Nazrul’slyrics ofMor Ghumogore Elo Monohor (In my Sleep, Came the Enchanting One) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
The Heartless, a Balochi story by AbdulQayum Sarbazi, has been translated by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Dragonfly 2 has been composed and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem, Amra Choli Somukhpane(We Look Forward and March), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Clickhere to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: Pink Dreams is an autobiographical narrative by Priyanka, written and compiled by Deeksha Vats. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Clickhere to read.
Larry S Su, who migrated from a mud cave in Shaanxi province to America, shares his story of the changes he sees during three visits to his home and muses on the gaps he has observed between these two places. Clickhere to read.
Summer, Dune in Zeeland by Piet Mondrain (1872 – 1944)
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.
‘Burnt Norton’, Four Quartets (1941) by TS Eliot
If we look back in time, we have a better life than that of our ancestors. Though conflicts rage and climate change is a reality that we all dread, it can safely be said, we have progressed beyond the imagination of those who lived a hundred years ago. The fact that some books from the past still reverberate with echoes of what the present holds says much for the outliers or authors who could think out of the box. Despite this complex intermingling of ideas and times, perhaps the world will change more now than before. We do not know anything for sure though experts are always predicting a future that for most of us remains unknown. What we can present is our own estimate of what can be and a definite assertion of what is. Truth as such is a matter of perception. That complicates it further. However, one of the changes that is definitely here to stay is climate change and our changing environment. Given that this is the month that homes World Environment Day, we have a smattering of writings that revolve around nature and also the human spirit that defies age.
We have featured a writer who revels in nature and is an ageless voice that bridges multiple cultures, Ruskin Bond. As he turned ninety-two last month, he published multiple new books. We have an excerpt from one of them, Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond, a brilliant collection of snapshots of his interactions with nature over time — be it frogs, snakes or just trees. Some of the vignettes are humorous and some, as all classics are, thought provoking. Bond puts into words how he chose to work in Landour (a small town in Himalayas) and continued to write from there for sixty years. He talks of the spell the mountains cast on him, “I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape.” The other book excerpt is a contrast to Bond’s, a non-fiction called Burnout Highway by Anmol Diddan. It explores the collective suffering of stress at work where achievements distance humans from nature and a fulfilling life and urges readers to be open to changes.
In keeping with the theme of environment, Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Stephen Alter’s The Fragrance of Rain: A Brief History of the Monsoon. He tells us: “The Fragrance of Rain is much more than a history of weather. It is a meditation on nature, culture, memory, and belonging… Like the season it celebrates, the book is refreshing, nourishing, and lingering in its impact…” While Rakhi Dalal expresses her delight with Shyam Manohar’s The Cold War of Sadanand Borse, a novella translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto, Meenakshi Malhotra revels in Giti Chandra’s debut book of poems, Setting Traps for Light.
In translations, Professor Fakrul Alam has captured the flavours of Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics, which also echo of the rainy season or monsoons. Isa Kamari brings to us more of his Malay poems in English and Ihlwha Choi shares a rendering of his Korean poem, ‘Dragonfly 2’, into English. One of Tagore’s poems from Balaka (Flight of the Cranes, 1916) has found its way into this issue after being translated. We also have a touching Balochi story around social gaps from the late Abdul Qayum Sarbazi, brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes has continued sharing his short fables, which are absurd but also, comical! A sensitive story about the natural world mingled with Maori concepts by Keiran Martin seems so much in sync with the oceans while Jeena R Papaadi has woven a strange narrative located in a land that only one man could visit. Plamen Vasilev shares a human-interest story set in Europe and Rabiya Rehman takes us to Lahore in quest of a missing destination! Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s narrative takes us back to a village that opted for trees, thus enriching the environmental lore in this issue.
We have a real life heart rending story from a young girl in our Pandies Corner, written and related by Deeksha Vats, based on the story told by a victim of familial violations and violence.
Our non-fiction section homes Larry Su’s essay on how his life took him from a rural mud cave in Shaanxi province to the glamour of Chicago. Reflecting on the changes he has experienced on his rare visits to his original homeland, Su muses on the cultural and socio-economic gaps he has observed between the two places. Charudutta Panigrahi – as if in direct opposition — shares similarities between two diverse geographies.
Suzanne Kamata explores a custom which may not be that eco-friendly in her column from Japan. Jun A. Alindogan brings home the impact of climate disasters while dwelling on blessings with his narrative about a narrow escape from the Typhoon Ondoy (2009). While Meredith Stephen writes of sailing to Timor Sea with photographs by Alan Noble, Farouk Gulsara takes us on a cycling adventure around the mountains of Titiwangsa. In another musing, he also explores the idea of good and evil in a sardonic tone while Sai Abhinay Penna dwells on the grandeur and vastness of the universe over his morning jog. Gowher Bhat writes of a man for whom age seems to be just a number as he publishes his debut book at 93! One wonders at the frequency of such occurrences — we have writings about two authors above ninety in the June issue. In contrast, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in mortal fears while writing of visiting doctors with a soupçon of humour – some of it directed at himself.
Perhaps, laughter is really the best medicine to keep well! Ruskin Bond makes us laugh and writes of nature in a way that touches hearts and makes us forget the contrasting glitzy world, where we suffer stress and burnout. Our environment makes a difference, doesn’t it?
With that we wrap up our June issue. Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. To all our contributors, heartfelt thanks — we are because you are. And gratitude to our readers who make it worth our while to write and publish here.
We will next meet you during the monsoon months of South Asia though, near the equator, it rains almost every day and, in the Southern Hemisphere, it will be peak winter!
As one grows older, there is a growing concern about failing health even if no major health issues are detected. Anything that causes a minor aggravation calls for a timely consultation to prevent complications later. Driven by the lure of prevention benefits, I chose to visit a general physician for the comforting thought that a medical practitioner was checking my pulse, monitoring my blood pressure and oxygen levels, pricking my finger for sugar spike, and noting the abnormalities on the electronic gadgets under his control. While he carried out the standard procedural check-ups for deviations, I was finding it difficult to trust these devices just like the opposition political parties cannot trust the EVM for accurate polling results. Since the readings confirmed my overall good health, I ruled out the need to worry about the hidden, undetected alarms ticking away like a time bomb in my system.
