Tag: Christmas

Categories
Contents

Borderless, December 2025

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

‘I wondered should I go or should I stay…’ …Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s Shoore O Baneer Mala Diye (With a Garland of Tunes and Lyrics) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Four of his own Malay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.

Five poems by Satrughna Pandab have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das. Click here to read.

A Lump Stuck in the Throat, a short story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Tagore’s Jatri (Passenger) has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Conversation

Keith Lyons in conversation with Harry Ricketts, mentor, poet, essayist and more. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Harry Ricketts, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Laila Brahmbhatt, John Grey, Saba Zahoor, Diane Webster, Gautham Pradeep, Daniel Gene Barlekamp, Annwesa Abhipsa Pani, Cal Freeman, Smitha Vishwanath,John Swain, Nziku Ann, Anne Whitehouse, Tulip Chowdhury, Ryan Quinn Flangan, Ramzi Albert Rihani, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Said the Spook, Rhys Hughes gives a strange tale around Christmas. Click here to read.

Musings/ Slices from Life

Your call is important to us?

Farouk Gulsara writes of how AI has replaced human interactions in customer service. Click here to read.

Honeymoon Homecoming

Meredith Stephens visits her old haunts in Japan. Click here to read.

Cracking Exams

Gower Bhat discusses the advent of coaching schools in Kashmir for competitive exams for University exams, which seem to be replacing real schools. Click here to read.

The Rule of Maximum Tolerance?

Jun A. Alindogan writes of Filipino norms. Click here to read.

How Two Worlds Intersect

Mohul Bhowmick muses on the diversity and syncretism in Bombay or Mumbai. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In The Monitoring Spirit, Devraj Singh Kalsi writes of spooky encounters. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In One Thousand Year Story in the Middle of Shikoku, Suzanne Kamata takes us on a train ride through Japan. Click here to read.

Essays

250 Years of Jane Austen: A Tribute

Meenakshi Malhotra pays a tribute to the writer. Click here to read.

Anadi: A Continuum in Art

Ratnottama Sengupta writes of an exhibition curated by her. Click here to read.

Sangam Literature: Timeless Chronicles of an Ancient Civilisation

Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan explores the rich literary heritage of Tamil Nadu. Click here to read.

A Brickfields Christmas Tale

Malachi Edwin Vethamani recounts the flavours of past Christmases in a Malaysian Kampung. Click here to read.

Bhaskar’s Corner

In The Riverine Journey of Bibhuti Patnaik, Bhaskar Parichha pays a tribute to the octegenarian writer. Click here to read.

Stories

Evergreen

Sayan Sarkar gives a climate friendly and fun narrative. Click here to read.

The Crying Man

Marc Rosenberg weaves a narrative around childhood. Click here to read.

How Madhu was Cured of Laziness

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a fable set in Southern India. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

Excerpt from Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments by Eric Chopra. Click here to read.

Excerpt from Leonie’e Leap by Marzia Pasini. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Rakhi Dalal reviews Anuradha Kumar’s Love and Crime in the Time of Plague. Click here to read.

Andreas Giesbert reviews Ariel Slick’s The Devil Take the Blues: A Southern Gothic Novel. Click here to read.

Gazala Khan reviews Ranu Uniyal’s This Could Be a Love Poem for You. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Indira Das’s Last Song before Home, translated from Bengali by Bina Biswas. Click here to read.

.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Editorial

‘I wondered should I go or should I stay…’

I flow and fly
with the wind further
still; through time
and newborn worlds…

--‘Limits’ by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

In winters, birds migrate. They face no barriers. The sun also shines across fences without any hindrance. Long ago, the late Nirendranath Chakraborty (1924-2018) wrote about a boy, Amalkanti, who wanted to be sunshine. The real world held him back and he became a worker in a dark printing press. Dreams sometimes can come to nought for humanity has enough walls to keep out those who they feel do not ‘belong’ to their way of life or thought. Some even war, kill and violate to secure an exclusive existence. Despite the perpetuation of these fences, people are now forced to emigrate not only to find shelter from the violences of wars but also to find a refuge from climate disasters. These people — the refuge seekers— are referred to as refugees[1]. And yet, there are a few who find it in themselves to waft to new worlds, create with their ideas and redefine norms… for no reason except that they feel a sense of belonging to a culture to which they were not born. These people are often referred to as migrants.

At the close of this year, Keith Lyons brings us one such persona who has found a firm footing in New Zealand. Setting new trends and inspiring others is a writer called Harry Ricketts[2]. He has even shared a poem from his latest collection, Bonfires on the Ice. Ricketts’ poem moves from the personal to the universal as does the poetry of another migrant, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, aspiring to a new, more accepting world. While Tulip Chowdhury — who also moved across oceans — prays for peace in a war torn, weather-worn world:

I plant new seeds of dreams
for a peaceful world of tomorrow.

--‘Hopes and Dreams’ by Tulip Chowdhury

We have more poems this month that while showcasing the vibrancy of thoughts bind with the commonality of felt emotions on a variety of issues from Laila Brahmbhatt, John Grey, Saba Zahoor, Diane Webster, Gautham Pradeep, Daniel Gene Barlekamp, Annwesa Abhipsa Pani, Cal Freeman, Smitha Vishwanath, John Swain, Nziku Ann and Anne Whitehouse. Ramzi Albert Rihani makes us sit up by inverting norms while Ryan Quinn Flangan with his distinctive style raises larger questions on the need for attitudinal changes while talking of car parks. Rhys Hughes sprinkles ‘Hughesque’ humour into poetry with traffic jams as he does with his funny spooky narrative around Christmas.

Fiction in this issue reverberates across the world with Marc Rosenberg bringing us a poignant telling centred around childhood, innocence and abuse. Sayan Sarkar gives a witty, captivating, climate-friendly narrative centred around trees. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao weaves a fable set in Southern India.

A story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi from the dusty landscapes of Balochistan has found its way into our translations too with Fazal Baloch rendering it into English from Balochi. Isa Kamari translates his own Malay poems which echo themes of his powerful novels, A Song of the Wind (2007) and Tweet(2017), both centred around the making of Singapore. Snehaprava Das introduces Odia poems by Satrughna Pandab in English. While Professor Fakrul Alam renders one of Nazrul’s best-loved songs from Bengali to English, Tagore’s translated poem Jatri (Passenger) welcomes prospectives onboard a boat —almost an anti-thesis of his earlier poem ‘Sonar Tori’ (The Golden Boat) where the ferry woman rows off robbing her client.

In reviews, we also have a poetry collection, This Could Be a Love Poem for You by Ranu Uniyal discussed by Gazala Khan. Bhaskar Parichha introduces a book that dwells on aging and mental health issues, Indira Das’s Last Song before Home, translated from Bengali by Bina Biswas. Rakhi Dalal has reviewed Anuradha Kumar’s Love and Crime in the Time of Plague:A Bombay Mystery, a historical mystery novel set in the Bombay of yore, a sequel to her earlier The Kidnapping of Mark Twain. Andreas Giesbert has woven in supernatural lore into this section by introducing Ariel Slick’s The Devil Take the Blues: A Southern Gothic Novel. In our excerpts too, we have ghostly lore with an extract from Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments by Eric Chopra. The other excerpt is from Marzia Pasini’s Leonie’s Leap, a YA novel showcasing resilience.

