Tag: English

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Editorial

Is Sky the Limit?

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.

--'How We Stay’ by Nma Dhahir

In our poetry section, we have Ron Pickett suggesting peace and love with his poem on three doves on a roof and Snigdha Agrawal hinting at a future Earth. We have heartfelt poetry weaving in the colours of life with Jared Carter, Tim Tomlinson, Mohul Bhowmick, Laila Brahmbhatt, George Freek, Lana Hechtman Ayers, Pramod Rastogi, John Grey, Edward Reilly, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snehaprava Das, SR Inciardi and Ryan Quinn Flanagan while Rhys Hughes weaves in humour.

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 acceptance of 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.

Book excerpts host Kailash Satyarthi’s Karuna: The Power of Compassion and Aruna Chakravarti’s Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories. We are also running a feature on the latter collection with Chakravarti telling us why she switched from historical fiction to ghost stories. The interesting thing is many of her ghouls are embedded in histories where they suffered violences, which leads us to the bigger question, can human suffering dehumanise us? Should it?

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!

Looking forward to the future.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE MARCH 2026 ISSUE.

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Categories
Interview Review

Aruna Chakravarti Converses about her Ghost Stories

An introduction to Aruna Chakravarti’s Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories, published by Penguin India, along with a discussion with the author.

Ghosts are evocative of a past… of history one could say. Then who could be a better storyteller of the past than an author steeped in colours of historical fiction — Aruna Chakravarti! In the past she not only translated novels set in colonial India but evoked the Bengal Renaissance to perfection in her two Jorasanko novels and details of a court hearing in her retelling of the Bhawal prince! This time the diva of historical fiction brings to us a book of spine chilling, ghost stories, Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories.  It is her third collection of short stories.

Aruna Chakravarti
Published in 2026

The narratives are so vivid and visual that they could be worthy of being made into films. They are distinctive in that she has mostly created her own very horrific ghouls – not the traditional ones. They pop up and frighten the reader with their bizarreness and terrifying presences which linger even when you try to sleep at night! She has given us thirteen stories — a spooky number in itself — spread across multiple communities in Asia.

Some of the narratives evoke the past, starting from the 1800s. ‘The House of Flowers’ is set in China partly and partly in Kolkata, where there is now a thriving Chinatown known as “Tangra” and a Kali temple that serves ‘noodles’ as its prasad or offering. The story has echoes of Pearl S Buck’s China interestingly. What comes as a surprise is the fluency with which she has woven in the influences that impact a community of migrants!  

Chakravarti has used her skills as a writer of historical fiction in some of the stories like, ‘The Road to Karimganj’, in which a spook takes us back to undivided Bengal, when passports were not needed as in the story of the migrant Chinese. Hovering around history are more narratives like ‘Possessed’, where a courtesan who performs with the legendary Girish Ghosh1 of the nineteenth century Kolkata undergoes, along with the audience, a strange spooky experience!

Traveling down the century, closer to our times, is the story that is perhaps one of the most bizarre and yet most relatable, ‘The Necklace’. Set in the Anglo-Indian community and the glamour of Park Street — where Wiccan writer, Rajorshi Patranabis, claimed to have met a colonial ghost awaiting her lover — Chakravarti’s narrative is of black magic and betrayal. The fiction is far more impactful and frightening than the factual narrative, which too was spine chilling! You realise what makes fiction so much more gripping than facts — anything can happen in fiction. Chakravarti is imaginative enough to make it as creepy and shadowy as any regular horror writer!

Holding on to that thought, the author holds the key to our experiences as she skillfully outlines two demons grown out of poverty in ‘A Winter Night’. The conclusion has a sense of irony and tragedy. ‘Truth is stranger than Fiction’ weaves in more of the diversity in the historic annals of Bengal. The story that starts the book, ‘The Caregivers of Gazipur’, has an unresolved ending, like some of her other narratives. Though there is a frightful resolution in ‘They Come Out After Dark’. The ghosts play spine chilling havoc with fears of the living while recalling the senseless violence of 1947. ‘There are More Things in Heaven and Earth’…takes us back to the atrocities committed during the Sikh riots of 1984 in Delhi. The mingling of fact and fiction to create weird a fantastical narrative is addressed during a conversation on the supernatural. And there is an exploration of the lines from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, which probably is a touch of the academic as Chakravarti had a long tenure as the principal of a girl’s college in Delhi. It also defines the authorial stance in this story:

‘Don’t forget what Hamlet said to Horatio? There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’

What is unusual about these stories is the way she has created fictitious geographies and personas, evoking historic realities. They seem perfectly authentic to the reader, including the one set in China. There is a vast mingling of facts and fiction in these stories all to lead to spine-chilling ends with strange twists. 

‘Grandmother’s Bundle’ stands out in its rendition as the ghosts given out are part of the mythical lore of Bengal — stories that were related to most Bengali kids of the twentieth century. They have a touch of humour and dry wit, perhaps introducing a sense of comic relief among very dark and horrific stories that transport us into different worlds.

‘The Motorcycle Rider’, set in modern times, takes us into a university campus to shock us with horrific spooks born out of tragic deaths, while ‘Twenty-nine Years, Seven Months and Eleven Days’, merges a modern outlook with an unfathomable past, touching upon strange tantric yearnings. ‘Vendetta’ twirls nature and supernatural to give a frightening narrative of how nature takes its revenge… a theme that reiterates in writings addressing our current concerns with climate change.

The ease and fluidity with which she has switched from history and realism to horror and fantasy is amazing. Let’s find out more from her about this new persona that inhabits her writerly self…                                                           

Till now we have had translations, numerous novels—many of which can be called historical fiction—and realistic short stories with their base in history or contemporary life. What made you think of writing ghost stories?

After writing The Mendicant Prince which involved extensive research into the life and times of Prince Ramendranarayan Roy of Bhawal, I didn’t feel up to writing a historical novel again. The work had demanded delving into sociological texts, court records, letters, insurance papers and medical reports. Apart from research, historical fiction also demands a certain amount of field work.