I cannot keep my mouth shut when I am in the presence of a doctor – I end up sharing minor details that do not add up to anything significant. My talkative disposition irritates the doctor as he is bombarded with piles of information that prevents him from completing a quick diagnosis. He gets mired in the sea of irrelevant information so most of the medical practitioners, including my dentist, prefer specific, short answers instead of long, rambling inputs.
There is a sense of healing in opening up ones heart in front of doctors but, unfortunately, they do not understand this angle. The catharsis of sorts soothes the mind and the patient feels relieved much before popping the prescribed pills. In one such case, I observed the doctor threatened that he would refer me to the couch of a psychiatrist if I was so fond of conversing. It was a brazen attempt to silence my voice inside his chamber and meekly accept the prescription and walk out.
My attempt to praise his handwriting – even though it was a classic example of illegible scrawl – did not bring a smile on the doctor’s face that resembled the dull visage of a chronic depression patient battling negative thoughts. I had noted the model of the car with doctor’s sign parked outside the chamber and admired his choice in terms of mileage and pickup. Whenever a patient tries to cheer up and behave like a normal person, perhaps the doctor feels a sense of creeping discomfort that he is examining someone who looks healthier than him.
Taking off the shirt in front of a male doctor and his assistant feels like performing in a stripper’s club. Usually, I oppose this assault on my dignity but when there is a need to test or inject, I have to expose. I prefer to be properly clothed with protective innerwear since I do not have a gym-trained body to stoke envy in any gender.
The sagging flesh around the waist and the bulging tummy reminds me of the need to land up on the weighing machine that moves rapidly before stabilizing itself to indicate I am overweight by twenty kilos at least. Wearing a smart watch that calculates the heart rate while a doctor feels my pulse seems like a gross distrust of his expertise. While the doctor writes the pulse rate is normal, the smart watch reads it as elevated. Finally, reposing full faith in what the doctor records, I choose to consider the smart watch as a fun object which you use when you feel something throbbing within all of a sudden.
During a recent visit to a general practitioner who had never set up a private clinic practice before his retirement as a doctor in the railways, I finally woke up to his operational modesty inside a non-airconditioned cubicle sliced off from a chemist store and separated by a curtain. That the medical store hoped to sell more medicines based on his prescriptions was obvious.
This doctor was also known to generally avoid antibiotics and write mild, affordable medicines to prevent side-effects on health and monthly budget. His low consultation fees made him affordable for the middle-class patients. Earlier, he was entitled to a fixed monthly income but now he was enjoying the daily inflow of money to buy fuel and fruits. Even though he did not attract more than twenty patients in a day, he was punctual in attending the chamber in the morning and the evening for six days in a week. This availability of a doctor every day in the same location improved his connection with the local people. He was initially recommended by a friend of mine who said he was dependable for common ailments like seasonal cold and cough, gastric problems, and viral fever. I wanted to promote him as my family doctor but the plan was put on hold. My association with him began for a minor complication that did not resolve with self-medication with over-the-counter drugs.
My visit did not go down well as it appeared I had irritated him by showering fake praises on his line of treatment. He asked me to stick to my problem. I began by clarifying I did not suffer from constipation throughout my life, that the frequent trips to the loo made me think I suffered from irritable bowel syndrome. This was a medical term I had picked up from online medical sites after matching the syndromes. I was under the impression that his irritation peaked with my self-diagnosis and he was going to throw me out of his chamber where I was seated on a wobbly wooden stool. His own hearing was low as he lowered his left ear to bring it closer to my mouth to follow me clearly. I noticed a fancy aid much smaller than an ear-pod tucked behind to amplify his hearing.
My quick clearance update had no effect on him as he broke his silence with a different query related to bloating. He simplified it by using the word gas though I had already gathered its meaning. I needed time to decide whether I was bloated. He asked for my full name and age and began to write the prescription. I disturbed his thought process by adding another complication related to blood pressure. I told him I also thought that my BP became high when I am stressed or anxious. I clarified my diet was low on salt. I began to explain what I ate every day, the butter intake and caffeine intake, adding unhealthy snack items from my menu.
The patients waiting outside must have heard the loud listing of samosas, chops, and oily chips and imagined my current situation. Caring two hoots for my narrative, he resumed writing the prescription while I played a bit of tabla on my tummy to show him whether it was making any sort of sound that he could identify with a medical condition in case he heard it properly. But it was nothing more than a case of empty vessels sounding much. While the doctor ignored it, this was my playful attempt to stay relaxed in front of him. He wrote three medicines and started to explain in his soft voice how I should take them. It was hard to understand what he said in his low voice and that made me doubt my own hearing capacity. I noticed he did not prescribe any test at this stage. I wondered if he should have sent me for ultrasound. This fear was grounded when he ignored my crazy musical indulgence and signed off the prescription, asking me to report after a month again. I took a detailed look at it, understanding it was mentioned as a confirmed case of fatty liver. I wanted to opt for google pay but he insisted on cash, unwilling to share his scanner in the fear of being scammed. Since I had consumed a lot of his valuable time, he pressed the calling bell to ask for the next patient.
As I stomped out of the chamber, the chemist grabbed the prescription from my hand. He fished out those prescribed pills from the plastic boxes placed on the lower shelves and calculated the total payable price after a nominal discount. Since it was relatively low, I managed to buy the stock for the entire month. He specified the time for the medication and there were also ‘after-food’ and ‘before-food’ labels on the packets. When I came home and tried to google their composition, I found the doctor had added a psychiatric pill that is common in treating bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I wanted to grab him by the collar to ask him why he put me on brain-related drugs as it could slow down my creativity and ruin my fledgling business by keeping me asleep most of my time.
