something else entirely?

Again, all of the above. Sometimes, with revision and polishing, the first line or stanza becomes the last, or is culled altogether. It’s also being open to a poem that you didn’t know was coming when it knocks on the door. The advice to have something on hand (electronic, or a prehistoric writing tool) to record such moments is worth its weight in words. There is nothing worse than waking up in the morning having written something momentous in your sleep only to find it has vaporised when you wake up.

How much revision is involved in your work? At what point do you know a poem is finished?

For me, revision is very poem-dependent. Some poems are perfectly formed little objects at birth. Others sit and look at you with mournful dog-eyes demanding yet another walk in the field of revision. I think some poems are never ‘finished’.

Your professional life has centred on teaching, learning and development, and structured communication. How different is writing non-fiction or professional material compared to crafting poetry?

There really isn’t much difference. If you have a template for your writing and/or can make decisions regarding form, length, style, etc., it is then a matter of settling on a way into the writing and applying the craft tools appropriate to its type.

Do the two forms feed each other — or do you keep them completely separate? Does poetry offer something that professional writing cannot?

The forms can feed into each other, but it really depends on the writing’s aim and who the audience is. Sometimes a mix of poetry and prose works, at other times it can be off-putting. All forms of writing offer something that probably have a singularity of aptness for each form, but writers often experiment with that aptness and come up with hybrids. For example, My two boyhood memoirs, No one home (Makaro Press) and Home Base (The Cuba Press) are not written as traditional text-based works for this genre, but  are  structured more like scrapbooks of memories and include a variety of text and image-based objects — poems, short prose, photos, maps, drawings, diary entries, letters, quotations, etc.

 What has the journey to publication been like for you — particularly as someone balancing writing with a full career and family life?

I think I have been relatively lucky there. Firstly, my publication journey was relatively quick in terms of submissions made followed by acceptances. The work-life balance was not overly taxing either — our kids had left the nest (relatively speaking) and I was working from home with my own business by the time I set off on the ‘getting published’ yellow brick road. I was able to juggle work and down-time, chew gum and write at the same time.

Were there moments of rejection or doubt that tested your commitment? How did you respond?

Like all writers, I had a few submissions rejected along the way. I quickly learnt not to take it personally and quite often, poems that had been rejected by one journal would be picked up by another. My book-length collections have all been accepted on first submission, so I didn’t suffer angst there.

Do your interests feed your creative life in unexpected ways?

My other interests are pretty Kiwi-pedestrian — watching sport (mainly rugby and cricket), gardening, and trying to find the perfect white and red wines. I have written a couple of poems to do with sport, one of which I’ve included here. It was published by Mark Pirie in his blog, and a friend of mine, who had a career as an international cricket umpire, used it on occasion when speaking at sports dinners. Other than that, gardening and wine poetry lie largely untilled and uncorked:

Road cricket
 
Driving through town 
listening to the cricket
I saw a man
in the road’s grassy middle
about to thread a three-lane needle
with his body
 
glass, metal, flesh, blood
 
He danced ahead
like a batsman at the bowler’s end
just before the leather leaves
the bowler’s hand
then scuttled back
to bide another chance
 
walk, run, dive, swallow
 
You fool, I thought
you bloody bunny
as my own life’s risky runs
replayed for me right then
though I knew on his far crease
there was no-one looking out to call
 
YES! NO! WAIT! … sorry

How does visual art intersect with your writing?

I have always been interested in ekphrastic poetry (Auden’s Musée des Beaux Arts being a particular favourite). Some of my poems have been inspired by or accompanied by relevant images. About 5 years ago, I started to experiment with composing digital art that used the imagery in a poem (a ‘painted poem’, if you like). The image below is my attempt at representing some of the imagery in WB Yeats’ The Second Coming (‘the widening gyre’, ‘blood-dimmed tide’, ‘a shape with lion body’, ‘rough beast’, ‘desert birds’). This composition was not created by AI and relevant licences and permissions were obtained for images used.

The Second Coming
digital artwork, Keith Westwater, 2021

In turn, I used the Second Coming art piece as a springboard to writing a new poem commenting on the current American president and his shenanigans in the Middleeast. It is titled What rough beast? and it is the last poem in my upcoming collection, Sing to me of home.

If you could speak to your 15-year-old self, what advice would you give him?

I’m a little bit clueless here. I was press-ganged into the Army at 15 by a wicked stepmother and it was a reluctant move on my part; it was the only way I could see of continuing my schooling as I was going to be booted out of home regardless. I set a course as a boy soldier that would three years later lead me to university, with the Army sponsoring my study. In terms of advice — over sixty years on, and with hindsight, there is not much I can say to the boy to do things differently.

Is there something you wish you had known earlier about the writing life? What advice would you give aspiring writers in today, especially those who may begin their writing journey later in life?

I worked out early in my writing life that penning poetry as a full-time occupation in New Zealand was more likely to lead to penury than accumulation of even small mounds of money. Unless you aspire to being an academic in a university’s English faculty and thereby could pursue your poetry-penning as part of your job, or have other ‘means’, make sure you don’t stop your paid employment. On the other hand, there are New Zealand writers who have become successful writing in other genres.

 Finally, what continues to call you back to the page?

I need to scratch the itch.

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless Journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

.

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Discussion

Exploration of the Invisible: A Supernatural Saga

A brief discusion of Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible by Rajorshi Patrnabis, Hawakal Publishers, with an exclusive interview with the author on his supernatural leanings

Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible by Rajorshi Patrnabis could have been a regular book of intense ghost stories, with the oldest ‘presences’ dating back to the regime of Sher Shah Suri (1472 – 1545). ‘Presences’ are basically spirits — visible or barely visible — that cause disturbances in the energy field surrounding us, as per the book.

One of the most coherent of these ‘spirits’ was from 1920, confiding her story on Christmas eve — reminds one of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and Uncle Scrooge — only this spirit was a British woman from the Raj era, a spirit that lost her beloved who was from a Bengali royal family. Her strict father stepped in and stopped the marriage. No one knew what happened to the groom. And she continued to weep and wait while haunting the premises of the popular and populous Park Street where she was supposed to meet her beloved more than a hundred years ago… Then there’s a ghost that takes you back to his funeral pyre… drawing back the curtain between the two dimensions — one in which we exist and one in which they hover…

These, however, are not your regular ghost stories. There is a difference for Patranabis claims to have met these sad spirits in real life.

A Wiccan by choice, Patranabis has tried to draw back the curtains to reveal a dimension whose existence is elusive and avoidable for most of us at best and rejected by many. He claims to have a spiritual bent of mind which helps him experience these out-of-the-box scenarios, meet the dearly departed. He has done a number of books of poetry around his beliefs. He has even photographed these spirits!

Photographs of spirits by Rajorshi Patranabis

Though the images are blurry at the first viewing, you have to focus hard to see the ethereal outlines of shadows beyond the realm of the living, I guess.

Whereabouts of the Anonymous is a memoir that spans his interactions with, as the title says — ‘the anonymous’ — or the blurry ‘presences’ and explores the invisible for majority of the spirits are merely depicted as shadowy in his narrative as in his photographs except for a few whose images have not been taken.

Occasionally, the spirits can be malevolent as in the Bhangarh Fort, where a foul-smelling female spirit and some lost souls in the ancient jails wounded Patranabis physically and chased him out. Set in the Aravalli hills of Rajasthan. Bhangarh is the most haunted place in India. There is a story of a princess and her spurned lover associated with it. Evidently, a sage fell in love with the princess and made a special concoction which would make her fall in love with him. When she went to buy a perfume, the smitten lover tried to replace it with his love potion. The princess threw away the bottle of love potion. It fell on a rock, dislodging it. The rock rolled down to kill her admirer, who cursed her with his dying breath!