Published in 2013
Published in 2016

Before writing the Jorasanko novels I visited the Tagore mansion thrice and while writing The Mendicant Prince, I went to Bangladesh to see the royal palace in Bhawal, renamed Gazipur. Though it has been totally neglected, with shopkeepers and squatters having overtaken most of the area, I was able to get some idea of the topography of the palace and its grounds. I saw the lake and the temple (which was locked) and was able to visualise where the halls and galleries and the apartments of the queens and princesses would have stood. All this work was exhausting. So, for a change, I decided to try my hand at short stories which emerge straight from the imagination. And while at it, I decided to break out of the mould of “historical fiction” writer in which I had trapped myself and try a completely new genre.

Published in 2022

I wrote the first one on an impulse and found myself quite enjoying the process. I didn’t even think of publishing at that time. The first story led to another and another. When eleven stories had been written I sent the manuscript to three publishers and was surprised when all three accepted it. It was then that I found out that ghost stories were the in-thing. That they were selling well and that publishers were looking out for them. I signed up with Penguin as you know. At one point my editor Moutushi Mukherjee suggested I write another two. Thirteen stories will make it even more spooky, she said.  So, I wrote another two.

Would you list these stories as fantasies or fantastical? Or are they stories of personal experience? Please elaborate.

No. They are not born out personal experience. I must confess that I have never seen a ghost in my life. I believe in sixth sense. As a matter of fact, I have acted on my sixth sense on occasions. I have had sudden impulses to do certain things and realised later that if I hadn’t yielded to the impulses, I would have regretted it. But I have had no brush with the supernatural. These stories were sparked off by sudden memories. Something I had read somewhere. Something somebody had told me years ago. A face I had seen in childhood which had stuck in my mind though whose I don’t remember. A conversation overheard which made no sense at the time but which, as an adult, seemed ridden with sinister nuances. A phrase from a book whose title and author’s name I had forgotten. In fact, I didn’t even remember the context from where the phrase had come.

Sudden flashes such as these triggered off the stories. But in the writing, they took on a life and soul of their own. I even feel, sometimes, that the pen took over and they were written by an invisible hand.

Your stories are set, sometimes in real landscapes and sometimes in fictional ones. What kind of research went into creating them? How do you make them so vivid and real?

There wasn’t any immediate research.  I needed to look up a few facts, now and then, mostly to be sure of their authenticity. But nothing truly back breaking. The landscapes, both physical and of the mind, were culled from my travels and my reading of both English and Bengali writers over the eight decades of my life. Much of it stayed with me tucked away in some unconscious part of the mind. Although I write in English, you will notice that almost all the stories are about Bengalis. Bengalis living in Delhi, Kolkata, Bihar and the small towns and villages of Bengal. There are Anglo-Indians, Punjabis and Chinese, too among my characters. But having lived in Bengal for generations, they have adopted Bengali customs and a quasi-Bengali way of living.  Many of the locales in which, they appear are fictional…gathered from my reading and observation of people from different strands of Bengali life.

You have a story set in China which also has the Chinatown of Kolkata in it. Have you been to China? What was the reason for the choice? Were you influenced by any Chinese writers? How did you visualise the Chinese migrants in Kolkata?

Yes, I have been to China. I visited the cities of Guangzhou, Shanghai and Beijing in 2004. Naturally, I have no personal experience of life as it was lived in the late 18th century which is the period covered in the story ‘The House of Flowers’. For this I had to rely totally on my reading of English authors writing about China like Pearl Buck and Amy Tan. Pearl Buck was a great influence on me while writing this story. It was from her books that I was able to catch the ambience of tea houses and brothels of the period. In depicting the Chinese family who lived in Calcutta in the early 20th century I had to rely on childhood experience, I knew some Chinese girls who had lived for several generations in Calcutta. And my imagination went into full play, of course.

In ‘Grandmother’s Bundle’ you have written about spooks from Bengal. It departs from your other stories in as much as it does not really introduce the supernatural except as a source of folklore. Do you feel it blends with the other narratives in your collection?

Well. It is different from my other stories in certain ways. Firstly, it is three stories rolled into one. Secondly, unlike the others, they are children’s stories. Thirdly, it is the only one that deals with ghosts and other supernatural beings with humour. Lastly, they have been drawn from folklore. I agree that it doesn’t quite blend with the others in this collection. But it is also true that each story in this collection is different from another. There are different time spans. Different locales. Different themes. Characters from different levels of society. That being the case, I think that this story lends variety and another flavour to the collection.

Your stories aren’t like the usual ghost stories one reads. The structure and content seem different. Your comments.

You are right. These stories do not belong to the gothic/horror genre. They are not about vampires, blood sucking bats, severed heads or violence heaped on violence. They are essentially human-interest stories with a supernatural twist at the end. I have taken my cue, you may say, from Coleridge’s demand for a willing suspension of disbelief  before reading his poetry. These stories have innocuous beginnings. Two friends sharing an apartment, a boy walking from his village to an unseen destination, a dinner party in an exclusive area of the capital, a marital spat or a telephone call at dawn. Then, a few paragraphs later a subtle hint is dropped startling  the reader into a realisation that it is not a simple story of human relationships. That it is headed in another, more sinister direction. Another hint is dropped and another. Then in the final sentence the bomb bursts. The last line is the most important line of the story. 

Which is your favourite story? And why?

Just as a mother loves all her children, I love all my stories. But mothers also have favourites and so do I. “The House of Flowers,” “Vendetta,” “Possessed” and “The Necklace” are my favourites. That’s because their themes are unusual and posed a greater challenge. And, perhaps, because I had to work harder on them than on the others.

Are you planning any new books? Exploring any new genres? Any new book we can expect soon?

I always think of a new book even when I am writing the current one. Yes, I am planning to explore yet another genre of writing. But my ideas are nebulous at the moment. Still in a fluid state That being the case I cannot share them with you. All I can say is that the work will be a challenging one and I’m not even sure I’ll be able to see it through. So, we must both wait for some more time

  1. Girish Ghosh (1844-1912) Actor and Director from Bengal ↩︎

 (This review and online interview by email is by Mitali Chakravarty)

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Click here to read an excerpt from Creeping Shadows.

