Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne…
The Canterbury Tales (1387-1400) by Chaucer, Prologue
This is the month Asia hosts sprays of new years across multiple regions. Many of these celebrate the fecundity of Earth, spring and the departure of bleak winter months. Each new year is filled with hope for the coming year. The vibrant colours of varied cultures celebrate spring in different ways, but it is a welcome for the new-born year, a jubilation, a reaffirmation of the continuity of the circle of life. Will the wars, especially the shortages caused by them and felt deeply by many of us, affect these celebrations? Had they impacted the festivals that were celebrated earlier? These are questions to which we all seek answers. We can only try to gauge the suffering caused by war on those whose homes, hopes, families and assets have been affected other than trying to cope with the senselessness of such inane attacks. But, in keeping with TS Eliot’s observations on Prufrock, most of us continue our lives unperturbed and as usual.
Some of us think and try to dissent for peace and a world without borders with words – prose or poetry. To reinforce ideas of commonalities that bind overriding divides, we are excited to announce a poetry anthology mapping varied continents with content from Borderless Journal, Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems. We are hugely grateful to Hawakal Publishers for this opportunity and to Bitan Chakraborty for the fabulous cover design. We invite you all to browse on the anthology which is available in hardcopy across continents.
Our issue this month is a bumper issue with the translation of Tagore’s Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders) by Professor Fakrul Alam. It’s the full-length play this time as earlier we had carried only an excerpt. The play is deeply relevant to our times as is Somdatta Mandal’s English rendition of his story, ‘Daliya’, set in Arakan. We also have also translated Tagore’s response to the idea of mortal fame and deification in poetry. Kallol Lahiri’s poignant Bengali story about the resilience of an ageing actress has been brought to us in English by V Ramaswamy. Isa Kamari brings us translations of his Malay poems exploring spirituality through nature.
But what really grips are the fables that Hughes will be sharing with us over four months. He calls them Rhysop Fables, after the ancient ones from Aesop’s with the ancient author himself being mentioned in one of the short absurdist narratives this time. In fiction, our regular fable writer, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao explores a modern-day dilemma, that of social media intruding into the development of children. Jonathon B Ferrini glances at resilience and mental disability while, Sangeetha G looks into societal attitudes that still plague her part of the world. Oindrila Ghosal gives a story set in Kashmir.
From Kashmir, Gower Bhat shares a heartfelt musing on being a first time father. Mohul Bhowmick writes of Eid in Hydearbad (Hari Raya in Southeast Asia) — echoing themes from Kamari’s poems — and Anupriya Pandey ponders over the quiet acceptance of mundane life that emphasises social inequities. Jun A. Alindogan brings home issues from Phillipines. While we have stories about Vietnam from Meredith Stephens, Suzanne Kamata muses about Phnom Penh, mesmerised by Cambodian dancers.
Farouk Gulsara writes of his cycling trip from Jaipur to Udaipur bringing to life dichotomies of values and showing that age can be just a number. Chetan Poduri reinforces gaps created by technology as does Charudutta Panigrah, a theme that reverberates from poetry to fiction to non-fiction and much of it with a light touch. Devraj Singh Kalsi sprinkles humour with his strange tale about hiring a bodyguard.
Keith Lyons has brought in Keith Westwaters, a soldier-turned-poet who seems to find his muse mainly in New Zealand. We have also featured an author who overrides borders of continents, Marzia Pasini. Her book, Leonie’s Leap, has a protagonist of mixed origin and her characters are drawn out of Russia, India, Bulgaria and many other places.
This rounds up our April issue. Do visit our content’s page and explore the journal further.
Huge thanks to the wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her art. They help bring together the colours of the world to our pages. Huge thanks to contributors who make each issue evolve a personality of its own. And heartfelt thanks to readers who make it worth our while to write.
Daliya by Tagore, published in Magh 1298 B.S. (Jan/February 1891), has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal
Daliya by Tagore
Preface
After being defeated, Shah Shuja feared Aurangzeb and ran away to take shelter under the king of Arakan. He had three beautiful daughters with him. The king of Arakan wished to get the three daughters married to the princes. Shah Shuja was extremely unwilling to accept the proposal and so one day, according to the king’s orders, he was lured by trickery to travel in a boat on the river and then there was an attempt to sink that boat mid-river. During that incident, the youngest daughter Amina was hurled into the river by her father himself. The eldest daughter committed suicide. And one of Shuja’s trusted aides called Rahamat Ali took Julekha and swam away with her, while Shuja died fighting in a war.