The chemist explained that brain-gut health is interlinked and any disturbance in the gut could generate a counter-effect on the brain. Since they could not be discontinued as per my will and required medical guidance in lowering the dosage first, I dumped the entire pack in the dustbin when he refused to give me a refund. I had annoyed this doctor so much that he thought the best way to punish me was to give me a strong mental dose to contain my erratic mood swings and sudden bursts of laughter noted down as the key symptoms of an unsound mind that mirrored emotional upheaval inside.
Thirty days later I went again but this time I began with a fresh complaint of worms, those small intestinal worms causing embarrassing itching in public spaces after consuming sweets and chocolates. I showed him graphically using my index finger the approximate size of the ultra slim white worms I had seen moving gently in the mound of poop. Such a vivid description made the doctor feel outraged and he stopped my narrative by writing down a pill for use for two consecutive days and then repeating the same dosage after three weeks.
He wrote this medicine on the reverse side of the old prescription and then proceeded to ask me if I had seen any improvement in my previous complication. I said I could not confirm much improvement, but there was no deterioration either. The status quo prevailed and I laughed out loud which offended him again, making him infer once again I was a mentally deranged fellow who needed psychiatric help.
I paid him with a soiled note and spoiled his mood. He said I could safely continue the pills for another month but I need not return since I had no faith on him. I thought I should have confessed I did not consume his mental health pills even for a day. And the ones for fatty liver were herbal supplements that I was willing to donate to the pharmacy. Why did I make him write prescriptions when I had no intention of consuming his pills and capsules? Was that a practice exercise for him or a test of his competence?
His clients included older adults who felt comfortable discussing their hernia and bladder health. He wanted to test the strength of his diagnosis without relying on medical tests. Although he failed in this objective, he seemed to have made this a habit. He sounded eager to confirm a disease before the report confirmed it. Many other patients were caught in this trap as his diagnosis did not always match with the test reports conducted late after his experimentation had ended in a fiasco.
Some months later, I went to consult him again since he was easily available without a long wait. I told him about my neck problem due to improper sitting posture and he wrote some herbal pills and asked me to go for an x-ray as it was a clear case of spondylosis. I shared a few symptoms but he said I did not need a collar yet. When the x-ray econfirmed there was a mild lordosis, he looked happy as he had guessed it right after a long time. A clear case of hitting the bull’s eye on the basis of his medical instinct developed over the decades!
He directed me to consult a physiotherapist and undergo sessions of neck movement exercises for long-term relief and suggested ergonomic back support for better cervical alignment. He advised I should cut down on cold items like sherbet and ice cream. I was asked not to carry heavy objects. But I needed to handwash two buckets of clothes every day for my daily exercise and carry large bags of fruits and vegetables every week. He warned me to cross streets carefully and avoid sudden turning of the neck, to reduce strain and contain the symptoms of vertigo in this ailment. But the sudden appearance of beautiful women on the roads made me forget this alert.
I applied almond oil to relax my muscles and made it a habit to take slow turns like a robot. Much of this was not documented but doled out as verbal advice from a senior doctor who seemed to regret his past misdemeanor.
I chose to exit before he could press the bell this time as I heard the voice of a woman patient waiting outside with a bawling baby to seek urgent consultation. I gave a fake smile and stood up to leave, not ready to wait for his reaction. I came out and told the chemist to give me something for stress and he suggested meditation as the best antidote. Chemists love to supply drugs of their choice and they feel good as compounders consulted for free medical advice.
When I chose to meditate, I could not find peace. But when I wrote a story, I got peace. I liked this trick and wrote many stories following the same process, ready with an eclectic collection worth publishing. The next visit to the doctor’s chamber was decided after the self-test reports for B12 and Vitamin D3 confirmed a minor decline. Trying to appear fit, I climbed the comfy sponge bed after placing the reports on the doctor’s glass-topped desk. He was basking in the winter sun in the balcony. As I called out to him, he stared at me as if wondering if I were playing the fool again.
My frankness peeved the doctor who was convinced after this episode that I was a hypochondriac obsessed with health hazards all the time. Before he could prescribe anything for it, I mentioned whether there was any possibility of memory loss that could worsen into dementia in the middle years. I wanted to know from him if there was an urgent need to undergo a complete body check-up including CT scan and MRI. It was a pleasure to be diagnosed as a serious patient when he quietly wrote down all that I wanted him to write. The best testing lab and diagnostic centre was giving a mega discount for the first time and I wanted to grab this lifetime offer available for two days!
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
In conversation with Teresa Rehmanwith focus on her non-fiction, Bulletproof: A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict and a brief introduction to her book. Click here to read.
Translations
Robihara(Sunless)by Kazi Nazrul Islam has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from Bengali. Clickhere to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
In a world torn by conflict, why would one mention hope or compassion? In an age of dystopian scenarios, why would we dream of utopias?
Perhaps it’s wishful musings, but at some level what people need to survive is probably something to look forward to — a speck of light — a wishful idea called hope. Hope builds resilience. Utopias are built on hope, on love and compassion. Dystopias are built on desperation and despair. They take fear or horror to the extreme and play on people’s vulnerabilities. They might induce a cathartic effect and one might say— we are better off as we are in the present or we must act so that this never happens. Is that something we can really say in a world where wars are disrupting peace and lives of all humanity, where violence against civilians is becoming an accepted norm, where shortages could also be a reality for most of us? Utopias, on the other hand, build on the element of an ideal, a dream towards which we can move on the bleakest day of our existence. They could be used to stir hope and envision a reality devoid of violence. And perhaps, some of it would congeal into a real-world scenario with smaller doses of the bad and ugly. In a conflict-ridden world, which almost feels like a reenactment of George Orwell’s 1984 (only about four and a half decades after his predicted date) what would touch your heart, give you a sense of relief— hope for a better future or dwelling on doomsday predictions? What would you want for your progeny?