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Categories
Notes from Japan

My Cambodian Taxi Driver

Narratives and photographs by Suzanne Kamata

When my research partner Yoko proposed that the two of us attend a conference in Cambodia, I said “Yes, but I want to stay in a nice hotel.” Knowing her, she’d book us into a youth hostel, where we’d bunk with strangers, or the cheapest Air BNB available. In Japan, due to the massive influx of foreign tourists and the weak yen, hotel prices had been jacked up significantly. I could barely afford to stay in a capsule hotel on a trip to Tokyo. In Cambodia, I figured we would be able to pay for a decent room.

We flew from Osaka to Ho Chi Minh City to Krong Ta Khmau, landing in Cambodia’s newest airport. Modern, cavernous, and clean, it had opened only a few months before. We picked up our luggage from the carousel in baggage claim and proceeded to the exit.

“I’ll let you handle this part,” I told Yoko, as we emerged into fresh air and a phalanx of taxi drivers vying for our services.

This was Yoko’s third or fourth trip to Cambodia, and she had assured me that she knew how to arrange transportation. She’d already figured out how much we could expect to pay. She wasn’t about to get ripped off.

“Thirty dollars to Phnom Penh,” one guy offered.

“That’s too much,” Yoko said. “I’ll give you twenty.”

A deal was made, and we were ushered to a white Alphard Toyota, and introduced to the driver, a young guy, maybe around thirty, in sunglasses. He spoke English.

“To the Harmony Phnom Penh Hotel, please.” I showed him the address on my phone app.

On the hour-long drive, I gazed out the window, eager to soak up new sights. Various construction projects were underway. I spotted a Lexus dealer, and an Aeon Mall. Although much of the signage was in curlicue Khmer, some businesses were labeled in Chinese, Japanese, and English. Shiny new transnational banks rose above structures with traditional architecture. As we entered the city, the traffic became worse. Motorbikes, tuk-tuks, trucks, and cars jostled for space. Many of the cars were apparently Chinese imports. I’d never heard of the brands.

I tried not to distract our driver, whose name was Paekdy, from the business of driving, but we managed to have a conversation. He asked how long we’d be staying and offered his services for our journey back to the airport three days later. I added him to my What’s App contacts. He seemed nice.

“Can you pick me up tomorrow?” I asked.

I would be going on a tour to visit a teacher’s college and a language school. Yoko was planning on spending the day in and around the hotel’s infinity pool. The university where she worked, which was run by elderly nuns, was on the verge of shutting down. Yoko was under a bit of stress.

“What time?” Paekdy asked.

“Early.” I was supposed to be at the university where the conference would be held by 8:30. I asked him to be at the hotel an hour before that.

Yoko helpfully negotiated the fare.

The next morning, I got up, readied myself, and went out in front of the hotel to wait. A man out front was sweeping the pavement. Across the street, vendors were setting up piles of fruit. One woman was hacking at raw chickens. Further down, several tuk-tuks were lined up, awaiting passengers.

My driver was late. I had allowed extra time, so I would probably not be late for the tour, but I was a bit irritated. If I were him, I would have arrived early. After all, he’d had plenty of advance notice, and I had promised him a decent fare. I checked my What’s App messages. Nothing. I texted Paekdy: “Are you coming?” He responded with a voice message. Due to traffic, he was running late.

He finally arrived, and we set off for the university. I asked him questions about his life, and his family. He told me that he had gone to university and studied marketing. He said that it was hard to find a good job in Cambodia if one couldn’t speak a foreign language. In addition to English, he knew some Chinese. He told me that his daughter was learning English.

After our pleasant conversation, my irritation evaporated. When he dropped me off, I asked him to pick me up at 2:30 in the afternoon to take me back to the hotel. He agreed.

I registered for the conference at one of the long tables set up on the verandah, and picked up the sack containing my breakfast, which consisted of sandwiches and bananas. When it was time for the tour, I got on the bus with the other participants. Over the next few hours, we visited Phnom Penh Teacher Education College, and a private English school. Afterwards, we had a sumptuous lunch at a nearby restaurant. Back at our starting point, I looked for my driver. He was nowhere to be found. Late, again.

This time he sent a message: I am sorry maybe I am late. (prayer emoji) Can you wait for me please?

I sighed, considered hopping onto a tuk-tuk, and then texted, “Okay.” The devil you know, right? I would have a seat in one of the wicker chairs on the university’s verandah and enjoy the slight breeze.

He finally arrived and apologized profusely. The traffic was so bad, he said. Wasn’t it always? I wondered. Wouldn’t he have prepared for that?

“Did you have a lot of fares today?” I asked, in a bid to make conversation.

“Just one,” he said.

Me.

Back at the hotel, Yoko and I discovered that we could get use the Tada app, which was similar to Uber or Grab, to get to and from the conference venue for about $5. My driver was ripping me off, Yoko said, and he was always late. If I called him again, I would only be rewarding his bad behavior, I reasoned aloud. He didn’t deserve my business. If he wanted repeat customers, he would have to learn to come on time.

We went to the rooftop where Yoko had spent most of the day and indulged in coconut milk and slices of fresh mango while gazing at boats floating along the Tonle Sap River. European tourists splashed in the pool nearby.

That evening, we called a car via the Tada app and went to the university where the conference began with a ceremony. Cambodian dancing was followed by a display of martial arts, several speeches by invited dignitaries, and a symposium on AI in language teaching. Afterwards, we filled up paper plates at the buffet and mingled with the other conference participants. When it was time to leave, Yoko called for another driver – not Paekdy – with the app.

On the way back to our hotel, it was dark and the traffic was severely congested, as usual. The car crawled along amidst a crush of vehicles of various kinds when…Bam! Suddenly we were side-swiped by a truck. My first thought was, I should have gotten travel insurance! My second was, now we will pull over and everyone will exchange insurance information and call the police. Except we didn’t. The truck surged ahead. The driver did not respond.

“Are you okay?” Yoko asked him.

He laughed it off. “Okay, okay.” His English was limited.

We could still see the truck’s license plate. We could write it down and report it. But maybe things didn’t work that way in this country.

“It’s a good thing that we are in a Toyota,” Yoko said.

Yes, there was something to be said for a sturdy, well-made car. I was happy that we hadn’t taken a tuk-tuk, or that we weren’t on the back of a motorbike.

Still a bit shaken, Yoko overtipped the driver when he dropped us off, hoping he would be able to use the extra funds to fix his car.