There is also the narrative about a whole village that accepts and lives in peace with the spirits of their dearly departed, even giving them rickshaw rides and offering them chairs!

Patrnanabis has brought his Wiccan outlook into the discourse. His language flows. The narrative is simple and easy to understand. The descriptions are so graphic that one can almost visualise the disembodied spirits and their interactions. The 150-page book is an enjoyable and easy read and a perfect companion for travel or an evening or two. But the author’s experiences and his interests stretch beyond what the pages can hold. In this interview, we discuss his beliefs and his experiences…and maybe, another book?

How old were you when you had your first supernatural sighting? Were you scared the first time?

When I look back, the first time that I had a feel of the ‘other dimension’ was perhaps at the age of 7 or 8. I remember going to my paternal home at Digboi during our winter vacations. I remember going to my parent’s bedroom at the first floor and my mother used had to send me to her room to fetch something. The room was across a terrace, and I remember running through the terrace from the staircase to the room. But every time, I could feel someone running with me through the terrace. But as and when I would enter the room, it was all perfect. I would run back again again to the stairs. When I would blurt this out to my parents, they would simply ignore me, but somehow, I was never completely convinced. It was much later, sometime around the year 2000 that my father confided with me of a real ‘presence’  there. He told me that there had been many an experience where people had felt the presence of something eerie there. But by then I had had some very deep experience of the supernatural existence.

Rajorshi Patranabis in Wiccan wear

When did you become a Wiccan and why?

The answer to this ‘why’ is a wee bit dicey. I am myself not sure of this. It was just a flow that I couldn’t control. Mind you, I had already gone through some extremely remarkable experiences and my stint at the hill top temple and my encounter with that 97 year old person who taught me numerology was way before I joined Wicca. I would call myself pretty insane in those phases of my life. By the time Wicca happened, I had calmed down considerably and joining my teacher was nothing less than an accident. It so happened that my friend, Subhodip, and I were walking down the Southern Avenue in Kolkata when we spotted another school friend ( a senior Wiccan) standing at the door of an otherwise inconsequential book store. He waved at us and asked us to join in, as it was an open session by my teacher. We joined. Subhodip was skeptical, while I followed it up with an email and I was called for an interview with Ma’am. The journey started. I had mentioned about my experience in ‘Whereabouts…’ This was early 2013.

Did becoming a Wiccan help you align to the supernatural better?

Infact, my Wiccan knowledge taught me the nuances of alignment with the forces of nature. Why just the supernatural? The vibrations that the earth emanates, the animal kingdom throws out, to feel and spot across dimensions etc. The most important thing is perhaps the use of sound like the chatter of a rainfall, the melodies of a singing bowl or even drum beats (like in Voodoo) as means of invocation, that, was passed on to me. More than anything, the pleasures of immersing oneself in ancient knowledges can be very ‘intoxicating’. Our school concentrates most on the Egyptian origins. If you ask me now, I worship Goddess Isis as my altar Goddess along with the 64 yoginis. Yes, Wicca has helped align myself to me, if I say this philosophically.

You have called yourself ‘spiritual’ and also spoken of ‘seers’? Can you explain these two terms?

I wouldn’t get into the linguistic trap of English. But a Wiccan would say spiritual comes from ‘spirit’. A very basic tenet of Wicca is to align your body, mind, soul and spirit. As and when the becomes one with nature does your mind uplift itself to being a soul. A soul that gets through the rigours of lust becomes a spirit. We are in the habit of using the word spirituality very lightly, but a true Wiccan would say that a pure spirit sits on the pinnacle of the pyramid. There are many references in our Sanatan scriptures too about such spirits and the recourse they take to leave the body, as and when they cross over.

A seer is a saint who has won over the realms of the physical nuances. He/she is automatically clairvoyant as all their faculties have attained the higher plains in the atmosphere. Please don’t mistake a seer for only a saint. A scientist or a litterateur who had immersed themselves in the claustrophobic depths of knowledge can be a seer too. Many such examples can be sighted to prove this.

How did/does your family respond to your being a Wiccan or interacting with spirits?

My family doesn’t always subscribe to what I do, but in all honesty they had never been a hindrance to my learnings. There are Wiccan ceremonies that I celebrate or spells that I do from time to time for the well being of people, they had all along been very supportive. They stand as a pillar beside me.

When and why did you turn to writing?

I started writing at a very young age. My first poem, if I can recall was at the age of 13. But as time went on, everything slowed down. My next phase was from 2015 and my first published book was in 2018. By this phase I was well and truly into Wicca.

You have used Japanese techniques in poetry to describe your journey as a Wiccan and to interact with spirits. Why? Do these align better to help you describe your experiences?

Well, I wouldn’t say I use Japanese poetry forms to interact with any spirit. Though I must accept that I’ve had communications with the other dimension which were very poetic at times. In my book, Gossips of our Surrogate story, I had used quite a bit from my Wiccan Book of Shadows and even you had accepted that they were poems alright, good or bad, notwithstanding. But I would also like to harp on the inherent pertinence of this question. Gogyokha or Gogyoshi are short form poetry in just 5 lines and my forays into the other dimension had just had similar experiences — short, crisp and at most times life altering. In my Gogyoshi collection, Checklist Anomaly, all the poems are either true happenings or near life occurings. My writing (poetry) as a whole, until now, had been with deep metaphysical love. Perhaps my thought process is challenged. But Japanese forms had been a huge compliment to this particularly weird handicap of mine.

What made you think of doing this book — your memoir of supernatural interactions so to speak?

To be very honest, all these experiences that I had shared in Whereabouts of the Anonymous would have stayed with me through out this physical life had it not been for a dear brother and publisher, Bitan Chakraborty. It was on his persistent insistence that I decided to put my ‘stories’ on paper. But that was again a very difficult thing. I really had to scoop things from the nook and crannies of my memory to make for a reasonably good compilation. Even Bitan had certain experiences with me or otherwise ( like his camera giving up on a particular shot etc.) and was most interested on such a memoir seeing the light of the day. I have dedicated this book to Bitan. I had to, it was his brainchild and as a Wiccan would say, the Universe made me write it.

You seem to seek out departed spirits or ghosts. Why?  Are you not scared?

I find this word ‘ghosts’ very disrespectful. Departed spirits, well, if you ask me no spirits depart. Remember, the law of conservation of energy — the total energy remains constant, it can neither be created nor be destroyed. The energies ( whether spirits or not) have this affinity to get in touch with other souls who can feel them and with a little effort can hear them. The ectoplasmatic fusions that happen inside the cosmos are mostly not registered by ‘so called science minded sceptics’. There are gadgets to measure such vibes. And afraid? No. You would only be afraid if you stay in denial of the other dimension. If I say that the other dimension is omnipresent, no matter what, you won’t be afraid of it. Remember you are afraid of darkness because you don’t see through it, but as soon as you put on a light, it becomes a part of you. Precisely the unknown is magic or mysticism and the known is science.

Do you only sight spirits or auras around people? Are you into Noetics as a subject?

Auras form  the atmosphere, it really doesn’t matter whether you have a body or not. There are ascetics who would ask you not to touch anyone’s feet while paying obeisance. The say, the aura or the protonic energy of a person is as long as that person’s height. They say you put your head on the ground, possibly, to absorb a concoction of the Earth’ s magnetism coupled with the aura of that person. By the bliss of this Universe, I do feel a few energies that are devoid of a body. Noetics or the consciousness levels automatically become part of these. But I am personally not into Noetic sciences or research. But ancient knowledges under the umbrella of Wicca does take you through the subconscious to superconscious levels of the mind with twinings of the nature, supernature and the supernatural. There are very thin lines segregating them.

In you memoir, you keep asking people to leave a glass of water to satiate the spirit. Do you see yourself as a person who appeases ghosts? Do you help people – how do they reach out to you if they feel a ‘presence’?