Just before the pandemic changed our lives, a book was published where while questing for their own utopia, a group of young people became part of a dystopian reality. They were known as the ULFA rebels[1] and their story was told in Bulletproof:A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict by Teresa Rehman. The current relevance of this book cannot be undermined because not only does it humanise the insurgents perspective, but it also shows how a centrist set up can neglect the needs of particular fringe communities. In addition, Rehman’s heartrending stories of poachers and people who live unaccepted in the margins only strengthen the need for an unboxed world where tolerance and compassion would transcend these artificially created fences that divide and lead to violence. This issue features Rehman’s book and an online discussion with her which stretches beyond the confines of pages.
We have more poetry in our translations, some sombre and some funny. A Bengali poem written as a tribute by Nazrul on the death of his older friend, Rabindranath Tagore, has been rendered into English by Professor Fakrul Alam. To add a lighter touch, we have translated a fun-filled poem by Tagore. Isa Kamari continues to translate his own Malay poems to bring in flavours of the culture. This time his poems seem to urge a need to transcend age-old stratifications. We also have a Balochi human-interest story by Younus Hussain brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes’ column too has fiction. His humorous and absurdist fables continue to urge re-evaluation of the world as well as genres. We also have a poignant narrative built around a Vietnamese migrant family by Mario Fenech. Sayan Sarkar shares a tale upending norms set in Kolkata while Naramsetti Umamaheswararao narrates a story about a young boy overcoming his fears. Abhik Ganguly gives us a strange fiction set in the future in a different galaxy, where Earth is seen as the original planet of human evolution.
C Christine Fair, who is an established translator, has surprised us — like Lyons — this time with a personal memoir which dwells on the deeply annihilating impact of norms that define gender roles. Upending the idea of an immutable ruler who can overpower us, is an essay by Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan with its roots in the ruins Rameses II — known as Ozymandias too — and Shelley’s poem of the same name.
We have had an overflow of writing about the unusual and redefining norms in our non-fiction section. Odbayar Dorj weaves an unusual narrative and shares photographs from a village of scarecrows in Japan that has a population of 27 humans and 370 scarecrows. She tells us: “In a place where people and scarecrows live side by side, I began to understand something simple but profound: sometimes, when human presence fades, we find our own ways to fill the silence with memories, imagination, and love.” Humanity never ceases to hope. Filling in silences are narratives by Arathi Devandran and Mubida Rohman on how they deal with the quietness left by departed loved ones.
We have more from Meredith Stephens with photographs by Alan Noble on their trip to Vietnam — as they travel to places that are less touristy while Gowher Bhat explores the Sunday Book Bazaar at Old Delhi. Farouk Gulsara travels back to Penang where he spent his childhood and reflects on changes. Are they always for the best?
Suzanne Kamata takes up changes with a soupçon of humour as she writes of how the AI finally conceded to her husband, “Your wife is not wrong…” while Jun A. Alindogan writes of how social media can create mayhem if misused to spread fake news. Devraj Singh Kalsi resorts to sardonic humour of a darker hue as he explores ways to make a living.
Gulsara has also explored Sam Dalrymple’s Shattered Lands: Five Partitions and the Making of Modern Asiawhich starts with the extent of the British Empire with its western-most point at Aden and stretching in the east to Burma. There was a period from 1839 to 1867, when it stretched from Aden to Singapore[2], which was a part of Malaya, leaving out Siam or Thailand which never succumbed to colonial rule. The book starts at a later date — 1928 — and talks of the piecing of the British Empire, with questionable stances taken by historically heroic figures, thus urging a critical relook at our own past — just over the last hundred years.
Our reviews include Rakhi Dalal’s take on Maithreyi Karnoor’s rather unusual stories fromGooday Nagar.Bhaskar Parichhahas wandered back to non-fiction with the late Kaukub Talat Quder Sajjad Ali Meerza’s Wajid Ali Shah: A Cultural and Literary Legacy, translated from Urdu by Talat Fatima, a history that makes us reassess views on the last of the Awadhi nawabs. Somdatta Mandal has also shares a discussion on Sushila Takbhaure’s My Shackled Life, translated from Hindi by Deeba Zafir and Preeti Dewan, a narrative that showcases the resilience of the author.
This issue could not have been put together without all our wonderful contributors. Heartfelt thanks for sharing your gems with us. Huge thanks to the Borderless team too who continue to support bringing in variety, colour and reinforcing our values. Much thanks to Sohana Manzoor for the fabulous cover art and to all those who share vibrant visuals with their writing. Many thanks to our readers too who make our efforts worthwhile. Do write in with your comments.
Look forward to greeting you all again next month!
Spending three decades of adult life without consuming a single drop of alcohol should awaken the introspection. What could possibly be wrong with me? I have been surrounded by friends and teachers who drank and danced together. I have enjoyed their spirited company, but I have never been tempted, never felt inclined to sip what made them tipsy. I have been dumped for not providing unconditional love, but I did not pour wine on my wounded heart for emotional relief. Over the years, I have worked well with seniors and juniors who relished whisky, rum, and beer though I never raised a toast or said cheers. Perhaps the underlying fear that I would end up revealing all my dark secrets in an inebriated state puts brakes on my urge to hit the bottle!
A dry creative life appears inevitable in such a pitiable situation and this worry mounts pressure on me. The haunting fear of failure in artistic pursuits seems likely to push me to the edge of addiction where I am left stranded with no other option. However, I find encouragement from liquor-loving authors crafting flowing prose as they credit this strength to their weakness. Thanking the altered state of mind that generates wild, imaginative ideas under the influence of alcohol. That becomes the blissful reality of their fiction. I reserve my right to try this option if natural stimulants fail to deliver effective results.
We are warned not to hold the steering wheel of a car in a drunken state, forget gliding a pen on paper but here the wine-loving authors draw a comparison to study the difference in their writing output. The sample produced after consuming alcohol reads better than the other writing sample produced when they were sober. The takeaway is that such writing automatically tends to be shaky whereas what is produced after gulping liquor stands strong and holds the reader’s fleeting attention. Retention of such a fine balance of readability and creativity is worth appreciating in the literary circles where intoxicating prose garners critical praise. Till now, I had only known writers and poets drinking liquor because of commercial failure or romantic letdowns. Changing times brew new realities as the creativity booster impact of alcohol has now been verbally and vocally established without conducting any clinical findings.