After the conference, Yoko and I debated how we would spend our last day in Cambodia. Before my trip, many people had said that I should to Angkor Wat, but Siam Reap was too far away. I felt that I should pay my respects to the victims of Pol Pot by visiting one of the genocide memorials. Since Yoko had already been to the country a few times before, she had been to the Killing Fields and the torture museum. She didn’t really want to go again, and I didn’t blame her. I decided that I would go by myself and meet up with her at the airport.

I wasn’t going to call Paekdy, but he sent me a message the night before, asking if I needed a ride to the airport. Oh, why not? I could ask him to take me to the Choeung Ek Genocidal Center on the way. Maybe he would wait for an hour or so while I toured the site. That way I could leave my suitcase in the car with him. Okay, so he was a little late sometimes, but I trusted him. I sent a text: Please pick me up at 2:00 PM.

The next afternoon, he was on time.

On the way to the memorial, we talked some more. He told me that his grandparents had perished while fleeing Pol Pot. Many people had died of starvation while in hiding. I remarked upon the many construction sites along the way. Paekdy mused that if not for the 1975-79 genocide under the Khmer Rouge, his country would have been further along. Indeed, had it not been for the vicious slaughter of an estimated 1.2-2.8 million people, comprising a quarter of the population, Cambodia might be right up there with Singapore or Thailand. I thought it was just a matter of time before the country caught up. I thought of the new airport I’d be flying out of, which was undoubtedly destined to become a hub.

Before we parted, my driver suggested that we take a selfie together. We both put on our sunglasses and smiled for the camera. He sent me the photo the next day, when I was back home in Japan. I realised that although I had enjoyed visiting schools, wandering the palace grounds, and snacking on fresh mangoes by the pool, the most interesting part of my trip had been meeting this taxi driver from Phnom Penh. I still have his contact information on my phone.

Paekdy & Suzanne Kamata

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Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

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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Categories
Poetry

Fragments by Majeed Ajez

Translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

Majeed Ajez (1977-2026) was a remarkable Balochi poet. He started his poetic journey in the early 1990s and soon established himself as a prominent ghazal writer. Although he also wrote free verse and experimented with other forms, the ghazal remained his true forte, a form through which he expressed his poetic vision with remarkable ease and finesse. In a literary journey spanning nearly three decades, Ajez published three anthologies of poetry.
                 (1)
Each night the sun is lifted on a bier,
No wonder shadows live but briefly here.
The earth lies hushed, no whisper in the air,
And darkness, like the god, stays silent there.

                 (2)
No green fruit, nor any cooling shade
The jungle echoes with a dove’s mournful cry
As fire is bound to wood in flame
So too is the bond between the world and I

                 (3)
Your scarf waved softly and moonlight flowed.
Your lips stirred and flowers kissed the air.
The flock wanders and faints upon the plain.
The shepherd’s eyes are caught in honeyed glare.

                  (4)
A melancholy song descends in melody,
I wonder to whom your bright bangles confide.
Your morrow and the day beyond gleam radiantly,
While my yesterday and today lie dark as a grave inside.

                  (5)
To death and pain unfamiliar I stand.
In each breath an apocalypse unfolds.
Here kohl is worth far less than dust and sand.
Here tears and blood alone are sold.

                  (6)
Not even the thinnest comfort warms my children’s bowl,
The famished fishermen no longer venture to the sea
To flee the ravenous wolves haunting the darkened wilderness
A poor shepherd feeds his herd on water at the sea.

                  (7)
You walked this path with quiet grace and elegance,
I breathed a heavenly breeze, spread far and wide.
Leave Ajez be—he’s mad, indeed, quiet mad—
He wept for long, then laughed through all the pain inside.


                 (8)
No one looks this way anymore,
For whom should I turn my head and see?
Who knows what fate the coming day may store—
Today’s but yesterday’s echo to me.

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.

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

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Categories
The Lost Mantras

Four More Poems by Isa Kamari

Poetry and translations from Malay by Isa Kamari

Inscense burner
Kris
From Public Domain 
INCENSE BURNER

O, incense from rock and root! 
In the name of God and salutations to the Prophet, 
I sprinkle you onto the charcoal ember 
in the incense burner inherited from Elders.
Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh!
Billow across the span of humanity. 
Sharpen our senses, elevate our spirits, 
as an adornment of prayers for peace, 
as an accompaniment of the dead. 
Send blessings to the world of jinns and humans. 
The doors of servitude open, 
the purpose both are created.
You are the balm for tormented souls. 
You welcome the mind into the realm of remembrance. 
Focus the soul on complete devotion 
to the One, the only One.
Those with vague knowledge
only see smoke of superstition, 
stupefied as rose water is sprinkled.

Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh!

O, this servitude is indeed fragrant! 
O, this worship is indeed mystical and intimate 
to the One, the Only One.
When the kris blade is smouldered by smoke, 
after washed with lime juice, 
in the name of God and salutations to the Prophet, 
the blade is dried and withstands rust, 
preserving inheritance and the calling.
Culture and religion are intertwined, 
knowledge and understanding of the sacred realm 
that bless the worlds of jinns and humans. 
The doors of servitude open, 
creatures of the One, 
servants of the only One.
O, this servitude is indeed fragrant! 
O, this worship is indeed mystical and intimate!
Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh!
Allah! Allah! Allah! My Lord!

DEBT

Hey, bestower of pleasure! 
Hey, the saving hand!
I think I have been to hell: 
My soul is charred by sins, 
My mind is bombarded by doubt. 
I have rebelled against Me 
for fulfilling my desire.
I think I have been to heaven: 
My soul is at peace with gratitude. 
My mind is still in acceptance. 
Everything has its place. 
Everything is measured. 
I am accepted by Me, 
mutual and pure.
But return my will, 
return my future, 
return my entire me to the world and reality, 
from mere illusion, from every expectation.
I want to live. 
I want to live. 
I want to live in a bit of doubt, 
in a pinch of rebellion, 
to learn by myself, 
to be in place and measured.
Hey, bestower of pleasure! 
Hey, the saving hand! 
Let me pay my debt in feelings unsatiated.