Amina floated along with the strong current and quite soon got entangled in a fisherman’s net miraculously and gradually grew up in his hut.
In the meantime, the old king died, and the prince was initiated into the kingdom.
Chapter One
One morning the old fisherman came and reprimanded Amina and said, “Tinni.” The fisherman had renamed Amina in the Arakan language.
“Tinni, what has happened to you this morning? You haven’t laid your hand on anything. My new net hasn’t been glued, my boat…”
Amina came close to the fisherman and affectionately told him, “Old man, my elder sister has come today, so today is a holiday.”
“Who is your sister, Tinni?”
Julekha came out from somewhere and said, “Me.”
The old man was surprised. Then he came close to Julekha and carefully observed her face.
Suddenly he asked, “Do you know any sort of work?”
Amina said, “Old man, I will work on behalf of didi[1]. Didi won’t be able to work.”
The old man thought for a while and asked, “Where will you stay?”
Julekha replied, “With Amina.”
The old man thought, this was also trouble. He asked, “What will you eat?”
Julekha said, “There is also a way.” Saying that she contemptuously threw a gold sovereign in front of the fisherman.
Amina picked it up and handing it over to the fisherman said in a hushed tone, “Old man, don’t say anything else. You go and do your work. It is quite late in the day.”
Julekha had travelled in different places in disguise and at last found out Amina’s whereabouts and landed in this fisherman’s hut. But narrating all that will result in a second story. Her saviour, Rahamat Seikh, worked in the Arakan king’s court under a pseudonym.
Chapter Two
The narrow river was flowing by, and the cool breeze from the first spell of summer made the red flowers from the koilu tree fall below on the ground.
Sitting under that tree Julekha said to Amina, “God has saved the lives of we two sisters just to take revenge of father’s death. Otherwise, I don’t find any other reason.”
Amina kept on looking at the farthest and the densest trees on the other side of the river and said very slowly, “Didi don’t say such words. I like this world quite well. If they want to die, let the men fight with each other and die, I have no sorrow here.”
Julekha said, “Shame on you Amina. Aren’t you the daughter from the Shehezada[2]’s lineage. Where is the throne in Delhi and where is this fisherman’s hut in the Arakans!”
Amina laughed and replied, “Didi, this old man’s hut is better than the throne in Delhi and if any young girl finds the shade of the koilu tree much better, the throne of Delhi won’t shed a drop of tear.”
Julekha partly unmindfully and partly replying to Amina said, “Yes, you cannot be blamed because you were really small then. But just think about it once, Father loved you the most and that is why he had thrown you in the water with his own hands. Don’t consider this life to be more loving than that death given by Father. But if you can take revenge, then the meaning of life is justified.”
Amina kept quiet and kept on looking at the distance. But it could be clearly understood, despite all those words, this pleasant breeze outside, the shade of the tree and her own youth had kept her engrossed in some happy memories.
After some time, she gave a deep sigh and said, “Didi please wait for a while. I have household work to do. The old man won’t be able to eat if I don’t cook for him.”
Chapter Three
Julekha thought about Amina’s condition and kept on sitting in a very desolate mood. Suddenly, there was the sound of a big jump, and someone came from behind and covered Julekha’s eyes with his hands.
Julekha was alarmed and said, “Who are you?”
Hearing her voice the young man left the eyes and came and stood in front of her. Looking at Julekha’s face he said without hesitation, “You are not Tinni.” It was as if Julekha was always trying to pass on as Tinni, only the exceptionally sharp intelligence of the young man could decipher the cleverness.
Julekha gathered her clothes, stood up brilliantly, and cast a firm look at him. She asked, “Who are you?’
The young man said, “You don’t know me. Tinni does. Where is Tinni?”
Hearing the commotion Tinni came outside. Seeing Julekha’s anger and the bewildered face of the young man, Amina gave a loud laugh.