Forget the class of art-loving people who cheer up with three cheers to everything that gives a high in this dystopian world, carrying them on wobbly legs to a utopian world from where they do not wish to return anytime soon. Discovering alcohol addiction in a devout self-styled ‘saint’ who preaches the combined therapy of spiritual wisdom and divine living to her growing cult of followers was an eye-opener of sorts for me. Posting pictures of her pouring whisky in a glass and sipping it with her married daughter delivered awareness about the duality present in her character. Her followers had never seen her in this avatar. So, any attempt to bring this reality to their knowledge would be dismissed as a malicious move engineered by circulating her doctored image. While to those who are educated and liberal, she would emerge as a strong-willed lady who has broken the gender barrier and loves to celebrate intoxicating life.
In fact, her alcohol-friendly nature is likely to be read as a bold, receptive move to break free of everything that holds them back in multiple guises. She would come across as a transparent source of inspiration to the womenfolk who should give company to their spouse so that he does not wander into local bars or get into fights for his neat peg, or falls into open manholes or wades through overflowing high drains, creating a bad impression for the entire family and causing heartburn for those who feel ashamed that the householder comes home drunk. As a dutiful wife, she would ensure that he gets the company of his soul mate and drinks along with her instead of seeking exploitative friends and female colleagues to drink with and waste hard-earned money. A dignified step of this kind from a pious guide goes a long way to reforming the husband who gradually tones down his addiction and turns it occasional at home.
Performing this noble task as a wife is no mean achievement as she has partnered with her alcoholic husband to make him give up this habit. While neither of them kicks this habit, she finds it a source of forgetting the sorrow of widowhood as she drinks to mourn losing him forever now. She finds a group of kitty party friends to continue the habit of drinking and trying out new wines to keep her skin glowing.
When I told this to her daughter who was once slightly fond of me, she said she was aware of it since her college days, and it was her family tradition to drink liquor without gender discrimination. She called it a sign of progressive outlook and cited examples to differentiate between addiction and casual drinking, to position themselves as drinkers, not drunkards, calling it my narrow thinking to blend them all without any pride. She said her spiritually awakened mother was a sober drinker of quality wines, and she never entered into any brawl with neighbours or guests, never created mischief or spoke ill against them. Such a robust attempt to defend her mother’s drinking habit gave me a real high and I wished I could encourage some women of my household to seek inspiration.
My father and my slew of uncles were classified as occasional, seasonal, festival drinkers more active during the winters or weddings. I had the privilege of holding their fancy bottles in my hand during my childhood, just like trophies won in tournaments. I could rattle off the names of popular brands of whisky and create a flutter in my circle of friends who envied my vast knowledge and predicted I would grow up to be a heavy drinker. Their prediction remained unrealised.
My distaste for alcohol stems from close observation of people who ruined their promising careers after hitting the bottle and not all of them were in the creativity business. The loss of their potential contribution made me feel the world would have been richer if they had stayed away from alcohol.
What usually begins as a flirtation with beer because of low alcohol content and more froth, suddenly graduates one to more toxic stuff that causes organ damage though many alcoholic folks also guzzle black coffee to limit liver damage. Whether they are successful in reversing it or not is inconclusive, but they have a sense of satisfaction that they made genuine efforts to improve their overall health. I still remember one middle-aged uncle who came home drunk to attend the funeral ceremony of my father. Even today I find his liver rallying behind him without turning fatty, supporting him well without complaints or transplant needs though he is almost ninety now and a chronic drinker who has not cut it down to maintain organ health.
Much younger cousins have kept alive the family tradition by making alcohol an integral part of their lives. They have made it a mission to take the legacy forward and become chronic drinkers who drink gallons. The entire town knows about their drinking parties and many family friends read this as a sign of destruction. But the fact that they are prospering at a faster rate than many of us should end all speculation regarding decay and doom. Not drinking liquor seems to imply in this case that the person has not grown up as a well-balanced professional. One who cannot hold himself after a few pegs does not hold any promise, so this lucrative trade makes me seriously ponder over the scope of becoming a wine merchant myself – or setting up a distillery unit after my romance with distilled words fails to win hearts.
I was recently introduced to a successful entrepreneur from the local belt who has tasted success in such a start-up. He won the respect of a community that refuses to acknowledge creativity as a respectable pursuit. However, it shows love to the ‘respectable’ businessman with shady contacts that deserve to be exposed instead of getting lauded in the community that looks desperate to seek his company. They love to take photographs with him and post them in social media. The religious gatherings are incomplete without his presence and he has to be present to begin any auspicious program, as if he is the lucky fellow and God’s beloved child who can do a great job for the entire community while the truth is that he is poisoning the entire populace. Yet, he wins claps instead of slaps from holy men and politicians offering support and protection.
People rise up from their seats when this wine merchant enters the room. I was lucky (not sure) to be introduced to him and he sought to know what I did for a living. When I said I was a writer, he lost interest in me. Considered useless, I was pushed aside and never smiled at again. My presence, he pretended, was as valuable as my absence. The wine-seller was calling the shots. Even the priest genuflected before his materialistic prowess, showing his readiness to cancel appointments or reschedule them just to ensure he was given top priority — another stark reminder that VIP culture remains dominant in religious spots.
So I decided to join the bandwagon. On a barren parcel of land in a faraway area outside the city, I decided to set up a distillery. This has won hearts. The foundation stone laying ceremony is yet to be performed but the entire area is abuzz with excitement that a new distillery is coming up here. The populace that enjoys booze will come from the nearby areas will come to find out more about the plans of completing this unit and how soon the new liquor will be available in the market. Thay are curious to know if it’s going to be local or foreign liquor. With so much of information and misinformation flying around like dust, the distillery has garnered attention. There are congratulations flowing in – something I did not get in any other profession. They have blessed me to be successful as I make the community proud of doing a great service. Something I never received in my earlier attempts to continue doing a creative job. My exit from it is now certain as I am planning to focus on the new business venture launched in partnership.
