Gower Bhat discusses the advent of coaching schools in Kashmir for competitive exams for University exams, which seem to be replacing real schools. Clickhere to read.
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.
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.
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.
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!
My spouse was chopping vegetables in the open kitchen, preparing for an evening soup. I was in a hurry to have a quick shower in the meantime. Picking up a fresh towel from the clothesline, I rushed to the bathroom. When I tried to open the door, I found it shut. Through a small gap I peeped in just like that. The sound of water gushing forth reached my ears – along with a faintly audible humming strain of a popular Hindi film song. I pushed it hard, then harder, and finally I realised it was bolted. The sound of music and water stopped ringing in my ears. All I heard was a distinct click of the door lock and it opened on its own. Nothing moved. Nobody emerged. Nothing appeared in sight. But the creaking sound of the flush door created an aura of suspense. I stepped inside and looked around carefully like a cop chasing a killer. The exhaust fan was whirring. The ventilator was half-open. The geyser light was glowing. The floor was wet and the shower was still drizzling. Who was having a shower in the bathroom when there were just the two of us inside the apartment at that time?
I alerted my wife about what had just happened and asked her to examine the spot. She confirmed the presence of a ghost lurking inside the bathroom without moving out of her domain, without a trace of seriousness in her voice. I struggled to maintain my balance on the slippery floor and came out quickly in the fear of getting trapped inside the bathroom with an unfamiliar ghost after another sudden click of the door. When I reached the kitchen, I clutched her hand and sought to know why she had not informed me about the scary entity. Now it was her turn to feel alarmed as she gathered that I was not joking with her all this while. The threat was real and right inside our house.
Clutching my shoulder for physical and emotional support, she held the kitchen knife in one hand and showed the willingness to follow me to the bathroom, fully confident of slaying the ghost by launching a full-frontal attack. I calmed her down and offered a glass of water, to help her regain clarity and focus required to understand the paranormal experience I had just been through. With both of us looking disillusioned after an hour of intense discussion regarding the infiltration of an unidentified entity in our private space, we came to the hasty, premature conclusion that we must vacate this haunted residence or else such encounters would multiply and impact our restful sleep and peace of mind.
This was not the time to argue about permanent solutions. At the earliest, we needed to ferret out the truth and the first brave step in this direction was mine.
We tiptoed to the bathroom. I sang the same lilting song to attract the attention of the invisible bathroom singer. Nothing seemed odd, nothing felt out of place. The door was open. The floor was dry. There was nothing scary. The possibility of a singing spirit residing in this house seemed remote. There were no other residents here and there was no case of murder or suicide recorded in the past. We checked online resources for relevant information about spirits and ghosts – along with their bathing schedules. They were most likely to freshen up in the middle of the night – when the world was yet to wake up from deep slumber.
We tried to remember the names of guests who had visited us in the recent past. But jogging the memory revealed no prime suspects. My wife sprang up with a sudden flashback. She remembered her mother talking about spirits being sent through air during her last phone call with her, almost a month ago. So, this could possibly be a despatch case from my in-laws who wanted to scare me before my wedding anniversary with a Halloween gift.
The most likely reason for this sinister move was unknown and my wife did not provide any inputs. We settled down to our chores. She returned to her soup preparation while I sat down to write something. While I was typing out a new chapter, I heard the sound of anklets. My wife had not worn anklets for years. I tried to concentrate again but the sound became clearer. I was distracted by it so that I trudged to the kitchen and asked my wife if her anklets had been stolen or gifted to any person. But she stated it was kept in the bank locker.
The sound of anklets and the singing inside the bathroom suggested these were attributes of the same spirit and it was definitely female. Was the spirit sent to distract me from writing? I chose to study the pattern and within a few days I found that the spirit was indeed distracting me in multiple ways whenever I was writing while it did no harm to my spouse. I was the sole target of the spirit.
One morning I was typing on my computer and there was a tap on my left shoulder. I turned around expecting to see my wife but she was not there. And later I remembered she did not have the habit of tapping to draw my attention. Her shrill call would suffice. I went inside the bedroom and found her asleep. So, who tapped me?