She said, “Didi, don’t take his words into consideration. He is not a human being. He is a deer of the forest. If he has behaved impertinently, I will scold him. Daliya, what did you do?”
The young man instantly replied, “Covered her eyes. I thought she was Tinni. But she is not Tinni.”
Suddenly Tinni expressed terrible anger and said, “Again! Uttering big things with your little mouth. When did you cover Tinni’s eyes? You seem to have too much courage.”
The young man said, “It doesn’t take too much courage to cover someone’s eyes; especially if someone has the previous habit. But I am telling you the truth, Tinni. Today I was a little scared.”
Saying that he secretly pointed out his finger at Julekha and kept on looking at Amina’s face and smiled.
Amina said, “No you are a brute. You are not worthy of standing in front of a Shahezadi, a princess. It is necessary to teach you manners. Look, you should salute like this.”
Saying that Amina bent her youthful slim body very pleasantly and paid a salute to Julekha. The young man tried very hard to follow her orders in an incomplete fashion.
She said, “Do this and take three steps backwards.” The young man moved backwards.
“Salute her once again.” He saluted once more.
In this manner by moving backwards, by saluting, Amina took the young man up to the door of the hut.
She said, “Enter the room.” The young man did so.
Amina came out and bolted the door from outside and said, “Do some household work. Light the fire.” Saying that, she came and sat next to her sister.
She said, “Didi, please don’t get annoyed. The people here are like this. I am sick and tired with them.”
But that didn’t get reflected in Amina’s face or her behaviour. Instead, in many instances she expressed a particular bias towards the men here.
Julekha expressed as much anger as possible and said, “Really, Amina. I am surprised at your behaviour. How does an outsider have so much courage to come and touch you!”
Amina added to her sister’s concern and said, “Look at this, sister. If any Badshah or Nawab’s son acted in this manner, I would have insulted him and thrown him out.”
Julekha couldn’t control her inward smile – she laughed out loud and said, “Tell me the truth Amina. You were saying you liked the world, was this because of that brute young man?”
Amina replied, “Well, let me tell you the truth, didi. He helps me a lot. He plucks flowers from the trees, hunts animals and brings them, and rushes forward whenever he is asked to do a certain job. I have often thought of reprimanding him, but that attempt is of no avail. If I tell him with deep anger in my eyes, ‘Daliya, I am very dissatisfied with you’ – he stares at my face and silently keeps on smiling as if in jest. Mocking in this country is probably of this kind; if you give them two blows, they feel very happy. I have even tried that. Just see, I have locked him in the room – he is enjoying himself there. If I open the door, I will see him happily blowing at the fire with his eyes and face all reddened up. Tell me, sister, what should I do with him. I cannot take it anymore.”
Julekha said, “I can give a try.”
Amina laughed and said politely, “I beg at your feet, sister. Don’t tell him anything.”
The way she said those words it seemed as if the young man was a pet deer belonging to Amina, till now his wild habits have not left him. She feared that he would disappear if he saw some other people around.
In the meantime, the fisherman came and asked, “Tinni, hasn’t Daliya come today?”
“Yes, he has come.”
“Where has he gone?”
“He was disturbing too much. So, I locked him in the room.”
The old man was a little worried and said, “If he disturbs you, tolerate it. Everyone is so restless at a young age. Don’t reprimand him too much. Yesterday Daliya gave me a tholu, i.e. a gold coin, and took three fish from me.”
Amina said, “Don’t worry old man. Today I will extract two tholus from him, and you won’t have to give a single fish.”
The old man was very happy to see the cleverness and worldly wisdom of his adopted daughter at such a young age, and he affectionately caressed her head and left.
Chapter Four
It was strange that gradually Julekha no longer objected to this coming and going of Daliya. She thought that there was nothing strange about it. That was because there was current on one side of the river and the shore on the other bank, the passions and public shame of a woman were also like that. But outside civil society, in this remote corner of Arakan, where were people here?
Here nature manifested itself with the change of seasons – trees were blooming and the blue river in front was at spate during the monsoon; during autumn it would be clear and again become faint during summer; there was no criticism in the loud voices of the birds, and the southern wind would occasionally carry in the faint sound of human voices but not their actual conversation.