We have plenty of non-fiction this time starting with a tribute to Jane Austen (1775-1817) by Meenakshi Malhotra. Austen turns 250 this year and continues relevant with remakes in not only films but also reimagined with books around her novels — especially Pride and Prejudice (which has even a zombie version). Bhaskar Parichha pays a tribute to writer Bibhuti Patnaik. Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan explores ancient Sangam Literature from Tamil Nadu and Ratnottama Sengupta revisits an art exhibition that draws bridges across time… an exploration she herself curated.

Suzanne Kamata takes us on a train journey through historical Japan and Meredith Stephens finds joy in visiting friends and living in a two-hundred-year-old house from the Edo period[3]. Mohul Bhowmick introduces a syncretic and cosmopolitan Bombay (now Mumbai). Gower Bhat gives his opinion on examination systems in Kashmir, which echoes issues faced across the world while Jun A. Alindogan raises concerns over Filipino norms.

Farouk Gulsara — with his dry humour — critiques the growing dependence on artificial intelligence (or the lack of it). Devraj Singh Kalsi again shares a spooky adventure in a funny vein while Malachi Edwin Vethamani woos us with syncretic colours of Christmas during his childhood in Brickfields, Malaysia — a narrative woven with his own poems and nostalgia.

We have a spray of colours from across almost all the continents in our pages this time. A bumper issue again — for which all of the contributors have our heartfelt thanks. Huge thanks to our fabulous team who pitch in to make a vibrant issue for all of us. A special thanks to Sohana Manzoor for the fabulous artwork. And as our readers continue to grow in numbers by leap and bounds, I would want to thank you all for visiting our content! Introduce your friends too if you like what you find and do remember to pause by this issue’s contents page.

Wish all of you happy reading through the holiday season!

Best wishes,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE DECEMBER 2025 ISSUE.

[1] UNHCR Refugees

[2] Harry Ricketts born and educated in  England moved to New Zealand.

[3] Edo period in Japan (1603-1868)

.

READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Categories
Essay

A Brickfields Christmas Tale

By Malachi Edwin Vethamani

The Old Brickfields

The world changes. Yet, the memories captured and frozen in time, moments that one never thought would come to pass, remain. In my child’s eyes I still see and recall a world that has gone by, the space and the people and all in it that I still love. Brickfields was no remote Indian enclave even in the 1960s. It was about 5 miles from Kuala Lumpur, the capital town. The outside world would soon collide with my small space called Thambapillai Kampung[1] in Brickfields amidst 13th May 1969 race riots and my childhood world would become the past.

We were a small community, a kampung of about 100 households. We were all tenants to a lawyer landlord who charged a small rent to occupy a small portion of his land. It was home to many Indians who were barely scaping for a living above the poverty line. What we lacked in the material world, was made up with a sense of community. It was not perfect, but we co-existed amicably and often looked out for each other.

Thambapillai Kampung composed a good mix of Hindu and Christian families, mostly of Tamil ethnicity, both Indian and Sri Lankan. Mine was a Christian childhood here. The Methodist Tamil Church was a ten-minute walk away from our home. The Hindu temple, Sri Kandaswamy Kovil, at the end of Scott Road was even closer. The kampung is now replaced by condominiums none of us could have afforded, except the lawyer who sold his land for the gentrification of this place. The church and temple still remain.

The Days Before Christmas

Christmas Palagaram-Making

Our house was often the hive of Christmas palagaram making activities. My mother and her group of women friends, Hindu and Christian, all housewives, would plan a schedule on making traditional Indian palagaram[2] like muruku, achimuruku, chippi, neiyi orrundai, monturikottu and sometimes even kalu oorundai (almost as hard as cricket balls). They would take great care to get all the ingredients and make the palagaram from scratch.

Kalu oorundai
Achimuruku
From Public Domain

Below is an excerpt from my poem ‘A Brickfields Christmas’ that narrates my childhood experience of witnessing this activity over several years:

December descends on us.
Womenfolk, friends of
Amma, Sithi and Paati,
all aunties to us arrive.
Palagaram-making begins.
Muruku, achimuruku, chippi
and neiyee oorundai –
South Indian festive fare.
We wait at the side lines
like cats for scraps.

My elder sisters put their
culinary skills to work.
The fragrance of freshly baked
cookies and cakes
waft through the house,
giving a sweetness
over the usual aroma
of curries in our home.
A festive air spreads
and seeps through the house.

Annual House Spring Cleaning

The days before Christmas fell during the school holidays and we the children were homebound. It was also the time for our big-time annual spring cleaning of our house as part of the preparation for Christmas and new year. All the children were involved in various tasks to clean and repaint the whole house. This is re-counted in the extracts from my poem ‘A Brickfields Christmas’:


It’s November and school’s out.
We are all home-bound.
There’s an excitement
despite the work at hand.
Paint brushes appear
and paint pails sit next to Appa’s bicycle.
The yearly routine is set to begin
in our house.
…

The house waits
like a patient giant
its coat slowly scraped away
and its nakedness to be clothed
by an eight-sibling work team.

Chores allocated according
to seniority and skills.
I am happy to scrape
last year’s peeling paint.

Limestone white
for personal living spaces
ICI blue paint just for the hall.
The worn-down white planks over
the months are slowly lapped up
by paint-laden brushes.

Large black spiders once secure
in crevices now scuttle about.
Plank by plank whiteness emerges.
A new brightness which in time
will wear off once more.
The house smells fresh
and a lightness caresses us.

Annual Christmas Shopping

Mutabak. From Public Domain

Our family practice was that all the children would get clothes for the festive season. Three set of clothes one for Christmas eve, Christmas day and New Year’s Day. Amma was the prime mover in all our activities. We would set out to Batu Road (now Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman) to Globe Silk Store and Kishu’s Departmental Stall, for their affordable prices, to buy our shirts. Along the way, we would stop at Central Shoe Shop or Bata to buy our shoes. Taking a break from shopping, we would be treated to murtabak at the famous Kassim Restaurant which was also situated among these shops.

It was also the time of year for buying gifts. For this, my eldest brother, Annan, would accompany us and we would go to Deen’s to buy our board games, toys for building and construction sets and even musical instruments. All these would be gift wrapped and placed under our Christmas tree. Besides our choice of gifts, there would some surprise gifts too.

Appa[3] was busy with his work and left this work to Amma[4]. Being a newsvendor, he had no holidays. He worked every day if newspapers were printed and needed to be delivered to his customers. Yet, he still found time to take the boys to the tailor near our house in Scott Road to get our short pants sewn.

Christmas Decorations for Our Home

The last few weeks, the postman would have brought tens of Christmas cards for the family and individuals who were of card-sending/receiving age. We used to look out for who would get the most greeting cards besides our parents. In the last few Christmases in Brickfields, I was among those assigned to write the greetings and addresses on the Christmas cards before they were sent off to the nearby Brickfields post office. I can remember the many times I wrote: To, Mr & Mrs xxx and fly … Best wishes from Mr & Mrs N Vethamani & fly (short form for family).

