Five poems by Pravasini Mahakudahave been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das. Click here to read.
A Poet in Exileby Dmitry Blizniuk has been translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov. Click hereto read.
Kalponik or Imaginedby Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click hereto read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: The Seven Mysteries of Sumona’s Life is an autobiographical narrative by Sumona (pseudonym), translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Click here to read.
Incomplete statues of Michelangelo in Accademia Gallery, Florence
In the Accademia Gallery, Florence, are housed incomplete statues by Michelangelo that were supposed to accompany his sculpture of Moses on the grand tomb of Pope Julius II. The sculptures despite being unfinished, incomplete and therefore imperfect, evoke a sense of power. They seem to be wresting forcefully with the uncarved marble to free their own forms — much like humanity struggling to lead their own lives. Life now is comparable to atonal notes of modern compositions that refuse to fall in line with more formal, conventional melodies. The new year continues with residues of unending wars, violence, hate and chaos. Yet amidst all this darkness, we still live, laugh and enjoy small successes. The smaller things in our imperfect existence bring us hope, the necessary ingredient that helps us survive under all circumstances.
Imperfections, like Michelangelo’s Non-finito statues in Florence, or modern atonal notes, go on to create vibrant, relatable art. There is also a belief that when suffering is greatest, arts flourish. Beauty and hope are born of pain. Will great art or literature rise out of the chaos we are living in now? One wonders if ancient art too was born of humanity’s struggle to survive in a comparatively younger world where they did not understand natural forces and whose history we try to piece together with objects from posterity. Starting on a journey of bringing ancient art from her part of the world, Ratnottama Sengupta shares a new column with us from this January.
Drenched in struggles of the past is also Showkat Ali’s The Struggle: A Novel, translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir. It has been reviewed by Somdatta Mandal who sees it a socio-economic presentation of the times. We also carry an excerpt from the book as we do for Anuradha Marwah’s The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta. Marwha’s novel has been reviewed by Meenakshi Malhotra who sees it as a bildungsroman and a daring book. Bhaskar Parichha has brought to us a discussion on colonial history about Rakesh Dwivedi’s Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India: A Saga of Monstrous British Barbarianism around the Globe. Udita Banerjee has also delved into history with her exploration of Angshuman Kar’s The Lost Pendant, a collection of poems written by poets who lived through the horrors of Partition and translated from Bengali by multiple poets. One of the translators, Rajorshi Patranabis, has also discussed his own book of supernatural encounters, Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible. A Wiccan by choice, Patranbis claims to have met with residual energies or what we in common parlance call ghosts and spoken to many of them. He not only clicked these ethereal beings — and has kindly shared his photos in this feature — but also has written a whole book about his encounters, including with the malevolent spirits of India’s most haunted monument, the Bhangarh Fort.
Bringing us an essay on a book that had spooky encounters is Farouk Gulsara, showing how Dickens’ A Christmas Carolrevived a festival that might have got written off. We have a narrative revoking the past from Larry Su, who writes of his childhood in the China of the 1970s and beyond. He dwells on resilience — one of the themes we love in Borderless Journal. Karen Beatty also invokes ghosts from her past while sharing her memoir. Rick Bailey brings in a feeling of mortality in his musing while Keith Lyons, writes in quest of his friend who mysteriously went missing in Bali. Let’s hope he finds out more about him.
Charudutta Panigrahi writes a lighthearted piece on barbers of yore, some of whom can still be found plying their trade under trees in India. Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia dwells on her favourite place which continues to rejuvenate and excite while Prithvijeet Sinha writes about haunts he is passionate about, the ancient monuments of Lucknow. Gulsara has woven contemporary lores into his satirical piece, involving Messi, the footballer. Bringing compassionate humour with his animal interactions is Devraj Singh Kalsi, who is visited daily by not just a bovine visitor, but cats, monkeys, birds and more — and he feeds them all. Suzanne Kamata takes us to Kishi, brought to us by both her narrative and pictures, including one of a feline stationmaster!
We've run away from the simmering house like milk that is boiling over. Now I'm single again. The sun hangs behind a ruffled up shed, like a bloody yolk on a cold frying pan until the nightfall dumps it in the garbage…
('A Poet in Exile', by Dmitry Blizniuk, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov)
In translations, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s rendition of Nazrul’s mellifluous lyrics from Bengali. Isa Kamari has shared four more of his Malay poems in English bringing us flavours of his culture. Snehaparava Das has similarly given us flavours of Odisha with her translation of Pravasini Mahakuda’s Odia poetry. A taste of Balochistan comes to us from Fazal Baloch’s rendition of Sayad Hashumi’s Balochi quatrains in English. Tagore’s poem ‘Kalponik’ (Imagined) has been rendered in English. This was a poem that was set to music by his niece, Sarala Devi.
