At thirty-four years old, I'm still experiencing psychic illness. Why are my grief warmed gates sealed, I wonder? Who made me miserable because I missed you, brother? I weep thirsty, but the clouds and the rain do not seem to be satisfied.
From my depressed expression, the candle learns to cry. Your perfume teaches my depressed face to read poetry. Your fragrance learns to fade without getting in my way. My habits of smoking and consuming alcohol have caused damage to my throat.
Using brutal chains of no mercy, accept me for who I am. I don't have the right to wish for dreams like the previous children that passed away. They passed away without leaving a name, having learned the meaning of both love and war. As though angels of God.
GRADUATION PARTY
Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad were three of my most powerful pals. They each had a flower in the vase and our enemy destroyed all the vases and stole all their flowers.
I recall their parents having inscribed. their names on their two arms and legs. Just to be able to track them down after graduation party. We often forget about our assignments because of armed troops.
"Evacuate, damn it!" they yelled at our door. Ignoring the agony of an empty stomach, Ignoring the stillness, Ignoring the absence of our grandfathers, who taught us to live and die for the soil and air of free Palestine.
We buried our hopes behind the fig and olive. trees because we wanted to live, to love, and to be free of the vocabulary of callous conflicts that neglected mankind. Nonetheless, we are still magnificent bare trees.
Together in the moonless night, we prayed then slept in peace until the graduation began to draw closer and closer with daggers in our hearts, bullets screeching towards our chests, missiles burst at the conclusion of the party.
We were picked up by one of our parents. many hours later. Whether you believe it or not! We're all in the same bloody coffin. We wonder. whether when the people of the globe cease turning our reality the other way, they want to deafen both ears and blind both eyes.
UNTOLD HABITS
During the present genocide, we learn of untold habits. My father comes home sad with an empty grocery bag, which is more than a routine.
My mother often tells us to wash our hands and occasionally our bodies. She pretends to prepare, places our empty and shattered dishes, and then sobs alongside my father.
Then we all say bismillah before we eat and Alhamdulillah's after we’ve finished licking our empty fingers. We then listen to my parents' prayers as we elevate to the skies.
Ahmad Al-Khatat is an Iraqi Canadian poet and writer. His poetry has been translated into other languages and his work has been published in print and online magazines abroad. He resides in Montreal, Canada, now with his spouse.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
the tall walls make me uncomfortable as I’m shot from every angle it’s a kodak moment an interpersonal feel without a signed consent my privacy is strangled I’m just another man sitting guilty until proven innocent the cage is claustrophobic and my mind has no choice but to ride along shotgun he looks for smuggled tobacco to roll a cigarette and asks me “Yo, you got one?” A simple reply will do as an elongated conversation seems to always lead to confrontation between me and this man or the officer manning his station as I walk the green mile my oversized blue flaps stick to the floor, what a sorry excuse for a shoe passed down from man to man god only knows the stories that go with them, the sad stories originating from prison to prison I live in a prism, confused as I follow the lines, how did I get to this point, locked away, throw away the key to my lips, I don’t think I’ll talk today as I sit in this hole, this empty abyss the punishment given because I spoke with my fists born into the wild I once again need to fend for myself as I did as a child, I’ve walked miles but ended up at the wrong place angry men in blue feel the need to compensate for their stolen lunch money, don’t laugh, they have the upper hand you don’t even have soap for a bath, so you ask yourself am I still a man? has this west end place stolen my lunch money, I’m placed in front of a mirror, faced off with my masculinity, and fascinated with the man I’m facing I try to reach through or at least lose my mind I want to be changing places
(“Metro West” refers to the Metro West Detention Centre in Toronto)
PHYSICAL INTRUSION
my mind is stronger than your muscle you flex to make your point clear because your go system is pristine but the frontal lobe screams stop, in front of the cracked mirror where you find an empty glass, covered in residue. Things seem illusive This intrusion knows no barrier, adjacent to muscle so let’s not try to spread a subliminal message I am a hypocrite, as I know nothing else but the compelling thought of advancing my position in this broken mirror life as I see it you should expect the same from me, as I lack character but the difference is, I am equipped, with the sword in the stone because I am strong with characteristics that shine without tone what need have we to speak, when a gesture is often remanded for its curtain call, when the water’s too dark and you think until your mind sinks too deep your muscle makes you weak mine makes me acknowledge your weaknesses – words are seen by millions muscle is for minions
THE ONE WHO LEFT HIS MIND AT THE STATION
20 packs of beer, get ‘em in I’m a crook spicy cinnamon with an adrenaline strut a minion in cuffs, shackled hack, I’m corrupt back to bat with a black kinda rap, okay enough it stink like the stuff that come up from yer bowels I spit shit, drop exlax with the vowels I’m foul, I speak faeces, I need a towel and shout I rip through with weapons that repent from my mouth philosophise preaching as knees weaken weekly dream big, speak Nietzsche proposing a toast and civil war with myself ouch! the mind’s amiss on arrival, it’s ritual running circles, I’m tribal, habitual aboriginal, simple-minded, cynical freddy krueger slasher but I keep it at a minimal i‘m Trivial, i‘m jeopardy, I got questions but hold on, criminal record, oops! forgot to mention I used to kick it old school, it’s david beckham a little bit of English with a foot in yer rectum
OVERDOSE
Where are you?
Are you where I see you standing, or somewhere else?
Am I here standing next to you, or somewhere else with you?
Am I alone?
Where did you go? I don’t see you there.
Why is my prescription empty?