A few days before Christmas we would begin putting up the decorations. The cards we received would be strung and hanged on the living room walls using a string to hold them. Balloons were blown and hung in the corners and sides of the living room walls. Finally, the Christmas tree that had been stored away after last year’s celebration would be brought and decorated:


Last year’s Christmas tree
is uncovered from its yearlong dust.
My younger brother and I
hang the glittering trinkets
fearing a drop could shatter
the fragile bells and baubles.
Our friend Ahmad is cutting
out crepe paper and
making streamers.

A golden star crowns our tree.
Annan places the lights
A final touch, Akka sprays the snow.
For the first time that night
the lights come on again.
The multi-coloured twinkling bulbs
complete the advent of Christmas
into our kampung home.
Christmas Eve

Christmas eve marked the height of the festivities for us children. It was a day of giving and sharing. Christmas cheer through palagaram, Christmas goodies. Around five in evening, as the day grew slightly cooler, we would begin the palagaram-giving to our neighbours, both Hindu and Christian. Amma, Paati[5] and my elder sisters would arrange our homemade palagaram on trays. They would be covered with a tray lace.

It was a joyous occasion, carrying trays of goodwill to our neighbours’ homes. We were warmly greeted. Often, the mothers in the neighbours’ houses would receive our gift. They would then take our gift and often leave a small gift, one Ringgit or five Ringgit note even. These cash gifts often thrilled us to no end as it meant more spending money during Christmas. Seeing my elder siblings, even as a child, I knew that I best enjoy what I had as with each passing year the younger ones would take my place. What I didn’t know was how quickly this world would come to an end.

The Christmas tree would be lit in the evening, and our presents lay on the floor below the branches. Annan[6] would be playing Christmas carols on the gramophone. The day would end with playing with crackers and fireworks with my cousins who lived a few doors away. We would wait anxiously for the evening to pass and soon it would be Christmas. We seldom stayed awake till midnight. The excitement through the day wore us out and we were soon in our beds.

Some Christmas eves, our Sittappa[7] would butcher a young goat in his garden. We, children, we were not allowed to see the actual killing of the goat but once it was done, we would watch Sittappa cut and clean the carcass. On Christmas day and the next few days, we would have mutton curry along with mutton tripe, mutton dalcha and other mutton delicacies.

Christmas Day

On Christmas morning, the air was filled with everything fresh and new, the house with its freshly coated paint and all of us in our new clothes. Morning would have started early for Amma, Paati and my elder sisters. They would have started to cook the food for us and our guests who would arrive for our Christmas lunch. Amma was a good cook and all of us and our guests looked forward to her biryani and dishes. Often, we had turkey kurma curry for Christmas lunch. For breakfast we had fruitcake, jam tarts and other palagaram.

Turkey Kurma Curry. From Public Domain

Soon it was time to get ready for church. My poem ‘One Christmas Morning’ captures how the day began on a Christmas morning while we lived in Brickfields:

One Christmas Morning

The smell of curries
and familiar kitchen sounds
of Paati, Amma and my sisters
have awakened me.

My younger brother already about
caught up with his presents
opened at midnight by the Christmas tree
has no time for me.

Annan has switched on the gramophone
and Pat Boone sings carols
that he’d be home for Christmas
though not my sister, away in a distant land.

The smells of curries and ghee rice
waft through the house
guests will arrive,
but not yet.

Appa’s come back,
his bicycle still laden with the day’s newspapers
offices closed for the holiday
deliveries can wait another day.

A brother’s in the bathroom,
another awaits his turn,
soon we’d all have bathed
and dressed in our Christmas best.

Ready for church,
                            a quick walk away.

Now dressed in our Christmas best, we make our way to Church which is a few minutes’ walk. Amma, Paati and my elder sisters in their new sarees, Appa in his new vesti and shirt and we the sons in our new shirts, shorts and shoes. The church would be decorated in festive Christmas colours and among the congregation there was a general sense of joy celebrating Jesus’ birth.

Once the Church service is over and we are back home, the busy hours in our home begins. Our family friends begin to make their way to our home for lunch. We would have gone to their homes for Deepavali and other occasions. We, the children, would have invited some of our friends too and we get to play hosts to them. Annan’s and Akka[8]’s friends and work colleagues and our classmates come calling. 

Going to friends’ homes during festive occasions is very much a thing of a past. Malaysians used to invite friends from different races and religions to their homes. Unfortunately, the practice of ‘open house’ slowly declined and has mostly faded. There are no more closely knit communities as when we were in Thambapillai Kampung, Brickfields. Most people seem quite happy to celebrate in neutral places like restaurants where there is no fear of offending religious sensibilities. Muslims want halal food and Hindus should not be served beef. Then there are the vegetarians and the vegans. The spirit of coming together is lost by that which divide us and not celebrate our diversity.

All my Christmases have changed over the decades. Now many years on since the Brickfields Christmases, with our parents having passed away there is no family home Christmases. My siblings have their own families and my sons all grown up and with their own families do not celebrate Christmas either. So, I’m left with the happy memories of my childhood Christmases. Still, it is a happy occasion.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Family photo for Christmas in our Brickfields home. Circa 1967
Tharumaraj Annan (eldest brother) standing in front of our attap-roof kampung house. Circa 1968.
Photos provided by Malachi Edwin Vethamani

[1] Malay word for village

[2] Tamil word for snacks, sweets and confectionary

[3] Tamil word for Father

[4] Tamil word for Mother

[5] Tamil word for Grandmother

[6] Tamil word for Elder Brother

[7] Tamil word for Uncle

[8] Tamil word for Elder Sister

 Malachi Edwin Vethamani is a Malaysian Indian poet, writer, editor, critic, bibliographer and academic. He is Emeritus Professor with University of Nottingham. More details at : www.malachiedwinvethamani.com

.

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
Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

Said the Spook

(Christmas Edition)

From Public Domain

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said the spook.

“But it’s Christmas!” gasped the werewolf.

“Why does that matter?”

“Everyone should believe in ghosts at Christmas. It’s a tradition. Just think of A Christmas Carol, for instance.”

“I don’t care. I still don’t believe in them.”

“So you don’t believe in yourself?”

“Don’t be silly,” said the phantom, “a spook isn’t the same thing as a ghost. Not the same thing at all…”

“I was a ghost once,” sighed the vampire.

“What happened?” cried the ghoul.

“Well, it was like this…” began the vampire, and he proceeded to tell a garbled account of how he was once a poor traveller in an earlier century who was attacked by bandits in the forest, then his spirit rose out of his body and proceeded to haunt the bandit chieftain, making the rogue’s life a misery by possessing him and forcing him to act against his will.

The skeleton rapidly tapped an impatient foot.

“Shh!” hissed the ghoul, “you sound like a xylophone, and I am trying to listen to the vampire’s narrative.”

“Yes, but he’s drawing it out a bit, isn’t he?”

“That’s his privilege, of course.”

“How come he gets your respect and I don’t?”

“He’s a Count, but what are you? Without a shred of flesh on you, I’d say you were merely a subtraction.”

“That’s a really bad play on words,” sniffed the skeleton.

“So what? It’s a good insult…”

“Stop bickering!” growled the werewolf.