Just as a deserted mansion gets gradually covered with deep vegetation, similarly staying there for some time, the secret attack of nature gradually weakens the societal rules made by men and everywhere it gets blended with the natural world. The union of a man and a woman who are equal to one another seems so beautiful that it doesn’t seem out of place for a woman to look at it. They are steeped in mystery, happiness, such deep and unending curiosity, that nothing else seems relevant. So, when the lonely shade of poverty in this barbarian hut gradually turned Julekha’s pride about her heritage and standard of dignity into something lax, she started really enjoying watching the union of Amina and Daliya under the flowering shade of the koilu tree.
Probably an unsatisfied desire would arise in her young heart too and make her restless in pleasure and pain. In the end, it so happened that if the young man would arrive late, like the anxious Amina, Julekha would also eagerly wait for him, and when they all came together, they would fondly observe the scene in a manner in which a painter looks at his just completed painting from a distance. On some days there would be verbal duels, she would play tricks to reprimand them, and lock Amina inside the hut to prevent the mating urge of the young man.
There is a similarity between the king and the forest. Both are independent, both are the sole rulers in their own territory, and neither of them had to follow any rules. Both possessed a natural magnanimity and simplicity. Those who followed the middle path spent their days and nights obeying the rules implemented by folklore, and they were the ones who remained somewhat independent minded. They were the ones who were servile to the great men, were masters of the lower classes, and remained rather undecided and out of place. The barbarian Daliya was the untamed son of Mother Nature; he had no shyness for the shahajadi, the princess, and both the shahajadis, the princesses, also didn’t recognise him as an equal. He was jovial, simple, humorous, fearless in all circumstances, and his unshrinkable character did not display any trace of poverty.
But even amid these games sometimes Julekha’s heart would start lamenting – she would think about the dire state of a princess’s life!
One morning, Juelkha held Daliya’s hand as soon as he arrived and said, “Daliya, can you show me the king here?”
“Yes, I can. But tell me why.”
“I have a dagger and I want to plunge it into his chest.”
Daliya was somewhat surprised in the beginning. After that, seeing Julekha’s revengeful face, his whole face was filled with a smile; as if he had never heard such a funny thing earlier in his life. If you call it irony, well it was befitting a princess. He kept on constantly visualising the scene when without any talk or message, half of a dagger would be placed in the breast of a living king and how surprised the king would suddenly be when this intimate behaviour would take place. This made him laugh silently at first and occasionally erupt in a loud laugh later.
Chapter Five
The very next day Rahamat Seikh wrote a secret letter to Julekha stating that the new Arakan king had found out two sisters living in the hut of a fisherman and has been greatly enamoured after secretly watching Amina. He was making all preparations to bring her to the palace immediately and marry her. Such a nice opportunity for revenge would not be available again.
Then Julekha held Amina’s hand firmly and said, “One can clearly see God’s wishes. Amina, now the time has come to obey your life’s duty, and now playing games does not look well anymore.”
Daliya was present there. Amina looked at his face and saw him smiling self-indulgently.
Amina was hurt seeing his smile and said, “Do you know Daliya, I am going to become a queen.”
Daliya said, “But that is not for a long time.”
With a hurt and surprised heart Amina thought to herself, “It is really true he was a deer in the forest. It is my craziness that i treat him like a human being.”
To make Daliya more conscious, Amina asked, “Shall I come back after killing the king?”
Daliya found the words logical and said, “Yes, it is difficult to return.”
Amina’s entire soul turned totally pale.
She looked towards Julekha and casting a deep sigh said, “Didi, I am prepared.”
After that she turned towards Daliya and pretending it to be an irony emerging from her suffering heart said, “As soon as I become the queen, first I will punish you for conspiring against the king. After that I will do what is required.”
Hearing that Daliya found it to be especially funny, as if a lot of fun was involved if the proposal was turned into reality.
Chapter Six
The fisherman’s hut seemed to break down with the cavalry, foot soldiers, elephants, music and lights. Two palanquins covered with gold were sent from the palace.
Amina took the dagger from Julekha’s hand. For a long time, she kept on looking at the intricate design carved out of ivory. After that she opened her clothes and tried to ascertain its sharpness upon her own breast. It touched the tip of her breast, and she put it back in its case and hid it within her clothes.