The phone rang and my mother-in-law sprang up on the phone screen. I woke my wife up and gave the buzzing phone to her, asking her to find out what disturbed her mother so early in the morning. What was the bad news she was keen to deliver? What was the bad news she was eager to hear — whether the spirit she sent was doing a fabulous job or not? My wife decided to call up later. This made me anxious.
An hour later, she came to me and reported that her mother was worried about my writing life. She wanted to talk to me. During the entire chat, the old lady was focused on me rather than her daughter. There must be a strong reason for this odd behaviour. Even though there were many generic possibilities to consider, we were not aware of those negative ones yet. Getting to know that I was doing fine and the writing gig was progressing well, frustrated my mother-in-law and the enthusiasm in her thunderous voice waned all of a sudden. “Has he completed the new novel?” was her main query that went without an answer.
My wife was speechless, clueless. She reiterated she had not revealed it to relatives yet and wondered how her mother knew. I had not revealed to my wife that only two chapters were done. Besides, how did her mother get to know I was working on a novel, certainly more specific than manuscript? Oh, it must have been conveyed by the spirit tapping my shoulder – the medium of transfer. It must be a powerful one indeed, hired with the specific motive of receiving updates on my writing career.
Pensioners spending a hefty amount on purchasing this entity from a black magic expert was not without an ulterior motive. My wife said she had never discussed the details of my upcoming book as she herself did not know much about it. Even I was stunned to know the specific information from her mother.
I could go mad thinking my wife was an accomplice of my in-laws and ruin my mental peace. The spirit knew not just the chapters but also other details of my book. I asked my wife to wait for some days and see the kind of questions her mother raised. My gut feeling was right. When she called up next, she was curious to know about the plot and the characters – the genre of the book. I had advised her to misinform that I was a writing a horror novel. Though my mother-in-law did not know I had no prowess in this genre, I knew she would not be convinced as the spirit would have revealed the actual content. I deleted the working title of the novel from my computer and gave it a different name to hide the truth. The spirit had to be a well-read fiction-lover to offer the details of my ongoing literary exercise.
My wife read a few online tips on how to control the presence of spirits and shoo them away like a pigeon from the parapet. She lit fragrant candles and burnt incense sticks to cleanse the aura. The smell slowed me down and made me drowsy and less energetic at times even though it was supposed to drive away all forms of negative energy from the surroundings. She placed a peacock feather on my writing desk to attract positive vibes even though it distracted me.
My wife said she would offer protection and companionship whenever I sat down to write but I preferred to write in solitude. Using a fake file name, I kept my content safely hidden as the fear the hovering spirit deleting it weighed heavy on my mind. I used a pen drive to save the document as an option. A week of zero disturbance meant the spirit was gone after completing its assigned task. I felt I could breathe free now. I sought the opinion of my wife and she urged me not to jump to any conclusion. Perhaps the spirit had changed its strategy. There was wisdom in her words I could not disregard.
One fine morning, my father-in-law called me up, which was quite a surprise, and wanted to know authoritatively what I was doing these days. That I was contemplating quitting advertising to pursue full-time writing was never disclosed to any person so it must have been the spirit deployed to read my mind: “Have you written a humorous novel?” How did he know I was writing a comic novel of sorts with some bit of romance thrown in? This shocker confirmed we were still under the surveillance of a paranormal kind. We were being monitored. I needed to know why the entire family was so obsessed with my writing career.
Was my device hacked or something like that? Was I being tracked? I did not find any suspicious object attached to my computer but the lizard on the bookshelf staring at me whenever I wrote came under suspicion. It was a regular, routine development and its presence made me fearful. It rarely moved out of that space, making me wonder why it remained so still. To observe my pursuits, to see what I was doing? How could a lizard tell them what I was writing? It was crazy. I decided to trap the lizard one day in a basket, and it went flying into the garden through the open window. It fell on the grass and moved swiftly. Reached for the cemented bench in the garden and sat on top of it, possibly planning how to get inside the house once again.
The phone rang as if in reaction to the violent expulsion. My sister-in-law was on the other side, urging me to stop writing romances since I did not have much idea about the shades of love. The grey shades she meant perhaps. For a man who had not been very supportive of her choices, I was expecting opposition in a big way. She accused me of being anti-love, anti-modern and whatever anti she could add, calling me an outdated, traditional, frivolous, backward thinking loony who faked to be liberal in expressing thoughts but was not practicing anything like that in real life.