The vampire was oblivious to all this fuss. He was explaining how his ghost possessed the bandit chieftain by entering into his brain through his nose, then he would force the miscreant to dance and sing in a very silly manner and do all sorts of humiliating things. The other bandits soon abandoned their leader in dismay and went elsewhere.

“Unfortunately,” continued the vampire, his fangs gleaming in the pale moonlight, “I got trapped inside his brain. I lost my way among the tangle of synapses and couldn’t get back out!”

“That sounds scary!” remarked the phantom.

The vampire nodded and his cape swished in the night breeze. “It was absolutely terrifying, I can assure you. I rushed hither and thither, trying to escape my prison, but I was stuck for good. So, I decided to accept my fate and things got easier. I settled in and was gradually absorbed by the host body, until I became the bandit. Once this happened, I ventured forth and returned to my old ways, robbing travellers in the forest. I was satisfied. But one dark night I chanced on the wrong victim.”

“Who was it?” asked the spook.

“A werewolf! And he attacked and bit me!”

The werewolf looked sheepish. “Don’t swivel your heads at me, I had nothing to do with it, honestly.”

“No, it wasn’t you,” said the vampire.

“Maybe one of my cousins?”

“I have no idea who it was, but I only just managed to escape his teeth and claws before he devoured me, yet I was now infected, and so I turned into a werewolf myself every full moon. I guess it was fun, in a way, but finally I was tracked down by a monster hunter.”

“Did he shoot you with a silver bullet?”

The vampire nodded. “Yes, he did. But when a werewolf dies it turns into a vampire, a fact that humans keep forgetting, and I soon got revenge on him! And that’s who you see before you now: a vampire who was once a werewolf who was once a bandit chief who was once a ghost who was once a poor traveller…”

There was a long pause. The spook cleared his throat.

“So, you believe in ghosts then?”

The vampire clucked his tongue. “Of course!”

“I still don’t,” said the spook.

“You don’t believe what happens to be true?”

“No, I don’t. Why should I?”

The spook and vampire glared at each other. Before they started to bicker seriously, the phantom laughed to lighten the mood and said, “I knew a man who was the opposite of that.”

“The opposite of what?” prompted the ghoul.

The phantom adjusted his ectoplasm.

“Opposite in attitude, I mean. He had no evidence about the existence of ghosts, but he was a firm believer in them. His friends were sceptics and mocked him and so he needed to obtain proof to silence them. But in fact, he required that proof for himself even more. His name was Mr Gaston Gullible, and he did everything possible to meet a ghost. He slept in old churchyards, went for midnight walks in lonely forests, used Ouija boards in the hope of contacting the departed.”

“All without success?” asked the werewolf.

The phantom rolled his insubstantial eyes in his wispy sockets, nodded and sighed. “Nothing ever worked.”

“That’s a shame,” remarked the skeleton.

“One night, it was Christmas Eve in fact, he was sleeping in his bed when the curtains began swishing. The window wasn’t open, there was no breath of wind in his room. The rustling woke him and he sat up and blinked in the gloom and when his eyes had adjusted he saw that the curtains had bunched themselves into the shape of a person, the shape of a woman, and she raised a fabric arm and pointed directly at him.”

“What did he do?” cried the werewolf.

“He died of fright and slumped back onto the bed. Then the ghostly woman approached him and said, ‘I have waited centuries to meet the right man. You will be my husband in the next world,’ and his ghost rose from his body. She was ready to embrace him, but he shook his head and brushed past her. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but I have stopped believing in ghosts. I believed in them all my life without evidence and I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I was wasting my time. I am now a sceptic, and I don’t believe in you,’ and he passed through the wall and was never seen again.”

“That story had a twist ending,” said the ghoul.

“Yes, it did,” agreed the phantom.

The spook said, “I’ve got a twist ending too.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Would you all like to see it?”

The vampire, werewolf, ghoul, phantom and skeleton exchanged glances. Then they said together, “Why not? Go ahead.”

The spook took a deep breath, extended his thin multi-jointed arms and started spinning. He spun faster and faster, became a blur, a spiral of force, a miniature tornado. Then he whirled away through the trees, laughing and crackling with blue thunderbolts.

“Merry Christmas!” he cried as he vanished.

The others shook their heads. The skeleton shook his head so vigorously that it fell off and he had to bend down to pick it up.

“I didn’t anticipate that,” admitted the phantom.

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

.

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

Visions by Fabiana Elisa Martínez

Fabiana Elisa Martínez

“And suddenly, among all those people I didn’t know, I had this strange feeling, this implausible realisation that I was seeing him for the first time. Handsome, confident, articulate in a language I still cannot follow with grace. And I felt this pang inside, you know, as if a naughty elf inside me were swaying my heart with a rope. How can I see my husband for the first time after having been married to him for almost eight years?”

Rosalia remained silent, observing for some speculating seconds the little square of tablet that Rita had brought for their tea.

“Your husband is exactly like this sweet, darling, which, by the way, is delicious. I need the recipe before you leave.”

“Like tablet?” Rita inclined her head to the right in the exact same way her daughter did when she heard anything worth clarification. “My grandmother Cochrane would be very honoured to know you like her Scottish tablet so much. I cannot make anybody eat it at home. Henry says it’s too sweet and Maggie too sticky.”

“Well…,” Rosalia sighed, “for me it’s perfect, and I am sure nobody in this office will say no to this morsel of Heaven. It reminds me of a dulce de leche candy my detestable mother-in-law used to make in Buenos Aires for Christmas. As you can see, even her perfect evilness was imperfect.”

Rita smiled again and rejoiced at the fact that she could come to visit her older friend at the Castelo de San Jorge with the express purpose of selfishly collecting smiles like Maggie used to collect peacock feathers in the garden before she started going to kindergarten. Rosalia’s office was a new environment for their meetings now. A step up on the podium of a friendship that had begun outside the Castelo box office under a narrow eave on a humid stone bench. Rita loved to breathe in the peace of the office, with its austere decor and dark wooden cabinets that had once cherished the delicate porcelain of Portuguese queens and now held Rosalia’s dictionaries alongside maps, brochures, and tourist forms for all those who came to witness the royal luxury of ancient times.

“So, do you mean that this feeling of seeing Henry again for the first time at the bank’s banquet is sweet like my grandmother’s tablet?”

“Not exactly. When I saw those brownish cubes on the plate, I was convinced that it would be difficult for me to bite into them. You know, my weak teeth and all that. But then I bit into one of them, and it melted on my tongue. And I felt this torrent of pleasure bursting in my mouth. I think what happened to you on Saturday is that you saw Henry like random people usually see him. You heard a far echo of the vision you had of him when you fell in love.”

Rita’s inner elf jumped from her heart to her face to make her frown and purse her lips at the same time.

“But sadly,” Rosalia continued, “you already know that what you saw is an act. The source of your confusion and your loneliness. You love a vision in a dream, a beautiful piece of candy in a perfect window shop that gets further and further away as you get closer.”