THE MOUNTAIN
God, smash the mountain 
in my soul. 
Obliterate the entire me 
with your Grace and Love.
I could no longer bear 
the sufferings of alienation.

FIRASAT
(Spiritual Intuition)

People nowadays do not know firasat. 
People nowadays do not use firasat.
Purity brought down from Elders— 
the first intuition without veil, 
the stirrings and effects of unity of experience: 
Nature, knowledge, and actions unified, 
moved by the eye of the soul, 
nurtured by the discipline of the mind, 
based on strings of reiterative knowledge, 
demonstrated by signs from layers of Nature, 
validated by proofs in actions and breaths.
The mind, soul, and spirit 
moulded in the self and surroundings. 
Ever since it is compartmentalised by thoughts 
that distinguish object from subject, 
dissecting issues to the atom, 
limiting conclusions and acceptance, 
denying possibilities and visions, 
veiling light by separation of knowledge.
Is not this world a mirror? 
Is not this universe a sign? 
Is not this life a labyrinth? 
Is not a problem interlinked?
Science, philosophy, psychology, history, and religion 
are only points of view 
that need to be reunified, 
that need to be rejuvenated as a whole 
with stirrings and effects of firasat 
that will pierce layers of existence, 
that will open secret doors of 
the manifest, symbolic, transcendent, and immanent worlds.
Are not all that fall from the sky, 
grow on the surface of the earth, 
and return to the sky a belief in the unity of everything?
So, the dust that floats in the air 
remembers the moment of attesting of the spirit 
that is gently blown at the boundaries of seven worlds.
"Am I not your Lord?" 
The Malay testifies in firasat: 
"Yes, we affirm!"

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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Categories
Essay

Somdatta Mandal on ‘Mother Mary Comes to Me’

Let me begin by saying that like most readers enamoured by her works, I really enjoyed reading Arundhati Roy’s first work of memoir Mother Mary Comes to Me published in 2025. It is a soaring account, both intimate and inspiring, of how the author became the person and the writer she is, shaped by circumstance, but above all by her complex relationship to the extraordinary, singular mother she describes as a gangster, as ‘my shelter and my storm’. In the meantime, many reviews of the book have already been published, some full of praise and some quite critical, but it can be undoubtedly said that the book created a literary storm that one hadn’t experienced for quite a long time. And to add to that, social media is now flooded with her interviews, readings etc., some very recent and some as old as fifteen years. This essay delves into several issues pertaining to it that have struck me as unique.


Born out of the onrush of memories and feelings provoked by her mother Mary’s death in 2022, this is the astonishing, often disturbing and surprisingly funny memoir of the Arundhati Roy’s life, from childhood to the present, from her movement from Kerala to Delhi. There are forty-two chapters in this book, not numbered, but the titles themselves are self-explanatory. By following their interesting nomenclature, one can get an inkling of how Roy has laid out her narrative strategy, by talking not only about her own life but how it has been intertwined with her mother in a peculiar love-hate relationship. In the very first chapter titled ‘Gangster’, (which Roy has been reading in many gatherings till now), she tells us about her peculiar relationship with her mother. In her excellent and unique narrative style, she says:

“As a child I loved her irrationally, helplessly, fearfully, completely, as children do. As an adult I tried to love her cooly, rationally, and from a safe distance. I often failed. Sometimes miserably. I wrote versions of her in my books, but I never wrote her.”

She then advices her reader: “Most of us are a living, breathing soup of memory and imagination – and that we may not be the best arbiters of which is which. So read this book as you would a novel. It makes no larger claim.”

The narration of the incidents always does not follow a strict chronological order. Some of the stories are already quite well-known. This tells us how the young Syrian Christian Mary Roy married a Bengali tea planter in Assam and had to soon leave her husband because of his drunkenness and lack of responsibility towards his family. Having no support except for a bachelor’s degree in Education, she takes the bold decision of walking out of the marriage and lands in Ooty along with her two young children to live in her father’s cottage. A few months into her fugitive life, her estranged mother and elder brother arrived from Kerala to evict her. They told her that under the Travancore Christian Succession Act, daughter had no right to their father’s property and that they were to leave the house immediately. Years later Mary would challenge the act in the Supreme Court and demand an equal share of her father’s property, and luckily by winning the case in 1986 she became a sort of celebrity overnight.

The story then moves on to Kottayam and then to Ayemenem in Kerala (some of the details of which are beautifully narrated in The God of Small Things too) where Mary Roy struggles to find a foothold for herself and the children and open a school. That story of how that school began in a rudimentary form and how it gradually grew into the well-known residential institution called Pallikoodam designed by the famous architect Laurie Baker, how it remained a top priority in Mary Roy’s life ( the school children prioritised over her own)  along with her own eccentricities, her uncompromising nature and peculiar behaviour ( her refusal to be accepted as the mother of the famous writer Arundhati Roy, being one of them), till her death remains one major strand of the narrative.

The other major narrative strand pertains to Roy’s own life. Arundhati’s version of the story tells us how in the summer of 1976 she finished her high school at sixteen and leaving Kottayam (and of course her mother whom she wanted to dissociate forever), arrived alone without any contact in a completely alien territory in Delhi to take the entrance exam for the School of Architecture. Not having any contact with her mother for several years, she led a bohemian life, lived together with different people, saw partly the underbelly of life and did odd jobs to sustain herself. In the architectural school, she met Pradip Kishen and eventually married him (who was then the husband of the boss under whom she was working for a while). She scripted a screenplay for a movie called In Which Annie Gives It Those Ones about the college life and though it was once telecast in Doordarshan decades ago, it had been lost till recently the footage has been recovered, restored and set as an official entry in the Berlin Film festival this year but one which Roy refused to attend citing the cause of Palestine.

She was involved in another movie script Electric Moon and acted in minor roles in some off beat films like Massey Sahib till she changed her mission of life. After the publication of The God of Small Things, Roy stopped writing novels and got involved in political and social causes and got involved with social activists like Medha Patkar and the Maoists in the Chhattisgarh region and even faced jail for a day for her protests. The writing she produced for a couple of decades were all powerful political manifestos supporting leftist politics (“The Algebra of Infinite Justice” being one of the well- known texts and My Seditious Heart, published in 2019, is a collection of her non-fiction) till she came up with her second novel The Ministry of Utmost Happiness.