If writers started following all that they wrote, all the crime and horror writers would then be behind bars. As a reader, she thought she was in step with the present trends. She knew which books were easy to digest whereas I was difficult to read. She said I talked big and wrote fanciful things that held no significance in life. The toxic outburst silenced me and the connection snapped. I told my wife that her sister had called me to warn me about my poor writing skills. But my wife said she was not interested in wasting precious time on her. If she was unruffled, I decided I should emulate her and let it go.
I looked out of the window to look for the lizard on the bench but it was not there. I opened the door and went out to check the garden area. When I came back to my study room after a futile search, I found it was relaxing on the same shelf, in the same perch. Perhaps the opening of the door gave it the chance to slip in. The smart lizard knew the right moves. The lizard looked at the wall, as if regretted staring at me all day. That it was back meant the lizard would do the same stuff again.
I lost interest in the lizard for the time being as hunger, thirst and new ideas developed all together. I took a break and enjoyed a smoothie first. My wife came to tell me that the lizard was definitely the culprit and the spirit was trapped inside the lizard – something I had suspected from the very beginning. She added this was the lizard bathing and singing songs. Maybe the lizard and the spirit were both inside the bathroom and the spirit came out of the body to have a quick shower? And during such special breaks, it wore anklets and satisfied its urge to practice some classical dance form, a long–suppressed desire the spirit could not fulfil in her past life. I found this construct quite imaginative and gripping.
“After the shower, it went back into the lizard’s body. Lizards are cold-blooded you know,” she added. I was getting derailed from writing my novel and trekking along a different territory. If distraction was their goal, then they were successful. At this critical stage my wife revealed a long-buried secret she had forgotten over the years: her family had urged her long ago to make me end my writing career right after marriage, calling it self-indulgence and unprofitable.
I made it clear to her that I couldn’t leave writing. The lizard looked up when I said so with total confidence. As if shocked to hear this declaration hundreds of miles away, my brother-in-law called me after a decade and complained I was not listening to my better half, always arguing with her. The truth was that my decision to continue writing was communicated by the spirit and they were heavily disappointed they could do nothing to make me obey. The entire family had contacted us in less than a month. It was nothing less than a miracle.
Now was my turn to act smart. I laid a condition to trap him – by saying I would contemplate stalling my writing project if he could explain how they got to know the minute details so fast. I wanted the proof of disclosure from them. Excited, he spilled the beans instantly. He said there was a spirit trapped inside a lizard that tells them everything – including what we eat and drink every day. A singing spirit, a bathing spirit, those anklets and every other disturbance created in the house was deliberate. I was furious to be fooled in such a big way.
He further disclosed that the events were preplanned to trap me. The story of a planted spirit to monitor my moves and curtail growth and everything else came as a real shocker. He said that a professional black magic expert was hired to conduct this mean task, and the motive was to block my literary growth and close all doors. The best literary efforts should fail and vanish without a trace.
His response was weird: nothing fair in love and war. I was clueless who was in love and who was at war with me.
I was curious to know how these things worked in the dark world. He said though it was not meant to be revealed, he would do me a favour: the book cover image and title, the author’s name and the publisher’s name would be the basic details required to ruin the fate of the book. I was still clueless and laughed it off. He said the book cover with a devil spirit attached to it was enough. The potential reader who picked up the book would be eager to drop it right there due to the black energy radiating from the cover even if it was white. This sounded scary and it meant the words and thoughts contained inside the book did not matter at all in boosting the sales potential of a book.
I was curious to know why the entire family was desperate to stop me from writing. Then my wife pitched in with another sensation – the disclosure that her grandfather was a writer who divorced his wife after he found success with his first book. That meant they fear I would do something similar? She said a slow-churn ‘yes’ and it explained why they blocked my journey as a writer: to keep me married.
Isn’t it too much of an injustice? I think the entire family had a lot to explain. They placed the complimentary copy of my debut book inside a grave to bury it forever right after it was born. They conducted devilish rituals, just to ensure it was never resurrected, never found home.
I shared my grief with my wife and the loss of hope. I felt I couldn’t write successfully. She came up with a quirky plan that included a condition that I would end the marriage if I did not click as an author. Would this not scare them that failure, instead of success, would deliver the same outcome they feared?