(The following poem was added to the poet’s obituary in order to allow him to speak “in his own words” at his funeral)
MY MIND BENDS
the license plate on the back of my head spells trouble my mind bends spells spoken to the caves abducting word skills from something the world kills I believe in my own lies, a psychopath in paralysis diseased with addiction cavities dance to the pulsing sound of a root canal
Up is nothing more than an animated feature presentation Homer as a d-day rather than a replay rarity hurricanes steep through my kettled mind I exist in a reign of horror I’ll make a place on the map just to attract the UN scissors cut through the vein of ambition thinking has lost the war bite the nail I say using my head to bang nail into coffin
Aerial-David Skelly Langen (1986-2023) was a poet, pugilist, and ongoing survivor of street-level, drug-and-violence mayhem in Toronto, Moncton, and Liverpool, England. He described himself as an “outgoing, self-admitted work in progress.” His poetry is published in a collection of “poems of resistance” in Resistance Poetry 2 (2012) and in the family-based anthology, They Have to Take You In (2014). A posthumous debut collection from his considerable output of rap-based poetry will appear in 2025 under the title, The Red Cardinal, in honour of his crimsoned life in spirit and song. The poems shared here were first published in Resistance Poetry 2 in 2012.
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How can anybody comprehend Beijing, one of the largest and most ancient cities on Earth? Its origins date back three millennia, but Keith Lyons tries to get a sense of the real Beijing in just full three days.
Photos provided by Keith Lyons
Day Three*
After a series of false starts on the previous day, when I’d thought I would be ticking off Beijing’s main iconic sights, for my third and final day in the city I took a different approach. Instead of heading into the heart of the capital, I sought out enclaves that were more on the periphery of the megacity, both literally and figuratively.
I’d been reading the accounts of Colin Thubron’s visits to China, including his 1987 book Behind the Wall which started in Beijing. Feeling displaced in the impersonal capital, his impression of Beijing was more of a building site than a city. “I tramped its streets in disorientation, looking for a core which was not there.” He found Tiananmen Square arid and couldn’t wait to get out of the city. “The fission of solitary travel — travel in a boyish euphoria of self-sufficiency — tingles in my stomach as I march across Beijing’s railway station,” he writes as he sets off on his travels around the Middle Kingdom as it emerged from decades of Mao and Cultural Revolution oppression.
Looking back on the previous day’s ‘failures’, I tried to reframe the disappointing experiences as learning, rather than ruminating on the rejection I felt after not getting inside the Forbidden City.
One turning point in my journey was coming across a quote from Robin Sharma while thumbing through a bilingual personal growth book that sat among the artsy and anime library at my new accommodation, the hipster co-working space and ‘serviced apartment boutique hotel, ’ Stey 798. Initially when I saw the pull quote in English and Mandarin, I thought to myself, “What a douchebag; it’s fine for the business guru to say, having made millions spouting his stuff to the likes of Microsoft, IBM, General Motors and FedEx.” But then I reflected on the words and realised the truth in them: “There are no mistakes in life, only lessons. There is no such thing as a negative experience, only opportunities to grow, learn and advance along the road of self-mastery.”
I wasn’t exactly on the road to self-mastery when I found myself lost, tired, bothered and despondent on an unnamed minor road on the outskirts of Beijing. However, I realised that some of my preconceptions had been limiting.
For example, the fixed idea that because Beijing was big and busy that it would be dangerous to hire a bike and cycle around. There were rows and rows of identical-looking bicycles for hire at every street corner, wide separate cycle lanes, and lots of visitors navigating successfully around Beijing by bike. If I’d been on a bike the previous day, I could have cycled right through Tiananmen Square rather than circle wide around the massive open space (though security personnel will still make sure you don’t stop to take photos at the best spots).
So, note to self (and to others), try exploring Beijing on bike rather than just using the subway, taxis, or buses. To make bike hire possible, get a Chinese SIM card, install Mobike, and set up payments via WeChat and Alipay, so you can use the lockless sharing bikes provided by Meituan (yellow bikes), Didi Bike (green) and Hello Bike (blue) simply by scanning QR codes, or unlocking bikes with Bluetooth.
I’ve since learnt some bike hire operators can loan high-quality bikes, with English-speaking staff who deliver bikes to your hotel. So even without a smartphone connected with a local SIM and data, you could arrange to discover the city formerly known as Peking by bike.
Beijing was once capital of the ‘kingdom of bicycles’, with the uptake of bikes trebling in the 1980s across China, as the rationing was cut for locally made bikes such as the prestigious Flying Pigeon brand. Cycle lanes were first incorporated into main roads throughout much of Beijing when car ownership was limited to government officials, with more than 3/4 of Beijing’s road space taken by cyclists in 1988. According to one study, some busy intersections saw 20,000 bicycles an hour, and 8 out of 10 Beijing’s used a bike as their primary transport.
While China is the leading exporter of bicycles, bikes dropped from 62% of vehicles on the road in the late 1980s Beijing to just 16% by 2010. However, in the last decade, there has been a boom in bike use, not so much by the proletariat but by middle-class Chinese with an environmental and health consciousness embracing a post-materialist sharing society. Bike schemes featuring special locks, non-deflating tyres, rust-resistant bodies and GPS tracking have proliferated across Beijing and in most cities and towns, though following the boom there was also a bust for some players unable to cope with aggressive competition practices copied from the Uber monopoly playbook.
In tandem with the return of the bike have been some other initiatives to address the problem Beijing was once synonymous with: air pollution. Much has been made of just how bad air pollution is in China, with 16 of the 20 worst air quality cities up to recently located in China. For the nation’s capital, vehicle emissions and burning coal to produce electricity have been the main causes of smog, but a wide range of measures have seen air pollution in Beijing decline by 50%. The air pollution in Beijing is still three times as bad as that in the US’s most polluted city Los Angeles, and some daily measures still exceed the World Health Organisation’s guidelines, but the initiatives which include better urban planning, switching away from coal, extensive public transport, and Low Emission Zones where only e-vehicles are allowed seem to be working.
As an aside, a recent comparison of air pollution readings found Delhi was five times as polluted as Beijing, though the sources, composition and frequency of air pollutants are different for the two cities, with Delhi’s woes from biomass burning, road dust and the burning of agricultural waste. Delhi has been judged the world’s most polluted capital for four years in a row, according to IQAir.