What does a glass of water do? Think of a situation where you stand in front of everyone, yet you’re being ignored by everyone. You would not realise that you’re actually not visible to them. Just think of the insecurity that you would have to realise that persons whom love so dearly are slowly getting ahead with life and that  you have become a fading memory. That glass of water just reinstates the faith that he/she still matters to you.As time goes, like all energies, they would also dissipate. But with pleasantness in them.

I don’t appease anyone. As my teacher says, it’s all about alignment. If I may say so, the Universe makes me do certain things that a psychiatric practitioner would do to people with mental illness. These are very small techniques that I had learnt over the years to put a restless soul to a restful state. As far as the last part of your question is concerned, I don’t do anything for any consideration. I have a promise to keep. If the cosmos so wills that I would be of help to someone, I would definitely land up from nowhere.

Do you plan to do something with this ‘gift’ you have? Can you see spirits where others cannot? Will you be doing more books about your supernatural experiences?

Well, after the book went for print, I realised that I could have included many more of the experiences that I had gone through. So, another book is very much in the offing. And as far as doing something with this ‘gift’ is concerned, I am completely in sync with you that this is a ‘gift’ that the cosmos had bestowed upon me and when you have such an invaluable gift, you keep them. You generally don’t use them. Seeing spirits? I feel them and I see them only when the spirit wants to show them off (like the school Master of Bhanjerpukur – one of my most remarkable experiences).

 (This review and online interview by email is by Mitali Chakravarty)

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Essay

Christmas that Almost Disappeared!

By Farouk Gulsara

Charles Dickens was flying high by 1842. His books, Pickwick Papers and Oliver Twist, and periodicals were selling like hot cakes on both sides of the Atlantic. With so many fans over in America, he decided to pay them a visit. What he saw in the second-largest fan base upset him for two reasons. Firstly, there was the issue of royalty. Publishers in America were printing his work left, right and centre. He received none of the returns due to him. Secondly, he was upset with the level of racism and their cavalier attitude towards slavery, even amongst the northern states. 

Dickens could not stomach the dehumanisation of the black Americans. The vocal and expressive writer, who drew his readers to his craft in the first place, wrote in one of his later articles about his trip to America. He did not twist his words when he wrote verbatim in his American travelogues of slaveowners’ advertisements about their runaway slaves. In one of these advertisements, it read, “Ran away, a negro woman and two children; a few days before she went off, I burnt her with a hot iron, on the left side of her face. I tried to make the letter M.”

A few years earlier, Britain had outlawed slavery, so the British felt a bit of moral superiority over the Americans. 

The Americans did not take to this kindly. Dickens’ following few publications fared poorly. 

Meanwhile, Britain was also changing. 

It was industrialising as its Empire ventured far and wide to exotic lands. With that came the increasing gap between the poor and the rich. The poor remained short of money and short of education opportunities. With the development of science, religious belief took a back seat. Catholicism lost its favour. The Puritans were disillusioned with the material world. 

The idea of Christmas and family togetherness was losing out. Work took up most of the time. There were no documented Christmas holidays. The ancient midwinter culture of Europeans had lost its lustre. Many of the Christmas iconographies were viewed as pagan in the UK and the US. The Puritans viewed life as hard, and having joy and fun was scorned. A small proportion of people still wanted to revive the spirit of Christmas. 

Against this background, Dickens returned home. His following two books received a poor reception from readers. He resumed his social work, helping the marginalised. At that time, the prevailing view in the UK was that poverty was self-inflicted. The society felt that providing aid to the poor was counterproductive; it made them lazy. People deserved to go hungry for producing so many children, and the Malthusian theory that food demand would outstrip supply seemed to be coming true. The 1840s were known as the “hungry 40s.” Famine was looming. 

Yet another layer of population, the reformists, took it upon themselves to help the downtrodden. Dickens was one of those souls. In Manchester, after giving an emotional lecture at a fundraiser to feed and educate poor children, he went for one of his famous long walks. 

As he walked the streets, an idea struck him. He visualised a man who had lost all his compassion and had to be jolted back into a complete sense of his humanity. The story helped rebuild Christmas and the compassion that had been lost over the years. The rest, as they say, is history. A Christmas Carol reformed Victorian Britain.

Photo provided by Farouk Gulsara

Reference: 

From Journey Through Time: 59. A Christmas Carol: The Book That Brought Back Christmas (Ep 1), 25 Dec 2025. Podcast

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.

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Stories

Evergreen

By Sayan Sarkar

For 30 years, Mr. Roy had been a professor of mathematics at a university in Kolkata.

At 65, he had grown tired of the fast-paced and boisterous city life. He never married and had no close relatives in the city. Therefore, he never had any attachments to the city.

A few months before his retirement, he had heard of an old British-era bungalow in a village in the district of Bankura.

Mr. Roy visited the location and immediately fell in love with the place. The two-storeyed bungalow stood near the outskirts of the village, very close to the forest. The other houses in the village were a little further away, and it took around 10 minutes to reach the nearest house on foot. A peepul and a banyan tree flanked the back portion of the bungalow, behind which lay a large pond. The forest began from the other end of the pond. Numerous rows of teak, sal, mahua, and arjun trees stood almost shoulder to shoulder, creating a pleasant view for the human eye.

After inspecting the bungalow and speaking with the owner, Mr. Roy finalised the deal and completed the associated formalities promptly. He decided to employ the existing caretaker as his daily help. The caretaker lived just 15 minutes from the bungalow with his family.

Mr. Roy had already sent some of his belongings to the bungalow before his retirement, and on the 15th of April, he moved permanently to this place with the rest of his items. The date was significant – 15th April was the Bengali New Year, or Poila Baisakh. Mr. Roy had specifically chosen the beginning of the new year to start this new phase in his life.

Upon his arrival on the 15th, he found a small crowd in front of his bungalow. Many of the locals had come to welcome him to their village. He invited all of them into the bungalow and spent a considerable amount of time interacting with them. The crowd thinned around noon until only the caretaker was left. His name was Samir, a man in his mid-40s.

“Samir, please give me something to eat. I am famished,” Mr. Roy said, getting ready for his bath.

“Yes, Dada! I will prepare your lunch within half an hour,” Samir replied, heading towards the kitchen.

After a long and refreshing bath, Mr. Roy got dressed and approached his bedroom window to look outside. He found that the banyan and peepul trees were quite close to his window and obstructed most of the view. Some of the branches almost touched the window as if trying to claw their way into the house. He saw a lot of birds on the trees, chirping and hopping from branch to branch. As he looked down, he suddenly noticed a young boy of around 10. The little boy was sitting on a branch of the banyan tree and munching on an apple.

“Hey! What are you doing there? You’ll get hurt if you fall!” Mr. Roy shouted with a look of apprehension.

The boy looked up and saw Mr. Roy’s worried face. He smiled from ear to ear in response and jumped down from the branch like a trapeze artist.

“Don’t worry, Kaku[1]! I have a habit of climbing this tree,” he said with a mischievous smile and disappeared around the corner.

Hearing Mr. Roy’s shouts, Samir came up from the kitchen, just in time to see the little boy run away.

“That’s my son, Sukumar! He’s a very mischievous boy, Dada[2]! He runs around the village all day after returning from school. He climbs trees like a monkey. This spot is his favourite. He must climb the banyan tree at least once every day,” Samir confessed.

“I see,” replied Mr. Roy. “But don’t you think these trees are a little too close to the window? This is the only room in the house facing the forest, but I can’t see anything because of these two trees. And here I was thinking of sitting in front of this window and enjoying a view of the forest.”

“Yes, Dada! These trees are quite close to the house. You can even consider them to be a part of the house. It’s said that they are more than a hundred years old!” Samir informed Mr. Roy.

“Hmm. I see!” he remarked.