If I had been a failure in creative work, I would have hit the bottle. So, I must ensure my safety and not drink my own distillery products to heal my agonies and forget my failures. A failed artist seeking refuge in alcohol is a nightmarish idea for me, so it is better to taste material success by selling alcohol and build a fortune instead of wasting time on words and sentences that do not seem to connect with the masses.
I have to benefit from the wine trade, and I am ready to sacrifice my dreams just to make this a profitable business. After that, if I find the time and energy to write, I would consider indulging. Otherwise, I’ll remain focused on making liquor my flagship business. I am sure more powerful heads will notice the change and give acceptance and blessings to my new business venture. My spirit will be charged in the spirits business as I will become the most admired and deified person because I would generate employment and provide fullness to the parched souls even if it devastates the health and future of many households.
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
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne…
The Canterbury Tales (1387-1400) by Chaucer, Prologue
This is the month Asia hosts sprays of new years across multiple regions. Many of these celebrate the fecundity of Earth, spring and the departure of bleak winter months. Each new year is filled with hope for the coming year. The vibrant colours of varied cultures celebrate spring in different ways, but it is a welcome for the new-born year, a jubilation, a reaffirmation of the continuity of the circle of life. Will the wars, especially the shortages caused by them and felt deeply by many of us, affect these celebrations? Had they impacted the festivals that were celebrated earlier? These are questions to which we all seek answers. We can only try to gauge the suffering caused by war on those whose homes, hopes, families and assets have been affected other than trying to cope with the senselessness of such inane attacks. But, in keeping with TS Eliot’s observations on Prufrock, most of us continue our lives unperturbed and as usual.
Some of us think and try to dissent for peace and a world without borders with words – prose or poetry. To reinforce ideas of commonalities that bind overriding divides, we are excited to announce a poetry anthology mapping varied continents with content from Borderless Journal, Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems. We are hugely grateful to Hawakal Publishers for this opportunity and to Bitan Chakraborty for the fabulous cover design. We invite you all to browse on the anthology which is available in hardcopy across continents.
Our issue this month is a bumper issue with the translation of Tagore’s Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders) by Professor Fakrul Alam. It’s the full-length play this time as earlier we had carried only an excerpt. The play is deeply relevant to our times as is Somdatta Mandal’s English rendition of his story, ‘Daliya’, set in Arakan. We also have also translated Tagore’s response to the idea of mortal fame and deification in poetry. Kallol Lahiri’s poignant Bengali story about the resilience of an ageing actress has been brought to us in English by V Ramaswamy. Isa Kamari brings us translations of his Malay poems exploring spirituality through nature.
But what really grips are the fables that Hughes will be sharing with us over four months. He calls them Rhysop Fables, after the ancient ones from Aesop’s with the ancient author himself being mentioned in one of the short absurdist narratives this time. In fiction, our regular fable writer, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao explores a modern-day dilemma, that of social media intruding into the development of children. Jonathon B Ferrini glances at resilience and mental disability while, Sangeetha G looks into societal attitudes that still plague her part of the world. Oindrila Ghosal gives a story set in Kashmir.
From Kashmir, Gower Bhat shares a heartfelt musing on being a first time father. Mohul Bhowmick writes of Eid in Hydearbad (Hari Raya in Southeast Asia) — echoing themes from Kamari’s poems — and Anupriya Pandey ponders over the quiet acceptance of mundane life that emphasises social inequities. Jun A. Alindogan brings home issues from Phillipines. While we have stories about Vietnam from Meredith Stephens, Suzanne Kamata muses about Phnom Penh, mesmerised by Cambodian dancers.
Farouk Gulsara writes of his cycling trip from Jaipur to Udaipur bringing to life dichotomies of values and showing that age can be just a number. Chetan Poduri reinforces gaps created by technology as does Charudutta Panigrah, a theme that reverberates from poetry to fiction to non-fiction and much of it with a light touch. Devraj Singh Kalsi sprinkles humour with his strange tale about hiring a bodyguard.
Keith Lyons has brought in Keith Westwaters, a soldier-turned-poet who seems to find his muse mainly in New Zealand. We have also featured an author who overrides borders of continents, Marzia Pasini. Her book, Leonie’s Leap, has a protagonist of mixed origin and her characters are drawn out of Russia, India, Bulgaria and many other places.
This rounds up our April issue. Do visit our content’s page and explore the journal further.
Huge thanks to the wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her art. They help bring together the colours of the world to our pages. Huge thanks to contributors who make each issue evolve a personality of its own. And heartfelt thanks to readers who make it worth our while to write.
The arrival of royalty cheques should fulfill the dream of royal living. And the finest way to showcase royalty is by purchasing a horse and hiring a personal bodyguard. The rest of the worldly acquisitions are bank financed and hence lack appeal. Before I buy a well-bred horse instead of a swanky car, I need to learn how to ride and lose my weight to reduce the physical burden on the stud. Putting this idea into suspension mode for the time being, my present focus is on hiring a bodyguard first.
It is undeniable that the worldly possessions purchased on bank credit are not a genuine indicator of social status. What works better to reflect wealth and worthiness is the hiring of a personal bodyguard who has to be paid a handsome salary out of monthly income. A gun-toting escort, dressed in black, keeping a hawk’s eye all around, is the ultimate sign of luxury that has scaled up my ambition to pursue material success. Jealous folks and sworn enemies cannot bear the sight of a writer being shadowed all the time, protected every minute while they stay exposed to all kinds of threats.
Before they choose to emulate, they need to tell their families what level of threat exists for real and what is just a figment of their imagination. A similar demand raised by other members of the family makes the proposal difficult to implement. Insurance keeps the family financially afloat and hence the householder fails to get an instant approval for hiring a bodyguard. They do not care if a gangster shoots the earning member as the insurance company keeps the family protected with the insured amount in case of his untimely bump-off on a deserted highway or a crowded throughfare.