There’s another thing too. Much has been made about how polluted the air is in Beijing, but on the three full days I visited, only one day seemed to be overly hazy with smoggy, dirty air. Admittedly, particles in the air don’t have to be visible to be harmful, as the world is learning with more research into fine particles, but from a check of several air monitoring sites, including the US Embassy’s real-time monitoring which started in 2008, the readings were not too high. Probably no worse than smoking half a packet of cigarettes. Maybe that’s why many people in China wear face masks, not just because of illness or to stop the spread of germs.
So next time — if there is one — I will definitely brave it on a bike. But that’s for next time.
If Colin Thubron’s stomach was tingling with excitement in anticipation of travel, my stomach that morning was rumbling with anticipation of food to enable me to experience different parts of Beijing. Eating local is one of the best ways to experience a new place.
I retraced my steps to the window-in-the-wall vendor I’d got a snack from the previous night, who made one of the specialties of Beijing, a thin savoury crisp-friend crepe stuffed with a selection of fillings. The man recognised me from the previous day, and we went through the process of assembling the ingredients to my liking to go on and in the pancake, which is eventually folded and wrapped like an American breakfast burrito. Unlike other jianbing I’d seen being made by small eateries, roaming food carts, or on the back of tricycles, my man’s crepes were made with buckwheat rather than wheat or mung bean flour, giving them a speckled purple appearance which I said to myself was like choosing a healthy option at McDonalds.
To keep things fresh, jianbing are always made-to-order and cooked under the watchful attention of the mouth-drawling customer. Once the batter has formed small bubbles on the large round hotplate, a series of interventions are enacted, from cracking eggs over the pancake, to flipping it with long chopsticks. With brushes, the chef would smear on spicy and sweet fermented bean pastes (like miso), hoisin and chilli sauces, sprinkle on chopped coriander leaf, scallions and tangy pickled vegetables, and then add crunchy crispy-friend wonton dough strips and lettuce before cutting it in half and folding it into a rectangle.
The pancake is Beijing’s favourite breakfast, but the staple food is little known outside China compared to steamed buns, dumplings and Yum cha dim sum.
Also not well known outside China is the fact that Beijing has a sizeable Muslim population. At least a quarter of a million people who identify as Muslim reside in the capital, with a Muslim presence in the city dating back to the 8th century. As you may know from following the news, China has some issues in its north-western province of Xinjiang where Turkic-speaking Uyghur Muslims account for 12 million of its inhabitants, along with some ethnic Kazakhs. Less well-known and visible are the Hui Muslims, classified as an ethnic group and religious affiliation, who are found all across China. The Huis have adapted to the dominant Han Chinese culture, while maintaining their beliefs and customs.
There’s one feature of Muslim life that is at odds with Chinese living, and that’s the eating of pork. Pork is China’s favourite and default meat, accounting for up to 70% of all meat eaten. With Muslims not eating pork, deemed unclean, impure and forbidden, instead the preferred Islamic meat is beef, with lamb/goat also featuring. This food divide meant that Muslims often lived together in neighbourhoods with not only a mosque, but also Muslim food processing and services. Across China, Muslim beef noodle restaurants are ubiquitous, and considered cheap and cheerful as well as clean, a godsend in a land of food hygiene concerns and stomach upsets.
In Beijing Niujie and Madian are the two main Muslim enclaves, though the latter in the north has declined. Niujie, south of the centre, even has its nearby subway station, and while there is still a mosque (with Chinese-style architectural characteristics) the main attraction for most visitors is the distinctly Muslim food available, with snacks and delicacies on offer.
Of the quarter of a million Muslims who officially reside in Beijing, perhaps half live in the neighbourhood of Niujie. There are halal supermarkets, butchers selling mutton and beef, a Hui hospital and a kindergarten.
For a block, on both sides of the wide street, are stalls and restaurants, and queues. The smoke from sizzling charcoal grills serving fatty lamb skewer kebabs and the aromatic cumin-scented air probably push Niujie’s air pollution readings beyond acceptable World Health Organisation levels, but no one is complaining. Uyghur vendors, wearing round white hats, call out over the grill to whip up even more business, or shout out to younger men to fetch more of the freshly-baked sesame-studded flatbreads that are stacked high beside tandoor ovens, like round naan, but with a thick edge, like a deep dish Pizza Hut crust.
Steam rises from the large bowls of beef noodle soups slurped by families sitting on low stools around a square table, and visitors line up to order from a selection of fruit pastries. The largest amount of tripe you may ever see is cooked in a huge pot, while a rich cake made with dried fruit, nuts, seeds and sugar is sold by weight.
One of the quests for the self-labelled traveller, as opposed to the unaware tourist, is to be less an outsider and a consumer of tourism products. But underlying all this is the enigma of travel. That we go to experience things that are different from back home. And occasionally we wish to be less visible as an outsider, and more like an insider.
I think you can do this to a certain degree, depending on where you are and the acceptance of diversity of that place. But for me, as a visitor of European heritage, to the reasonably homogeneous and definitely differentness of China, I stand out. Not just because of my height at 6 feet. Or that my hair isn’t the standard black.
So what I seek is more of an authentic experience. Which for me often involves shopping local, eating local, random exploration of neighbourhoods rather than ticking off sights, preferring places without tickets or queues.
It is travel with some risks, not mentioned in the insurance fine print. It is travel which is self-deprecating, acutely aware of my ‘otherness’ and awkwardness, and of how I might connect with others. Some of that is transactional. I buy fruit from an old lady at a local market. I hop on a bus. I go to a place, but it is not the place recommended by the receptionist or concierge.
In Niujie, I am both an outsider and the ‘other’. Yet I have more empathy for and connection with the Muslim street vendors than I do with the Han Chinese who have come that afternoon to eat delicious food that is different to their normal diet.
After rubbing shoulders with fellow diners at a cramped eatery in Niujie, having finally located the area that doesn’t feature in most Beijing guidebooks, I still had one mission to complete.