The monitoring spirit went and updated them about our plan before my wife communicated anything to them. The withdrawal of the malevolent spirit meant that the house was safe now and they had caved in to our threat. Now there was no spooky feeling inside, no heaviness or lethargy. I was full of energy to write fast.
Yes, the novel my readers are about to hold in their hands is an outcome of that labour. Assured that the marital bond is safe, my in-laws called up to find out if everything was fine. I told my wife to scare them by saying there’s a new girl in my life, but she should tell her parents it’s one-sided, unreciprocated love. If they send a spirit to find out the truth again, I am sure the truth wouldn’t be different from her version.
When success arrives late in life, then the chances of temptations and distractions are also limited. My wise wife thinks I am well past my age to stray now. And I am of the view that the person who stays with you in your days of struggle – and shares your dreams – surely deserves to be with you in your good times as well. If there is a monitoring spirit sent again, it should go back and report to my in-laws that the bond is strong enough to last forever.
Perhaps they have learnt their lesson in a big way. Perhaps they have not. But now the bathroom door does not get locked from inside. I do not hear the sound of anklets and there is no tapping on my shoulder. However, when I look at the wooden bookshelf, I miss the presence of the lizard. The spirit that deterred has disappeared but the spirit to write remains very much in place.
From Public Domain
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Festivals are affirmations of joy and love that bind humanity with their sense of hope even in a world torn by violence and climate change. As the end of the year approaches, we invite you to savour flavours of festivals past and, a few, yet to come, before the cycle starts again in the new year. The colours of celebrations are vibrant and varied as shades of nature or the skies.
We have new years spread out over the year, starting with January, moving on to the Chinese New Year around February, the Bengali new year in April to festivals of environment, light, darkness as in Wiccan beliefs, Tagore’s birth, more conventional ones like Deepavali, Eid, Durga Puja and Christmas. People celebrate in different ways and for different reasons. What we have also gathered is not only the joie de vivre but also the sadness people feel when celebrations are muted whether due to the pandemic, wars or for social reasons. In some cases, we indulge in excesses with funny results! And there are of course festivals of humanity … as celebrated by the bauls — the singing mendicants of Bengal — who only recognise the religion of love, compassion and kindness.
Ramakanta Rath’sSri Radha celebrating the love of Radha and Krishna have been translated from Odiya by the late poet himself, have been excerpted from his full length translation. Click here to read.
Bijoya Doushumi, a poem on the last day of Durga Puja, by the famous poet, Michael Madhusudan Dutt, has been translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta. Click here to read.
A Clean Start: Suzanne Kamata tells us how the Japanese usher in a new year. Click here to read.
Shanghai in Jakarta: Eshana Sarah Singh takes us to Chinese New Year celebrations in Djakarta. Click here to read.
Cherry Blossom Forecast: Suzanne Kamata brings the Japanese ritual of cherry blossom viewing to our pages with her camera and words. Clickhere to read.
Pohela Boisakh: A Cultural Fiesta: Sohana Manzoor shares the Bengali New Year celebrations in Bangladesh with interesting history and traditions that mingle beyond the borders. Clickhere to read.
The New Year’s Boon: Devraj Singh gives a glimpse into the projection of a new normal created by God. Click here to read.
A Musical Soiree: Snigdha Agrawal recalls how their family celebrated Tagore’s birth anniversary. Click here to read.
An Alien on the Altar! Snigdha Agrawal writes of how a dog and lizard add zest to Janmashtami (Krishna’s birthday) festivities with a dollop of humour. Click here to read
Memories of Durga Puja : Fakrul Alam recalls the festivities of Durga Puja in Dhaka during his childhood. Click hereto read.
KL Twin Towers near Kolkata?: Devraj Singh Kalsi visits the colours of a marquee hosting the Durga Puja season with its spirit of inclusivity. 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.
Odbayar Dorj writes of celebrating the start of the new school year in Mongolia and of their festivals around teaching and learning. Click here to read.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a story set in a village in Andhra Pradesh. Clickhere to read.
Feature
A conversation withAmina Rahman, owner of Bookworm Bookshop, Dhaka, about her journey from the corporate world to the making of her bookstore with a focus on community building. Clickhereto read.