A security guard of any housing society cannot be employed for this purpose as the ideal bodyguard needs to be agile, gym-trained, and a sharpshooter as well. Such a rare combination of talents can emerge only after screening multiple experienced candidates with an interesting portfolio of crisis management.
Other people – my fake friends – ask me whether I have written a controversial book that has provoked a fanatic in any part of the world. Writing about myself, making fun of myself, sharing encounters with birds and animals should not ruffle feathers. The question of hurting sentiments does not arise and the justification to get state-sponsored security does not have a valid ground as there is no perceived threat perception. Writing engaging content in a non-discriminatory voice about nature is most unlikely to offend a tiger or a crocodile, not if I do not tend to ignore some and focus on just a few. For me as a writer, the tiny ones and the giant ones provide equal pleasure in equal measure.
On a recent visit to a builder’s office to search for a studio apartment, I was surprised to find the owner entering the premises flanked by two bouncer bodyguards who stood waiting outside the teak-wood door when he walked into his cabin. I was in a hurry so I wanted a quick word but the bodyguards stopped me and scanned me as if I was a big threat to security. When they suspected I was still not tamed and neutralised, they brandished a gun to scare me, hoping that discipline would follow. I told them that this behaviour offended my sentiments and I no longer wished to buy anything from the boss.
The threat of losing a client should have alarmed them but they did not seem perturbed. Instead, they looked ready to cart me away as an unwanted pesky visitor who looked impatient and troublesome, who managed sneak in beyond the reception desk like an intruder crossing the border. That I was not ready to discuss anything with the manager seemed to annoy them but the flip side suggests these builders need to be seen and observed so that one can form an idea if they are likely to siphon off funds and run away to a foreign land without delivering the promised homes. In such an eventuality, their managers would not be found hanging around the rented office to offer possession of the property that has not developed beyond a skeleton in five years.
Hearing the noise outside, the builder called them in, and the open door offered him the chance to scan me and feel safe enough to allow me in. The bodyguards were surprised! As the boss was in a good mood, I sought a hefty discount and he seemed to agree with a say-cheese smile. The presence of guns did not scare me. I spoke without fear. The builder perhaps appreciated my courage to speak boldly in the presence of his weaponised bodyguards. He accepted my suggestions and offered a park-facing property with a waiver of preferential location charges. A little bit of courage helped ease off the incoming installment burden.
In the midst of our smooth conversation, he received some threat call on the landline and the security guys became busy with that. A healthy crossfire of abusive words in three languages followed, leaving me clueless and inconclusive since there was no written waiver in my favour yet. The verbal assurance did not satisfy me, but the bodyguards shooed me away, saying that the builder does not write anything on paper.
Maybe he had fears of his signature getting forged and misused. That he said his was the final word was something nobody could question in this office is what I was told. With these bodyguards as my prime witness to my big savings deal, I finally went to the manager and told him what had happened. He seemed to suggest I had broken the protocol as I was pretty fast in reaching out to the owner for discount. He said the property I had finalised had been booked just a few moments ago and the owner was not yet intimated of the closed deal. I could guess this was his trick as he offered the discounted price for a road-facing property instead of a park-facing one with a view of the swimming pool.
The brazen display of power in front of an ordinary citizen made me look at security as a new symbol of social status. I knew the builder was paying the salary by selling the homes at a premium price and his middle-class customers were bearing the burden for his safety. The corridor was sanitized. They ensured no obstructions remained as the builder had spent an hour in the office and it was time to move out for his next task. The manager said it was time for the boss to visit the welfare centre for animals. His social service ventures consumed much time. His bodyguards escorted him to the car while I was left stranded there without a solution to my problem.
The job of escorting the boss looked easy but the risk of ensuring his safety was high. With threats looming large, especially kidnapping, the bodyguards seemed to be under constant stress, and they deserved the high salary they were paid. One mistake and they could end up losing their lives and jobs if the boss suffered. While it was a good idea to be escorted, the loss of privacy was also a concern as the bodyguards entered the washroom as well. When the nature’s call cannot be answered alone in peace, the build-up of pressure is evident. In case I chose to hire a bodyguard, a similar situation would be unavoidable.
While a builder has multiple threats from rivals and gangsters, a writer must record an episode of brutal attack or life threat for offending an individual or a community. Since none of that exists in my case, the justification to hire a bodyguard is missing. Besides, the royalty earnings look inadequate to maintain the salary burden of the bodyguard who might point a gun at the writer in case his salary gets delayed.
Creative people who prefer having a pet have to think twice before hiring bodyguards unless they acquire the tag of being a best-seller. The bodyguard dies in a crossfire while saving the employer, but he gets no gallantry award for that. In most of the cases, they end up running away from the scene of crime, to disappear into a thick jungle or a distant village without claiming salary dues in order to save their precious lives. One needs to pore over this practical aspect before signing up a bodyguard.
In case of a heated argument on any issue of conflict or disagreement, the bodyguard could end up losing calm and blow up my head by pulling the trigger. This would cause irreparable loss to the creative world, although other writers might celebrate this untimely ending in private. Imagine the bodyguard staying alert outside but the glass of poisoned water on the bed-side table leads to death or a family member kills while the writer sleep.
I have given this a second thought and decided to hire one bodyguard for a month just to get the royal experience. A bodyguard employed outside returned home when the bombing in a foreign city began so I offered him a job for a month for his pocket expenses. He accepted my modest offer and started following me. But he looked pretty relaxed during his duty hours. I told him I work as a writer who has many hidden enemies. He was not impacted by my words. There was a wide gap between us. For instance, he was still in the cafe while I was about to cross the main road. I told him these counted as lapses. He still wondered why a person would kill an innocent soul like me. I said you never know fanatics. No logic works when they pump bullets from point-blank range. He was not affected by these grave words.
He ate burgers and pizzas with me and went for shopping trips. He stood outside my writing chamber and felt bored. I opened the garden-facing window one day and he rushed to the front side of the lawn. He advised me not to open the window as a sniper with a laser gun from another building rooftop might target me. His guideline was clear: If you want to write, keep windows shut. Working in an enclosed space made me claustrophobic. I could not write in peace and under surveillance all the time.