Photo provided by Keith Lyons
So, as you are probably aware, Beijing hosted the Olympics back in 2008, with much fanfare and pomp. It was China showing off to the world just how modern and developed it was. It awed us not just with its impressive pageantry but also its buildings and facilities, many created just for the International sporting event. The Olympics provided the impetus for numerous infrastructure projects, particularly transport networks which were state-of-the-art.
Some facilities remain, and the Bird’s Nest is still an attraction in itself, despite its lack of use following the 16 years. You probably remember the Water Cube, the swimming pool.
Bird’s Nest: Photo provided by Keith Lyons
Often when I travel, I check to see if there are swimming pools near my accommodation, or even inside my hotel (if someone else is picking up the tab). So when I found out that Water Cube is open for casual swimming, I set my sights on swimming a lap or two in the famous pool.
It turns out the pool for public use isn’t the actual one for Olympic races — that’s reserved for competition — but the training pool where swimmers warmed up and down has been open to anyone for more than a decade. But there’s a catch.
First, you have to know that you can swim there. And there’s another level of safeguard. Because the pool is several metres deep, and there’s the danger of non-swimmers drowning, the pool is partitioned into two halves. The accessible half has a raised floor so it is only around a metre deep. You can stand up in it. Kids can stand up.
But the other half, where the depth darkens the water to deep blue, is strictly controlled entry. You need a swipe card to access it. And to get that, as an American working in Beijing described to me, involved a medical test as well as completing various swimming feats, which included swimming two lengths without pausing.
Without the time in the city to complete the rigorous entry requirements, I had to contend myself with the learner’s side, where parents walked alongside their children like chaperons, adults swam on both sides of the lanes, and there were frequent close calls or collisions.
Inside the Water Cube: Photo provided by Keith Lyons
I’m a reasonably tolerant person, and having lived in China for more than a dozen years had got used to behaviours I initially found, to my mind and upbringing, a little disgusting. But when I swam my first length, only having to stop a couple of times to negotiate around erratic swimmers, the first sound I heard was from a fellow swimmer rising up from his lane to loudly clear his throat and spit onto the floor edge. I made a mental note not to rest my goggles up there.
While I had the passive-aggressive stance towards those spitters, during rests at the end of the lane other swimmers struck up conversations. A middle-aged women confided how she had lessons to swim in her 40s, and now tried to swim at the Water Cube a few days each week, even if she could not go a few metres without gasping for air. “Can you give me any tips to improve my swimming,” she asked as she returned to my end. I replied in Chinese the word my blind masseur used to give me when he hit a sore point on my feet. “Fang song” — relax. It was probably the worst word to say, like shouting ‘keep calm’ out repeatedly when something has gone disastrously wrong.
I probably should have taken on board my own words, as I swam into a father shepherding his daughter along. He was blocking my way. I saw him do the same to others. Deliberately blocking the way of oncoming swimmers. You are the symbol of modern China, I thought. Selfish, entitled, arrogant. Because I am a man of peace and goodwill to all, when he next blocked my way, I just carried on swimming, exaggerating my kicking to churn up the water and splash his rotund belly and smug grin.
I switched to another lane, and after a few more lengths, as I waited for a slow swimmer to get a head start, a boy of 12 years decided to strike up a conversation with me. “My mother says I should practice my English, so that’s why I like to come here,” he said, pointing up to the viewing window where a dragon mom waved and then proceeded to turn her phone camera towards us. After exchanging the usual questions about himself and me, he then abruptly turned the conversation around to China and the world. “China is the biggest country in the world. We are the leader.”
Unable to find the right words to express himself, he asked another swimmer, a man who had just moved to Beijing from the north, to articulate.
I wanted to ask him if China was such a great country, why did so many of its people want to escape to a better life in the US, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. But conscious that swimming at the Water Cube gives just two hours in the facility I escaped myself and tried to complete a length unimpeded or uninterrupted.
When I got back, the boy, who was rather overweight, was still there, waiting with another claim about China’s might.
Maybe I’m being nostalgic, about the good old days, but in the 1990s and 2000s, being a foreigner in China meant automatic adulation and attention from Chinese. Foreigners were feted and admired regardless of their behaviour and personality.
Now, in the mid-2020s, things have changed. They started changing a decade ago, when China realised that foreigners were not so great after all. When stories from the government claimed that most of the foreigners were economic spies. When Chinese TV had footage of young Americans drunk and predatory on the Shanghai subway. When my friends said how they’d heard that many foreigners teaching in China were losers in their own country. The tide had turned. The golden days were over. China has regained its swagger. The sleeping giant was waking up. The dragon was turning. And I was getting tired.
Before my number got called and I got requested to leave the pool, I got out, and used my token in the shower, wishing I’d brought my flip-flops to protect my feet from contact with the floor.
Not just being in the water, but being underground, it always takes a little to adjust to being back above ground and at maximum gravity, weightless. One of the things I like about swimming is that afterwards, some of that fluidity, ease of movement, body perception and gentle feeling remains, like a reminder of how you could be in the world. My senses feel renewed, my mind a little lighter, my awareness more centred.
Near the Bird’s Nest, they were having a skateboard class, with over 50 participants, many of them young women. And as I strode along the wide boulevard, groups of newly initiated skaters wove in and out of the family groups and sightseers, a sign to the world of new ways of being, new freedoms, and new leisure. Was this a victory for American culture? Or was China taking this recreation and adding Chinese characteristics to it?
My last swim was both a relaxation exercise at the end of the day, and a future — proofing myself for a long-haul flight home.
The faint linger of chlorine on the webbing of my hands and fingers. The sensation of lying face down and being held by the water. The realisation that the more I know the less I understand about China. These are the things I took with me as I sat in the aisle seat, stretched out my legs, and reminded myself, that I was 30,000 feet above the earth, going from the ancient capital to one of the youngest nations on earth (New Zealand). Much is lost, falling away, lost in time, the memories not so much fade as slip away imperceptibly. I scroll through the photos on my iPhone. So long Beijing.
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’sEditorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Masud Khan’s poem, Dhamkal (Fire Engine), translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam
Having fled the madhouse, the lunatic darted up the tree. Nothing would make him come down, he said, Except for the pleas of that midget-sized nurse!