The idea of spring heralds hope even when it’s deep winter. The colours of spring bring variety along with an assurance of contentment and peace. While wars and climate disasters rage around the world, peace can be found in places like the cloistered walls of Sistine Chapel where conflicts exist only in art. Sometimes, we get a glimpse of peace within ourselves as we gaze at the snowy splendour of Himalayas and sometimes, in smaller things… like a vernal flower or the smile of a young child. Inner peace can at times lead to great art forms as can conflicts where people react with the power of words or visual art. But perhaps, what is most important is the moment of quietness that helps us get in touch with that inner voice giving out words that can change lives. Can written words inspire change?
Our featured bookstore’s owner from Bangladesh, Amina Rahman, thinks it can. Rahman of Bookworm, has a unique perspective for she claims, “A lot of people mistake success with earning huge profits… I get fulfilment out of other things –- community health and happiness and… just interaction.” She provides books from across the world and more while trying to create an oasis of quietude in the busy city of Dhaka. It was wonderful listening to her views — they sounded almost utopian… and perhaps, therefore, so much more in synch with the ideas we host in these pages.
Our content this month are like the colours of the rainbow — varied and from many countries. They ring out in different colours and tones, capturing the multiplicity of human existence. The translations start with Professor Fakrul Alam’s transcreation of Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics in quest of the intangible. Isa Kamari translates four of his own Malay poems on spiritual quest, while from Balochi, Fazal Baloch bring us Munir Momin’s esoteric verses in English. Snehprava Das’s translation of Rohini K.Mukherjee poetry from Odia and S.Ramakrishnan’s story translated from Tamil by B.Chandramouli also have the same transcendental notes. Tagore’s playful poem on winter (Sheeth) mingles a bit for spring, the season welcomed by all creatures great and small.
We have good news to share —Borderless Journal has had the privilege of being listed on Duotrope – which means more readers and writers for us. We are hugely grateful to all our readers and contributors without who we would not have a journal. Thanks to our wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork.
Hope you have a wonderful month as we move towards the end of this year.
Sometimes I think of setting up a small business and nothing attracts me more than becoming a fruit-seller. The foremost reason is the steady supply of fresh fruits for my own consumption every day. When the copywriting gig flops, this is one venture that promises a fruitful outcome to take care of post-retirement needs. Without disclosing my real intention, I chose to grow friendly with a fruit vendor in the local market.
Becoming a regular customer who bought almost every fruit in kilos, I managed to get recognised as one of his top three customers for billings and behaviour. He acknowledged the fact that I never bargained with him so he was generous in giving me more than what he gave to other customers. He cited the unfamiliar names of two other customers and their professions, displaying curiosity about my domicile and my work. I shared my brief details but he was not clear what copywriting and advertising meant. The example he gave of painting the walls and putting up those flex banners from one lamp post to another revealed he was confused. I said he was getting it somewhat right though he still was a bit lost about how I could afford to eat avocados every week just by putting up hoardings. It was useless trying to explain the savings due to non-alcoholic and vegetarian lifestyle were blown up on a fruit-rich diet to avoid consultations with doctors and popping their prescribed pills.
The fruit seller had placed his cart and occupied a large corner space for many years. The wheels of the wooden cart had not moved an inch for years and they went deep into the earth gradually, small creepers entwined the wheels for a rich green, decorative feel. Since it was close to a public urinal, customers would tend to avoid it. He lit rolls of dhoop batti or incense sticks every hour to keep flies and insects away, to spread fragrance, to beat the pervading stench. Contrary to my assessment, his was the busiest fruit stall, with customers emerging from sedans and SUVs to buy fruits, local and exotic, for premium quality, without pinching their noses, without feeling any pocket-pinch. With bricks cemented unevenly on the ground, and a wooden wobbly stool placed on it, he stood tall on this raised platform to keep an eye on customers and picked up blueberries and persimmons from the upper shelves that required a long hand and extra effort. If you quizzed him about the country of origin of any fruit, he was quick to specify the state or the city it was plucked from. He was aware of the care and temperature his fruits needed to grow well since he had a farmer’s background.