In the meantime, the handsome royalty she received from her first novel changed her living style and for the first time Arundhati Roy managed to eke out a comfortable lifestyle and even buy a house of her own. Her narration is interspersed with several interesting anecdotes, relating to her relationship with her brother whom she mentions throughout as LKC, and their chance meeting with Micky Roy, their father in pathetic condition in Delhi. The chapter titled ‘Mama Bear, Papa Bear’ is very interesting to read. It begins with the following lines: “Seven years had gone by since I’d last seen Mrs Roy. The strangest thing is that I cannot remember how she and I came to be in contact with each other again”. Then the joy of seeing her brother after so many years was exacerbated with their meeting of their father Micky Roy, who had totally disappeared from their lives when they were kids. The pathetic state of the man almost dying out of liquor addiction, we are told about how he was “as frail as a small bird, lame and hunched over …he was severely malnourished, like people in UN pamphlets.” This is how Roy narrates the incident:

‘You would never have believed I was your father. You look so much more like me than your mother. Doesn’t she, Kapil Dev? Same nose. Same eyes…sorry eye.’(Giggle.) ‘I say Orundhuti, do you hit the bottle?’

He pronounced my name the Bengali way.

‘Me? No.’

‘Oh, go on. Tell the truth. All good Roys hit the bottle. Whaddyou say, Kapil Dev?’

(Giggle. Slap.)

After going through all the ups and downs of life, especially in relation to her mother (too many to be narrated here), the story end in the last chapter aptly titled ‘A Declaration of Love’ when in January 2022 she got a message from her mother saying that she loved her. Despite everything that had happened between them, somehow, she knew that to be true. “My lifelong refusal to stop loving her, no matter what, had finally breached her barriers.” The story ends with her death, the details of her cremating process, the performance of the Kottayam Police Band, the 21-gun salute she received and ultimately the memorial they built for her in the bamboo grove where the headstone mentioned Mary Roy as ‘Dreamer Warrior Teacher’ and ‘Founder Pallikoodam.’  The strange love-hate relationship that persisted between Arundhati and her mother comes out beautifully in the end when she writes:

“The first night in a Mrs Roy-less world, I spun unanchored in space with no coordinates. I had constructed myself around her. I had grown into the peculiar shape that I am to accommodate her. I had never wanted to defeat her, never wanted to win. I had always wanted her to go out like a queen. And now that she had, I didn’t make sense to myself any more.”

Another interesting piece of information is revealed in this concluding chapter is about how Arundhati casually decided to get divorced from Pradip Kishen with the same lack of seriousness with which she had got married, so that he and the girls (and their property) had no legal connection to her. The order granting them the divorce had been delivered to her the previous morning, at the very moment Mrs Roy died. ‘So, I, free woman, free falling, was heir to nothing at all. But I was curious about our great will-making mother’s will.’ Later she gets to know that her brother had marked off Mrs Roy’s house and its compound from the rest of the school and had it registered in her name. So, she decided to renovate the house and build the Grove simultaneously in it.

The Cover Design

Before concluding, I want to draw the reader’s attention to the special care that has been taken to make and market this book. The cover design is a highly skilled piece of production. On the stark red cover of the book with the title embossed artistically, we have half a dust jacket in white with two different pictures of Roy on the front and the back cover– one a current photograph of the author with her head full of pepper and salt curls and with a discreet smile on her face. The other photograph is of a much younger and radical Arundhati with a distinct far-away look in her eyes and with a burning cigarette on her lips. Though the publisher gives the statutory warning that cigarette smoking is injurious to health and it does not support it in any way, a very stark visual statement about the unnatural bohemian nature of the author gets revealed through this photograph.

Incidentally, this selling of a book through its stark and attractive cover reminded me of a similar strategy undertaken in 1997 when Roy’s debut novel The God of Small Things won the Booker Prize and took the literary world by storm. The book came out in what was essentially the pre-internet and social media era and the maximum number of reviews and essays that came out during that time were in print. In an essay which I had authored then, calling it “The Making and Marketing of Arundhati Roy” I had shown that the contents of the dust jacket of the book differed radically from region to region and it was done through a deliberate and effectively thought-out strategy. So, in the Indian edition we had a different story outline giving us a gist of what to expect inside, especially the love of a paravan, an untouchable man with an upper-caste woman, along with the local setting in Kerala, Ayenemem to be exact.

In the Random House edition published from New York, the story outline was completely different, not only telling us about untouchability and the love between Radha and Krishna that would lure the western reader to pick up the book about a unique place in India defined as ‘God’s Own Country’ in tourist brochures.  Also, the photographs of Roy (both taken by her then husband Pradip Kishen) differed radically. With this new book, of course, such strategies didn’t work anymore. With innumerable book launches, readings by the author everywhere (a search on Youtube will even land you with interviews that are more than a decade old) we now come upon other ways and means through which the book has been popularised. But all said and done, I must conclude by saying that whether you agree or disagree with the extreme left wing political views that Arundhati Roy professes, those who still haven’t read this memoir have really missed reading a wonderfully written book with its 372 pages that is really unputdownable, with its lyrical as well as down to earth style of narration, full of new metaphors, new word coinages that are the USP of Arundhati Roy.

Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati University, Santiniketan, India.

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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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Categories
Editorial

What Do We Yearn for?

Most people like you and me connect with the commonality of felt emotions and needs. We feel hungry, happy, sad, loved or unloved and express a larger plethora of feelings through art, theatre, music, painting, photography and words… With these, we tend to connect. And yet, larger structures created over time to offer security and governance to the masses—of which you and I are a part — have grown divisive, and, by the looks of it, the fences nurtured over time seem insurmountable. To retain these structures that were meant to keep us safe, wars are being fought and many are getting killed, losing homes and going hungry. We showcase such stories, poems and non-fiction to create an awareness among those who are lucky enough to remain untouched. But is there a way out, so that all of us can live peacefully, without war, without hunger and with love and a vision towards surviving climate change which (like it or not) is upon us?