The nurse came running, quick as a fire engine, Waving wildly at him. Her gestures were coded messages, Inducing the lunatic to climb down from the tree top Just as a koi fish descends on the dining plate. Entranced by the smell of steaming curry, He descended easily and freely As consecutive numbers do when one counts down.
The lunatic’s thoughts flickered across the nurse’s consciousness.
This day that mad man will return once more to his asylum. Placing his head on the confessional, He will soundlessly suffer thirteen electric shocks Designed to induce thirteen confessions from him At the directive of the calm and composed health priest!
Masud Khan (b. 1959) is a Bengali poet and writer. He has, authored nine volumes of poetry and three volumes of prose and fiction. His poems and fictions (in translation) have appeared in journals including Asiatic, Contemporary Literary Horizon, Six Seasons Review, Kaurab, 3c World Fiction, Ragazine.cc, Nebo: A literary Journal, Last Bench, Urhalpul, Tower Journal, Muse Poetry, Word Machine, and anthologies including Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond (W.W. Norton & Co., NY/London); Contemporary Literary Horizon Anthology,Bucharest; Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace (Global Fraternity of Poets); and Padma Meghna Jamuna: Modern Poetry from Bangladesh(Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, New Delhi). Two volumes of his poems have been published as translations, Poems of Masud Khan(English), Antivirus Publications, UK, and Carnival Time and Other Poems (English and Spanish), Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania. Born and brought up in Bangladesh, Masud Khan lives in Canada and teaches at a college in Toronto.
There is a metronome in the next room,
knocking against felled coconuts;
The body has parts like a salvage yard
has parts, like the miniseries hacked up
into televised segments that beg you to
watch the exhibitionist whirl his dervish;
hairy and monstrous, father just home
from the bars…
Let the Dangermouse know;
it is wise to be informed –
strafing metal birds and a cradle robber
recruiter to work the malls; expired
coupons never come to collect,
this sourest of science.
Dentistry calls the canines, Marathon
comes a running, the rolling ecstasies,
the raffish unfallowed.
Destiny, the unopened suitcase.
Diving metal birds, the body in parts –
weeping linen closet, little Dangermouse
knows it’s coming:
cover your eyes mouth toes:
a great biting frost returns to these
wailing unmeasured lands.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
PAINT STRIPPER
This corrosion, for better bearing, ended,
stench of solvent above the flower box
flavours distended, unwatered, to demise.
I once feared being pounced on,.
people doing other than eating.
Minding their business, chatting to content.
Esoteric art hangs on the wall.
Selling for an orchestra, singing well,
enjoying the radio mumbling overhead.
Looking out on the cycle path, saying prayers
against the river's deluge, a fractured coursing
still only in one direction, catching fire.
The sun dances on various monuments,
sinking drinks al fresco, eating ad nauseum,
memoirs of the stony dead staying regardless.
Sweet wild flowers inhabit the tables,
scent bred out for better bearing
allergens eaten to hold for dear life.
A portmanteau life, an ersatz existence,
eat and somehow leave, bereft of information
imparted, sightseeing for dear life.
Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals across Ireland, The UK, USA, and Canada. She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I’ve made it to the ball –
And I’m waltzing with the prince
But do I still reek of cinder?
With every move of his body
And every twitch of his nose
I wonder if he smells it too.
I’ve made it to the ball –
But do they all know I’m a fraud?
Why did I bother coming out tonight?
A princess among mice but
Pauper among royals.
Sometimes I feel like
I am my own stepsister.
My barrier to the glass slipper.
Even when they say my accomplishments
are no small feat –
I curse myself for not having
smaller feet.
Arshi Mortuza is the author of the poetry collection, One Minute Past Midnight. She currently resides in Toronto, Canada.
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The old man and the sea, painting by Anne Weirich (Public Domain)
Of all things comprised, my unwitting alibis –
cove familiar shoulders in hunch, a mortuary stillness,
whale song across a darkened harbour,
the ghost of old pipe smoke through a ripened air
and rattily seated upon this chair, this porch,
a man of great age and weather;
a bottle of scotch and a single malt glass
on a nearby table – the roaming vicissitudes;
no pining gallant plight, no hands of shared warmth,
just a language so bare and true
as no man will be incited,
no love startled back from the breathless
unmoved depths.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
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Is it appropriate to speak of transnational glee as a legitimate audience response to a film? If so, that might be a fitting label for the global spectator reaction to the blockbuster Indian film, Jailer, released worldwide on August 10, 2023. The film whose OTT rights were purchased by Amazon Prime is streaming online while simultaneously playing to packed theatres in India, Sri Lanka, Malaysia, China, the Middle East, Australia, Canada, the US, the UK, France, and other countries. In its first month of theatrical release, Jailer brought in an impressive 300 crores in India alone with over 600 crores and counting (just shy of 22 million US dollars) as its worldwide earnings. Many Indian blockbuster films have had a worldwide high-performance index recently with the likes of Ponniyin Selvan, Pathaan, Bahubali etc. thriving on an exoticised glamour of an India of kings and queens and palaces and freedom fighters and medieval breakdance routines, a sort of mystified enchanting India of the travel brochure version for viewers both inside and outside India. Even a mediocre film like RRR had a localised transnational success in the United States during the academy award season as well.
Unlike these historical and revisionist costume dramas, Jailer is a full-on pop culture phenomenon, a movie of the moment, a tale of its time; it is as au courant as cellphones and police corruption. It is full of attitude, and packed chockful of allusions and homages to both Indian and western movies in what is essentially a fun romp. Shot mostly in sumptuous wide shots and rhythmic cuts, it establishes an onscreen India, dry and dusty, with industrial warehouses running forgery, guns and knives, roadside ice cream vendors, fly-by beheadings, and struggling gardens along with elementary school YouTube influencers. Its real distinction is that people all over the world get it. But it is as Indian, specifically, it is as Tamil as a Tamil can be, and it puts a smile on the face of anyone anywhere who watches it. The international blockbuster with no pretensions to anything other than cinematic entertainment is back, thanks to Jailer and its vibrant young director Nelson Dilipkumar.
