Tag: Devraj Singh Kalsi

Crush on Bottles

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Since the idiomatic expression – hit the bottle – slipped into my word cabinet, I have woken up to the reality that certain words draw stunned silence from people when we falter in the usage because of misinterpretation or their striking closeness to other words or phrases. With my shaky command of the language, I visualised the violent act of hitting the bottle with a bare hand. But the brush with a newspaper article carrying the same headline made me sense its phrasal tipsy turn, prompting me to consult the dictionary.

My attraction for bottles had always been there — except that I do not recall much about the feeding bottle. I suspect I have never been in a dry state of mind since my childhood. There is a natural bonding with bottles from a tender age — irrespective of the labels attached. The glass cabinet displayed bottles with slender shapes and fancy English names like Old Monk or Old Tavern, which expanded the vocabulary of a young learner. I remember asking my father the meaning of the words when I first saw him unboxing these. As the liquid with a golden tinge rapidly flowed into designer-cut glasses and hit the bed of ice cubes, I was brimming over with a strong urge to hold the aesthetic bottle and clink glasses with him and his friends before they struggled to hold themselves after gulping a few pegs.

I do not have pictures capturing those moments of unadulterated joy holding such bottles in my hand. There was just one photograph showing me busy with a bottle of Waterbury’s Compound. Before it gets mistaken as another fancy English name for a heady drink, let me clarify its status as an immunity booster offering relief from cough and common cold. Without a faint idea of its medicinal value, the red label of the bottle attracted me a lot. It was clear from this indulgence that, during my adult years, I would have an intense association with bottles of all shades and trades.

As I grew up, the bottles soon became conspicuous by their absence. The usual places of stocking them wore a deserted look, and perfume bottles replaced them. The small imported bottles continued to allure me for their sleek design, colour and looks. But I missed the earlier appeal of wine bottles. Perhaps, my parents grew aware of the possibility of my tasting liquor in their absence or smuggling the bottles out of the house for my friends. The steady disappearance of the cocktail cabinet made me fond of standing in front of wine shops in the neighbourhood – to admire the variety of bottles on the shelves. The fear of being seen by a familiar face dampened my enthusiasm as it would earn me the tag of a teenage drinker. Nobody would believe I was eyeing them with an artistic bent of mind. I would never be able to scotch the rumour that I was damaging the reputation of the family by queuing up in front of wine shops if some archrivist or detractor got the chance to tarnish my image with the liberty of distorting the reality by taking me to the wine counter, with outstretched hands for a pint.

The sight of newspaper advertisements flashing liquor was another source of vicarious excitement. The bottle was the real hero and not the couple in the advertisement. For me, the satisfaction of drinking cannot surpass the joy and thrill of admiring the art of wine bottles. Drinking fine wine has an aristocratic and classy appeal, but the art of looking at fine wine bottles drew me closer to advertising while in school. The catchy lines written next to the visual always made me think of penning similar lines that would intoxicate readers. When I fumbled and stumbled into advertising with the desire to view fresh images of wine bottles and craft copies, the ban on liquor ads dashed my hopes, leaving me high and dry. Not a single line for a surrogate soda or mineral water ads from any liquor brands to date is how the reality stands pegged.

There was a keen urge to hold a bottle and drink from it, but it was limited to aerated drinks. I indulged in heavy drinking of the soft variant until the intestinal walls revolted against the toxic overflow. When it was time to repair the damage, I preferred to go for syrup bottles instead of pills and capsules. Flaunting a shelf of syrup bottles of various shapes with varied tastes helped alleviate my suffering. During a bout of cough, cold, or allergy, I demanded syrup. If there was a need to boost vitamin levels, I chose syrup. Whenever the liver or any other dysfunctional organ needed care or relief, I would request the doctor, as much as possible, to provide me with the scope to drink syrup, preferably with a fruity taste. Sometimes, the kind doctor added a syrup bottle to the prescription to address flatulence when I disclosed my regular preference for oil-rich, deep-fried intake. Having syrup made me feel less sick. It was more of an energy drink that gave a feeling of stamina and wellness.

Though nothing in life generates the feeling of purity like a bottle of fresh, toned milk – the only bottle that reminds me of my childhood compulsion to gulp down its contents as it arrived from the nearby booth. Spotting the flavoured milk bottles in shopping malls generates a similar scary feeling even today. But I see health-conscious young people drinking chocolate and strawberry-flavoured milkshakes, holding a cigarette in the other hand to balance tradition and modernity as opposed to those days when something needed to be added to the milk to ensure children did not complain.

With the arrival of non-alcoholic beverage bottles made of dark coloured glass, bearing close resemblance to beer bottles, the style factor has gathered fizz. Aping young folks standing outside large-format stores, leaning against decorative lamp posts, with a bottle in hand, I also went in for a similar drink that would charge me like a bull, ready to attack the sight of anything red. A taxi driver waving his red cleaning cloth – perhaps to suggest the breakdown of his vehicle or alert pedestrians to any danger like potholes on the road – was not worth reacting to in anger. Holding the empty bottle in search of an empty bin, I walked up to his yellow cab briskly, and asked him politely, “Sealdah chaloge¹?” Before I could get his reply, a stray dog came rushing my way, making me run and jump the railing for safety.

“Will you go the Sealdah?” Sealdah is a neighbourhood in Kolkata ↩︎

Devraj Singh Kalsi works 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

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

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Tags Assam Tribune, Deccan Herald, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Kolkata, The Statesman

Stories

The Tender Butcher

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

The butcher had written many poems without any dream of compiling those for a book. His shop assistant, a college-student, did a part-time job to fund his education. Being a reluctant bachelor, the butcher nurtured his romantic side through poetry and managed to convey a fairly youthful visage of his personality rarely found in men following his métier.

Mohsin independently handled the job of dealing with pesky customers haggling over price and quantity without displeasing them while Yunus sat in a corner, propped against a cushion, lost in the universe of verses, oblivious of what transpired around him unless he was called out to tender the change to any customer. Whether Yunus managed to create something valuable when Mohsin did the chopping and grinding mincemeat hovered in the realm of doubt. His trance-like state seemed to suggest he was engrossed in a creative exercise that ordinary mortals would never associate with a meat-seller.

“Sahib, your poems stab the heart. Honestly saying so – what will I get by flattering you…” Mohsin repeated this sentence like mantra at least twice every day. Though Yunus did not accept it with a smile, Mohsin knew his quick rise as an employee was on account of the litany of praises sung in favour of the blossoming poet well past his prime. With years of experience and loyalty piling up in favour of Mohsin, he was given further responsibilities to shoulder. Managing cash and transactions empowered him and delivered greater freedom to Yunus to pursue his art with singular focus and minimum distractions.

Whenever Yunus was mired in doubt regarding the finesse of what he had written, he sought feedback from Mohsin. Before he could complete the couplet, Mohsin broke into applause that made Yunus suspect a ring of fake appreciation.

“Deewar ki kya haisiyat, dooriyaan toh pehle se thi [1],” Yunus began with promise.

As the din of wah-wah[2]rent the air, Yunus looked disgruntled with the premature reaction of Mohsin, and repeated his two cents on suitable behaviour of admirers, “A sincere listener should have the patience to hear the whole thing first.”

Being an educated youth, Mohsin qualified as the ideal audience who measured the impact of words flowing from Yunus’s pen. It was tested on young listeners to find emotional connection. Unfortunately, the growing disenchantment with Mohsin disheartened Yunus who sometimes felt he was not getting what he was expecting from Mohsin even though he had been generous to give him more than what he deserved. On the other hand, Mohsin hesitated to be candid and did not speak his mind as he was scared of earning his boss’s displeasure. This part-time job was crucial for his education and he had do idea whether he would be kept employed if he did not eulogise the poetic renditions of his employer.

Sensing a losing battle, Mohsin pumped up his self-confidence with a meaty response, “You felt offended for no reason, Sahib. I wanted you to have full faith in your words. Too much modesty is never good for talent,” Mohsin rallied forth as a rabid admirer who stuck to his assertion that he never doled out fake acclaim.

Mohsin sounded firm and decisive. Yunus specified non-existence of spite in what he explained. As a conciliatory move to validate the observations made by Mohsin, Yunus said wholeheartedly, without rising from his seat, “Okay then, let us hold a small gathering at my residence – where I read out some recent works. You can bring in some of your friends to comment on my work.”

Mohsin accepted the invitation with an enthusiastic, ingratiating smile, confident that his friends would happily tag along for an evening of poetic ambrosia.

Leading a group of friends with literary taste, Mohsin arrived before time to make the necessary arrangements. When Yunus opened the hall door, he was delighted to see a beautiful college girl in the group. Perhaps they were expecting a younger poet without the protruding belly and shades of pepper in the beard. Yunus ordered Mohsin to arrange snacks and serve drinks to the guests. Mohsin rose from his seat and tapped the shoulder of the girl next to him, without hesitation, asking her to assist him in the kitchen chore.

Despite knowing that his friends already knew what he did, Yunus explained he was a butcher by profession and dabbled in poetry for solace. Arriving with a tray full of munchies, Mohsin did the rest of the introduction in front of Yunus, raising a thundering applause from his friends who valued the existence of contrast in his personality.