A soft knock at the door interrupted the old woman’s thought and let Rita take a sip of tea to conceal her disillusionment. Rosalia took the documents that Victor brought, turned to her side desk, and placed one of the pages in her sturdy IBM Selectric. She adjusted the corners of the paper as if she were folding a handkerchief for the ghost of one of the queens that had inhabited the Castelo centuries ago. Rosalia’s eyes were fixed on the rectangular screen of her typewriter as she turned toward Rita and pronounced in perfect French, “Trompe-l’oil…. trompe-l’oil[1] people I call them. What you see is never what you get. The man I married and later divorced, so many decades ago, was like that. Sometimes, out of the blue, I remember how elegant and self-confident he seemed to be, and still, after all this time, that elf you mentioned still plays tricks with my heart and its cords. Do you know the legend of the two Greek painters of ancient times?”

Rita looked up from her cup and raised her left red-haired eyebrow as an invitation.

“There was a competition to declare the most realistic painter in the land. Zeuxis and Parrhasius presented their art. The grapes that Zeuxis had painted were so impossibly real that birds flew into them and crushed their beaks and heads on the purple spheres. They died a cruel death, believing they were tasting the sweetest pulps and the bitterest seeds. Zeuxis, sure of his triumph, asked his opponent where his painting was. Parrhasius walked him in front of the curtain that hid his work. ‘Draw this cloth and you will see it,’ he said humbly. But Zeuxis’ eager hand trampled on the folds of a fake, perfect drapery made of shades, hues, and light. Parrhasius won not only the prize but the admiration of his enemy.”

Rita inclined her head to the left. “I’m sorry for the birds.”

“That’s why I don’t tell this story much. My granddaughter has a phobia of birds that decide to fly stubbornly in the wrong direction. I’m afraid I instilled that in her with this tale.”

Rita picked up a brown crumb from her saucer. “If only I could draw aside the curtain Henry places between himself, Maggie, and me. I’m a good wife. I don’t know what else to do.” Rita dropped the crumb and killed an imminent sob with the tip of her finger.

“You are like the candid birds, my child. You are hurt but strong. Cannot you see?   You’re making sweets with the salt of tears, pure visions of love with the threads of deceit.”

[1] Deceive the eye… deceive the eye

Fabiana Elisa Martínez authored the collections 12 Random Words and Conquered by Fog. Other works of hers have been published in literary publications on five continents.

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
Musings

More than Words

By Jun A. Alindogan

From Public Domain

It is always refreshing when trust can be established online without any face-to-face interaction. Social media is filled with scammers, making it challenging to trust individuals based solely on their stories. This becomes even more complicated when the relationship starts at a time when the internet was not easily accessible. In these situations, you have to rely only on the person’s words. Sincerity is difficult to gauge, even with the use of emotive and abstract language in any physical correspondence.

Many years ago, I found myself in a situation where I met a woman through physical correspondence, as encouraged by a friend. He advised me to introduce myself to the lady and share about my work teaching at the seminary, providing English tutorials for Koreans, and assisting a church in a suburban foothill. As it turned out, she was part of a Christian NGO based in the US, along with a few other senior citizens. The organisation’s mission was to provide funds for seminary scholarships, livelihood support, books, conference fees, further studies, and toys.

Our relationship was purely based on trust as we did not know each other personally and yet for a number of years, she supported me financially as she learned of my journey. She preferred to write her letters on an electric typewriter and on blue-coloured stationery with a lovingly short note of affirmation. She took my every word at face-value although at times, I sent her photos of myself and church activities to support my stories that she sometimes quoted in her monthly newsletter.

When a missionary friend detoured to the US prior to her Colombian street kids’ programme, she visited the organisation’s garage cum office and brought my gift of a passenger jeep replica made from the ashes of a previous volcanic eruption, which she greatly appreciated. The organisation’s resources were donated to a graduate-level seminary in the US, that included her book, Pilgrims and Strangers Seek The City Not Made with Hands, upon her demise and all her colleagues.

Words only have meaning when they are used in a relational context; otherwise, they are simply meaningless.

Years before the internet became readily accessible, I used to write letters to two friends who worked as domestic helpers in Singapore. Despite having college degrees, they were unable to find relevant jobs in our country due to its political turmoil. I myself was jobless for two years, and like many new college graduates, I succumbed to depression and questioned my faith and self-worth. The struggles were compounded by stress from family and friends. I found a way to vent my issues to these Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs), who also had their fair share of misery and homesickness. My letters were selfish. Over time, the correspondence gradually faded, along with the photos that sometimes accompanied their stories. One migrated to Canada and the other one is retired and lives with her sibling who has a physical disability in a suburban locality. All my letters from my benefactors and friends were washed away in an unexpected catastrophic flood that swept my residence. Up to this day, the loss is still palpable.

I lost two aunts during the pandemic, who were the last of my father’s siblings. The younger one passed away in her late 70s, while the older one died in her early 90s. Both were based in the US and worked as medical professionals. Every Christmas, I make sure to send them individual greeting cards through the mail, along with a few personal thoughts. They lived separately in the same village in the US, and I believe they appreciated these physical cards for their nostalgic value. They didn’t usually respond to emails or cards, as technology can be bothersome for the elderly.

My older aunt once told my eldest brother, who also lives in the US, that my emails were too long and tended to put her to sleep. I also send them thank you cards for the occasional holiday cash they send. My relationship with my aunts is mainly through written correspondence, with only a few rare occasions of meeting in Manila. Despite this, they never fail to remember me and my younger sibling, sending us thoughtful notes. My dad passed away at 60, and my aunts fondly told me that I look like my father. Perhaps this resemblance was one of the catalysts that kept our correspondence going, even in its irregularity. Stories, however trivial, matter to them.

Letter writing can be tedious, especially when done by hand. However, it is also tiring to write letters on computers and share both trivial and significant stories to send by post, as we are not certain if our experiences matter to our recipients. Nevertheless, physical personal correspondence brings about a certain degree of warmth that is often lacking online. It takes more effort to scribble than to type. It is also more spontaneous compared to digital writing, where you can effortlessly edit and revise through AI tools. Sometimes, the physical paper used says a lot about the sender and receiver. I am particularly fond of lined stationery with religious quotes and maxims on recycled paper. The envelope is of equal value as well because it must similarly match its properties.

At times, I also use plain paper to write letters. I remember writing letters of regards and sharing personal news with a college classmate and friend who was stationed on one of the most remote islands in the country for a kids’ mission. She replied to me, but her letters took a long time to reach me through the mail. Both her letters and mine were written in longhand. We were able to reconnect through letters because there were no mobile phones or internet at that time. The distance and physical absence made our words more meaningful and profound.

They say that the post office is in its dying stage, but time and again, it has proven itself to still be relevant in the internet age. Not everyone is connected, especially in areas where there is no access to electricity.

In one of the upland villages in my municipality, which is just about a two-hour drive from the city, they have not had electricity for years. This is because streetlights have to be paid for by the consumer. If the area has rugged terrain, it will require a good number of posts to be erected to bring electricity. This is a common scenario in agricultural and upland villages. While solar power is an option, procuring panels can be quite expensive as the government has not taken any measures yet to bring the cost down. To connect, villagers go to stores that offer WiFi for a minimal fee. Mobile signals are not available in many remote locations, so the gap is still widespread despite technological tools. We must accept the fact that technology is limited. Physical correspondence is here to stay.

From Public Domain


Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr., also known as Jun A. Alindogan, is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specialises in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).