After a long hiatus, we are delighted to finally revive Pandies Corner with a story by Sumona translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. Her story highlights the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms. Sumana has assumed a pen name as her story is true and could be a security risk for her. She is eager to narrate her story — do pause by and take a look.
In fiction, we have a poignant narrative about befriending a tramp by Ross Salvage, and macabre and dark one by Mary Ellen Campagna, written with a light touch. It almost makes one think of Eugene Ionesco. Jonathan B. Ferrini shares a heartfelt story about used Steinway pianos and growing up in Latino Los Angeles. Rajendra Kumar Roul weaves a narrative around compassion and expectations. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a beautiful fable around roses and bees.
With that, we come to the end of a bumper issue with more than fifty peices. Huge thanks to all our fabulous contributors, some of whom have not just written but shared photographs to illustrate the content. Do pause by our contents page and take a look. My heartfelt thanks to our fabulous team for their output and support, especially Sohana Manzoor who does our cover art. And most of all huge thanks to readers whose numbers keep growing, making it worth our while to offer our fare. Thank you all.
Here’s wishing all of you better prospects for the newborn year and may we move towards peace and sanity in a world that seems to have gone amuck!
My neighbour, leaning against the boundary wall, informed me that the cow stood waiting for me at the entrance gate for more than an hour. While many people feel delighted to keep others waiting, a sense of guilt pervades me in case I am held responsible for delays. Although my friends never waited for more than five minutes for me, here was a new friend from the animal world telling me there are exceptions. I wore an apologetic look when I opened the gate, with the cow stepping back to grant me the space to enter comfortably with the year-end sale shopping bags.
Our regular bovine visitor stood firm on the hind legs of patience and mooed once or twice to draw my attention to the pending chores. A sort of gentle reminder that the feeding exercise should be marked as a priority since I was back home from the marketplace now. My communication skills with human beings are poor, and here I was faced with the bigger challenge of non-verbal communication. I did not know how to make the cow understand I was really sorry – and keen to make amends by serving her some something special. After the long hour of patient wait, the cow deserved a wholesome treat. Haven’t we all heard the popular saying that the fruit of patience is always sweet? Surely, it extends to other creatures belonging to this universe because the same laws of nature govern the lives of birds and animals as well.
When I returned to the gate, the cow looked at what was in my hands. As I served her a plateful of jaggery chunks, she relished the sweet offering instead of the usual serving of potatoes and vegetable peels. Her slow mastication while establishing direct eye contact with me seemed like an act of gratitude. I stood gazing at her to see if she needed a second helping. She chose to sit down and spread positive vibes. Guessing that she needed something else, I went inside to bring wheat flour or cabbage leaves. The offered items did not make the cow restless to stand up and eat, suggesting that she was already full. She focused on better digestion and exercised self-control unlike human beings who eat excessively and then complain of bloating and over-eating.
Her presence was certainly auspicious but the stray dogs stayed away from the heavyweight cow, lurking in the corner and waiting for their daily quota of biscuits for glucose boost-up to chase cyclists and bikers. As the biscuits descended in their direction like manna from heaven, they ran together for their share while the cow looked at them once and then shut her eyes to concentrate on relaxation techniques, occasionally swishing her tail to make flies maintain a healthy distance from her body. When a cawing jet-black crow flew down and perched on her back, scanning the crumbs lying scattered on the ground to pick up its booty, I stood amazed at the precision with which the bird clutched a big chunk in its beak and flew away to the nearest branch. The dogs kept barking to vent their frustration, to mourn the substantial loss of their share. Oblivious to the chaotic goings-on around, the cow maintained her posture and reminded me of how to stay unperturbed despite chaos and confusion happening around us.
The sight of a composed, unruffled cow was inspirational and it encouraged the dogs to come near and pick up the biscuit crumbs, occasionally keeping a sharp eye on the sudden movements of the cow. Just one quick glance at what these dogs were up to assured the cow that there was no imminent danger in sight. The neighbour, who stood watching this entire spectacle, chipped in with an acerbic comment, sarcastically calling me the chosen one to perform the act of service, blessed with the special ability to match the frequency level of other creatures instead of fellow human beings.