The befitting introductions were soon over. Yunus also praised Mohsin in front of his friends. Then he took a seat on the diwan covered with a satin sheet and began to select verses from his diary. Mohsin urged him to recite love-related couplets on separation and heartbreak. Just once Yunus had briefly disclosed how he lost his beloved partner to another man who showed promise of a better future than what a butcher could provide. The positive outcome of this setback was that he did not turn into an alcoholic but channelised his frustrations into poetic outbursts.

After listening to some of his couplets, the young group celebrated in collective euphoria, as if they had discovered a remarkable poet in the most unlikely place. When a friend of Mohsin egged him to quit the profession and embrace poetry full-time, Mohsin shot back in defence of Yunus: “A job is a job after all. Nothing is less dignified. He is not a terrorist killing innocent people in the name of faith. I also work in the same place, and I am your friend. How does it matter or change our relationship?”

“What you are saying is true, but don’t you think if he has to read out in a mushaira or a large, diverse gathering of poets from all over India, he will find it difficult to explain he is a butcher? No introduction would ensure better reception of his work as the snob poets, who associate creativity as the preserve of the privileged few, would baulk at such a background,” his friend added, looking straight into the eyes of Yunus who mustered the courage to ask for her name.

“You are Madam…,” Yunus managed these words hoping quick completion of the sentence from her.

“Ji[3], Saira, final year literature student.”

Choosing to defend Saira, Yunus confronted Mohsin, “I think Saira ji is right. She has a valid point regard the background factor. I have been through this experience for years and I fully agree with her. I should avoid any introduction that shocks them.”

Mohsin had silenced most of his friends before the humble submission of Yunus came forth. The brief exchange enabled emotional investment in Saira and Yunus. When he resumed his recitation, his eyes focused on Saira with whom he had established some familiarity. Holding forth like a seasoned poet who had been through many renditions, Yunus read out his works on love and angst, on conflict and subtle violence in relationships.

When Mohsin disclosed that Yunus would like to bring out a collection of poems some day, though he had never expressed the desire in all these years, he was generalising the trend and did not expect Saira would be the first to react. Her response surpassed what others in the group came up with later. This put pressure on Yunus who felt he had to get the stuff published by leading publishers or face ridicule for grand declarations that never saw the light of the day. A believer that art should spread its own fragrance was now exploring ways to push his art through, to reach out to audiences. This made him somewhat uncomfortable with himself – a self-loving poet craving for recognition.

Mohsin was entrusted the job of sifting the best poems and he outsourced the task to Saira who had a very good ear. When Yunus handed over the diaries to Mohsin, he expected Saira to come forward and receive it as a custodian of his creative wealth.

Saira suggested the name of some leading publications. Before Yunus could frame a reply, Mohsin said, “Yunus bhai[4] is ready to invest in getting his poems published. These have potential and must reach out to young readers. What do you say, Saira?”

Saira looked blank for a while and then gathered herself to utter a few words of encouragement. “Yes, it should not be allowed to rot because of the lack of publishers who are money driven these days.”

“Once he reaches out with his work globally – nowadays it is easy to be heard, seen and read via digital platform. We can make an online push on various platforms and see him through,” Mohsin chipped in with his strategy.

“You are suggesting pay and publish. I would never do that,” Yunus said firmly in front of the group.

Friends disappeared after hearing the stern refusal. Mohsin and Saira were disappointed that he would not cave in with ease. A good amount of persuasion would do the trick. After a month of peace, Yunus delivered a surprise by agreeing to the proposal and asked Mohsin to rope in Saira to manage his launch.

Mohsin quickly agreed to whatever Yunus had said – before he underwent another change of heart that would disappoint. There was a growing circle of young, local admirers who heard from Mohsin that Yunus was an entertaining poet.

Mohsin got back with another offer. Saira knew a publisher who launched talented poets and did everything for them, for a nominal fee of one lakh rupees. Saira would work in tandem with the team to ensure a successful break for Yunus. Without asking for details, Yunus agreed to shell out the full amount within a week. He asked Mohsin to withdraw cash from his account and pay the publisher and get the book released before his next birthday.

“Actually, Saira’s friend’s father runs the printing press, and I would personally request for an upfront discount,” Mohsin proposed.

The mere mention of Saira gave Yunus assurance that he was in safe hands.

“Make sure everything happens on time, without delays,” Yunus stressed, resisting the urge to suggest him to take Saira’s help in the execution of the project.

For a quirky launch, the approved idea was to launch it in the meat shop as it would gather attention and stir curiosity. Meat and books – unusual companions though they have a lot to do with flesh.

Some 20-odd people turned up for the launch, mostly Mohsin’s friends. The space could accommodate around fifty people like any small bookshop. The smell of meat was hanging in the air even though rose perfume spray was used a lot. The gritty reality of the setting was something they could not let go of.

The poet was dressed in traditional casuals. Mohsin updated him that one hundred copies had been ordered online, and some free copies were also given to friends to write positive reviews. The entire print run of 500 copies would get sold out within a month was what Saira’s friend had promised.

Yunus was hoping the launch would be covered by leading newspapers, but he was not aware he was expected to pay for that as well. On the dais to launch the book were Saira and Yunus. The poet held a small portion of the book with his chubby fingertips while Saira clutched the rest of it firmly.

Mohsin clicked pictures of the poet alone, and left Saira, looking gorgeous in sequined turquoise, out of the frame except the solo snap. In that, she had uncovered the wrapped book and showed it to the cheering crowd that included some old friends of Yunus, who were expecting nice announcements to follow, some declaration that the two would marry. It was disappointing when nothing of that sort happened on stage, and they had to leave with a packet of sweets for the launch along with a complimentary copy of the book.

Yunus displayed some copies of his poetry book inside his meat shop, on a tall, wooden rack that was visible to meat buyers. Within a month of answering queries regarding the book, Mohsin stopped reporting for work. For some days, Yunus waited for him to come back. But when he did not turn up or receive his phone calls, he suspected something fishy.

Now Yunus had to serve customers, pack meat and do everything that Mohsin used to do. Poetry took a backseat as the whole day he was busy with this job. He understood how valuable the guy was to him after he left. Late one evening, a message popped in from Mohsin, saying he was quitting the job on health grounds, and he should look for a replacement. It was a confirmation that he was never going to turn up.

Yunus messaged him with the promise of a salary hike, but the bait did not work. He hoped to get a chance to allure him with some perks. Since poor health was not a convincing reason to leave the job, Yunus thought he had secured better opportunities. But this abrupt end to their five-year relationship was not the proper way to wrap it up. He did deserve some better explanation of this sudden disappearance – given the fact that he had been quite good to Mohsin all these years, treating him like a brother instead of an employee.

Hoping he would build a loyal base of readers, Yunus distributed the copies he had in stock, absolutely free, to those who showed interest in reading his work or those who bought a kilo of mutton. His strategy did not achieve the goal as nobody came back to give reviews. Some of them stopped patronising his meat shop altogether.

Yunus pondered why he lost loyal meat buyers when he tried to convert them into lovers of poetry. Perhaps they felt guilty that the state of art had been reduced to such a pitiable state or they felt bad that a poet of his worth had to sell meat to survive. He had inflated the hope that his tender poetry would win praise like his tender meat. The only good outcome was that the stock of books came to an end.

The departure of Mohsin intrigued him at times. He wondered what had happened was beyond the realm of his imagination. It was perhaps the handiwork of Saira or maybe Mohsin sensed his growing attraction for Saira had to be curtailed as he could soon try to get closer to her. Negative thoughts exploded within, and he wished to unravel the truth although there was no way for him to trace the fellow or seek answers from his band of friends.

Six months passed. One or two customers who had stopped coming now reappeared with praise for his work, urging him to read more classics and write more about society and relationships. He received their feedback with humility and disclosed his career as a poet was short-lived as the book did not get traction or positive response from critics. The middle-aged gentleman was direct in advice and urged him to write about the plight of Muslims. Yunus kept quiet as he was not a radical fellow. Fearing misinterpretation of his silence, he answered in a roundabout way without mentioning the names of the countries, “We are better off as a community here. I thank my forefathers for not going there.”

The customer was persistent. “Many did not go because they didn’t want to, but many were not allowed in there as they could not feed them all. Also, there was no meaning in creating a poor homeland.”

This was a critical observation. Yunus preferred to conclude the conversation without a rejoinder. The meat was packed and handed over. While making the payment, he repeated the advice of writing politically charged poems, to awaken the masses. The incendiary content could foment trouble between the communities. He was cautious of his words inflaming passions on either side. As a sensitive poet who operated in the orbit of love and heartbreak, this dangerous territory could prove counter productive.

A few weeks later, when a mob lynching episode was reported in the media, he felt like pouring forth his emotional turmoil on humanitarian grounds. He imagined he was a potential candidate to be delivered similar treatment by fanatics. Out of sensitivity for the lynched person, he wrote a few lines but did not muster the strength to put it out in the public domain. The growing trend of persecution made him an advocate of peace on both sides.

Yunus felt charged by the power of his own voice and somehow managed to overpower the urge he felt to vent it out and reach out to the masses. He was drawn to the idea of making a transition to the political fray through poetry of rebellion, making it a point to give an outlet to his hurt sentiments.