Jailer tells the story of two men, a hero and a villain, a retired police officer Tiger Muthuvel Pandian, the eponymous jailer, and a criminal mastermind Varman who runs an art forgery ring. They make counterfeit Indian statuary and sells them in the international market. Their encounter becomes complicated when the jailor’s son, a corrupt police officer, starts working for the villain, the male melodrama of father-son conflict being a favorite trope in Tamil cinema from older films like Thangappathakkam (The Golden Badge,1974) that starred an earlier era’s superstar Shivaji Ganesan. Jailer belongs to the same pedigree of male melodramatic films. The hero is played by the Tamil superstar Rajnikanth and the villain, the psychopathic leader of the forgers by Vinayakan from the nearby Malayalam film industry in Kerala.
Both Rajnikanth and Vinayakan belong to the highly successful world of mainstream, commercial Indian cinema with strong populist reception while also maintaining a certain level of middle-class entertainment sophistication. When compared to Rajnikanth, Vinayakan is relatively a newcomer, but one who has very quickly claimed his own space in Mollywood, Kerala’s film industry that produces Malayalam language-based films.
Vinayakan’s breakout performance as an underworld operative, an executioner and strongman, a complex character who is right, wrong and everything in between in Kammatti Padam[1] (2016) earned him a Kerala State Film Award for Best Actor. Jailer sees him as a criminal psychopath with unpredictable ticks like instructing his lackeys to dance for him, drowning his enemies in big vats of sulphuric acid, delivering his Tamil-Malayalam pidgin with menacing comic timing etc. The overall excesses of his character have the potential to turn him into a stereotypical villain, especially since the sulphuric acid dunking trope has a colourful cinematic legacy in Indian popular culture. (The “sulphuric acid joke” is an instantly recognisable film joke in Indian pop culture attributed to the persona of an outlandish villain played by the erstwhile Bollywood star Ajit who is credited with asking his henchman Raabert (Hindi pronunciation of Robert) the following purely apocryphal lines: “Raabert, is haraami ko liquid oxygen mein dal do; liquid ise jeene nahin dega, oxygen ise marna nahin dega” (Robert, drown him in Liquid Oxygen; the Liquid won’t let him live, and the Oxygen won’t let him die!”). Jailer abounds in many such recognisable “quotation marks” throughout the film, including an ear-slicing scene, an evident homage to Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs(1992), and “Stuck in the Middle with You”. These artfully placed allusions create an enjoyable self-reflexive layer in the film where Jailer talks to film materials that have provided evident inspiration. The self-conscious scripting and direction, and the sheer enjoyment and abandonment with which Vinayakan embraces the deranged psyche of Varman makes him a bonafide villain and not a caricature.
Rajnikanth who plays the title role of the jailer is the 72-year-old veteran superstar of Tamil cinema known to his massive adoring fan base as thalaivar (“Leader/Chief” in Tamil). Rajanikanth started his film career with the 1975 romantic drama Apoorva Ragangal (Rare Melodies), a far cry from the action crime thriller genre which would soon become synonymous with his name in the industry. With his trademark moustache, lopsided pursed lips, thick mop of straight black hair swiped across the forehead, lean frame, and long lanky legs, Rajnikanth from the 80s onwards played the righteous underdog on both sides of the law who took on the snobbish elite as well as the violent underworld players and won. He played orphans, rickshaw drivers, underworld consigliere, police officer, milkman, engineer, writer, grandfather, father, son, brother, husband, lover – he played the full spectrum of masculine roles in mainstream Indian cinema.
There is an underacknowledged colour line in Indian films where the relatively whiter-complexioned actors and actresses are considered stardom material. Rajnikanth with his dark-complexion and Midas touch at the box office demolished this industry practice and became the mirror for the ordinary darker Dravidian face on the Indian silver screen. Jailer sees him aged but fuller and lighter than his earlier years, though what has not changed are his instantly recognisable dance moves; underworld or the penthouse, underdog or the aggressor, Rajnikanth’s dance moves set the tone in his films. The standing jogs, the high kicks, the hip shake, the robotic arm movements and hand props like dark glasses and hand towels showed a new definition of “cool” to his fans. His tentative dance performance in Jailer is reminiscent of another accomplished dancer who exhibits a pretend stage fright; John Travolta in Pulp Fiction dancing with Uma Thurman to Chuck Berry’s “You Never Can Tell.”
Other significant performances include Vasanth Ravi as the jailor’s corrupt and clueless son, Ramya Krishnan as the jailer’s visibly irritated wife, along with hilarious cameos by Malayalam superstar, Mohanlal, Bollywood star, Jackie Shroff, and Kannada star, Shiva Rajkumar — all of them act as outlaws who help the jailer in his fight against Varman. An equally hilarious subplot involves a love triangle between the dancing beauty Kamna, her lecherous costar “Blast” Mohan, and her lover, the timid film director.
The film clocks an impressive two hours and fifty minutes on the strength of these men and their vivacious performances, smart, sharp, and funny dialogue, over-the-top violence, and a sizzling cameo dance sequence, popularly known in Indian film lingo as an “item number” by the alluring Bollywood actress Tamannah. The single “Kaavaala[2]” composed by the music director, Anirudh, is a proper earworm turned worldwide viral hit with the young and the old alike shaking their hips to its mood altering percussive rhythm, the latest being a Japanese version of the song. Perhaps as a testament to the song’s instant infectious popularity, the original dance features dancers of multiple ethnicities, a global potpourri as it were, with a set reminiscent of the production design of Raiders of the Lost Ark[3] (1981) as well as a flute intro that calls out to Andean musicians. If any song can bring the world together, “Kaavaala” can.
Indeed, the multiple references to Quentin Tarantino, Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction are unavoidable while watching Jailer. As with Tarantino, director Nelson (as he is popularly known) too operates inside a similar vision of cinematic storytelling.