Suspecting it was his clever strategy to duck responsibilities, I urged him to generously feed these creatures whenever he found time from his busy schedule. He said no astrologer had advised him to balance his planetary positions by feeding birds and animals. Attaching a selfish motive to the selfless act meant he saw me as a rank opportunist. Perhaps he felt I was doing it for a short span of time and the bonding exercise would conclude in a month. That this was meant to last much longer was way beyond his imagination and my revealing such grand plans would stoke up further jealousy. It was safer to let him read and interpret everything the way he liked while I should focus on what I was doing – without bothering about how my neighbours reacted to my activities. The day was not far when they would scold and shoo away the birds for turning up at my gate for their dietary needs every day.
As I turned back to enter the house, the birds swooped down in search of foodgrains. While the other species were having their share, sparrows and pigeons pecked around for the leftover stuffs. I replenished the stock on the cemented pavement garden – to enable them to locate the grains with ease. The gentle flock did not raise a flutter, allowing me the time and space to serve them with dignity.
After I came back, their chirping turned high-pitched as they gave a joyous, riotous welcome to the squirrels who came down from the rooftop. What I noticed for a change was some squirrels scoured the area for biscuit bites, suggesting a need for variety in their feed. It was not the staple grain diet but perhaps, they yearned for something sweet and tasty. While some birds were still engaged in pecking the grains, a few rebellious ones joined the troop of squirrels.
As I gained new insight into their dietary preferences, I chose to add biscuits to the menu. Their inclination to have grains looked compromised while the biscuit pieces were polished off really fast. That they were now, with each passing day, getting closer to me, feeling less threatened by human presence, flying over my head at times, and settling down near my feet, came as a pleasant surprise. That I was a harmless creature was certified by their fearlessness.
When the milkman came to deliver, he saw me surrounded by sparrows and wondered at their thriving presence in the mobile-driven world threatening their existence. Their playfulness was evident in their hopping around on the bed of grass. Their landing on the window grille to see the blooming, sun-kissed petunias created a photo-worthy scene and he clicked the fluttering birds on his smartphone before they took flight after this sudden intrusion. Maybe he clicked them mid-flight, in motion, snapping a picture worth sharing with friends and posting across social media platforms to celebrate the closeness.
The tall Asoka trees were where these birds built their nests and most of them disappeared into the green branches after this brief episode of invasion of privacy. That these birds did not have to search hard for food was a good thing since most of their daily needs were met inside the compound. Gaining easy access to eatables was ruining their habit of flying for hours. But to search for food for long hours and then return disappointed was also not a good outcome after a day of hard work. Something that demoralises and compromises the spirit of survival against all odds. The Most cute-looking in the backdrop of the photo frame were squirrels who held the biscuits firmly and took small bites. Being unable to carry them, they split the biscuits into tiny pieces and then rushed off with the booty to the garage rooftop where they could eat without any disturbance and also hoard some bits in the hollow pipes and wall cavities for consumption later.
This day offered a memorable learning lesson – a reminder that I should not leave the house without making provisions for them. I made a new year resolution: not to be casual about feeding these creatures. They should not be forced to wait for the resident to return home. Taking them for granted would amount to bad human behaviour, in line with how the world treats those who do not wield any kind of power. One never knows when their hunger pangs turn severe and when these animals turn up at the gate for their feed and relief. The refreshments should be laid out like a buffet spread – to pick whatever they like to eat, whenever they like to eat.
A diverse outdoor congregation cannot be complete without a special guest worth mentioning here: a white furry cat frequents the buffet for milk. The bowl was filled with milk. The cat slowly and cautiously emerged from behind the wall, and began to slurp from the container, taking small breaks to see what the other creatures were enjoying in the garden. Then the cat shook her head quite vigorously to signal the return of fresh energy and stretched her limbs. Spreading herself on the rubber doormat, she looks at my face. Her paws rested on her belly and this perfect chill-mode followed a wide yawn and the need for a post-lunch quick nap.
I disappeared from the scene, leaving the cat alone to enjoy some moments of privacy. Usually, the cat is afraid of dogs, but their presence outside the main gate did not impact her much. They barked a few times to assert their power and she meowed at a competitive pitch in response to register her disapproval during sleep time. Instead of choosing to retreat, the cat remained cosy in her space, and the dogs noticed the royal privilege she enjoyed inside the compound. Their mutual enmity took a backseat for the time being as the dogs chose not to waste their energy on the cat once they found an overloaded motor van to chase on the deserted road.
While they have not become best friends yet, their sense of fear and threat has reduced, giving way to tolerance. When I open the door in the morning, I find the dogs waiting outside and the cat resting on the mat on the stairs. They see each other every morning but they do not disturb each other. The same goes with birds. When the cow arrives, the dogs do not run away, just step aside to allow her space. With their growing acceptance I am more turning more sensitive to their needs.