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
Slices from Life

Shanghai in Jakarta

By Eshana Sarah Singh

The moment the calendar flips to January, Jakarta undergoes a transformation, almost as if it’s washed anew, like one’s gazing at the city through rose-coloured glasses. Although Chinese New Year normally falls in February, the city wastes no time in dressing itself at its festive best, akin to a newly wed bride right from the beginnings of the year itself. The streets glow with the soft, warm hues of red lanterns swaying gently in the tropical breeze, intricate golden motifs adorning shop windows shaped in Chinese characters signifying good health and luck, ah! and of course the unmistakable notes of celebratory music drifting through the air. For a few short weeks, Jakarta doesn’t just celebrate Chinese New Year—it embodies it.

Growing up in Jakarta, yet hailing from Indian descent, I was always fascinated by how this festival seemed to take over the city, outshining even the likes of Christmas in its grandeur. To an outsider, Jakarta in February might feel more like Shanghai at its prime than the capital of the world’s largest Muslim-majority country, however the fabric of Chinese New Year is woven into the hearts of people across the country.

Photos provided by Eshana Sarah Singh

Jakarta’s shopping malls—already known for their extravagance and avant-garde ambiance —take it up a notch during this season, pull the notch all the way up really. Grand Indonesia, Pacific Place, and Central Park become galleries down the streets of metropolitan Beijing, displays of Chinese artistry adorn the walls, with colossal dragon sculptures wrapping around pillars, cherry blossom trees dotting atriums, and enormous red envelopes symbolising prosperity displayed in elaborate installations. At Pantai Indah Kapuk, a neighbourhood known for its Chinese-Indonesian roots, the neighbourhood where I grew up, restaurants overflow with families indulging in yu sheng (a prosperity toss salad) and steaming platters of shumai (dumplings) wafting their aromas into the air.

Photo provided by Eshana Sarah Singh

In Jakarta’s very own Chinatown, Glodok, the roads are chock-filled with movement, cacophonous and chaotic but so vibrant. Red flags with auspicious messages printed in gold are hawked by vendors, temple incense wafts by getting ever-stronger with murmurs of chanted prayers for prosperity and riches along the roads.

The sound of drums boom so loud that the ribs vibrate, that the very ground trembles beneath one’s feet, proclaiming the onset of the Barong Sai—an ancient lion dance with movements so fluid and gracious that they can’t help but draw eyes passing by. Their beauty, yet further enhanced by the resonant clashing of cymbals, is in theory supposed to ward off evil spirits and usher in prosperity; this tradition infact predates the existence of most civilizations.

Lion Dance. Photo provided by Eshana Sarah Singh

Amidst all this festivity, I am reminded of the countless Chinese New Year’s I’ve spent in school growing up and lessons from my Mandarin teacher, whom we affectionately called Laoshi or teacher.

Tha author and her Chinese teacher. Photo provided by Eshana Sarah Singh

“Laoshi, I remember you used to tell us about all the dos and don’ts of Chinese New Year,” I chuckled, eager to hear her insights once again.

She chuckled. “Ah, yes! There are many, and each family follows different ones, some only specific to them. But some are universal. For example, never sweep the floor on the first day!”

I laughed, “Why is that again?”

“Because you will sweep away all the good luck for the year of course! The same goes for washing your hair—avoid it, or you will wash away your fortune. And of course, you should wear red. It brings happiness and wards off the Nian monster.” It seemed a lot of the superstitions absurdly revolved around washing, but then again they’re superstitions so perhaps logical reasoning wasn’t the best path forward.

“What about food? Are there any specific dishes that must be eaten?” I asked.

“There are actually, eating fish is a must because the word for fish in Mandarin sounds like ‘surplus,’ which is meant to bring in abundance for the coming year. And you can’t forget about tangerines as well, have you ever noticed how they’re only ever sold during the Chinese New Year? Their name sounds like ‘luck’ in Mandarin, so people always exchange them with family and friends. I think by now you can guess why,” Laoshi chuckled.

She paused slightly, her voice wavering and tone turning nostalgic. “You know, in Indonesia, many Chinese-Indonesian families have developed their own unique traditions, which are understandable; traditions are never truly the same in a place that’s not their own.   But this way at least there’s something for everyone. For example, we still hand out angpao, the red envelopes filled with money, but nowadays, some people send them digitally! Would you believe it?”

Wading through the bustling streets of Jakarta in the days leading up to the New Year, the tension, the excitement, the wait was palpable in the air. I noticed how the celebration was not confined to Chinese-Indonesian families alone, it was a time for all of us. Malls showcased extravagant public performances, offices hosted small celebrations, every building was decked out in red from head to toe and even my non-Chinese friends, including me of course, joined in by donning red and sharing greetings of “Xin Nian Kuai Le1.”

Indonesia’s long history with its Chinese diaspora has not always been smooth or friendly for that matter, but in these moments of collective celebration, one realised how some moments were made better when shared with everyone. Chinese New Year in Jakarta is not just a cultural event—it is a national one really.

As traditions evolve, so does the way Jakarta celebrates. Some things remain timeless, temple visits, family reunions, and Barong Sai performances, however that does not mean new customs are not emerging. Metropolitan city dwellers now send digital angpao via apps, families opt for lavish dinners at high-end restaurants instead of a table chock full of home-cooked feasts, and social media becomes a hub for sharing well-wishes and festive experiences, because the wishes of luck and prosperity transcend the miles that separate us. Taking in the sea of red around me, the rhythmic drumbeats, and the air filled with the scent of incense and festive feasts, the very grandeur of Chinese New Year in Jakarta, I know that no matter where life takes me, this festival in this city will always feel like home.

  1. Happy New Year
    ↩︎

Eshana Sarah Singh is a media and journalism student with a passion for storytelling, blending authentic personal experiences with rose coloured lenses to ultimately explore diverse and untold narratives that chart off the beaten path. 

.

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
Slices from Life

Not Quite a Towering Inferno

By Farouk Gulsara

We were told to be ready for dinner by 6 p.m., so we had one and a half hours to kill before gathering at the lobby. My varsity mates and I, fourteen of us, on our regular bromance outing, had decided to embark on a six-day tour around Sri Lanka. Colombo was our last stop.

I told myself there was time for a shower. I thought I heard the yell of two men. They must be at the heights of merry-making, I reckoned. Nothing wrong. After all, many were holidaying in Colombo, like us, in what was hailed as paradise on Earth. Maybe they took the celebrations too far. It was then that the lights went off. Then I thought I heard a barrage of a loud bang. Did somebody drop something heavy? Then came the indistinctive smell of burning rubber.

Then it clicked. Everything fell into place. Damn. There must be a fire somewhere! I open my room door. I could see a hint of smoke whirling at the ceiling.

What happened to the fire alarm and emergency light or water sprinklers? This is not a rundown half-grade hotel. This is a reputable hotel with its rich Scottish tradition plastered all over its walls, tartans, Scots family insignia and all. Even though we think the British ruled India, the Scottish served in the East Indian Company in big numbers as well. They, too, joined the bandwagon to usurp wealth from unsuspecting natives through their mercantile activities.

As a matter of reflex, I got into the drill. The passive learning from watching all those disaster movies had to be put to good use. Like a child regurgitating what he learnt from rote learning, I fell in line.