The proper subject of Jailer is cinema, cinemas of India, cinemas of the world. Tamil melodramas of the 1970s, the middle class Tamil comedies of the eighties and the nineties, Bollywood action flicks, Hollywood adventure films, the black crime comedies of Quentin Tarantino, the epic blood splatter of Robert Rodriguez, the bumbling and menacing sociopathic capers of Guy Ritchie films – Jailer tips its hat to all of these crime-as-entertainment influences through its multilayered dense scripting, the large cast of characters, and the no holds barred display of gory violence. It is a refreshingly confident film without any false notes though some of the repeated explosion scenes could be tightened.
Jailer tells an old story familiar to the Tamil audience, a story as old as Shivaji Ganesan in Thangappathakkam(1974)—the upright police officer father and the fallen corrupt son. The film chugs through its dense thicket of plot and counterplot towards an inevitable moral resolution to this impasse. This is where the power of the star system in Indian cinema, a status equal to that of gods, plays its trump card. With Rajnikanth playing the jailer father there can be only one moral resolution, son, or no son. It is a formula that never fails, and speaks of a justice perhaps unique to cinema.
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[1]Kammatti Paadam — is the name of a slum in Kochi, Kerala. It is a place name. Kammatti is a proper noun without any traceable etymology. Paadam means “field” in Malayalam. “The Slum Fields” of “The Slum” could be an appropriate translation.
[2]Kaavaalaya — A Telugu phrase, “I Want You, Man”
Humans are in a perpetual state of motion — be it intercity, interstate, or inter-country — and the relentless quest to assimilate commences. Embracing a new culture, blending seamlessly with the locals, and adopting regional slangs and accents become daily endeavours. In this race without a finish line, a persistent anxiety takes hold. “What if I don’t quite fit in?” “Will people forever perceive me as an outsider?” “Could I lose touch with my roots?” Trust me, this apprehension intensifies when one immigrates to a foreign land.
The inner conflict of belonging experienced in transcultural migrations casts light on the concept of cultural dysphoria. When I first encountered this term, it piqued my interest in how individuals navigate their daily lives while carrying this weight. Cultural dysphoria, a recent term, is an extension of the concept of dysphoria. EverydayFeminism defines cultural dysphoria as: “…the dissonance between the societal expectations for an individual’s broad cultural performance or identity and their desired embodiment of that culture, or uncertainty about where they fit into cultural categories.”
In simpler terms, someone experiencing cultural dysphoria feels like an alien in a new culture. They grapple with the space between two distinct cultures. While their mind urges them to embrace the tenets of the new cultural paradigm, their heart insists on preserving their native cultural heritage.
It was only recently that I comprehended how the concept of cultural dysphoria applied to both me and my family. This understanding took nearly two decades to crystallise, but as the adage goes, “better late than never.” Such realisation would not have dawned upon me without the pursuit of my Ph.D. thesis. Over time, I delved into novels penned by first-generation South Asian American writers such as Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, Amulya Malladi, Naomi Munaveera, and Bapsi Sidhwa. These authors were born in South Asian countries and subsequently migrated to America. Their literary works often delve into the challenges faced by immigrant families in a foreign land. Reading allows us to explore the world, but essays and books also furnish a window through which we can empathise with someone’s narrative. Nevertheless, one’s own story offers a distinct and nuanced perspective. Indeed, first-hand experiences yield unique vantage points.
I was a mere eight-years-old when my father obtained Canada’s Permanent Residency Card, and our journey towards establishing roots in a foreign land began. As a second grader, comprehending that you’re about to traverse over 7,000 miles is no small feat. At times, the gravity of such a situation eluded me. On other occasions, I found excitement in the impending turbulence. It was exhilarating, even though questions like ‘why are we relocating?’ and ‘why must I leave my school?’ continually lingered in my mind, spanning the distance from Delhi to our future home in Calgary.
This is the nature of belongingness – it doesn’t instantaneously manifest if you’ve have never before contemplated the possibility of residing in a country far removed from your homeland. The initial step in transcultural migration involves recognition, transcendence, and integration. One must acknowledge the reality of transcending boundaries, leaving behind their original cultural heritage, and stepping foot in a foreign land with its own distinct cultural tapestry. I refer to this stage as ‘Acceptance’, as it encompasses a multitude of thoughts regarding one’s capacity to accept and be accepted within this new environment.
For my family, the journey of assimilation began the moment we exited YYC Calgary International Airport in November 2006. A friend of my maternal uncle’s son welcomed us—a network woven through connections—a common phenomenon in Indian culture. Connecting with familiar faces, who then introduce you to others, and this chain keeps expanding, is deeply ingrained in our cultural fabric. From being surrounded by individuals of a different ethnicity to grappling with the nuances of time zones, my family sought to adapt to our new Canadian milieu. Isn’t it peculiar how one day you’re in the tranquility of your home, and the very next day, you soaring through the skies, crossing international borders?
Recalling the sequence of events surrounding our immigration, nearly two decades later, is no simple task. Much has evolved, particularly my perspective on life. What once seemed normal has shifted, no longer aligning with my current perceptions. This is the natural progression of personal growth – forgetting, reminiscing, comprehending, and de-constructing. Each emotion makes sense in hindsight, guided by wisdom acquired over time.
At times, we relegate certain emotions to the shadows of our heart. We normalise the experience of residing in the in-between and the accompanying sense of non-belongingness, presuming it to be an idiosyncrasy. However, South Asian diaspora members share these particular sentiments of the in-between. We accept our role as outsiders among the locals, convinced that this is the way it should be, right?
Navigating the new environment while endeavouring to retain a strong connection to one’s roots becomes paramount when relocating to a foreign country. A part of me yearned to return to India to celebrate the Festival of Lights with those left behind, while another part was eager to explore innovative ways of preserving our culture and traditions amidst the bustling streets of a land predominantly inhabited by individuals of a different ethnicity.