Creating an awareness of hunger and destruction wreaked by war is a heartrending story set in Gaza by JK Miller. While Snigdha Agrawal’s narrative gives a sense of hope, recounting a small kindness by a common person, Sayan Sarkar shares a more personal saga of friendship and disillusionment — where people have choice. But does war leave us a choice as it annihilates friendships, cities, homes and families? Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s story reiterates the belief in the family – peace being an accepted unit. Vela Noble’s fantastical fiction and art comes like a respite– though there is a darker side to it — with a touch of fun. Perhaps, a bit of fantasy and humour opens the mind to deal with the more sombre notes of existence.

The translation section hosts a story by Hamiruddin Middya, who grew up as a farmer’s son in Bengal. Steeped in local colours, it has been rendered into English by V Ramaswamy. Nazrul’s song revelling in the colours of spring has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Atta Shad’s pensive Balochi lines have been brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch. Isa Kamari continues to bring the flavours of an older, more laid-back Singapore with translations of his own Malay poems. A couple of Persian verses have been rendered into English by the poet, Akram Yazdani, herself. Questing for harmony, Tagore’s translated poem while reflecting on a child’s life, urges us to have the courage to be like a child — open, innocent and willing to imagine a world laced with trust and hope. If we were all to do that, do you think we’d still have wars, violence and walls built on hate and intolerance?

While in a Tagorean universe, children are viewed as trusting and open, does that continue a reality in the current world that believes in keeping peace with weapons? Contemporary voices think otherwise. Manahil Tahir brings us a touching poem in a doll’s voice, a doll belonging to a child victimised by violence. While violence pollutes childhood, pollution in Delhi has been addressed by Goutam Roy in verse. Poignant lines from Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal make one question the idea of home and borders while Snehaprava Das has interpreted the word ‘borderless’ in her own way. We have more colours of humanity from Allan Lake, Chris Ringrose, Alpana, Lynn White, C.Mikal Oness, Shamim Akhtar, Jim Bellamy,John Swain, Mohul Bhowmick and SR Inciardi. Ryan Quinn Flanagan has given fun lines about a snow fight while Rhys Hughes has shared a humorous poem about a clumsy giant.

Bringing in humour in prose is Devraj Singh Kalsi’s musing about horoscopes! While, with a soupçon of irony Farouk Gulsara talks of his ‘holiday’, Meredith Stephen takes us to a yacht race in Australia and Mohul Bhowmick to Pondicherry. Gower Bhat writes of his passion for words while discussing his favourite books. Ratnottama Sengupta introduces us to contemporary artists from her part of the world.

Mario Fenech takes a look at the idea of time. Amir Zadnemat writes of how memory is impacted by both science and humanities while Andriy Nivchuk brings to us snippets from Herodotus’s and Pericles’s lives that still read relevant. Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan gives the journey of chickpeas across space and time, asserting: “The chickpea does not care about your ideology, your portfolio, or your meticulously curated identity. It will grow, fix nitrogen, feed someone, and move on without a press release.” It has survived over aeons in a borderless state!

In book excerpts, we have a book that transcends borders as it’s a translation from Assamese by Ranjita Biswas of Arupa Kalita Patangia’s Moonlight Saga. Any translation is an attempt to integrate the margins into the mainstream of literature, and this is no less. The other excerpt is from Natalie Turner’s The Red Silk Dress. Keith Lyons has interviewed Turner about her novel which crosses multiple cultures too while on a personal quest.

In reviews, Somdatta Mandal discusses a book that explores the colours of a river across three sets of borders, Sanjoy Hazarika’s River Traveller: Journeys on the TSANGO-BRAHMAPUTRA from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal. Rakhi Dalal writes about a narrative centring around migrants, Sujit Saraf’s Every Room Has a View — A Novel. Anindita Basak reviews Taslima Nasrin’s poetry, Burning Roses in my Garden, translated from Bengali by Jesse Waters. Bhaskar Parichha reviews Kailash Satyarthi’s Karuna: The Power of Compassion. In it, Satyarthi suggest the creation of CQ — Compassion Quotient— like IQ and EQ, claiming it will improve our quality of life. What a wonderful thought!

Could we be yearning compassion?

Holding on to that idea, we invite you to savour the contents of our February issue.

Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for making this issue possible. Heartfelt thanks to our wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork.

Enjoy the reads!

Let’s look forward to the spring… May it bring new ideas to help us all move towards more amicable times.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE FEBRUARY 2026 ISSUE.

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Categories
The Lost Mantras

It’s but a Memory… More Poems by Isa Kamari

Poetry and translations from Malay by Isa Kamari

Life By the River by Liu Kang (1911-2004)
Kampung Life by Lim Tze Peng (1921-2025)
Depiction of Kampung or village life in Singapore more than fifty years ago. From Public Domain 
THE BENCH

The melodious magpie on the bamboo twig --
the passing breeze welcomed the chirping. 
Sitting on a dilapidated wooden bench, 
under the thick canopy of the mango tree, 
village folks rested in the shade, 
calming the tremors of troubled hearts.
The hardship evident in the sighs, 
still hopeful of tomorrow’s dreams, 
drying the sweat of weariness. 
Honest earnings chased away worries.
A pinch on the thigh, a cry of pain. 
Laughter and jokes were shared merrily, 
teasing the maiden sitting by the door, 
smiling sheepishly, welcoming attention.
Recollecting a slice of an old tale, 
fun and camaraderie were reminisced, 
firm and amicable bonds were fostered.
It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory.
Now alone in a room, 
gazing at the handphone screen, 
chatting aimlessly in social media— 
do we remember and long for the dilapidated bench, 
crafting old tales, forging firm and amicable bonds?
Do we remember and pine 
for the maiden sitting by the door?



CUSTOMS

Customs are not like banana fritters 
coated with rice flour, dipped in hot oil, 
served instantly, crispy and delicious, eaten warm, 
accompanied by sips from a cup of black coffee.
Customs are like rain 
that falls on the whims of the weather. 
It’s always there, although infrequent, 
temperamental and purposeful, 
sometimes an inconvenience— plans thwarted— 
but always invigorating 
and instils a sense of acceptance.
If received with gratitude, 
directed with perseverance, 
and tempered with wisdom.
Life is beautiful with droplets of grace. 
Life is fertile with the pouring of bounties. 
Life is prosperous with love bestowed.
Customs make the earth supple. 
Customs make the village noble. 
Customs make a people well-mannered.
Once in a while, 
relish a crispy banana fritter 
and sip warm black coffee 
while it rains cats and dogs. 
Momentary disruption of plans, 
the alleys and roads flooded— 
moments of reflection, 
moments of appreciation for the day,
is inherent in droplets of grace, 
inherent in the pouring of bounties, 
inherent in love bestowed.
Shifting of time and signs 
the soil is tilled with purpose. 
The village gathers and collectively agrees, 
the people ready to realise 
aspirations of good character 
and respected stature.