“Relax, said the night man!” The first thing that came to mind was, “Don’t panic!” Earlier there had been a blackout. I was too relaxed to think of sitting through the outage and letting the electricians sort it out. That was the wrong move.

Learned experience from flight stewardesses was “in case of emergency, leave behind your belongings and head to the exit”. I realised that it may only work sometimes. Stuck in a third-world country, running around to the fancy of their bureaucracy is not my idea of a holiday. I stuffed my passport, wallet and mobile phone into my jeans and headed out of the room without my luggage. Again, another mistake, I thought.

I remember reading, “Do not use the elevator in case of emergency,” during those long hours spent waiting for lifts. Keeping that in mind, I headed to the stairs. Wow, so far, so good. I began wondering how everything was working like clockwork. Are people so desensitised after watching so many reels on YouTube that they just know what to do? The hotel staff must have been bombarded with so much footage of disasters elsewhere that they could perform the next course of action half asleep.

To be fair, the hotel staff were on their toes, guiding guests down to the exit with the light of their phones. Without their help, the stairs would have been pitch dark. Now, what happened to the emergency lights along the stairway?

Going down was easy, but there was mayhem once I reached the ground floor. Visibility was almost zero, and the lobby was filled with thick smoke. For the first time, panic was palpable. People were coughing and shouting. My first instinct was to pull up my T-shirt to cover my mouth and crouch down as low as possible to minimise smoke inhalation. I switched my mobile phone light on to guide my way forward. My foot hit upon what was the Christmas tree. Huh! I remember observing a giant Christmas tree in the lobby very near the entrance while checking into the hotel. The only differences were it was then brightly lit and covered with fake snow. Now it is dull and grey. I knew the exit was nearby. I followed the steady traffic of the crowd herding out.

Still, the thick smoke was overwhelming, and the pungent smoke slowly irritated my throat. I continued the rest of the journey in anaerobic mode, trying not to inhale more smoke than I had already ingested. Luckily, the way out was short.

It was hard to stay relaxed when everybody else was not. Somehow, I made it out, patting myself for staying calm. What greeted me outside was a crowd surrounding the perimeter of the hotel, directing me to an area nearby. They were pointing up at the building that was supposed to be my two-night stay. There was thick smoke bellowing from its 7th floor.

News spreads like wildfire in this digital world. People were engrossed in getting the best angle for the personal shot with their devices. Soon, the footage would grace their social media and, perhaps, be potentially ‘viralled’. Photographers with zoom lenses were already there as if they had purposely ignited a fire to film it. Curious onlookers with work clothes were locked in their gaze, in awe, as if it were the second coming. I followed.

I could see one elderly gentleman out at the window. Yes, I had seen that man before when checking in. He was then struggling to move. He must have opened his window to let the smoke out of his room. But luck had different plans. The smoke had grown in intensity and was blowing directly at his window. Desperate, he climbed out of his window and wanted to jump out against the pleading and yells of onlookers, including me. Maybe it was the confusion of inhaling carbon monoxide; he must have thought the fast out of his misery was to jump down without a safety harness.

A modern fire engine moved in just then, much to everyone’s relief. In a jiffy, an aerial ladder was summoned to whisk the victim from the window. Applause ensued, and the victim was quickly stretchered to a nearby ambulance.

Firemen at work. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

The bellowing smoke quickly settled down, and my friends and I sighed in relief. Though one of my friends went on a tirade of cough. Even before the start of the holiday, he had been recovering from a nasty dry cough. The smoke must have made it worse. The paramedics checked on him, too, and took him in for overnight observation. 

The hotel was cordoned off with yellow tape and classified as a crime zone. The police had to investigate to rule out arson. Until then, our luggage was the property of the Sri Lankan Police Department, and no one could go in or out. 

We were left out like refugees with only our pants and clothes on our backs.

“… but we have our luggage stuck upstairs. We need them!” we told the hotel staff.

As expected, the reply was, “Sorry, Sir. Nobody can enter the building. But don’t worry, Sir. We will take care of your things.”

We were later given rooms in a nearby hotel, which was better and newer than the drab one we had been given earlier.

We soon left to bury our sorrows in some Ceylonese comfort food: apom[1] and coconut milk-rich crab curry. We had enough action for the day.

In retrospect, leaving the luggage behind was a wise move. Chugging the bags along the dark stairs and smoke-filled foyer is quite daunting. Sleeping with the clothes on our backs without toiletries must have been a trade-off for smoke inhalation and hospital admissions.

Overnight, we had become stars of sorts. Everywhere we went, it became the ice breaker. We became the talk of the town as the ‘guys who cheated the hotel fire”. Of course, we did nothing like that. Still, it spiced up our holiday and gave us friends of more than forty years something to reminisce about in our twilight years.

We only had access to our bags the following morning, which also meant we could not personally enter the premises to collect our belongings. Only designated hotel staff could do that. The hotel was still a crime investigation zone, which must mean we were considered potential arsonists who could tamper with evidence. The police personnel were still busy taking samples and photographs of the crime scene.

Luckily, the fire was localised, and the firefighters did not need to hose the whole building down. Hence, our baggage was dry. My room was on the second floor, while my other friends were on different floors. The fire had been on the seventh. Even though most of our rooms were far from where the fire allegedly started, the retrieved luggage came with a grimy layer of soot, compliments of the furious, fiery invader. Even the garments and bags gave a whiff of smoke for days afterwards, even after sunning it in the open. 

Imagine how it would have been if I had waited a little longer. What is damage to property when, above all, health and life matter most? Going back without the luggage is better than returning in a body bag.

.

[1] apom – soft, sweet and fluffy traditional pancake from Southern India and Sri Lanka.

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
Celebrating Humanity

Autumnal Melodies

Art by Sybil Pretious


October spins a series of celebrations that carry on to herald a glorious start of a new year and beyond. From the Chinese Festival of the Nine Emperor Gods which happens to coincide with Navratri to Christmas and beyond — festivals bring joy into our lives. Majority of these human constructs ring in happiness and hope while reflecting the victory of what we consider good over evils. Often these celebrations are syncretic, roping in people from all cultures and religious creeds, creating a sense of oneness in a way that only a stream of contentment can.

Here we bring to you writings that reflect this cross cultural joyous streak of humanity with translations of Tagore, Nazrul, poetry from the contemporary voices of Ihlwha Choi and John Grey and more prose from Fakrul Alam, Aruna Chakravarti, Ravi Shankar, Snigdha Agrawal, Rhys Hughes, Keith Lyons and Farouk Gulsara. Let us celebrate our commonalities with joy and revive love in a war-torn world. 

Poetry

A Lovesong in the Battlefield by Afsar Mohammad. Click here to read.  

One Star by Ihlawha Choi. Click here to read.

Groundhog Day by John Grey. Click here to read.

Nazrul’s Prolloyullash ( The Frenzy of Destruction) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

 Tagore’s Andhokaarer Utso Hote(From the Fount of Darkness) has been translated from Bengali. Click here to read.

Prose 

The Oral Traditions of Bengal: Story and Song by Aruna Chakravarti describes the syncretic culture of Bengal through its folk music and oral traditions. Click here to read.

Memories of Durga Puja : Fakrul Alam recalls the festivities of Durga Puja in Dhaka during his childhood. Click here to read.