The next morning, Mr. Roy went out to explore the village after breakfast. He returned around noon, huffing and puffing in the summer heat. After his bath, he called Samir to his bedroom.

“Samir, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, his eyes fixed on the trees outside.
“You see, I’d been thinking about those trees since yesterday. You must admit that the view of the forest beyond the pond is breathtaking. But those damned trees are in the way! I can’t see anything at all! So, I’ve decided to get rid of them.

“Usually, I’m against the felling of trees, but I must make an exception this time. I talked to a woodcutter in the village bazaar today. He agreed to do the job for me. However, he already had some assignments for the next three days, so he’ll be coming on Sunday.”

Samir stood aghast. He couldn’t believe his ears.

“Dada…you wish to cut down the trees? But they’re a part of this house! They’ve been here long before I came to this house. You can simply cut some of the branches to give you a better view. You don’t need to cut down the entire trees!” he said, visibly emotional.

Mr. Roy stared at Samir for a few seconds before giving his reply.

“I’d thought about pruning the trees as well. But that wouldn’t solve the problem. The branches would grow back over time, and I’d have to continue pruning them every now and then. It’s better to just be done with them entirely. Besides, this village has an abundance of trees all around. It won’t cause anyone harm if I cut just two. No, no. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Okay, Dada… As you wish!” Samir turned away dejectedly.

“Samir,” Mr. Roy called him back, his tone much softer than before.

“I know you love the trees, and your son loves them too. I’ll build him a playground where he can enjoy himself.”

Samir nodded slowly and headed down towards the kitchen.

Mr. Roy felt a pang of guilt in his heart, but his desire to enjoy the view from his bedroom far outweighed his feeling of guilt. As he walked towards the window, he found Sukumar playing among the branches of the trees like the day before.

They’ll feel bad now. But time will heal everything eventually, he thought to himself.

*

Samir was a little late arriving the next day.

“What happened? Is everything all right?” enquired Mr. Roy, a little upset as well as worried.

“Sukumar is not well, Dada. He went swimming in the pond yesterday and caught a terrible cold. He’s had a fever since last night and couldn’t sleep a wink. I was finally able to put him to sleep in the morning. I’m sorry for being late,” Samir explained. His face looked worn out.

“Poor boy! If you need medicines, you can come to me, you know. I’ve been practicing homeopathy for quite some time,” Mr. Roy responded.

Samir nodded his head.

“You can go home early today after preparing dinner,” Mr. Roy added after a little pause. “Your son’s health comes first!”

“Thank you, Dada!” Samir said gratefully.

He took his leave around 5 PM, two hours before his usual time.

Mr. Roy read a book until nine o’clock, had his dinner, and then went to sleep.
He kept his bedroom window open for better air circulation. The weather outside was oppressively hot and humid. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, with no hint of a breeze whatsoever.

*

Mr. Roy was woken up by the chirping of the birds outside his window at the crack of dawn. As he gathered his senses and sat up in bed, he received quite a shock – the entire bedroom floor was strewn with dead leaves of peepul and banyan. They had reached as far as the door, which was quite some distance from the open window.

But how’s this possible? There wasn’t the slightest breeze last night! Even if there was a breeze late at night, how have the leaves fallen only on the floor and not on my bed? Mr. Roy thought to himself.

He couldn’t make head or tail of the situation.

The thing that worried him the most was the fact that all the leaves were withered and dead. Not a single fresh leaf was in sight! He collected the leaves and threw them out the window before Samir arrived, not wanting him to know about this incident.

When Samir came to work, he tried to act normally. He learnt that Sukumar was better, but still very weak. His mother was taking care of him that day.

The day passed quite uneventfully. Mr. Roy went out for a stroll through the village and returned before lunch. He took a nap in the afternoon and spent the evening reading. By the time Samir left at eight o’clock, he had finished his dinner and was sitting in front of his bedroom window smoking a cigar. As he gazed outside, the silhouette of the trees was the only thing visible to him.

The night was quite hot, and there was still no sign of a breeze. His mind wandered to the incident of the morning, and he tried in vain to find a logical explanation to satisfy himself. He decided to close the window that night to be on the safe side.

At 10 PM, Mr. Roy locked the window, double-checked it, and went to bed. As he dozed off, he silently hoped everything would be all right the next morning.

*

But alas! He woke up to a similar scene the next morning. Dead leaves were strewn across the floor. That day, he even found some leaves on his bed and his body. He jumped up to the window and found it locked—just as he’d left it the night before. His face turned pale, and he felt a chill run down his spine. As he opened the window, his eyes fell on the two trees staring back at him ominously.

Are the trees sending me a message and warning me against cutting them? But how’s that possible? Am I really supposed to believe that some tree spirits are trying to threaten me? That’s simply absurd!

Mr. Roy tried to strengthen his mind. It was Friday, and the woodcutter would be arriving on Sunday to do his job. He just had to endure two more nights. He decided that he would ask Samir to stay with him for the remaining two nights.

Happy with the resolution, he then proceeded to pick up the leaves and dump them out the window.

When Samir arrived, Mr. Roy learned that his son was much better. Relieved, he asked Samir to stay with him for the next two nights, citing that he wasn’t feeling well and might need assistance at night. Samir agreed and took his leave after lunch to inform his family of his overnight stay.

Mr. Roy took a little nap in the afternoon and read the paper till evening. There was a forecast of a thunderstorm at night—what the locals called Kalbaisakhi, or what is referred to as a Nor’wester.

Samir returned around 6 PM and prepared some tea for both of them. He sat on the floor of his master’s bedroom and sipped tea, chatting with him about various topics.

Mr. Roy felt his confidence returning in the presence of another human being.

After dinner, Samir made his bed on the floor and waited for his master to go to bed. Mr. Roy instructed him to close the window just in case it started raining after they fell asleep.
They conversed a little before eventually drifting off.

Mr. Roy’s sleep was disturbed by a series of shrill noises. As he woke up with a start, he found the room engulfed in pitch-black darkness. He heard the rain pattering against the closed window. A storm was brewing outside. The fan had stopped moving.

There was a power cut.

But all this was quite normal. The only abnormal thing in this atmosphere was the continuous chirping of birds outside his window! It felt as if dozens of birds were pressed against the window, chirping incessantly.

Mr. Roy had never had such an experience before. The avian cacophony created a haunting ambience.

“Samir! Samir! Wake up!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

Samir jolted up in his bed.

“Dada? What’s wrong?” he asked, unable to grasp the situation.

“Birds! Why are so many birds chirping outside my window?” Mr. Roy panicked.

Samir rubbed his eyes in confusion. “Birds? Where? I can’t hear anything!” he said after processing everything around him.

“What do you mean you can’t hear anything? There are dozens of birds chirping outside! Have you gone deaf?!” Mr. Roy responded, his voice shaking with fear.

“Dada, are you alright? I can’t hear any birds at all. The only things I hear are the sound of the rain and the whistling of the wind. Maybe you are mistaking the wind for birds,” Samir tried to explain, visibly confused at the delirium of his master.

“Impossible! That’s not the wind! That’s the sound of birds! I can’t stand it anymore!” Mr. Roy desperately put both hands against his ears.

“It’s those damned trees! They won’t leave me alone!” he shouted like a madman.

“Dada! Calm down, I’m here with you. Nothing will happen.” Samir got up from his bed and approached his master.

But by this time, Mr. Roy had fallen silent. He had fainted.

*

When he finally opened his eyes, it was morning.

“Thank God you’re awake! How do you feel now?” enquired Samir with a worried expression.

“What happened? Did I pass out?” Mr. Roy blurted out, still quite confused.

“Yes, Dada! Last night, you were shouting about hearing birds. You passed out shortly after that episode. I was quite worried. I couldn’t go out to fetch anyone in the storm, so I waited till morning. Should I call a doctor?” Samir asked, still quite concerned.