The desire to showcase his new poems to Mohsin and Saira bothered him. He imagined they would summarily disapprove of the switch from romance to politics. The mass media overdid it so there were not going to be takers for his poetic take. Mohsin was not there to speak his mind and his absence meant a deep personal loss. Unable to recover from it, Yunus was ready to mount a full-fledged attack through his feisty, no-holds barred pen.

His tendency to be sensitive was challenged as he suffered twin blows. Even though Saira had not been a part of his life, he felt her absence deeply, no less than how much he missed Mohsin. The bitterness within was in some way inextricably linked to their cold disposition. When the sight of bloodshed fails to rouse people, poetry cannot be expected to perform miracles. Youth have a deep, intense connection with romance in literature. As they keep falling in love, they need new voices and expressions to relate to and communicate their feelings instead of recycling the treasures of the past with waning impact.

One afternoon, Yunus received an invitation to attend a mushaira in front of a strong crowd of five thousand people. The nominal fee of Rs 1000 did not matter as he had spent many times more in the past without any gains. The temptation of a sizeable crowd was high, and it was a formal invite. The names of the organisers were listed but he did not know any of them personally, so he believed it was the result of his hard work put into his previous collection that had finally got noticed and he was being given the chance to read in front of a large gathering based on his literary worth alone.

Yunus loved this idea more than anything else and he started rehearsing for it. He bought a microphone to practice in front of it – to hold it and know how much distance was ideal so he wouldn’t fumble during the reading session. He got a Sherwani[5] with special zari[6] stitched from the tailor for the event as he wanted to flaunt a royal look where nobody would identify him as a butcher. He did riyaaz[7] to make sure he did not forget the lines and shortlisted some of his best works. From love to separation to intimacy to politics to culture, the potpourri was nothing less than a heady cocktail.

On the day of performance, Yunus reached the stage and was surprised to find Mohsin and Saira seated in the front row. As he established eye contact with Saira first, he smiled, but she looked the other way, leaning heavily on Mohsin’s shoulder. As he read out a new one on betrayal, Mohsin was the first to clap and soon there was a climax of resounding claps, including Saira putting her hennaed hands together to applaud Yunus the poet.

For a while Yunus was lost in the maze of questions related to their disappearance but he composed himself thinking this was the best opportunity to perform well before the large crowd who could breathe life into his lifeless career that was close to the last stage. Having been a failed lover all his life, he resorted to his pet theme with the fond hope of impressing the crowd. Despite the mehndi in his hair and beard, he managed to set young hearts ablaze with his bass voice and choice of words.

As the cheering rose and reached a crescendo, Yunus was encouraged to recite his political poems. After fifteen minutes of holding the audience spellbound, there was a sudden outbreak of violence inside the hall, with a stampede-like situation developing fast. People of another community had barged in with lathis to stop the mushaira that was streamed live on social media channels.

Mohsin rushed to the stage to save Yunus from the angry crowd. The mixing of unruly elements to create mischief had vitiated the atmosphere. Yunus embraced Mohsin and had a volley of questions that Mohsin promised to answer later after managing a safe exit from the troubled spot. Saira also escorted him out from the backstage, through the VIP exit gate and made Yunus sit in their tinted car.

“Why did you read out political poems here? It earned you the wrath of the other community. Yunus, you have gambled everything for fifteen minutes of fame. See how thirsty they are to butcher you now. The mob, I mean. Your session has gone viral, and they are baying for your blood. Lakhs have already seen it and it has fomented trouble for the administration. Why do poets need to be politically vocal? Stay restricted to the tender subjects,” Mohsin went hammer and tongs like never before.

“Why should I be afraid of the mob? I am a poet applauded by listeners here. Invited to read out,” Yunus justified his right to express his political views with full freedom.

You mean thousands of admirers? Let me correct you – thousands of enemies you have created. And yes, let me clear your confusion. Saira insisted we should invite you through a friend. Her father organised the mushaira this time after returning from abroad. Anyway, we are dropping you by car to the railway station and from there you board a train. We are not responsible for your safety during the journey and thereafter,” Mohsin said with final authority.

“Why are you doing so much for me? Let me die here – throw me in front of the crowds baying for my blood. Let them butcher me, lynch me right here.”

“You helped me when I was in need. When I was courting Saira and waiting for her yes to my offer of a relationship. Then she agreed and we got married. She belongs to a rich family and wanted me to look after her family business. So I had to leave your job. There is nothing bad in progress and selfishness. But Saira did not want you to know this –she felt you were beginning to have a soft corner for her, and this news would break your heart.”

“Lucky fellow indeed – succeeded in love in the first attempt and made it big, unlike me who always failed in love,” Yunus sulked in the back seat of the car while the couple in the front glanced at his expression in the mirror.

“You have spoken a lot, just tell me one more thing. Why did you want me to be a poet? I was happy as a butcher, writing for myself, why you wanted to bring my works to the world? Did you really think my voice matters?” Yunus asked without much hope of a satisfactory reply in the presence of Saira.

Before he could say a word, Saira answered on his behalf in a firm voice. “NO – let me break this illusion. What you write is entertainment and not poetry in the league of great poets. You do not have anything immortal to offer. But it is a good hobby for a person who does a ruthless, brutal job, to nurture the sensitive side. That is why I liked your efforts and praised it. That’s it. For the youth, anything with a touch of romance sparks interest. The same applies to poetry.”

It was heartbreaking for Yunus to hear these words from a lady who had launched his only book, the lady he liked to treat as his muse. The clapping audience, he was told, had been tutored to do so, since most of them were employees of the company owned by Saira’s family.

At the railway station they looked around to see whether there was any person following them. Yunus was safe from the irate mob. He boarded the train to his hometown and was seen off by the couple from the over bridge. Yunus waved through the window as the train inched out of the platform, but they had already left. He felt he was leading a meaningless life, and he should cut it short by jumping off the moving train.

When he reached his destination early morning, he took an auto-rickshaw to his meat shop. He was greeted by the sight of ruin. There was no tender meat shop as everything was gutted. The house behind his shop was also torched. It was punishment meted out for being a political poet who needed to be silenced in this fashion.

An old neighbour walked up to him, to console him and rested his frail hand on the shoulder. He played on his smartphone the poetry Yunus had read out yesterday and waited for its completion before praising him: “You said it very well, Yunus. Speaking the truth makes one pay a heavy price. May Allah grant you the strength to rebuild your life.”

Yunus controlled his tears and moved inside the shop where half-burnt pages of his poems lay scattered on the dismantled Yunus Meat Shop signboard. Observing all this wreckage worsened his grief as he could not avoid thinking of Mohsin and Saira and their savage words. How they had teamed up and flourished while he touched the lowest ebb, chasing a dream that was a mirage for a man of modest talent. His copious tears were apparently flowing to regret the loss of property, but nobody here would ever know the other big loss he had suffered that left him heartbroken.

[1] What can walls do, the distances were there earlier itself

[2] Praise

[3] A respectful way of addressing an elder

[4] Brother, a friendly address

[5] Long coat

[6] Gold or silver lace

[7] Practice

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Tags Assam Tribune, Deccan Herald, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Kolkata, Statesman

Contents

Borderless, October 2023

Editorial

We had Joy, We had Fun … Click here to read

Conversations

A conversation with Nazes Afroz, former BBC editor, along with a brief introduction to his new translations of Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Jolay Dangay). Click here to read.

Keith Lyons converses with globe trotter Tomaž Serafi, who lives in Ljubljana. Click here to read.

Translations

Barnes and Nobles by Quazi Johirul Islam has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Cast Away the Gun by Mubarak Qazi has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

One Jujube has been written and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.

A Hymn to an Autumnal Goddess by Rabindranath Tagore, Amra Beddhechhi Kaasher Guchho ( We have Tied Bunches of Kaash), has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Michael Burch, Gopal Lahiri, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Hawla Riza, Reeti Jamil, Rex Tan, Santosh Bakaya, Tohm Bakelas, Pramod Rastogi, George Freek, Avantika Vijay Singh, John Zedolik, Debanga Das, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry, and Rhys Hughes

In Do It Yourself Nonsense Poem, Rhys Hughes lays some ground rules for indulging in this comedic genre. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

Onsen and Hot Springs

Meredith Stephens explores Japanese and Californian hot springs with her camera and narrative. Click here to read.

Kardang Monastery: A Traveller’s High in Lahaul

Sayani De travels up the Himalayas to a Tibetan monastery. Click here to read.

Ghosts, Witches and My New Homeland

Tulip Chowdhury muses on ghosts and spooks in Bangladesh and US. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Red Carpet Welcome, Devraj Singh Kalsi re-examines social norms with a scoop of humour. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Baseball and Robots, Suzanne Kamata shares how both these have shaped life in modern Japan. Click here to read.

Stories

The Wave of Exile

Paul Mirabile tells a strange tale started off by a arrant Tsunami. Click here to read.

Glimpses of Light

Neera Kashyap gives a poignant story around mental health. Click here to read.

The Woman Next Door

Jahanavi Bandaru writes a strange, haunting tale. Click here to read.

The Call

Nirmala Pillai explores different worlds in Mumbai. Click here to read.