During those years, Canada had not yet become the Mecca for Indian students pursuing higher education, as it is today. The immigrant community consisted mainly of those who had relocated in the ’70s or ’80s in pursuit of a brighter future for their children. Consequently, the Indian community was relatively smaller.
The question of belongingness emerged from as early as my first day at school. Where does one truly belong in a classroom of over twenty students with varied ethnicity? Among these students, four were of Indian descent, two hailed from Pakistan, one each from Australia and France, while the remainder were Canadian natives. Yet none of these students were unequivocally ‘Indian.’
The logical assumption might be that I belonged with the group of four Indian-origin students. However, this was not the case because, fundamentally, I was Indian. A subtle distinction lies between being Indian and being of Indian origin. It wasn’t a matter of passports; it ran deeper. I was too Indian to seamlessly integrate with non-Indians and just slightly more Indian than those of Indian origin. I existed as an ‘other’ amidst the ‘others,’ with the four Indian-origin students occasionally amused by my Indian accent. Emerging from a decent background, having received education in a convent school, initiating casual conversations with a simple ‘hey, what’s up?’ was effortless. Yet, adopting a foreign accent was not within my purview. My peers of the same age knew precisely when and how to employ phrases like ‘screw it,’ ‘for God’s sake’, I’m not interested,’ and ‘nahhhh…’ The only phrase that came to mind whenever I wished to express my lack of interest was ‘it doesn’t matter’. As a non-native English speaker, it was the most apt phrase I could muster. Apparently, seamless alignment in terms of accent, language, and communication is pivotal to establishing friendships in a foreign land. Failure to do so results in being cast aside as an outsider.
The nagging thought that permeated my family’s collective consciousness during those early days in Canada was this: Do we belong here among people who do not perceive us as one of themselves? We had successfully traversed the initial stage of transcultural migration. Consequently, the second stage — which I’ve labelled ‘Non-belongingness’ — became a pivotal moment, shedding light on our lack of alignment with both people of Indian origin and non-Indians. Our cultural identity remained a poignant question mark, casting a shadow over our Canadian experience.
For my father, commuting to work entailed a daily two-hour journey to and from his workplace. Occasional weekend outings, mostly for groceries, marked the extent of our excursions. Indian suits were my mother’s customary attire, but how long would that persist? After a few months, she transitioned to wearing jeans and long shirts. While Indian suits exude grace and elegance, she lamented the difficulty of blending in. “Passing by a row of foreigners while wearing a salwar kameez is a daunting task; one becomes the subject of unwarranted stares,” she confided. Her eyes betrayed a longing for the life she left behind in India, where she could choose her favourite salwar kameez and embellish it with the most exquisite dupatta in her wardrobe without attracting undue attention. I sensed her yearning for India, particularly when my maternal grandfather — whom I affectionately called Nanu — phoned. Each call filled her with joy, and her countenance radiated even more than usual. Perhaps Nanu sensed her yearning to return, which manifested as glistening tears on my mother’s cheeks.
Life in Canada was a far cry from what it used to be in India. As Diwali approached, I eagerly anticipated the deluge of sweets and gifts that would typically inundate our home in India. However, that year, those customary tokens of celebration were conspicuously absent, a stark reminder that we had yet to establish a substantial social network in Canada. Everything had changed. People in Canada appeared disinterested in the Festival of Lights. It was just another day for them. Some were engrossed in preparations for Christmas, while others seemed oblivious to the existence of Diwali, India’s most eagerly awaited festival. With no candles adorning our home, no gifts to fuel our excitement, and nothing resembling the grandeur of an Indian Diwali, our spirits plummeted upon realising that we had yet to sever our emotional ties to our culture. It was a perplexing sensation. While I yearned to embrace the festivities of Christmas, the absence of enthusiasm for Diwali contrasted starkly with my Canadian expectations. I believe my parents experienced a similar sentiment because on that day, an uncharacteristic sombreness shrouded our smiles. We smiled for each other, but the glint in our eyes bespoke our longing for our true home, India.
In this narrative, where did we truly belong? Some may argue that we belonged where we resided at that moment, while others might reflect on their immigrant experiences and ponder their sense of belonging. This is where the bitter realisation of cultural dysphoria takes root. The inability to fully integrate into a foreign land, the feeling of being an outsider, and the disconnect between cultural expectations and reality culminate in a dysphoric sensation, marking the onset of the third stage in an individual’s transcultural migration journey. At this juncture, it becomes imperative to recognise that while certain aspects of one’s former culture must be relinquished, others must be preserved. I refer to this third stage as the ‘In-Between.’
The third stage of the transcultural migration experience delineates the unique space an individual occupies, betwixt and between two cultures. As immigrants, we embraced certain facets of the new culture while shedding some of our own, and vice versa, to carve out a niche that could accommodate and harmonise both cultures. Within this ‘In-Between,’ a new persona emerged. We remained too Indian for the world outside, yet our hearts affirmed it was for the best.
That year in Canada unfolded with a plethora of surprises. And then, we returned to India. But that’s a story for another essay!
The feeling of cultural dysphoria is far from uncommon. A majority of migrants grapple with the turmoil of cultural conflicts when transitioning to a new country. While this narrative offers a glimpse into how transcultural migrations can affect an individual, there exist countless other stories waiting to be shared with the world. In the area of transcultural migration, each thread tells a unique story, and my narrative is but one strand in this rich fabric of human experience. As my family and I navigated the in-between of two cultures, I am reminded that our journey is a testament to resilience, adaptability, and the enduring power of cultural identity. While the road may be fraught with challenges, the experience has imbued us with a profound appreciation for new cultures. Cultural dysphoria may cast its shadow, but it also offers a canvas for personal growth and understanding. It is my hope that by sharing our story, we illuminate the path for others embarking on similar journeys and foster a deeper understanding of the intricate web of the transcultural in-between.
Disha Dahiya is a PhD Research Scholar in English Literature. She has a keen interest in exploring the South Asian narrative across borders and boundaries while focusing on the cultural aspect of transcultural migrations.
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