“No, I’m fine. No need to call a doctor. I must’ve been dreaming. Why don’t you make some tea for both of us?” Mr. Roy replied slowly.

As Samir went to the kitchen, he sat up in his bed. Although he had told Samir that he might have been dreaming of the bird sounds, he knew that he had been wide awake. He had definitely heard the chirping of birds.

It must be the trees! What are they trying to tell me? That dozens of birds will be forced to abandon their nests if I cut them down? What should I do then?

He got out of bed and moved towards the window, deep in thought. As he looked outside, he found Sukumar playing near the peepul tree. How happy he looked!

A smile appeared across Mr. Roy’s face as he watched the child enjoying himself.

“Here’s your tea, Dada,” he heard Samir’s voice behind him.

“Samir, your son is here. He’s playing with the trees again,” Mr. Roy said, taking up his cup and sipping the hot tea.

“Yes, Dada. He missed his friends for the last few days. So, he came here early today to catch up.” Samir laughed.

Mr. Roy’s smile broadened.

“Samir, I’ve decided not to cut the trees,” he said after a moment’s silence. “As you said, they are a part of the house. Your son loves them too. Maybe I’ll get used to this view after all!”

Samir stared at his master, overwhelmed with joy.

“That’s great news, Dada! Sukumar will be very happy to hear that!” he said, wiping away a tear from his eye.

“Very well then, go home and get some rest. Come back in the afternoon. I have some reading to do.” Mr. Roy got up and shook Samir’s hand.

“Okay, Dada!” Samir replied, getting ready to go.

As he went out of the main gate, Sukumar ran to greet him.

“What did he say?” the 10-year-old boy asked anxiously.

“He has decided against cutting the trees,” assured Samir.

The boy’s face lit up. He started dancing around in joy.

Samir put his hand inside his pocket and took out an audio cassette player.

“Here, take it.” He handed it over to his son.

“I never thought your cassette recording of chirping birds from the zoo would be of any use. But it was of great service last night. You should’ve seen Mr. Roy’s face when the recording started playing outside the window. It looked like he’d seen a ghost. It was difficult for me to keep a straight face!” Samir broke off into laughter.

Sukumar quickly joined him.

“What about the dead leaves? You should give me some credit for that! That was my idea!” he declared, looking for his father’s approval.

“Of course! That was a fantastic idea,” Samir replied.

“That’s what sowed the seed of doubt in his mind. Little did he know that I’ve always had spare keys to the rooms in the house. With the keys, it was child’s play to get into his room and spread the leaves at night.”

“We sure fooled him, didn’t we, Dad?” Sukumar beamed.

“Yes, we did, son. Although it’s never good to fool another person, we did it for the greater good. Those trees are a part of the history of this village, and I will never let them be harmed!” Samir spoke, his voice quivering with emotion.

Sukumar squeezed his father’s hand tightly.

“I will protect the trees with you, Dad! I promise!” he replied with tears in his eyes.

.

[1] Uncle

[2] Elder brother – a polite form of address

Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.

.

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Belonging by Usha Kishore

BELONGING

I don’t belong here, you tell me.
I don’t belong here where the monsoons
drain the sky of all water? This darkness
is not cloud covering the sky in layers
of collyrium dust. This darkness is the 
darkness of your heart staining the air. 
Can you wipe clean the slate of memory,
my smile etched on fond photographs, 
the family fables, the tangle of feuds 
and the look in your eyes, when I, 
your unwanted daughter, walk in
demanding my dues? I may not belong 
here anymore, but I demand the song 
of every cuckoo that sang on the thatch,
the footprints of every squirrel that scuttled
across the courtyard, and the cries of every 
dark goddess you deified in false myths.
Usha Kishore

Usha Kishore is an Indian-born British poet, editor and translator. The author of three collections of poetry, her work has been widely published.     www.ushakishore.co.uk

.

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Excerpt

Travels of Jaladhar Sen

Title: The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas

Author: Jaladhar Sen

Translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

.

6th May, Wednesday

I had arranged to leave at half past four in the morning; my friends arrived even earlier to bid me farewell. It was a moonlit night, and the entire world lay silent and still. Could this small change in my life affect the grand workings of the earth? I was leaving everyone behind; friends and relatives accompanied me for quite some distance. It was evidently difficult for them to sever the affectionate ties they had nurtured with me for so long. I requested that they not proceed further; in the end, they reluctantly turned back. I, too, glanced back several times to take one last look at them. I couldn’t help but wonder—if this separation from friends was so painful, how much more difficult would it be to part from one’s own family?

A few days ago, I had read Pilgrim’s Progress*, and one scene from the book kept recurring in my mind. As we walked, my thoughts wandered to such reflections. Soon, the sun rose. We began moving towards Hrishikesh. This was an unfamiliar route—rarely travelled by others. After crossing several mountains and forests, we arrived at a small village called ‘Khanu’† around 11 a.m. This peaceful village with only five to seven houses nestled beneath a canopy of trees, resembled a tiny bird’s nest. A small stream meandered near the village. We went and took shelter under a tree by the stream, and, parched and famished, we gratefully drank its water to our hearts’ content. After eating our meal there, we resumed our journey around 5 p.m.

After leaving the village, we noticed two monks walking ahead of us. Since it was just the two of us travelling, I thought, why not join these holy men? At least the four of us could travel together for a while. We quickened our pace, but when we caught up to the two sanyasis, I felt a mix of amusement and irritation. One of them turned out to be my former servant, whom I had dismissed twenty or twenty-five days earlier for theft. His transformation was remarkable—dressed in the elaborate robes of a sanyasi, with tangled hair and constant chants of ‘Har Har Bom Bom’, he was barely recognisable as the thief he once was. It was sheer bad luck on his part that our paths crossed that day.

I recounted the whole story to Swamiji, who commented, ‘Perhaps his companion has some money in his jhola, and he has disguised himself in this manner to swindle it.’

Indeed, there seemed to be no limit to the number of people who cloaked themselves in saffron robes, with matted hair and a kamandalu, only to engage in theft, deceive innocent people, or even commit heinous crimes when the opportunity arose. Readers will encounter many such so-called sadhus in my travel narrative.

At first, my servant seemed confident I wouldn’t recognise him in his new guise. He appeared smug, believing that his ‘western intelligence’ would outwit my ‘Bengali intellect’. Seeing us, he began chanting ‘Bom Bom’ even louder, as if to reinforce his act. Unable to tolerate his pretence any longer, I burst out laughing and said, ‘Aare lounde, kabse chori chhod ke sadhu ban giya?——Oh, you scoundrel, since when did you give up thievery to become a monk?’

He was utterly stunned and rendered speechless by my words. I then explained everything to his companion, a naïve and well-meaning man. This stout young fellow had accepted my servant as his disciple, feeding him well in exchange for a few religious sermons. I said, ‘Sadhu, you may keep him and feed him—I have no objection. But if you have any money in your jhola, guard it carefully. If a man can become a sadhu in ten or twelve days, there’s nothing stopping him from becoming a murderous dacoit in a few hours.’

Later, I heard that the sadhu heeded my unsolicited advice.

By evening, we reached Bhogpur. This village was home to many people, and the presence of small brick houses suggested that some wealthy residents lived there. Close to the homes of these affluent villagers stood a dharamshala, built and maintained by the villagers themselves. Travellers and sadhus from afar could find shelter here, with food and amenities provided by the locals. However, if a traveller carried money or the village had a shop, they need not rely on these dharamshalas.

There is a great deficiency of dharamshalas in Bengal. In many respects, we are far more developed and civilised than people from other parts of India; however, we are so preoccupied that we do not have the leisure to spare time for travellers or sick people who might perish on their journeys. Of course, it must be acknowledged that there are still a few among us who are exceptions to this. Nevertheless, I feel that the uneducated Garhwali farmers, who help others, offer shelter to the distressed, and wholeheartedly care for guests, are far more sincere than the educated people of Bengal.