Essays

The Oral Traditions of Bengal: Story and Song

Aruna Chakravarti describes the syncretic culture of Bengal through its folk music and oral traditions. Click here to read.

Belongingness and the Space In-Between

Disha Dahiya draws from a slice of her life to discuss migrant issues. Click here to read.

A City for Kings

Ravi Shankar takes us to Lima, Peru with his narrative and camera. Click here to read.

The Saga of a Dictionary: Japanese-Malayalam Affinities

Dr. KPP Nambiar takes us through his journey of making a Japanese-Malyalam dictionary, which started nearly fifty years ago, while linking ties between the cultures dating back to the sixteenth century. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Kailash Satyarthi’s Why Didn’t You Come Sooner?: Compassion In Action—Stories of Children Rescued From Slavery. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Rhys Hughes’ The Coffee Rubaiyat. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Usha Priyamvada’s Won’t You Stay, Radhika?, translated from Hindi by Daisy Rockwell. Click here to read.

Aditi Yadav reviews Makoto Shinkai’s and Naruki Nagakawa’s She and Her Cat, translated from Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori. Click here to read.

Gemini Wahaaj reviews South to South: Writing South Asia in the American South edited by Khem K. Aryal. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews One Among You: The Autobiography of M.K. Stalin, translated from Tamil by A S Panneerselvan. Click here to read.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Tags Aditi Yadav, Amra Bedhechhi Kasher Guchho, Aruna Chakravarti, Avantika Vijay Singh, Bangladesh, Barnes and Nobles, Bengal, Bengali, Daisy Rockwell, Debanga Das, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Disha, Dr. KPP Nambiar, Fakrul Alam, Gemini Wahaaj, George Freek, Ginny Tapley Takemori, Gopal Lahiri, Hawla Riza, Himalayas, Ihlwha Choi, Jahanavi Bandaru, Japan, Japanese, John Zedolik, Kardang Monastery, Keith Lyons, Khem K. Aryal, Korean, Lahaul, Lima, Ljubljana, Makoto Shinkai, Malyalam, Mitali Chakravarty, Mumbai, Naruki Nagakawa, Nazes Afroz, Neera Kashyap, Nirmala Pillai, Paul Mirabile, Peru, Pramod Rastogi, Quazi Johirul Islam, Rabindranath Tagore, Ravi Shankar, Reeti Jamil, Rex Tan, Rhys Hughes, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Santosh Bakaya, Sayani De, She and Her Cat, Sohana Manzoor, South to South: Writing South Asia in the American South, Suzanne Kamata, Syed Mujtaba Ali, Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay), The Coffee Rubaiyat, Tohm Bakelas, Tomaž Serafi, Tulip Chowdhury, US, Usha Priyamvada, Won't You Stay Radhika?

Editorial

We had Joy, We had Fun…

There was a time when there were no boundaries drawn by humans. Our ancestors roamed the Earth like any other fauna — part of nature and the landscape. They tried to explain and appease the changing seasons, the altering landscapes and the elements that affected life and living with rituals that seemed coherent to them. There were probably no major organised structures that laid out rules. From such observances, our festivals evolved to what we celebrate today. These celebrations are not just full of joie de vivre, but also a reminder of our syncretic start that diverged into what currently seems to be irreparable breaches and a lifestyle that is in conflict with the needs of our home planet.

Reflecting on this tradition of syncretism in our folklore and music, while acknowledging the boundaries that wreak havoc, is an essay by Aruna Chakravarti. She expounds on rituals that were developed to appease natural forces spreading diseases and devastation, celebrations that bring joy with harvests and override the narrowness of institutionalised human construct. She concludes with Lalan Fakir’s life as emblematic of the syncretic lore. Lalan, an uneducated man brought to limelight by the Tagore family, swept across religious divides with his immortal lyrics full of wisdom and simplicity. Dyed in similar syncretic lore are the writings of a student and disciple of Tagore from Santiniketan, Syed Mujtaba Ali (1904-1974). His works overriding these artificial constructs have been brought to light, by his translator, former BBC editor, Nazes Afroz. Having translated his earlier book, In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan, Afroz has now brought to us Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Jolay Dangay), in which we read of his travels to Egypt almost ninety years ago. In his interview, the translator highlights the current relevance of this remarkable polyglot.

Humming the tunes of Mujtaba Ali’s tutor, Tagore, a translation of Tagore’s song, Amra Beddhechhi Kasher Guchho (We have Tied Bunches of Kash[1]) captures the spirit of autumnal opulence which heralds the advent of Durga Puja. A translation by Fazal Baloch has brought a message of non-violence very aptly in these times from recently deceased eminent Balochi poet, Mubarak Qazi. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated a very contemporary poem by Quazi Johirul Islam on Barnes and Nobles while from Korea, we have a translation of a poem by Ihlwha Choi on the fruit, jujube, which is eaten fresh of the tree in autumn.

A poem which starts with a translation of a Tang dynasty’s poet, Yuan Zhen, inaugurates the first translation we have had from Mandarin — though it’s just two paras by the poet, Rex Tan, who continues writing his response to the Chinese poem in English. Mingling nature and drawing life lessons from it are poems by George Freek, Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Gopal Lahiri. We have poetry which enriches our treasury by its sheer variety from Hawla Riza, Pramod Rastogi, John Zedolik, Avantika Vijay Singh, Tohm Bakelas and more. Michael Burch has brought in a note of festivities with his Halloween poems. And Rhys Hughes has rolled out humour with his observations on the city of Mysore. His column too this time has given us a table and a formula for writing humorous poetry — a tongue-in-cheek piece, just like the book excerpt from The Coffee Rubaiyat. In the original Rubaiyat, Omar Khayyam (1048–1131) had given us wonderful quatrains which Edward Fitzgerald immortalised with his nineteenth century translation from Persian to English and now, Hughes gives us a spoof which would well have you rollicking on the floor, and that too, only because as he tells us he prefers coffee over wine!

Humour tinged with irony is woven into Devraj Singh Kalsi’s narrative on red carpet welcomes in Indian weddings. We have a number of travel stories from Peru to all over the world. Ravi Shankar takes us to Lima and Meredith Stephens to Californian hot springs with photographs and narratives while Sayani De does the same for a Tibetan monastery in Lahaul. Keith Lyons converses with globe trotter Tomaž Serafi, who lives in Ljubljana. And Suzanne Kamata adds colour with a light-veined narrative on robots and baseball in Japan. Syncretic elements are woven by Dr. KPP Nambiar who made the first Japanese-Malyalam Dictionary. He started nearly fifty years ago after finding commonalities between the two cultures dating back to the sixteenth century. Tulip Chowdhury brings in colours of Halloween while discussing ghosts in Bangladesh and America, where she migrated.

The theme of immigration is taken up by Gemini Wahaaj as she reviews South to South: Writing South Asia in the American South edited by Khem K. Aryal. Japan again comes into focus with Aditi Yadav’s Makoto Shinkai’s and Naruki Nagakawa’s She and Her Cat, translated from Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori. Somdatta Mandal has also reviewed a translation by no less than Booker winning Daisy Rockwell, who has translated Usha Priyamvada’s Won’t You Stay, Radhika? from Hindi. Our reviews seem full of translations this time as Bhaskar Parichha comments on One Among You: The Autobiography of M.K. Stalin, the current Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, translated from Tamil by A S Panneerselvan. In fiction, we have stories that add different flavours from Paul Mirabile, Neera Kashyap, Nirmala Pillai and more.

Our book excerpt from Nobel laureate Kailash Satyarthi’s Why didn’t You Come Sooner? Compassion in Action—Stories of Children Rescued from Slavery deserves a special mention. It showcases a world far removed from the one we know. While he was rescuing some disadvantaged children, Satyarthi relates his experience in the rescue van:

“One of the children gave it [the bunch of bananas] to the child sitting in front. An emaciated girl and a little boy were seated next to me. I told them to pass on the fruit to everyone in the back and keep one each for themselves. The girl looked curiously at the bunch as she turned it around in her hands. Then she looked at the other children.

“‘I’ve never seen an onion like this one,’ she said.

“Her little companion also touched the fruit gingerly and innocently added, ‘Yes, this is not even a potato.’

“I was speechless to say the least. These children had never seen anything apart from onions and potatoes. They had definitely never chanced upon bananas…”

Heart-wrenching but true! Maybe, we can all do our bit by reaching out to some outside our comfort or social zone to close such alarming gaps… Uma Dasgupta’s book tells us that Tagore had hoped many would start institutions like Sriniketan all over the country to bridge gaps between the underprivileged and the privileged. People like Satyarthi are doing amazing work in today’s context, but more like him are needed in our world.

We have more writings than I could mention here, and each is chosen with much care. Please do pause by our contents page and take a look. Much effort has gone into creating a space for you to relish different perspectives that congeal in our journal, a space for all of you. For this, we have the team at Borderless to thank– without their participation, the journal would not be as it is. Sohana Manzoor with her vibrant artwork gives the finishing touch to each of our monthly issues. And lastly, I cannot but express my gratefulness to our contributors and readers for continuing to be with us through our journey. Heartfelt thanks to all of you.

Have a wonderful festive season!