I posted his pictures on my social media handles – to boast that I had a bodyguard watching over me. There were weird comments as to why I was wasting resources that should be saved for my retirement. After getting trolled, I defended myself by saying I was gathering experience of this kind to peep into the lives of security personnel, to know what it meant to follow and get followed. But it evoked emojis of laughter. I paid the bodyguard his monthly salary and asked him to deposit the air gun to avoid any potential misuse.
In this entire exercise I noticed that my image of a bold, fearless writer took a severe blow. I lost scores of followers and readers who concluded I was a scared type of writer who was not worthy of being inspiring.
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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
Meenakshi Malhotra writes of the diverse ways histories can be viewed, reflecting on the perspective from the point of view of water, climate, migrations or women. Click here to read.
Sometimes, we have an idea, a thought and then it takes form and becomes a reality. That is how the Borderless Journal came to be six years ago while the pandemic raged. The pandemic got over and takeovers and wars started. We continued to exist because all of you continue to pitch in, ignoring the differences created by certain human constructs. We meet with the commonality of felt emotions and aesthetics to create a space for all those who believe in looking beyond margins. We try to erase margins or borders that lead to hatred, anger, violence and war. Learning from the natural world, we believe we can be like the colours of the rainbow that seem to grow out of each other or the grass that is allowed to grow freely beyond manmade borders. If nature gives us lessons through its processes, is it not to our advantage to conserve what nurtures us, and in the process, we save our home planet, the Earth? We could all be together in peace, enjoying nature and nurture, living in harmony in the Universe if only we could overlook differences and revel in similarities.
A young poet Nma Dhahir says it all in her poem that is a part of our journal this month —
This is how we stay human together: by refusing the easy damage, by carrying each other without calling it sacrifice, by believing that what we protect in one another eventually protects the world.
Translations has more poetry with Professor Fakrul Alam bringing us Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics in English and Fazal Baloch familiarising us with beautiful Balochi poetry of the late Majeed Ajez, a young poet who left us too soon. Isa Kamari translates his own poems from Malay, capturing the colours of the community in Singapore to blend it with a larger whole. And of course, we have a Tagore poem rendered into English from Bengali. This time it’s a poem called ‘Jatra (Journey)’ which reflects not only on social gaps but also on politics through aeons.
Christine C Fair has translated a story from Punjabi by Lakhvinder Virk, a story that reflects resilience in women who face the dark end of social trends, a theme that reverberates in Flanagan’s poetry and Meenakshi Malhotra’s essay, which while reflecting on the need of different perspectives in histories – like water and nomads — peeks into the need to recall women’s history aswell. This is important not just because March hosts the International Women’s Day (IWD) but because one wonders if women in Afghanistan are better off now than the suffragettes who initiated the idea of such a day more than a century ago?
This time our non-fiction froths over with scrumptious writings from across continents. Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos muses on looking at numbers and beyond to enjoy the essence of nature. Farouk Gulsara ideates about living on in posterity through deeds and ideas. Gower Bhat shares how he learns story writing skills from watching movies. Meredith Stephens talks of her experience of a fire in the Australian summer. Bhaskar Parichha writes with passion about his region, Odisha. We have a heartfelt tribute to Mark Tully, who transcended borders, from Bhowmick. And an essay on Arundhati Roy’s memoir, Mother Mary Comes to Me, from Somdatta Mandal, which explores not just the book but also the covers which change with continents. Prithvijeet Sinha travels beyond Lucknow and Suzanne Kamata brings to us stories about her trip to Phnom Penh.
Keith Lyons draws from the current crises and writes about changing times, suggesting: “Changes aren’t endings, but thresholds.” Perhaps, if we see them as ‘thresholds of change’, the current events are emphasising the need to accept that human constructs can be redefined. I am sure a Neolithic or an Australopithecus would have been equally scared of evolving out of their system to one we would deem ‘superior’. Life in certain ways can only evolve towards the future, even if currently certain changes seem to be retrogressive. We can never correctly predict the future… but can only imagine it. And Devraj Singh Kalsi imagines it with a dollop of humour where tails become a trend among humans again!
Humour and absurdity are woven into a series of short fables by Hughes while Naramsetti Umamaheswarao weaves a fable around acceptanceof differences. In fiction, we have stories of resilience from Jonathon B Ferrini and Terry Sanville. Bhat gives us a story set in Kashmir and Sohana Manzoor gives us one set in Dhaka, a narrative that reminds one of Jane Austen… and perhaps even an abbreviated version of the 2001 film, Monsoon Wedding.
In reviews we have, Mohammad Asim Siddiqui discussing Anisur Rahman’s The Essential Ghalib. Rituparna Khan has written on Malashri Lal’s poetry collection reflecting on women, Signing in the Air. And Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Deepta Roy Chakraverti’s Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor, a book that reflects on the resilience that makes great women. Thus, weaving in flavours of the IWD, which applauds women who are resilient while urging humans for equal rights for one half of the world population.
While we ponder on larger realities, Borderless Journal looks forward to a future with more writings centred around humanity, climate change, our planet and all creatures great and small. This year has not only seen a rise in readership and contributors — and the numbers rose further after our unsolicited Duotrope listing in October 2025 — but has also attracted writers from more challenged parts of the world, like Ukraine, Iran, Tunisia and Kurdistan. We are delighted to home writing from all those who attempt to transcend borders and be a part of the larger race of humanity. I would like to quote Margaret Atwood to explain what I mean. “I hope that people will finally come to realize that there is only one ‘race’—the human race—and that we are all members of it.” And I would like to extend her view to find solidarity with all living beings. I hope that there will be a point in time when we will realise there’s not much difference between, a lizard, a fly, a human or a tree… All these lifeforms are necessary for our existence.
I would want to hugely thank all our team for stretching out and making this a special issue for our sixth anniversary and Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for being with us through our journey. Let’s change the world with peace, love and friendship!