We spent the night at the dharamshala in Bhogpur. Exhausted from the rigours of travelling, we had no need for food and instead went straight to sleep.

7th May, Thursday

We resumed our journey early in the morning and entered the forest of Hrishikesh, which we had traversed before. Although the forest was familiar, the path was entirely unknown; we could not determine whether we were following the same route we had previously taken. We reached Hrishikesh at 1 p.m. and rested beneath a tree, still without any food. Once the afternoon sun’s glare had lessened, we resumed our journey and reached Lakshman Jhula by evening.

The few shops overlooking the Ganga at Lakshman Jhula were bustling with travellers. A group of Udasi sanyasis had arrived that very day. They were Sikhs.

(Excerpted from The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas by Jaladhar Sen, translated by Somdatta Mandal. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025.)

THE BOOK

In the summer of 1890, Jaladhar Sen left behind a life of domesticity and embarked on an adventure across some of India’s most sacred landscapes, from Hrishikesh, all the way to Badrinath. Armed with little more than a blanket, a staff, and a book of songs by the renowned Bengali poet and Baul singer Kangal Harinath, he journeyed through perilous mountain passes, snowbound valleys, and remote pilgrim towns—seeking not the divine, but solace for a life fractured by loss.

Sen’s deeply personal travelogue chronicles the breathtaking beauty of the Himalayas—the roaring Alakananda, the towering peaks of Nara and Narayan, the spiritual might of Shankaracharya’s Joshimath, the bustling markets of Srinagar, and the ethereal stillness of Badrinath—along with a vivid cast of characters—from stoic sadhus, cunning pandas and officious police personnel to ailing young boys, large-hearted villagers and even fellow Bengali pilgrims. In the shadow of the Himalayas, Sen reflects on the complexities of faith, the hypocrisies of ascetic life, and the profound tenderness of human connection.

Blending diary observations and literary flourish, Himalay—first published in 1900—had once captured the imagination of a generation of Bengalis, inspiring them to travel far beyond their homeland. This English translation reintroduces Sen’s compelling account to a new audience, highlighting its historical importance and enduring charm as one of the earliest modern Bengali narratives of the Himalayan experience.

 THE AUTHOR

Jaladhar Sen (1860–1939) was a Bengali writer, poet, editor and a philanthropist, traveller, social worker, educationist, and littérateur. He was awarded the title of ‘Ray Bahadur’ by the British Government. In 1887 he suffered the greatest loss in his life when his mother, wife and daughter died in quick succession. Overwhelmed by grief and seeking solace, Jaladhar moved to Dehradun at the foothills of the Himalayas, where he worked as a teacher. It was during this time, in 1890, that he travelled to the Garhwal Himalaya. This journey inspired his travelogue Himalay.

THE TRANSLATOR

Somdatta Mandal is the Former Professor of English and Chairperson at the Department of English & Other Modern European Languages, Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan. Somdatta has a keen interest in translation and travel writing.

Read an interview with a the translator and a review by clicking here

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Demolition Drives… for Awards?

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Belated realisation that it played a key, though passive, role in the demolition of homes owned by minority communities generated a sense of remorse. So much so that it has now chosen to demolish what was an item of proud display inside its own home. Whether this fall-out is entirely an act of atonement or just a far-sighted move to avoid tons of rubble of its own reputation built over the years is a matter of speculation at this point. So long as the earth-moving juggernaut refuses to explain whether it has also embarked on a search for the meaning of life, quite like Lorenzo[1], the façade of credibility will continue to be bull-dozed by carping critics and authors.

The three alphabets of its brand name, sounding strikingly similar to ABC, facilitate quick, easy recall of its association with acts of destruction deemed legal though held morally incorrect and interpretative[2]. With images of the demolition drives flashing across various media channels, one name that stands readable is that of the behemoth monster employed and operated to execute controversial missions. While there are domestic brands for everything, this foreign giant emerges as the clear favourite in the construction business. Delivering targets with agility and precision is what has portrayed the entity in bad light. The crushing potential has built the negative brand image that cannot be demolished now. Usually, brands are switched when they do not meet the needs, but in this case, its preferred status due to super performance has wrecked its brand image. Ironical, isn’t it?

The intellectual voices remain shrill, signing letters to lampoon the role of the company in destroying homes and building literary careers. These contradictions cannot go together is the common refrain. Is there any sane voice to enlighten writers that the company does not sponsor the destruction of homes and it cannot insert any clause before product sale to prohibit its use in the razing of homes with it? Surely, they know a manufacturer has no control over how its product will be used or misused. On this count, the corporate shenanigan cannot be held responsible.

Literature gives space to all – including criminals and gangsters – to tell stories and many such memoirs gain legitimacy as works of art later. Misled folks, misfits, and all sorts of misleading characters enjoy the freedom to enter the world of books in some form or the other. If an underworld don decides to set up a chain of brick-and-mortar bookstores and launch a publishing house, the reaction of published authors is a predictable boycott. The literary world that boasts of freedom of speech for all is much likely to shrink and apply the moral compass to ensure its ouster even if the intent of the new entrant is reformist. The world of writing should be, ideally speaking, like a place of worship where the identity of a visitor or his background does not matter when he bows before the Lord.

When a large group of authors come together to use the collective power of the pen to dismantle the role of an award sponsor and question its right to distribute such awards, there is not much the corporate player can do to remain engaged in it. The prize tried to promote writers and writing, not just English but other regional languages, and the hefty prize money enabled many winners to earn a decent income from the job of writing. Now the critical authors seem to rejoice that their objections have been powerful enough to make the company do a rethink or at least for the time being stay out of the awards game. One hopes the protesting writers also launch a similar drive against respected awards that have ignoble connections — many of which they have also competed for or served as a jury member. 

The winners and shortlisted authors of this prize will have nice memories of its brief existence, and they will credit it for bringing regional writers to global limelight. There is another side of this story that requires focus. With Indian regional writers also winning the much bigger and more prestigious International Booker prize (two winners in five years), the unique distinction for bringing regional literature to the global platform gets shared unequally between the two prizes. It cannot champion itself as the sole promoter of Indian languages and literature anymore. That the apparently defunct prize was the first one to give a major boost to Indian regional literature is its solid, solitary achievement that should not be brushed aside on account of the recent episodes of misuse of its quality products. 

Whether the discontinuation is permanent or temporary will be clear within a year – in case the company makes a formal announcement regarding its fate. Till then, speculation gathers froth that the award will have a new avatar and broaden its range and reach to align with the expansive mindset of the flagship corporate brand. As a British major, it is already a force to reckon with in developing countries and it would probably not like to disassociate itself from the world of literature forever. But in case it has already decided to give the prize a silent burial, the voices of dissent will also go down the same path. With some more awards calling it the end of their journey, there is a lot of suspense in the story that will unfold over a period of time.

Many governments the world over have committed atrocities but they continue to be associated with prestigious awards. The sheen of respectability for decades seems to carry global acceptance. For new entrants in literature or cinema, a litmus test is always involved. When there is so much flak to face, to pass the test of time, to prove purity in earnings and non-involvement in fraudulent activities, one thing emerges quite clearly: the new awards cannot beat the veteran ones even if they are tainted.

In such a murky, unequal scenario, isn’t it better to demolish all awards? Awards were set up to recognise talent, to make the tough journey easy with encouragement and monetary compensation. But awards have failed in their objective and turned creative people into chronic fame-seekers. Once it goes out of the system forever, writers will realise they have to write well to be read more. If they do not earn handsome royalty, they will have to pursue some other jobs for a living. This hard truth should be crystal clear. There’s no ray of hope that a big award will come their way to take care of their pension needs.