Best wishes,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Wild long grass

Visit the October edition’s content page by clicking here

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

Tags A S Panneerselvan, Aditi Yadav, Amra Bedhechhi Kasher Guchho, Aruna Chakravarti, Avantika Vijay Singh, Balochi, Baseball, Bengali, Bernes and Nobles, Bhaskar Parichha, California, Chief Minister, Daisy Rockwell, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Dr. KPP Nambiar, Durga Puja, Earth, Edward Fitzgerald, English, Fakrul Alam, Fazal Baloch, Festivals, Gemini Wahaaj, George Freek, Gopal Lahiri, Hawla Riza, Hindi, Ihlwha Choi, In a Land Far From Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan, Japan, Japanese-Malayalam Dictionary, John Zedolik, Kailash Satyarthi, Keith Lyons, Khem K. Aryal, Korea, Lahaul, Lalan Fakir, Lima, Ljubljana, Makoto Shinkai, Meredith Stephens, Michael Burch, Mubarak Qazi, Naruki Nagakawa, Nazes Afros, Neera Kashyap, Nirmala Pillai, Nobel laureate, Omar Khayyam, One Among You: The Autobiography of M.K. Stalin, Paul Mirabile, Persian, Peru, Pramod Rastogi, Quazi Johirul Islam, Ravi Shankar, Rex Tan, Rhys Hughes, robots, Rubaiyat, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Santiniketan, She and Her Cat, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, South to South: Writing South Asia in the American South, Sriniketan, Suzanne Kamata, Syed Mujtaba Ali, Tagore, Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay), Tamil, Tamil Nadu, Tang Dynasty poet, The Coffee Rubaiyat, Tibetan monsastery, Tomaž Serafi, Tulip Chowdhury, Uma Dasgupta, Usha Priyamvada, Why Didn’t You Come Sooner? Compassion In Action— Stories of Children Rescued From Slavery, Won't You Stay Radhika?, Yuan Zhen

Musings of a Copywriter

Red Carpet Welcome

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Even if it has nothing to do with Cannes or any other star-studded celebrity jamboree or political protocol, walking the red carpet is a dream come true for those attending marriage receptions. The red carpet is laid out right from the entrance gate to the podium where the newlywed couple remain ensconced in plush royal chairs to receive guests trudging with gifts and bouquets. The kick one gets when one walks on it is indescribable, as real-life experiences of such episodes remain fresh and permanently etched on my memory. It is the closest to what ordinary mortals can ever experience of celebrity status.

Have you ever wondered about the source of confidence in those who are sure of getting a red-carpet welcome in life? Perhaps it is faith in destiny or God or contacts or their talent. But for those who have none of the above factors skewed in their favour, it is the art of making the commonplace look uncommon and turning the massy into something of a bit classy that makes them celebrate ordinariness through elevation and derive pleasure in some measure to satiate their hunger of being dubbed as important folks that have walked on this planet. Even if there are no worthy guests on the list, the red carpet makes them all special in a democratic fashion.

Ever since the realisation dawned that the surest way to downgrade the value of the red carpet is to make it so obvious or ubiquitous that there is no iota of status attached to those walking on it wearing anything from sandals to stilettos, I have contributed my fair bit by walking on the carpet wearing flip-flops and shorts. That was considered nothing less than a sacrilege.

Although a little hesitant about socialising, the idea of walking the red carpet without the tuxedo has never set my mind ablaze like a forest fire. I am more than cool to walk the red carpet wearing a sherwani[1] from the local tailoring unit or a pair of straight jeans from the retailer next door. I have relished the sight of those wearing dhotis[2] and walking the red carpet with a sense of pride over our remarkable strength to localise it. The white chappals with socks raised high to cover the varicose veins make it camera worthy. Visitors who do not feel intimidated by the veneer of superiority of the red carpet are the truly evolved ones who have successfully turned the special welcome into something quite mundane.

Women decked up in salwar kameez and posing for cameras to click their grand entry is a delectable sight. When their expectations are razed to the ground as the cameras show scant interest in the red carpet and focus more on those gorging on delicacies and gobbling up like gluttons, their family members freeze the moment of reckoning as well as their glam look while strutting the red carpet for social media posts only to be pushed aside by another jostling, impatient couple usurping the space for shutterbugs to randomly click them for their profile feeds before their makeup begins to melt under the harsh glare. With all the guests having staged their presence on the red carpet, there is a sense of contentment that they have finally done what their idol celebrities do with panache.

The burgeoning middle class, thanks to marriage halls, has used the red carpet as a mandatory sign of affluence to pose as arriviste, making it a democratic exercise like the right to vote for all those who often feel they are going to miss the red carpet welcome in life due to their non-achiever status. Though the aspirational value of the red carpet welcome has, perhaps, waned a bit in recent times.

While the majority celebrates the red carpet becoming a reality for all, there are some who still detest at the idea of loss of exclusivity. Many families spread a red carpet in their homes and give an enthusing welcome to their guests every day. Even though they have done nothing to deserve it, they are happy with the fulfilment of luxury in a smart affordable manner. The trend of using the red carpet to flaunt status and deliver status to other people has become an everyday practice.

Imagine an entire family walking the red carpet with hands on the waist, posing for cameras even if the pictures do not appear in tabloids. Their social media handles garner likes, and the sharing of images makes them feel like a celebrity in their limited circle. Even after attending several such events and walking the red carpet multiple times, taming of desire remains a challenge. While it is easier to be rich and more difficult to earn fame, celebrity status redefines itself to widen the circle of pseudo-celebrities getting high after walking the red carpet as an antidote to assuage their bloated sentiments of undiminished narcissism.

[1] Long coat worn for formal occasions in South Asia

[2] A garment worn in lieu of trousers

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Tags Assam Tribune, Cannes, Deccan Herald, Devraj Singh Kalsi, dhoti, flipflops, salwar kameez, Sherwani, shorts, Tehelka, The Statesman

Contents

Borderless September 2023

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date September 14, 2023
No Comments on Borderless September 2023

Editorial

What do They Whisper?… Click here to read.

Conversations

Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri in conversation with M.S. Viraraghavan and Girija Viraraghavan ( grand daughter of President Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan) on their new book, Roses in the Fire of Spring: Better Roses for a Warming World and Other Garden Adventures. Click here to read.

In conversation with Isa Kamari, a celebrated writer from Singapore, with focus on his latest book, Maladies of the Soul. Click here to read.

Translations

A Hunger for Stories, a poem by Quazi Johirul Islam, has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

A Hand Mill, a story by Ammina Srinivasaraju, has been translated from Telugu by Johny Takkedasila. Click here to read.

Kiyya and Sadu, a part of this long ballad on the legendary lovers from Balochistan, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

The Time for the Janitor to Pass by, poetry written in Korean and translated by Ilhwah Choi. Click here to read.

Sharat or Autumn, a poem by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Jared Carter, Rhys Hughes, Santosh Bakaya, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Sagar Mal Gupta, Nirmala Pillai, George Freek, Pramod Rastogi, Peter Devonald, Afshan Aqil, Hela Tekali, Swarnendu Ghosh, Alpana, Michael Burch

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Tintin in India, Rhys Hughes traces the allusions to India in these iconic creations of Hergé while commenting on Tintin’s popularity in the subcontinent. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

Black Pines and Red Trucks

Meredith Stephens shares the response of some of the Californian community to healing after the 2020 forest fires with a narrative and photographs. Click here to read.

Remembering Jayanta Mahapatra

KV Raghupathi travels down nostalgia with his memories of interactions with the recently deceased poet and his works. Click here to read.

The Toughness of Kangaroo Island

Vela Noble draws solace and lessons from nature around her with her art and narrative. Click here to read.

Where is Your Home?

Madhulika Vajjhala explores her concept of home. Click here to read.

A Homecoming like No Other

Saumya Dwivedi gives a heartwarming anecdote from life. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Hair or There: Party on My Head, Devraj Singh Kalsi explores political leanings and hair art. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Against Invisibility, Suzanne Kamata challenges traditions that render a woman invisible with a ‘sparkling’ outcome. Click here to read.

Essays

Jayanta Mahapatra: A Tribute to a Poetic Luminary

Dikshya Samantrai pays tribute to a poet who touched hearts across the world with his poetry. Click here to read.

Celebrating the novel… Where have all the Women Writers Gone?

G Venkatesh writes about a book from 1946. Click here to read.

Chandigarh: A City with Spaces

Ravi Shankar travels back to Chandigarh of 1990s. Click here to read.

The Observant Immigrant

In Climate Change: Are You for Real?, Candice Louisa Daquin explores the issue. Click here to read.

Stories

The Infamous Art Dealer

Paul Mirabile travels through Europe with an art scammer. Click here to read.

Getting Old is like Climbing a Mountain

Saranyan BV explores aging and re-inventing homes. Click here to read.