SMOKE

Like smoke billowing amidst rubbish, 
he burns his self-worth, 
dances in the flames, 
when the fire is meant 
to warm breakfast and meals to school.
Now like smoke, 
his children are floating, 
begging for favours 
at tips of cigarettes and cars’ exhaust pipes, 
crushed by confusion in the stifling air.
Who would be hungry 
if the smoke does not billow in the kitchen, 
and for generations, 
our humanity returns uncooked to God?



CURSE OF A WARRIOR

Hail the snake and its venom! 
Call it a callous and rebellious act! 
Shame be endured, 
head decapitated! 
Surrender not, carry the corpse! 
Foolish is the mind, 
desperate are the moves.
Let death fulfil the curses. 
Let death be executed by the Angel. 
Destroy my body, take my soul. 
The wooden club hit the coffin. 
Pierce my tongue and neck. 
Stab my chest, guts dis-embowelled. 
Blood spurts, life departs.
The warrior kisses the earth. 
Blood turns into pus. 
Pus turns into ambers of Hell.
Let me die so you die. 
Let us die so everyone dies.
I give you my sin, my hurt, my sadness. 
You’ll bathe in blood.

 

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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

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

Categories
Poetry

Persian Poetry in Translation

Persian poems written and translated by Akram Yazdani

UNTRAVELED SUITCASE 

The suitcase never left.
Its lock held untold stories,
its corners heavy with silence.
Each day, the road waited, empty,
while unseen journeys
moved quietly beneath its lid.

MULTI-VOICED MIND

In his mind,
multiple voices whispered at once—
not to command,
not to warn—
but to open windows
that led to different times.

Moments
folded over one another,
like two seasons unfolding
simultaneously on a single page,
and every choice
breathed silently in the hidden world
before it could find a word.

There,
there were birds,
half-formed,
with feathers unaccustomed to the world,
yet knowing the weight of flight;
birds whose path
was neither toward sky
nor toward earth—
but somewhere between decision and fear.

He paused.
He breathed.
And gazed at the path passing through him.
And there, in the impartial silence,
one of those half-formed birds
called his name—
not from the past,
not from the future,
but from a moment yet to arrive,
already decided.

Akram Yazdani is a poet and writer from Mashhad, Iran. She writes her works in Persian and provides English translations for publication. Her writing explores silence, memory, and minimal moments of perception, seeking to connect personal reflection with shared human experiences.

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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Categories
Poetry

A Poet in Exile: Ukranian Poetry in Translation

Poetry by Dmitry Blizniuk, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov

Dmitry Blizniuk

Dmitry Blizniuk is a poet from Ukraine. His most recent poems have appeared in POETRY Magazine, Five Points, Rattle, Los Angeles Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Nation, Prairie Schooner, Plume, The London Magazine and many others.  A Pushcart Prize nominee, he is also the author of The Red Fоrest (Fowlpox Press, 2018). His poems have been awarded RHINO 2022 Translation Prize and his folio had been selected as a runner-up in the Gregory O’Donoghue Competition and the 2025 Gabo Prize finalist.

Directory:   http://www.pw.org/directory/writers/dmitry_blizniuk

A POET IN EXILE 

The sky above the highway is low
like a cunning dog's muzzle above a steaming saucepan.
A one-winged angel of advertising
stands by the roadside:
Aquafresh, perfect water of gods.
And I'm an imperfect verb, just someone in a windbreaker,
with pieces of canvas on my head that flap like a pterodactyl.
Here's my garden,
set back some distance from history,
a prehistoric place for ancient bugs,
and one of them stands on its hind legs
in depression,
while the gloomy autumn stares from above.

We've run away from the simmering house
like milk that is boiling over. Now I'm single again.
The sun hangs behind a ruffled up shed,
like a bloody yolk on a cold frying pan
until the nightfall dumps it in the garbage,
while I'm looking for clean socks, sniffing noisily 
like a dog with a mallard in its jaws.
I've had to leave the city and women behind,
make friends with the blissful world of sticks,
Like Lorca, I managed to avoid a firing squad.
He's grown old, he looks like a grey parrot with an earring,
keeps a rapier in his summer kitchen,
grows grapes and cucumbers, and something sparkles in his eyes
when blood pressure squeezes him
like a tube of Aquafresh.
If not for the Internet, I wouldn't exist.

A cat called Nostalgia
licks his balls on the windowsill.
The lampshade is a temple of flies, priestesses of summer schizophrenia.
I'm still destined to return,
I feel the power of a boomerang within me.
It's going to bend my way and carry me back to my youth,
otherwise, I don't care where.
An eyelid with long lashes has fallen away from the face of a garden doll.
The blue eye is unprotected now,
and the rubber body under the rain feels so at home in the garden.
For how many years will I decompose in the humus
in the garden of gods,
lie in the ground and see the black earth,
black caviar in the eyes of dawn,
then stretch up to the sky as a green needle of grass?
The smell of the rain that has just stopped is like spilled glue.
It's so fresh that I want to run up to the sky, but I can't.
A poet in exile is more than just a poet.
And a man? -- There is no man anymore.

Sergey Gerasimov is a Ukraine-based writer, poet, and translator of poetry. Among other things, he has studied psychology. He is the author of several academic articles on cognitive activity. His stories and poems written in English have appeared in Adbusters, Clarkesworld Magazine, Strange Horizons, J Journal, The Bitter Oleander, and Acumen, among many others. The poetry he translated has been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes. His books include Feuerpanorama: Ein ukrainisches Kriegstagebuch (dtv Verlagsgesellschaft mbH & Co. KG, 2022) and Oasis (Gypsy Shadow, 2018).

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 Amazon International