She earnestly desired to meet Daliya once before she commenced on her journey towards death, but he had disappeared since yesterday. Was the pain of arrogance hidden in his smiles?
Before climbing inside the palanquin Amina looked at the shelter of her childhood through tear-filled eyes – the tree in her house, the river next to it. She held the hands of the fisherman and with a suppressed quivering voice said, “Old man, I am leaving. Who will look after your household after Tinni goes away?”
The old man started crying like a small boy.
Amina said, “Old man, if Daliya comes here, please give him this ring. Tell him that Tinni has left it before leaving.”
Saying that she quickly climbed into the palanquin. The palanquin left with great pageantry. Amina’s hut, the riverside, the place beneath the koilu tree, remained dark, silent and without any people.
In due course, the two palanquins crossed the main gate and entered inside the palace. The two sisters left their palanquins and came out.
Amina had no smile on her face, nor tears in her eyes. Julekha’s face was pale. When their duty was far away, they had a lot of excitement among them – now with a shivering heart she embraced Amina with a lot of affection. In her mind she thought how she had plucked the new-found love from its stem and was leading this blossoming flower into sailing in a stream of blood.
But there was no time to think about it now. Surrounded by the attendants with thousands of lamps casting their sharp radiance along the way, the two sisters kept on moving spell bound. At last, they reached the door of the nuptial room and stopping there for a moment, Amina called Julekha, “Didi.”
Julekha embraced Amina deeply and kissed her.
Both entered the room slowly.
The king was dressed in his regal attire and was sitting on a decorated bed in the centre of the room. Amina stood near the door with trepidation.
Julekha advanced towards the king and saw him laughing silently with humour.
Julekha blurted out, ‘Daliya!’ Amina fainted.
Daliya rose and lifted her in his arms like an injured bird and carried her to the bed. Amina became aware and taking out the dagger from her chest looked at her sister’s face. Didi looked at Daliya’s face. Daliya kept quiet and looked at both of them with a smiling face. The dagger also peeped out a little from inside its case and seeing this mirth started laughing with a twinkle.
Somdatta Mandal is the Former Professor of English and Chairperson at the Department of English & Other Modern European Languages, Visva Bharati, Santiniketan. Somdatta has a keen interest in translation and travel writing.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I was sitting by myself in a vast auditorium in Phnom Penh, while Yoko, my travel companion, hunted for an outlet so that she could recharge her phone. I was attending the opening ceremony for an international conference on teaching English to speakers of other languages. It was my first time in Cambodia, but for Yoko it was the third or fourth. She had seen it all before.
After several speeches by conference organisers and invited dignitaries, the special entertainment segment of the ceremony began. A troupe of traditional Cambodian dancers in sparkly golden costumes took to the stage. Their faces were serene but unsmiling as they balanced pagoda-like headwear on their heads and dipped their knees. I marveled at the intricate hand movements of the dancers. How did they get their fingers to bend back like that? Was it an ability that you had to be born with, like being double-jointed or being able to roll your tongue? At any rate, I was deeply impressed by the grace and beauty of the young women.
The following day, after attending conference presentations, Yoko and I decided to visit the Royal Palace, which was just down the street from our hotel. It was late afternoon, but according to online information, the grounds were still open to visitors.
Yoko, who is single and childfree, and accustomed to traveling by herself, strode ahead purposefully, while I hung back, taking photos of street vendors and ornate gates. Would-be guides with tuk-tuks called out to us, telling us that the palace was closed due to a visit from the President of Laos, but they would take us somewhere else. They shoved laminated flyers our way.
We arrived an hour before closing time. The grounds were virtually abandoned, but the sunstruck golden roofs were dazzling.
Before coming to Cambodia, I had re-read the picture book Little Sap and Monsieur Rodin by Michelle Lord, with illustrations by Felicia Hoshino. From the book I had learned that the palace was built by King Norodom in 1866. At one time, the compound was home to the court dance troupe, musicians, and elephants. Young girls were trained as dancers to entertain royalty, appeal to the gods, and seek blessings for their people. They only left the palace to accompany the king on his travels. On a trip to France, the dancers attracted the attention of Auguste Rodin. The king allowed Rodin to sketch three of his favorite dancers. My daughter and I had admired some of the Danseuse Cambodgienne drawings on our visit to the Rodin Museum in Paris a few years previously.