The Airport

Prakriti Bandhan shares a short, whimsical narrative. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay), translated by Nazes Afroz. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Sanket Mhatre’s A City Full of Sirens. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadh by Malathi Ramachandran. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy reviews Sanket Mhatre’s A City Full of Sirens. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Samragngi Roy’s The Wizard of Festival Lighting: The Incredible Story of Srid. Click here to read.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Tags A City Full of Sirens, Afshan Aqil, Alpana, Balochi, Basudhara Roy, Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadh, Bengali, Bhaskar Pariccha, Californian forest fires, Candice Louisa Daquin, climate change, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Dikshya Samantrai, Fakrul Alam, Fazal Baloch, G Venkatesh, George Freek, Girija Viraraghavan, Hela Tekali, Hergé, Ihlwha Choi, Isa Kamari, Jared Carter, Jasna Gugić, Jayanta Mahapatra, Kangaroo Island, Kiyya and Sadu, Korean, KV Raghupathi, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, M.S. Viraraghavan, Madhulika Vajjhala, Maladies of the Soul, Malathi Ramchandran, Meredith Stephens, Mitali Chakravarty, Nazes Afroz, Nirmala Pillai, Paul Mirabile, Peter Devonald, Prakriti Bandhan, Pramod Rastogi, Quazi Johirul Islam, Ravi Shankar, Rhys Hughes, Roses in the Fire of Spring: Better Roses for a Warming World and other Garden Adventures, Sagar Mal Gupta, Samragngi Roy, Sanket Mhatre, Santosh Bakaya, Saranyan BV, Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Somdatta Mandal, Swarnendu Ghosh, Syed Mujtaba Ali, Tagore, Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay), The Wizard of Festival Lighting – The Incredible Story of Srid, Tintin, Vela Noble

Editorial

What do they Whisper?

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

‘Moment’ by Margaret Atwood

With an unmanned mission reaching the moon — that moon that was chipped off the Earth’s surface when Theia bashed into the newly evolving planet — many feel mankind is en route to finding alternate biomes and perhaps, a solution to its housing needs. Will we also call moon our ‘Homeland’ and plant flags on it as we do on Earth? Does the Earth — or the moon — really belong to our species. Do we have proprietary rights on these because of lines drawn by powerbrokers who say that the land belongs to them?

These are questions Margaret Atwood addresses in her writings which often fall into a genre called cli-fi. This is gaining in popularity as climate has become uncertain now with changes that are wringing fear in our hearts. Not all fear it. Some refuse to acknowledge it. While this is not a phenomenon that is fully understood by all of us, it’s impact is being experienced by majority of the world — harsh stormy weather, typhoons, warmer temperatures which scorch life and rising water levels that will eventually swallow lands that some regard as their homeland. Despite all these prognostications, wars continue to pollute the air as much as do human practices, including conflicts using weapons. Did ‘climbing a hill’ and ‘planting the flag’ as Atwood suggests, ever give us the rights over land, nature or climate? Do we have a right to pollute it with our lifestyle, trade or wars — all three being human constructs?

In a recent essay, Tom Engelhardt, a writer and an editor, contended, “Vladimir Putin’s greatest crime wasn’t simply against the Ukrainians, but against humanity. It was another way to ensure that the global war of terror would grow fiercer and that the Lahainas of the future would burn more intensely.” And that is true of any war… Chemical and biological weapons impacted the environment in Europe and parts of Afghanistan. Atom bombs polluted not only the cities they were dropped in, but they also wreaked such havoc so that the second generation’s well-being continues impacted by events that took place more than seven decades ago. Yet another nuclear war would destroy the Earth, our planet that is already reeling under the impact of human-induced climate change. Flooding, forest fires and global warming are just the first indications that tell us not only do we need to adapt to living in changed times but also, we need to change our lifestyles, perhaps even turn pacifist to survive in a world evolving into an altered one.

This month some of our content showcase how to survive despite changes in norms. Suggesting how to retain our flora in a warming world is a book, Roses in the Fire of Spring: Better Roses for a Warming World and Other Garden Adventures, by M.S. Viraraghavanand Girija Viraraghavan, the grandson-in-law and granddaughter of the second President of India, Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan (1888-1975). They have been in conversation with Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri to explain how they have adapted plants to create hybrids that survive changing climes. Would it be wishful to think that we can find solutions for our own survival as was done for the flora?

Critiquing the darker trends in our species which leads to disasters is a book by an eminent Singaporean writer, Isa Kamari, called Maladies of the Soul. He too looks for panacea in a world where the basic needs of humans have been satiated and they have moved on towards overindulgence that can lead to redundancy. In a conversation, he tells us how he hopes his writings can help towards making a more hopeful future.

This hope is echoed in the palliative poems of Sanket Mhatre from his book, A City full of Sirens, excerpted and reviewed by Basudhara Roy. Bhaskar Parichha’s review of Samragngi Roy’s The Wizard of Festival Lighting: The Incredible Story of Srid, is a tribute also from a granddaughter to her grandfather celebrating human achievements. Somdatta Mandal’s discussion of fiction based on history, Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadh by Malathi Ramachandran not only reflects the tenacity of a woman’s courage but also explores the historicity of the events. Exploring bits of history and the past with a soupcon of humour is our book excerpt from Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay [1]), translated from Bengali by Nazes Afroz. Though the narrative of the translation is set about ninety years ago, a little after the times of Hazrat Mahal (1820 –1879), the excerpt is an brilliant introduction to the persona of Tagore’s student, Syed Mujtaba Ali (1904-1974), by a translator who describes him almost with the maestro’s unique style. Perhaps, Afroz’s writing bears these traces as he had earlier translated a legendary work by the same writer, In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan. Afroz starts with a startling question: “What will you call someone who puts down his profession as ‘quitting job regularly’ while applying for his passport?”

Other than a semi-humorous take on Mujtaba Ali, we have Rhys Hughes writing poetry in a funny vein and Santosh Bakaya giving us verses that makes us laugh. Michael Burch brings in strands of climate change with his poems as Jared Carter weaves in nature as we know it. George Freek reflects on autumn. We have more poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Pramod Rastogi, Peter Devonald, Afshan Aqil, Hela Tekali and many more, adding to the variety of colours that enhance the vivacity of conversations that run through the journal. Adding more vibrancy to this assortment, we have fiction by Paul Mirabile, Saranyan BV and Prakriti Bandhan.

In non-fiction, we have Devraj Singh Kalsi’s funny retelling of his adventures with a barber while Hughes‘ essay on the hugely popular Tintin makes us smile. The patriarchal past is reflected in an essay by G Venkatesh, whereas Suzanne Kamata from Japan talks of women attempting to move out of invisibility. Meredith Stephens and Candice Louisa Daquin both carry on the conversation on climate change. Stephens explores the impact of Californian forest fires with photographs and first-hand narrative. Vela Noble draws solace and strength from nature in Kangaroo Island and shares a beautiful painting with us. Madhulika Vajjhala and Saumya Dwivedi discuss concepts of home.

Two touching tributes along with a poem to recently deceased poet, Jayanta Mahapatra, add to the richness of our oeuvre. Dikshya Samantrai, a researcher on the poet, has bid a touching adieu to him stating, “his legacy will continue to inspire and resonate and Jayanta Mahapatra’s name will forever remain etched in the annals of literature, a testament to the enduring power of the poet’s voice.”

Our translations this time reflect a diverse collection of mainly poetry with one short story by Telugu writer, Ammina Srinivasaraju, translated by Johny Takkedasila. Professor Fakrul Alam has introduced us to an upcoming voice in Bengali poetry, Quazi Johirul Islam. Ihlwha Choi has translated his own poetry from Korean and brought to us a fragment of his own culture. Fazal Baloch has familiarised us with a Balochi ballad based on a love story that is well known in his region, Kiyya and Sadu. Our Tagore translation has attempted to bring to you the poet’s description of early autumn or Sharat in Bengal, a season that starts in September. Sohana Manzoor has painted the scene depicted by Tagore for all of us to visualise. Huge thanks to her for her wonderful artwork, which invariably livens our journal.

Profound thanks to the whole team at Borderless for their support and especially to Hughes and Parichha for helping us source wonderful writings… some of which have not been mentioned here. Pause by our content’s page to savour all of it. And we remain forever beholden to our wonderful contributors without who the journal would not exist and our loyal readers who make our existence relevant. Thank you all.