I was a relatively new customer and he introduced me to the exotic fruits on display with a different sales pitch. A lady customer had picked up avocados in my presence and, after she left, the fruit-seller said she managed to save her husband’s life. Seeing me curious, he divulged the complete story of how six months of regular consumption of avocado had reversed the heart disease her husband suffered from. He said the angiogram performed after six months showed arterial blockages were gone. Though it was a true story, I could not believe it completely Maybe the condition did not worsen or there was some improvement. Worrying about my own heart health had already stressed me out so I thought avocado was better than coronary bypass. To keep a healthy heart, it was necessary to drink an avocado smoothie or bite into an avocado toast. I reminded him that the pleasure of exaggeration was irresistible to those who tell fanciful stories and also for the consumers. He asked me to verify online videos if I had doubts regarding the leading role of avocados on heart health. He played it safe with fear – just like clever marketeers do when they make actors wear white robes with a stethoscope in hand and then promote a cooking oil brand as healthy for the heart. However, the bottom-line was clear: I could not bypass the avocado if I wanted to avoid bypass surgery.
As a savvy vendor, he showed me how the old gentleman picking up blueberries had saved his nerves. He was a retired professor with jangled nerves and his shaky hands added credibility to the narrative. He fished out the currency notes from his shirt pocket with an unsteady grip. That he was recovering from a mild stroke was another alert for me. Being engaged in creative overthinking required the brain to function optimally – to keep the cognitive abilities away from decline. Predictably, I became a frequent buyer of blueberries as well, exhausting my budget at times. Not that I noticed much improvement in my neurological performance but it was logical to think that the brain must be fed well since it was never introduced to the wondrous benefits of salmon and walnuts.
A young lady came and dug her long, painted nails on the skin of the papaya to check its ripeness while another middle-aged lady walked in and sought to know when the hanging bunch of robust bananas in his stall would ripen. She wanted to know the exact time – in the morning or in the evening tomorrow. He said it would ripen by sunset the next day, without batting an eyelid. What made him so confident was unclear to me but I felt he made a wild guess. He was no astrologer but such silly queries deserved prompt and silly answers. Surely, the lady would not come back to complain in case the fruit did not ripen within the specified time. In case she did so, he could always blame the bad weather for the lapse. When another customer demanded unripe bananas, he showed the same lot and said two days it would take to turn perfect ripe. His flexible truth changed on based in the need of the customer. Another eye-opener of sorts for me!
If a quarrelsome customer came to return a rotten fruit, he took it calmly and gave a fresh one even though he was sure the customer had not purchased it from him in the past seven days. He built a reputation for exchanging damaged fruits and he fed those to stray animals loitering around his cart. This was commendable as it added to his good deeds. Major irritants that tested his patience were queries on size. Customers always held a fruit in hand and asked for either a bigger one or a slightly smaller one but the one they held was not the ideal size for most customers. He was delighted to see me happy with the first watermelon I had picked up from the basket! Many customers, he said, behaved liked this but he had to stay unruffled as these customers were his source of income. Their word of mouth publicity was the most powerful form of advertising for him. Buyers trusted buyers as they were on the same side and the shopkeeper is the one who would always overcharge or sell inferior items. This was the common perception and many sellers followed such tricks and ruined the prospects of the business community. But he was unlike any of those.
One fine morning I was at his fruit stall, and a customer came smoking. He politely asked him to stub it out or finish smoking and then pick up the fruits of his choice. He did not like a smoker blowing out toxic fumes around his incense sticks and polluting the fruits with nicotine smoke. I was amazed he had the courage to say it to a customer and then I found him least affected when the offended customer walked away without buying anything. He did not mind losing such clients. When I argued that he was standing by the roadside and dust was piling up on the fruits, he pointed at the white cloth curtain meant to save his ware heat and dust and showed me the duster he kept handy to clear the dust from settling down on the fruits. Also, he had a sprinkler bottle ready to spray water on the fruits and keep them fresh for longer.
Interacting with him has been an informative exercise as I now know the kind of buyers one has to accost when one starts doing fruit-selling business. If I set it up, I must know how to handle bargaining pitches. I have seen him calculate the total bill and then voluntarily give a discount before the customer demanded it. In most of the cases, they did not argue because he himself chose to lessen the price so that the customer thought he was not being overcharged. That he did the same with me was effective to turn me into his regular client.