The bowl meant for the cat has to be washed clean every day before the milk is poured. The grains for birds have to be checked for stones and the jaggery for the cow should be ant-free. No casual disposition but extreme care to ensure the best hygiene practices for them even though these creatures seem to be unaware of consuming clean things alone. Even when there is not much leisure time to serve, my conscience does not allow me to be flippant and finish off everything in a hurry. Cut down on screen time to care for them is what the inner voice urges me to do.
Ever since I chose to have other creatures as my friends, many of my lost friends and colleagues from the past have reconnected with me. Now the time I spend in the company of birds and cats and cows and dogs is claimed by human friends. I do not feel comfortable to invest heavily on my old friends who proved disloyal and seasonal. Finding a delicate balance between animal and human time is the key to keeping people as well as other creatures happy.
When I think of leaving this place, I am tied down by the needs of other creatures. A holiday trip would deprive them of food supplies so I must make arrangements for them, perhaps ask the caretaker to do it for some days. And if I leave this place forever, I must ask the person who comes next to be generous towards these creatures.
With this diversity of my animal family growing, with new members like mongoose and snakes, I am reminded of the need to be kind to all – instead of focusing on their capacity to harm. Let the slithering snake also join in and drink milk kept aside for the cat. I am confident the mixed community will not make it bare its fangs. The poison inside the snake is quite likely to remain saved unless the mongoose comes around for a challenging bloodbath session. Finding snake skin in the garage suggested it was shed recently and the serpent moved out soon after.
Now the provisions are arranged in advance to last for a month but when there are guests like monkeys trooping in once a week, the stockpile of bananas falls short. The grille gate is their acrobatic zone and they stay suspended to showcase their skills and impress. When I offer them something to eat, they come down fast and grab the eatables without a proper handshake.
Expecting surprises from monkeys is common. As the priest this year was about to perform annual prayer rituals in front of the car, a big monkey came down from the parapet and grabbed the coconut from the plate and cracked it open in front of the bonnet. The priest offered bananas and the monkey walked away quietly like a brave hero strutting the stage with swag. The priest chanted some mantras and stood watching in awe, calling it divine intervention. He said the monkey god had performed the puja successfully and there was not much left for him to do so he rode off on his scooter with mixed feelings. Whenever monkeys visit my humble abode, I am reminded of this incident that has stayed with me. Perched on the branches, they are least bothered by those shouting at them. The ground floor inhabitants do not matter at all. Learning to ignore is vital for survival. With so much to observe about animal behaviour and mannerisms, I realise I am not quite capable of understanding their feelings. The truth that the world has other important, valuable creatures we need to co-exist with becomes a palpable reality.
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
It has been a strange year for all of us. Amidst the chaos, bloodshed and climate disasters, Borderless Journal seems to be finding a footing in an orphaned world, connecting with writers who transcend borders and readers who delight in a universe knit with the variety and vibrancy of humanity. Like colours of a rainbow, the differences harmonise into an aubade, dawning a world with the most endearing of human traits, hope.
A short round up of this year starts with another new area of focus — a section with writings on environment and climate. Also, we are delighted to add we now host writers from more than forty countries. In October, we were surprised to see Borderless Journal listed on Duotrope and we have had a number of republications with acknowledgement — the last request was signed off this week for a republication of Ihlwha Choi’s poem in an anthology by Hatchette US. We have had many republications with due acknowledgment in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and UK too among other places. Our team has been active too not just with words and art but also with more publications from Borderless. Rhys Hughes, who had a play performed to a full house in Wales recently, brought out a whole book of his photo-poems from Borderless. Bhaskar Parichha has started an initiative towards another new anthology from our content — Odia poets translated by Snehaprava Das. We are privileged to have all of you — contributors and readers — on board. And now, we invite you to savour some of our fare published in Borderless from January 2025 to December 2025. These are pieces that embody the spirit of a world beyond borders…
I Am Not My Mother: Gigi Baldovino Gosnell gives a story of child abuse set in Philippines where the victim towers with resilience. Click here to read.
Persona: Sohana Manzoor wanders into a glamorous world of expats. Click here to read.
In American Wife, Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.
Sandy Cannot Write: Devraj Singh Kalsi takes us into the world of advertising and glamour. Click here to read.
Reminiscences from a Gallery: The Other Ray: Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen. Click here to read.
A discussion of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal, with an online interview with the translator. Click here to read.
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.
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.
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.
Borderless 