Wish you all a wonderful month.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Translated literally, it means Water & Land

Visit the September edition’s content page by clicking here

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

Tags A City Full of Sirens, Afghanistan, Afshan Aqil, Ammina Srinivasaraju, Basudhara Roy, Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadh, Bhaskar Parichha, Borderless Journal, California, Candice Lousia Daquin, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Dikshya Samantrai, Earth, Europe, Fakrul Alam, Fazal Baloch, Forest Fires, G Venkatesh, George Freek, Girija Viraraghavan, Hela Tekali, Ihlwha Choi, In a Land Far From Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan, Isa Kamari, Jared Carter, Jayant Mahapatra, Johny Takkesdasila, Kangaroo Island, Kiyya and Sadu, Lahania, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, M.S. Viraraghavan, Madhulika Vajjhala, Maladies of the Soul, Malathi Ramchandran, Margaret Atwood, Meredith Stephens, Michael Burch, Mitali Chakravarty, Moon, Nazes Afroz, Paul Mirabile, Peter Devonald, Prakriti Bandhan, Pramod Rastogi, Quazi Johirul Islam, Roses in the Fire of Spring: Better Roses for a Warming World and other Garden Adventures, Rys Hughes, Samragngi Roy, Sanket Mhatre, Santosh Bakaya, Saranyan BV, Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, Saumya Dwivedi, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Sharat, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, Suzanne Kamata, Syed Mujtaba Ali, Tagore, Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay), Telugu, The Wizard of Festival Lighting – The Incredible Story of Srid, Theia, Tintin, Tom Engelhardt, Ukranians, Vela Noble, Vladimir Putin

Musings of a Copywriter

Hair or There: Party on My Head

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date September 14, 2023
No Comments on Hair or There: Party on My Head

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Uncomfortable with my political views aired unexpectedly inside his salon, the savvy barber, swinging in his fifties, swung into rapid action by making a flower bloom on my head. A cadre of fierce loyalty, he chose to operate without showing a hostile reaction. His hands got together for an act of mischief, with the party symbol taking shape in the back of my head. His fiendish attempt to groom me as a party worker fetched partial success as he fumbled to get his floral designing right. The final shape he managed to accord was such that it was impossible to identify the flower, with several political outfits with floral symbols competing for political aggrandisement in the local town. The remote resemblance still made me think why I couldn’t gauge what he was up to, why I let this happen after surrendering my head in good faith to him while rambling on the rumble and tumble of politics. In hindsight, I should derive consolation from the fact that the rabid supporter, with scissors in hand, could have shown a much worse violent streak and I was lucky to have escaped unhurt.

Earlier, when I roamed around freely, nobody dared to call me a party worker. But now my teashop friends would be keen to excavate details of my allegiance, which party I swore allegiance to. It was better to let confusion prevail or else I would be stereotyped as a political aspirant though the truth remains that nobody in our family or dynasty has ever contested, leave aside won any election for generations.

During my next hop to the salon, I had queries lined up for the barber, but he was busy with his loyal customers. A few people waiting around stared at my face and head with the designed cut. Finally, when I had the chance to ask the barber why he had experimented with a design on my head, he sounded evasive and denied having any such nasty intention. He defended his innocent act by blaming me for being unsteady and shaky. When I tried to make him recall the details and his intent, he started a sudden conversation with another customer to deflect attention, asking him what to do with his goatee. When I sounded hell-bent on seeking an explanation, he cleared it was not a party symbol he intended. He fished out his camera phone, zoomed in, clicked my head and warned me to stay away from his shop or else he would be compelled to post the picture of my head on social media channels tagging local heavyweight politicians, though that was the last thing on his mind.

Becoming an object of ridicule was unacceptable so I chose to disappear from his shop without further discussion. A fanatic supporter could stir any controversy to gain mileage. It was safer to forget the entire episode as the worst nightmare of my life. I had no intention to air political views with a haircut which announced to all kinds of people a political opinion towards which I was indifferent. My best friend also warned me of the ramifications and urged me to go bald right away, to avoid escalation of political conflict. Perhaps it was genuine advice to save me. The next day, I stepped into a branded unisex salon for a neat, nifty job of turning my head into a cleared space. He quoted a hefty price for tonsuring my head, but it was much less than what I would have to cough up in case I was caught in the political crossfire.

Identity matters are crucial both in terms of flaunting and hiding – depending on which community one belongs to. Since both parties were active in the area, I had the fear of being roughed up by the cadre of either party and asked to clarify which party I belonged to. Since I am apolitical by choice — evident from my reluctance to vote for any political dispensation — the safest option would be to cover my head with a cap or hat to avoid any question about why I went for a bald look or what a tonsured head signified in the heat of elections. There would be discomfiting scenes when the neighbours started throwing the odd question. Maybe someone would find the look quirky enough and post it on a social media platform as a classic case of a fence-sitter or a rank opportunist would give it the final shape after seeing who wins, which flower blooms – the turncoat types waiting to lap up the right opportunity. In my case, the housemaid was the first to notice the change and sympathised: “Your bouncy hair is all gone, a terrible experiment that raises concerns.”

The new avatar was the outcome of my quick visit to the reputed hair stylist who egged me to avail of tattoo and beard trimming services though I was well past my prime to sport any of these. Business targets compelled him to pitch these services to all kinds of customers and persuade them. Despite a handlebar moustache as a fearsome icon, I caved into the suggestion, and he then proceeded to snip it. After doodling a small rosebud on the nape right below the collar, he suggested I should remove dark circles from under my eyes using their special serum. I agreed reluctantly to buy a golden facial grooming session to improve the overall look.

The entire package pinched my pocket, but the makeover did give a facelift to my personality and erased the fears of becoming a victim of a political bash-up. I took a selfie and posted it as a profile photo but the response to my glow was unusually slow and the makeover got fewer likes than earlier for some strange reason. The brazen attempt to look younger and dapper, and being fairly successful at having gained the look, was perhaps the reason that stoked jealousy in my peers. The tattoo of a rosebud was a romantic add-on when I should have ideally gone in for something like a lizard or snake as my venomous tongue unleashing spite was notorious all around. Even a cult icon would have suited my age, but not these teeny-bopper love symbols though these were safer than party symbols.

When the elections were over, none of the floral symbols won, but a newly formed party swept the polls. I was relieved I was rendered safe and went to the barber to see how he sulked now. I was surprised to see he had switched loyalty. The new party colours were spread all over the salon with posters. As I was about to take potshots, the barber did admit belatedly he had intended to draw a party symbol on my head the last time but could not do it perfectly well. His new party had a very simple symbol, and it was easy to draw for any novice. The intended threat was enough to make me beat a hasty retreat as my tonsured head had already raised an abundant harvest of salt and pepper hair within a couple of months.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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

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Tags Assam Tribune, Deccan Herald, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Kolkata, The Statesman

Contents

Borderless August 2023

Editorial

Other Echoes in the Garden… Click here to read.

Interviews

Ujjal Dosanjh, former Minister from Canada and former Premier of British Columbia, discusses his autobiography, Journey After Midnight – A Punjabi Life: From India to Canada, and the need for a world with less borders. Click here to read.

Professor Fakrul Alam discusses his new book of Tagore translations, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore. Click here to read.

Translations

Tagore’s Musalmanir Galpa (A Muslim Woman’s Story) has been translated from Bengali by Aruna Chakravarti. Click here to read.

Masud Khan’s poem, In Another Galaxy, has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Wakeful Stays the Door, a poem by Munir Momin, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Dangerous Coexistence, written in Korean and translated by Ilhwah Choi. Click here to read.

Proshno or Questions by Tagore has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Pandies Corner

Songs of Freedom: An Ordinary Tale is a narrative by Nandani based on her own experiences, translated from Hindustani by Janees. These narrations 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.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Jared Carter, Rhys Hughes, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Saranyan BV, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, A Jessie Michael, Jahnavi Gogoi, George Freek, Koushiki Dasgupta Chaudhuri, David Francis, Akil Contractor, Michael Burch

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In An Experiment with Automatic Poetic Translation, Rhys Hughes auto translates an English poem sequentially through 28 languages and then back to English with hilarious results. Click here to read.

Musings/ Slices from Life

Mister, They’re Coming Anyway

Timothy Jay Smith writes on the refugee crisis in Lesbos Island, Greece with photographs by Michael Honegger. Click here to read.

Migrating to Myself from Kolkata to Singapore

Asad Latif explores selfhood in context of diverse geographies. Click here to read.

Islands that Belong to the Seas

Paul Mirabile muses on how humans are like migrants on islands borrowed from the seas. Click here to read.

Of Dreams, Eagles and Lost Children

Aysha Baqir muses on the narrow, closed borders that condemn children. Click here to read.

Mushroom Clouds and Movies: Response from a Hibakusha’s Daughter

Kathleen Burkinshaw discusses Oppenhiemer the movie. Click here to read.

Sleepless in the High Desert, Slumber in the Sierra

Meredith Stephens covers Nevada to Columbia in a car with her camera. Click here to read.

My Hostel Days

Ravi Shankar reminisces on bygone days. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In The Amateur Professional, Devraj Singh Kalsi writes of a amateur who thought of himself as a professional. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In How I Wound Up in Japan, Suzanne gives her story as an immigrant. Click here to read.

Essays

A Different Persuasion: On Jane Austen’s Novels & their Adaptations

Deepa Onkar delves into the world of Jane Austen books and films. Click here to read.

A Foray into Andamans

Mohul Bhowmik explores Andaman with a camera and narrative. Click here to read.

Bhaskar’s Corner

In Chittaranjan Das: A Centenary Tribute, Bhaskar Parichha discusses the life of one of the most legendary Odia writers. Click here to read.

Stories

Belacan

Farouk Gulsara shares a story based on the life of a migrant in 1950s. Click here to read.

The Japanese Maple

Shivani Shrivastav weaves a story of friendship and loneliness among migrants. Click here to read.

The Coin

Khayma Balakrishnan explores human and supernatural interactions in a school setting in Malaysia. Click here to read.