Writing is addictive because those who want to write will write irrespective of whether there is money or agony. Many classics that are read today have never won any award – because there were no awards to contest and win. Many great authors have produced masterpieces but they never had trophies to display as a mantlepiece.  A return to such a perfect world will demolish the false gods of literary stardom.

.

[1] Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life by Upamanyu Chatterjee was given the JCB award in 2024. Funded by a construction company, (Joseph Cyril Bamford from UK),  the award was started in 2018 and closed down in 2025.

[2] News reports from Guardian, in Business and Human Rights Resource Centre

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Essay

The Literary Club of 18th Century London

By Professor Fakrul Alam

Beauty Boarding at Dhaka
Indian Coffee House at Kolkata
Literary hubs or clubs? From Public Domain

We Bengalis think that no one can match us for our addas[1]. If you were growing up in Dhaka in the 1950s or the 1960s and happened to be literary in your inclinations, chances are you would end up on some evenings in Old Dhaka’s hotel-cum-restaurant Beauty Boarding. You would do so not mainly for the good food sold there at modest prices, but chiefly because you intended to see and hear poet Shahid Quadri regaling everyone in a table that probably included budding poets such as Shamsur Rahman and Syed Shamsul Huq, a promising film maker like Abdul Jabbar Khan, or a gifted painter like Debdas Chakraborty.

Over seemingly endless cups of tea, Quadri and his fellow poets and artists and friends and many other enchanted hangers-on would be entertaining each other late into the evening. Everyone present would in all probability say to each other or to others later: “Was there anywhere any adda as good as the one that took place in Beauty Boarding that evening?”

And, of course, Bengalis of Kolkata will claim that there was never ever any place for chatting and no addas held anywhere that have been able to match the ones at the city’s College Street Coffee House. Who hasn’t heard the song by Manna Dey[2] that has immortalised the conversation and the characters there—poets, journalists, actors, artists—all engaged in intellectual chitchat over nonstop cups of coffee? And though the song laments the passing away of a generation, one can find Kolkata’s Coffee House, like Dhaka’s Beauty Boarding, still very busy and very full of addas even now. But surely among the most famous addas of all times were the ones that took place in 18th century London’s “The Club,” aka “Literary Club”. This was the archetypal club for flowing conversation conducted over good food, great coffee, and suitably stimulating drinks (this last bit is conjectural!). Without a doubt, it is the most famous British literary club in history, and here outstanding intellectuals would engage in always entertaining and often scintillating conversation.

Just consider the luminaries in attendance at the Club on a typical London evening. At the centre of the conversation would be the physically huge figure of Dr Johnson—he of the towering intellect, he who was also known as “Dictionary Johnson” for his incredible feat of penning the first substantial dictionary of the English language almost single-handedly. Listening to him would be his devoted biographer, James Boswell; the greatest painter of the period and the founder of the Club, Sir Joshua Reynolds; Burke, the brilliant orator, passionate parliamentarian and indefatigable critic of the East India Company; Oliver Goldsmith, the renowned author and playwright, and Dr Christopher Nugent, the successful physician. As they conversed, sparks surely must have flown all around the table and Boswell must have been taking notes all the time of the pearl s dropping from Dr Johnson’s lips!

It was Reynolds who had proposed the toast associated with the Club— “Esto perpetua,” Latin for “Let it be perpetual.” Club membership was restricted—at first there were nine members, but soon some more were inducted. They included cultural luminaries such as the greatest actor of the time, David Garrick; the great parliamentarian and minister of the British Government for a while, Charles James Fox; the luminous economist Adam Smith and arguably one of the greatest of British historians, Edward Gibbon. According to the author and member of the Club, Bishop Thomas Percy, as far as Johnson was concerned, the thing that all members were to keep in mind was that the Club “was intended” to “consist of such men, as that if only two of them chanced to meet, they should be able to entertain each other without wanting the addition of more Company to pass the evening agreeably”. Or, to use the word coined by the great Dr Johnson himself, Club members had to be “clubbable!”

As one can imagine, with such amazing minds and larger than life characters, the reputation of the Club spread far and wide—in London and beyond. For sure, there were other clubs in swelling and increasingly prosperous London (as is the case with Dhaka now!), and Johnson himself was associated with quite a few of them, but who could compete with the members of The Club?

Initially, Tuesday was set aside as the meeting day, then Friday; eventually other days were considered good for clubbing as well. According to one member, the writer and lawyer John Hawkins, The Literary Club soon proved to be “the great delight of Johnson’s life, a centre of conversation and mental intercourse.” As the century progressed and more and more, people vied with each other to become a member of The Club, strict rules were initiated to keep up its reputation.

Eventually, elections and “blackballing” were procedures chosen to control the number of members as well as to ensure that only “quality” people became members. Hawkins, unfortunately, was deemed to be “unclubbable” by Johnson himself and therefore was soon expelled from the Club! But Club members could be of varying political beliefs—Burke, for example, was passionate about the rights of the American colonists but Johnson critical of them. Burning political issues such as the right of the American colonists came up for discussion and debate but tempers were kept under control and wit-combats proved to be the rule and not scuffles. On most days, conversation flowed freely.

On April 3, 1778, Boswell records in his biography of Johnson, for example, “The conversation began with sculpture” and then “the subject is dropped for emigration; it then moved on to “population increase” and “density”; next to parliamentary oratory, then to philology; afterwards to travelling abroad and thence to “human nature generally”!

Johnson died in 1784, and The Club eventually disappeared from recorded history, but it had survived long enough to become a model of clubs where great minds could come together for a convivial atmosphere, free and witty exchange of ideas, and company worth seeking every evening. It became the inspiration of many such institutions all over the world. Dhaka Club, thus, can claim that any recorder of its primordial history would find The Club as one of its ancestors. For sure, for our club members, or literary minded people wanting to elevate their addas a lot, the London Club can be a source of inspiration and the conduct of its members well worth emulating during addas for fantastic clubbing!

The Literary Club met on Friday evenings until midnight in London. The club gatherings with all the luminaries spanned a period of 20 years. From Public Domain

[1] Could be a tête-à-tête or just a chat with multiple people.

[2] Manna Dey (1919-2013) sang about adda in the legendary Coffee House of Calcutta.

(First published on August 20, 2018 in Daily Star, Bangladesh)

Fakrul Alam is an academic, translator and writer from Bangladesh. He has translated works of Jibonananda Das and Rabindranath Tagore into English and is the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award (2012) for translation and SAARC Literary Award (2012).

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Slices from Life

Instrumental in Solving the Crime

By Meredith Stephens

“This is just like Midsomer Murders without the murders!” I quipped to Alex.

Midsomer Murders was one of my favourite British crime shows. In particular, I loved the depiction of English village life, where villagers gossiped on the village green. The only problem was when the happy village life was interrupted by a gruesome and unexpected murder. Then I had to place my hands before my eyes to block out the scene of the murder in case the camera lingered there too long.

Alex, Verity and I were visiting the Mypunga Markets in the South Australian countryside. The first vendor was selling a wide selection of eye-wateringly delectable Greek cakes. To our right was an Italian wine-grower selling his wines, such as Pinot Grigio, from a nearby vineyard. A Korean stall holder was selling kimchi[1]. Perhaps the offerings were a tad more multicultural that those depicted on the village green in Midsomer Murders. Farmers sold organic vegetables and local dairies sold cheeses. We stopped to soak in the sounds of a group of elderly ukulele players. Shoppers were wearing home-spun hand-knitted jumpers, scarves and beanies, carrying shopping bags made of cheesecloth. I revelled at being on the set of the South Australian equivalent of the village green in Midsomer.