An Alien on the Altar! Snigdha Agrawal writes of how a dog and lizard add zest to festivities with a dollop of humour. Click here to read

In Dim Memories of the Festival of Lights, Farouk Gulsara takes a nostalgic trip to Deepavali celebrations in the Malaysia of his childhood. Click here to read.

A Doctor’s Diary: Syncretic Festivities: Ravi Shankar writes of his early life in Kerala where festivals were largely a syncretic event. Click here to read.

In I Went to Kerala, Rhys Hughes treads a humorous path bringing to us a mixed narrative of Christmas on bicycles . Click here to read.

Hold the roast turkey please Santa  Celebrating the festive season off-season with Keith Lyons from New Zealand, where summer solstice and Christmas fall around the same time. Click here to read.

Categories
Essay

A Doctor’s Diary: Syncretic Festivities

By Ravi Shankar

I fondly remember my first place of work after graduation and the lessons it taught me. My education and house surgency had prepared me well for medical practice. I was removed from the cocoon of my alma mater and learned to practice medicine in the community. I have not visited the place after I left, and the ensuing three decades must have brought about a lot of changes. Unsure if any of my colleagues are still working at the hospital.  I owe a debt of gratitude to the nurses, fellow resident doctors, specialists and others who got me started on the long road toward independent medical practice!

I recall… in the 1990s, the time was after two in the afternoon when I reached Perumpaddapa in Malappuram district of Kerala state in India. I had used public transport. Public transport in Kerala is mainly provided by private buses. I was happy to meet two of my seniors working at the KMM hospital as medical officers. The hospital had advertised a resident medical officer (RMO) post in local dailies, and I had travelled to apply for the position.

Coincidentally, two seniors both had the same name as me — Ravi, and they strongly recommended me for the position. The Medical Superintendent was a paediatrician. Based on my academic records and my friends’ recommendations, I was offered the position. The hospital was a busy one and it was my first job after graduation and house surgency. Soon we had three Ravis as RMOs at the hospital. The other two RMOs were named Abdul Ghafoor.

The hospital was next to the famous Puthenpalli (new mosque in Malayalam) and was located at the Southern border of Malappuram district. There was a strong influence from the neighbouring district of Thrissur where I did my undergraduate medical degree. The nearest town was Kunnamkulam. I had frequented the town many times before. We, the RMOs were posted in different departments, and had to take emergency duty in turns. There was an emergency duty room. We spent the evening and night there while on duty. The hospital had a psychiatry department and a coronary care unit (CCU). These were not common in the 1990s. In the evening, we accompanied the psychiatrist and the internal medicine specialist on their rounds in the psychiatry ward and the CCU. The hospital was not built to a central plan, and buildings had been added as per need leading to a warren of buildings and structures.

During the mornings I worked in the Paediatrics outpatient department (OPD) and assisted the Paediatricians. Our lead child specialist was very popular in the region and had a lot of patients. Most doctors working in the hospital did private practice in the afternoon and evenings. On my non-duty days, I would be free by around two in the afternoon. I stayed in a quarter provided by the hospital. The quarter was a two-story building surrounded by swaying coconut and betel nut trees. I was on the top floor and my apartment had a small sit out, a living room and a bedroom and a kitchen. There were two quarters on the top floor while the ground floor only had one large quarter occupied by our orthopaedic surgeon. There were two buildings in proximity.

The rooms had basic furniture —  armchairs, cots and beddings. There were no curtains and old fashioned open wooden cupboards fitted into the walls. These consisted of wooden planks and frames recessed into the wall. These are often depicted in older Malayalam movies.

I occasionally made house calls. The region had a lot of individuals working in the ‘Gulf’. Remittances had made the region prosperous.   

It was a short three-minute walk to the hospital. Puthenpalli was a popular place for pilgrimage. The mosque contains the maqbara (grave) of a renowned Sufi saint, Sheik Kunjahmed Musaliyar. Devotees believe that his blessings keep the place safe and radiant. The consecrated water at the mosque is believed to have divine healing powers.

Puthenpalli Mosque
Duffu Muttu dance
From Public Domain

Puthenpalli Nercha[1] was the annual festival and drew pilgrims from far and wide. Ghee rice was distributed to the pilgrims and the needy. Ghee rice is a popular delicacy in the Malabar region. The flavour was largely syncretic as the festival was in December around Christmas and it catered to all communities irrespective of religious inclinations. A grand procession involving elephants and traditional musical performances like Chenda Melam using the traditional drums of Kerala and Mapila Pattu… dances like Kol Kali and Duffu Muttu followed.

Chenda Melam
Kol Kali — a stick dance
From Public Domain

It is typical of Kerala that religious festivals have both a religious and a community purpose. Over centuries, different religions have co-existed in harmony. Elephant processions are common in Hindu temple festivals and are also increasingly used in church and mosque celebrations.

In the olden days these festivals were also important locations for commerce as various stalls were set up selling a variety of goods. Today with online shopping sites and home delivery this may be less important though the shopping attraction still exists. These festivals enable people to forget the challenges of daily life and be transported to a different world for a few days. The Hindu festivals are called Poorams or Velas, the Christian ones are termed Perunnal and the Muslim ones are called either Nercha or Perunnal. Puthenpalli Nercha also boasted a mesmerising fireworks display at night.

The mosque committee served the community by running a school and an orphanage.

We were provided with food from the school hostel. The food was usually par boiled rice and sardines. We were provided with both spicy sardine curry and sardine fries. Two sardines in the curry and two or three well fried and crispy ones for both lunch and dinner. Eating the same food day after day could get a bit boring though! There would also be a vegetable that used to vary daily. And Kerala papadam. The Kerala fish curry used plenty of coconut and tamarind. A coconut and chilly paste was coated on the sardine and it was then deep fried in coconut oil before being part of the curry. Shallots, Kashmiri chillies and curry leaves are common ingredients. I discovered as you travelled up the Malabar coast toward Mangalore, the coating became less spicy.

The emergency department was busy during the evenings, but things usually quietened down at night. I always found night duty tiring as it took me a long time to go back to sleep after attending to a case. Injuries were common and we also received psychiatric patients for admission to the psychiatry ward and cardiac patients as we had an CCU. We were not sufficiently trained to handle aggressive patients. We did have a security person on duty outside the emergency. There were also other security personnel on duty at the entrance to the CCU and at different outpatient departments.     

The hospital was surrounded by village homes, and we often walked along the quiet by lanes. The quarter next to me on the top floor was occupied by a lab technician and he was good company and had a wealth of stories to tell. The buses were usually very crowded.

The coast was not far, and you could also walk on the beach and watch the fishermen set out in their boats. The mosque was usually crowded. There were no academic activities at the hospital, and we learned by doing. We would get a break after finishing our night duty and I used to combine my leaves and spend two or three days with my uncle in Palakkad once every two months. KMM hospital was a good place to work. I eventually left to join a small hospital and clinic at Areacode further north in the same district.

[1] The Perumpadappu Puthen Palli Nercha is a Muslim festival that celebrates Marhoom Kunji Mohammed Musaliar. https://www.keralatourism.org/1000festivals//assets/uploads/pdf/1515486704-0.pdf

.

Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

.

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