The Vagrant

Reeti Jamil narrates a strange tale set in a village and told by a farmer. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Ujjal Dosanjh’s Journey After Midnight: A Punjabi Life from Canada to India. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Roses in the Fire of Spring: Better Roses for a Warming World and Other Garden Adventures, by M.S. Viraraghavan and Girija Viraraghavan. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Amitav Ghosh’s Smoke and Ashes: A Writer’s Journey Through Opium’s Hidden Histories. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy reviews Greening the Earth: A Global Anthology of Poetry, edited by K. Satchidanandan & Nishi Chawla. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Arunava Sinha’s The Greatest Indian Stories Ever Told: Fifty Masterpieces from the Nineteenth Century to the Present. Click here to read.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Tags A Jessie Michael, A Journey After Midnight: A Punjabi Life from Canada to India, Akil Contractor, Amitav Ghosh, Andaman, Aruna Chakravarti, Arunava Sinha, Asad Latif, Aysha Baqir, Balochi, Bengali, Bhaskar Pariccha, British Columbia, Canada, Chittaranjan Das, Columbia, David Francis, Deepa Onkar, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Fakrul Alam, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, George Freek, Girija Viraraghavan, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore, Greening the Earth: A Global Anthology of Poems, Hibakusha, Ihlwha Choi, Jahnavi Gogoi, Jane Austen, Janees, Japan, Jared Carter, K. Satchidanandan, Kathleen Burkinshaw, Korean, Koushiki Dasgupta Chaudhuri, Lesbos Island, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, M.S. Viraraghavan, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, Masud Khan, Meredith Stephens, Michael Burch, Michael Honegger, Migrant, Mitali Chakravarty, Mohul Bhowmick, Munir Momin, Musalmanir Galpa, Nandani, Nevada, Nishi Chawla, Oppenheimer, Pandies, Paul Mirabile, Ravi Shankar, Reeti Jamil, Refugee crisis, Rhys Hughes, Roses in the Fire of Spring: Better Roses for a Warming World and other Garden Adventures, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Saranyan BV, Shaktishalini, Shivani Shrivastav, Smoke and Ashes: A Writer’s Journey Through Opium’s Hidden Histories, Somdatta Mandal, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, The Greatest Indian Stories Ever Told: Fifty Masterpieces from the Nineteenth Century to the Present, Timothy Jay Smith, Translations, Ujjal Dosanjh

Editorial

Other Echoes in the Garden…

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date August 14, 2023
No Comments on Other Echoes in the Garden…

“Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them…”

— TS Eliot, ‘Four Quartets: Burnt Norton’(1936)

Humans have always been dreamers, ideators and adventurers.

Otherwise, could we have come this far? From trees to caves to complex countries and now perhaps, an attempt to reach out towards outer space for an alternative biome as exploring water, in light of the recent disaster of the Titan, is likely to be tougher than we imagined. In our attempt to survive, to live well by creating imagined constructs, some fabrications backfired. Possibly because, as George Orwell observed with such precision in Animal Farm, some perceived themselves as “more equal”. Of course, his was an animal allegory and we are humans. How different are we from our brethren species on this beautiful planet, which can survive even without us? But can humanity survive without Earth? In science fiction, we have even explored that possibility and found home among stars with the Earth becoming uninhabitable for man. However, humanity as it stands of now, continues to need Earth. To live amicably on the planet in harmony with nature and all the species, including our own, we need to reimagine certain constructs which worked for us in the past but seem to have become divisive and destructive at this point.

Ujjal Dosanjh, former Minister in the Canadian cabinet and former Premier of British Columbia, in his autobiography, Journey After Midnight – A Punjabi Life: From India to Canada, talks of regionalism as an alternative to narrow divisive constructs that terrorise and hurt others. He writes in his book: “If humanity isn’t going to drown in the chaos of its own creation, the leading nations of the world will have to create a new world order, which may involve fewer international boundaries.” We have a candid conversation with him about his beliefs and also a powerful excerpt from his autobiography.

An interview with Professor Fakrul Alam takes us into Tagore’s imagined world. He discussed his new book of Tagore translations, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore. He has brought out a collection of 300 songs translated to English. In a bid to emphasise an inclusive world, we also have a translation of Tagore’s ‘Musalmanir Galpa’ (A Muslim Woman’s Story) by Aruna Chakravarti. A transcreation of his poem, called ‘Proshno or Questions’ poses difficult challenges for humanity to move towards a more inclusive world. Our translation by Ihlwha Choi of his own Korean poem to English also touches on his visit to the polymath’s construct in the real world, Santiniketan. All of these centring around Tagore go to commemorate the month in which he breathed his last, August. Professor Alam has also translated a poem from Bengali by Masud Khan that has futuristic overtones and builds on our imagined constructs. From Fazal Baloch we have a Balochi translation of a beautiful, almost a surrealistic poem by Munir Momin.

The poetry selections start with a poem on ‘Wyvern’, an imagined dragon, by Jared Carter. And moves on to the plight of refugees by Michael Burch, A Jessie Michael, and on migrants by Malachi Edwin Vethamani. Ryan Quinn Flanagan has poetry that suggests the plight of refugees at a metaphorical level. Vibrant sprays of colours are brought into this section by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Saranyan BV, Jahnavi Gogoi, George Freek and many more. Rhys Hughes brings in a spot of humour with his mountainous poetry (literally) and a lot of laughter with his or rather Google’s attempt at automatic translation of a poem. Devraj Singh Kalsi has shared a tongue in cheek story about an ‘amateur professional’ — rather a dichotomy.

We travel to Andaman with Mohul Bhowmick and further into Sierra with Meredith Stephens. Ravi Shankar travels back in nostalgia to his hostel and Kathleen Burkinshaw dives into the past — discussing and responding to the media presentation of an event that left her family scarred for life, the atomic holocaust of 1945 in Japan. This was a global event more than seven decades ago that created refugees among the survivors whose homes had been permanently destroyed. Perhaps, their stories are horrific, and heart wrenching like the ones told by those who suffered from the Partition of India and Pakistan, a divide that is celebrated by Independence Days for the two nations based on a legacy of rifts created by the colonials and perpetrated to this day by powerbrokers. Aysha Baqir has written of the wounds suffered by the people with the governance gone awry. Some of the people she writes of would have been refugees and migrants too.

A poignant narrative about refugees who flock to the Greek island of Lesbos by Timothy Jay Smith with photographs by Michael Honegger, both of whom served at the shelters homing the displaced persons, cries out to halt wars and conflicts that displace them. We have multiple narratives of migrants in this issue, with powerful autobiographical stories told by Asad Latif and Suzanne Kamata. Paul Mirabile touches on how humans have adopted islands by borrowing them from seas… rather an unusual approach to migrations. We have an essay on Jane Austen by Deepa Onkar and a centenary tribute to Chittaranjan Das by Bhaskar Parichha.

The theme of migrants is echoed in stories by Farouk Gulsara and Shivani Shrivastav. Young Nandani has given an autobiographical story, translated from Hindustani to English by Janees, in which a migration out of various homes has shredded her family to bits — a narrative tucked in Pandies Corner. Strange twists of the supernatural are woven into fiction by Khayma Balakrishnan and Reeti Jamil.

In reviews, Parichha has explored Arunava Sinha’s The Greatest Indian Stories Ever Told: Fifty Masterpieces from the Nineteenth Century to the Present. Somdatta Mandal’s review of Amitav Ghosh’s Smoke and Ashes: A Writer’s Journey Through Opium’s Hidden Histories seems to be an expose on how historical facts can be rewritten to suit different perceptions and Basudhara Roy has discussed the Greening the Earth: A Global Anthology of Poetry, edited by K. Satchidanandan and Nishi Chawla.

There is more wonderful content. Pop by our August’s bumper edition to take a look.

I would like to give my grateful thanks to our wonderful team at Borderless, especially to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our gifted contributors and our loyal readers. Borderless exists today because of all of you are making an attempt to bringing narratives that build bridges, bringing to mind Lennon’s visionary lyrics:

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

Thank you for joining us at Borderless Journal.

Have a wonderful month!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Visit the August edition’s content page by clicking here

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

Tags Amitav Ghosh, Animal Farm, Arunava Sinha, Asad Latif, August, Aysha Baqir, Balochi, Basudhara Roy, Bengali, Bhaskar Pariccha, Bhaskar Parichcha, Burnt Norton, Chittaranjan Das, Deepa Onkar, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Earth, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, Four Quartets, George Freek, George Orwell, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore, Greek, Greening the Earth: A Global Anthology of Poems, Hiroshima, Holocaust, Ihlwha Choi, Independence Days, India, Jane Austen, Janees, Japan, Jared Carter, Jhanavi Gogoi, Journey After Midnight - A Punjabi Life: From India to Canada, K. Satchidanandan, Kathleen Burkinshaw, Khayma Balakrishnan, Korean, Lennon, Lesbos, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, Masud Khan, Meredith Stephens, Michael Honegger, Mitali Chakravarty, Mohul Bhowmick, Munir Momin, Musalmanir Galpa, Nandini, Nishi Chawla, Pakistan, Pandies Corner, Paul Mirabile, Proshno, Ravi Shankar, Reeti Jamil, Rhys Hughes, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Santiniketan, Saranyan BV, Shivani Shrivastav, Sierra, Smoke and Ashes: A Writer’s Journey Through Opium’s Hidden Histories, Sohana Manzoor, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, Timothy Jay Smith, TS Eliot, Ujjal Dosanjh, Wyvern