Our purpose for driving into the countryside was twofold. After the market, we went to the shed at Alex’s hobby farm to collect some firewood. Alex unlocked the gates at the roadside entrance, and we drove through the spotted eucalypts, wound up and down the hill through the gorge to eventually arrive at the shed. The roller door was wide open. This was the first time we had been greeted by an open roller door. We parked and peeked inside.

“Don’t go in, Dad!” screamed Verity.

Plastic tubs had their lids off. Children’s toys were scattered. Furniture was tipped over. The new off-grid battery modules, in the process of being installed, had been ripped out and strewn on the floor. We could not turn on the lights because they were powered by the batteries.

We carefully continued our entry into the huge dark shed lest we surprise the burglars and become a victim ourselves. No-one was there. I looked in the ancient sideboard I had inherited from my grandmother and opened the top drawers. My forty-year-old flutes were missing. Were the burglars flautists?

We righted the upturned furniture, returned the toys to the plastic tubs, affixed the lids and stacked them neatly. Then Alex got on the phone to his young employee, Troy.

“Would you mind getting hold of a battery-powered camera and placing it up high in the gum tree facing the shed door?” he asked. “We need surveillance.”

It was Saturday and Troy’s day off, but he was willing to assist Alex, and by 9 pm that evening he had purchased a camera and placed it where requested. He used the drop-down menu to ensure that notifications of camera images would come to his phone.

We returned home with the firewood. At least the burglars hadn’t stolen that. We lit a fire in the fireplace and luxuriated in front of it, savouring the delights we had purchased at the Mypunga markets. Now we had a camera installed, surely, we would be safe.

At 5 am the next morning the telephone rang. It was Troy. Alex’ phone had been on bedtime mode, and he could not have received calls any earlier.

“They’ve broken in again,” said Troy. “At 2.38 am. This time with a car. The footage came to my phone.”

“Are you there now?” asked Alex.

“Yes. I came straight here when I got the notification.”

“OK. We’ll head over there this morning. Have you called the police?”

“Yes. They’re coming shortly.”

Usually, I savour sleeping in on the weekend, or in fact on any day, but suddenly I had no desire to continue nestling between the brushed cotton sheets. I had been jolted awake.

“Are we going now?” I asked Alex.

“Soon. I have to wait for the hardware store to open. I want to buy some metal reinforcements to secure the shed door. Because we have no power, I’ll have to buy an inverter to power my tools.”

We drove towards Mypunga, first stopping at the hardware store en route to buy the bolts and then at an electronic’s store to buy the inverter. When we arrived at the farm we stopped at the gates to check the locks. The chain had been cut with bolt cutters. Then came a phone call from Troy.

“Are the police here?” asked Alex.

“Yes. They have collected fingerprints and DNA samples. They are coming out now to talk to you.”

Soon we were joined at the gates by four detectives and Troy. It was 11 am. Troy had been on the site for at least six hours, not to mention having been there at 9 pm the night before to install the cameras. He excused himself and the detectives explained to Alex the evidence they had found. The visit from the previous day had been a stake-out on foot. Once they had discovered the batteries, they had resolved to return with a car. The batteries were too heavy to have been carried out on foot. But not the flutes. They were much lighter than the batteries.

The police promised to examine the footage carefully. It captured the arrival of the car, and three men with torches circling the shed. One of the men had spied the camera, seized it, and thrown it down the hill. After that the images from the camera were of the surrounding grass. The detectives left and Alex and I drove up and down the winding track to the shed. The roller door was wide open. We entered, and the carefully stacked boxes again were opened and the lids strewn around the shed. Toys and hats were scattered. The drawer from which my flutes had been removed was now firmly wedged against the sideboard. They had clearly opened and shut it again, even after having removed the flutes the day before.

Unlike in Midsomer, no-one had been murdered, but there was a strong sense of violation. Burglars had staked out Alex’s shed, upturned the contents, and left with the roller door still open. Returning the very next day after having staked out the property was brazen. There was a dark underside in this countryside location despite the peaceful scene we had observed the previous day in Mypunga, with shoppers in their home-spun hand-knitted jumpers carrying their organic produce in cheesecloth bags. Most likely the thieves were from elsewhere and had followed the battery installer’s vehicle emblazoned “Remote Power Australia”.

A few days later Alex received a call from the detectives requesting a DNA sample, in order to rule him out. Some tools in the shed had been used to remove the batteries, and they had produced a DNA sample from these. Alex agreed, and a constable arrived at the house the next day to take a swab.

“Have you made any progress on the case?” asked Alex.

“We’ve identified the car the burglars used from the footage. It’s a Ford Maverick. That narrows it down quite a bit.”

Meanwhile Alex and Troy restored the camera to the eucalyptus tree, and bought another one which they affixed it to another tree one hundred and fifty feet away. At the detective’s suggestion, the second camera was aimed at the first one. If a burglar took down the first camera they would be filmed by the second camera. Since the batteries had been stolen and there was no power in the shed, the cameras were operated by solar panels. Alex could regularly check for notifications on his phone.

Two months later Alex received a phone call from a constable with a strong northern English accent that transported you to a distant time and place. It was the kind of English you would hear on a British detective show, although not the southeastern English accent of the fictional Midsomer.

“This is Senior Constable Jane Michaels. We have found two flutes. They may be yours. Can you identify them from the photo? I took it with my bodycam.”

Alex showed me his phone. I couldn’t identify them from the photo. However, they had to be mine. Flute theft must be a much rarer crime than battery theft. More people are in need of batteries than a flute.

“If you prefer to identify them in person, I can make myself available next week,” explained the Senior Constable. “The burglars were not what you would call a musical family,” she quipped.

“I’ll give you my partner’s number so that you can contact her directly,” offered Alex.

The next Wednesday a call came from an unknown number. I let it ring out because I never answer unless I know who is calling. Then I listened to the recorded message the caller had left behind.

“It’s Senior Constable Jane Michaels from the Camden Police Station. I’m hoping you can identify those flutes. Please call me back.”

Hearing this English accent made me feel like I was on the set of Midsomer Murders. A frisson of excitement tingled up my spine. It was a warm, old-world and unpretentious accent that I associated with the north of England. (When you hear an English accent by a worker in South Australia, you may feel like you are on the set of a detective show like me, or you may assume they are in the health or policing professions because of the recruitment drives in Britain in these professions.)

“Can you come to Camden Station to identify them? We’ll be there in half an hour.”

I drove to the address she provided, entered through the imposing gates, and parked outside a giant warehouse. I entered the building and pressed a button marked ‘Property recovery’. A constable greeted me from behind a glass partition.

“What have you come to collect?” he asked.

“Two flutes.”

He looked at me quizzically. Flute theft is probably an uncommon crime.

“What?” he asked again.

“Flutes,” I repeated.

He disappeared to the room behind, and Senior Constable Jane Michaels appeared bearing the flutes in their cases. Despite her old-world accent on the phone, she was surprisingly young.

“Are these in fact yours?”

I looked at the cover of the box for the brand, and sure enough, ‘Armstrong’ was written in faded silver letters. This was the flute I had owned since my teenage years.

“How about the batteries? Are you likely to find them?” I asked hopefully.

“We didn’t find them at the property, but it’s an ongoing investigation,” she explained. I could tell from her apologetic tone that she thought we would be unlikely to retrieve them.

I thanked her and left. I returned to my car, the sole one in the enormous car park. As I drove off two constables headed to close the enormous gates behind me, smiling and waving, happy that I had been reunited with my stolen flutes.

I have to hope for Alex’ sake that the batteries will be found. Meanwhile, I haven’t played my Armstrong flute in over forty years, but now that it has been stolen and recovered in a raid, I feel compelled to take it up again. What’s more, who knows whether the recovered flutes will be instrumental in solving the crime of the stolen batteries?

Photo Courtesy: Meredith Stephens

[1] A spicy Korean salad

Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International