Now he calls me up on certain days he gets fresh fruits and offers me the freedom to open the sealed boxes and take the best pieces home, something these online delivery platforms cannot ensure in terms of quality. Surely, it’s a privilege I cannot resist and I do not mind paying him what he seeks for this special, exclusive privilege– be it apples, oranges, grapes or pomegranates or any other seasonal or delicate fruit. He knows my gentle touch on fruits would not cause any damage, rather worked as a blessing. The joy of unboxing the fruit packs in front of the vendor – using his knife – is an immense delight. Along with his compliment that I am a lucky customer who has brought for him more business, more clients, and more prosperity even though I have done nothing to boost his business. His sense of gratitude reflects in his words and reminds me of how much more I need to thank God for the good and all the good people in my life.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
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Ghosts have been interpreted as frightening, funny, gory or weird. In this collection, we bring to you some ghostly meanderings from our pages, not written by ghosts but written about ghosts or spooky encounters that are philosophical (occasionally), funny and weird.
With enough horrors in the real world around us, we decided to focus more (not fully) on the comedic and explore horror from the perspective of fun with hopefully a cathartic impact, which will deviate our minds from realities like war, hunger and climate change. Some of the tellings may be just spooky… some claim to be real encounters… are they scary or funny? Read and find out…
Art by Henry Tayali(1943-1987). From Public Domain
Let us imagine a world where wars have been outlawed and there is only peace. Is that even possible outside of John Lennon’s song? While John Gray, a modern-day thinker, propounds human nature cannot change despite technological advancements, one has to only imagine how a cave dweller would have told his family flying to the moon was an impossibility. And yet, it has been proven a reality and now, we are thinking living in outer space, though currently it is only the forte of a few elitists and astronomers. Maybe, it will become an accessible reality as shown in books by Isaac Asimov, Arthur C Clarke or shows like Star Trek and Star Wars. Perhaps, it’s only dreamers or ideators pursuing unreal hopes and urges who often become the change makers, the people that make humanity move forward. In Borderless, we merely gather your dreams and present them to the world. That is why we love to celebrate writers from across all languages and cultures with translations and writings that turn current norms topsy turvy. We feature a number of such ideators in this issue.
Nazrul in his times, would have been one such ideator, which is why we carry a song by him translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. And yet before him was Tagore — this time we carry a translation of an unusual poem about happiness. From current times, we present to you a poet — perhaps the greatest Malay writer in Singapore — Isa Kamari. He has translated his longing for changes into his poems. His novels and stories express the same longing as he shares in The Lost Mantras, his self-translated poems that explore adapting old to new. We will be bringing these out over a period of time. We also have poems by Hrushikesh Mallick translated from Odia by Snehprava Das and a poignant story by Sharaf Shad translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch.
Book reviews homes an indepth introduction by Somdatta Mandal to Banu Mushtaq’s Heart Lamp: Selected Stories, translated from Kannada by Deepa Bhasthi. We have a discussion by Meenakshi Malhotra on Contours of Him: Poems, edited and introduced by Malaysian academic, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, in which she concludes, “that if femininity is a construct, so is masculinity.” Overriding human constructs are journeys made by migrants. Rupak Shreshta has introduced us to immigrant Sangita Swechcha’s Rose’s Odyssey: Tales of Love and Loss, translated from Nepali by Jayant Sharma. Bhaskar Parichha winds up this section with his exploration of Kalpana Karunakaran’s A Woman of No Consequence: Memory, Letters and Resistance in Madras. He tells us: “A Woman of No Consequence restores dignity to what is often dismissed as ordinary. It chronicles the spiritual and intellectual evolution of a woman who sought transcendence within the rhythms of domestic life, turning the everyday into a site of resistance and renewal.” Again, by the sound of it a book that redefines the idea that housework is mundane and gives dignity to women and the task at hand.
We wind up the October issue hoping for changes that will lead to a happier existence, helping us all connect with the commonality of emotions, overriding borders that hurt humanity, other species and the Earth.
Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her inimitable artwork. We would all love to congratulate Hughes for his plays that ran houseful in Swansea. And heartfelt thanks to all our wonderful contributors, without who this issue would not have been possible, and to our readers, who make it worth our while, to write and publish.
Borderless 