Flowering trees and statues of mythical creatures decorated the gardens. Lotus blossoms bloomed in a pool. Several cats wandered about freely, one sitting on the balustrade of a structure that was off-limits to tourists. A weathered mural of the history of Cambodia ran along one wall. Palanquins used by royals were displayed in another area.
I tried to imagine the girls dancing in one of these buildings on the palace grounds. I tried to imagine their lives within the compound’s walls. Perhaps it was like living in the Garden of Eden; they had been surrounded by beauty and riches but were unable to leave. Yoko and I had our fill of bling and departed just before closing time. We could hear traditional music coming from somewhere, but we couldn’t see who was performing. Perhaps someone was dancing, too.
Video recorded by the writer
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Suzanne Kamatawas 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
Narrative by Meredith Stephens: Photographs by Alan Noble
Boat which took the author and her husband to Mekong Delta
We alighted from the ferry and disembarked at a small island in the Mekong Delta. Our Vietnamese guide had promised us that we could witness how local people lived. After walking along a trail, we were ushered into a small boat with a local lady at the rear who would row us down the river. We stepped into the back of the boat and another couple stepped into the front.
“Would you mind taking a photo of us?” asked a woman with a bright smile and an energetic voice. I could hear she was English. Then the four of us started bantering and I detected that her partner was English too.
Next, we hopped off the boat and were treated to the chance to hold a cobra, sample local delicacies, and listen to the villagers’ musical performance. The next day we were taken to a restaurant where you could make your own seafood pancakes. Just before lunch, we were given the opportunity to cycle along a nearby path. Those of our group who wished to cycle selected a bicycle. I chose one and headed to the path. Then I looked ahead of me and realised that the English woman’s bike was the wrong size for her.
Cycling tour of the village
“Would you like to swap bicycles? Mine is too large and yours seems to be too small.”
She nodded. We swapped bicycles and seemed to find the perfect match. Our tour guide gave the signal and off we went. After a few kilometres, he signaled to stop so the group would stay together. I found myself at the front of the group and turned around to see the English woman immediately behind.
“I commuted to work by bike for twenty years,” I explained, surprised to be the one who had to stop so the others could catch up.
“I was in Japan. Japan is much friendlier to cyclists. The traffic is slower, and the roads narrower. It’s easier than driving, at least for short distances.”
She nodded. “They cycle a lot in Amsterdam. Also in Cambridge, where I lived for three years.”
I didn’t want to ask too many personal questions of this woman I had only just met, but I was curious. I wondered if she had studied at Cambridge University. Instead of being nosy, I added a few comments about Cambridge.
“We visited there recently. We stayed on the outskirts, and walked in. We had to walk through a park where there were cows grazing with bells around their necks. I much prefer Cambridge to Oxford.”
“Yes, it’s smaller. But Oxford is pretty good too!” she added.
By then the other cyclists had caught up. We continued along the path and then returned for lunch. We resumed the tour and were dropped off back in Ho Chi Minh City.
“Where can we store our luggage?” Alex asked her.
“Here at the tourist agency. We’ll leave ours there while we pop into the markets to get Ian a new backpack. His is broken.”
“Thanks for the tip. By the way, do you have an email address so we can exchange photos?”
“Sure. Where are you heading next?” she asked.
“Hoi An,” she replied.
“Oh! We are going there too. We are doing a cooking class. Would you like to join us?” offered Alex.
“Sure! Send us the link.”
We parted ways.
“See you in Hoi An,” I said, hoping that we could meet again.
The English woman was so easy to talk to, so quick to respond, and pick up on any nuance. I’d already decided that she must be a therapist. I had been trained since early adulthood not to ask people what they did for a living. It wasn’t fair to allow your knowledge of their career success to determine your assessment of them. But I admit to being curious. If she had studied at Cambridge, what career had followed?
Alex and I caught a sleeper train to Hoi An. There we found generously proportioned historic buildings. However, there were too many tourists in Hoi An, people like us. We walked around the town and felt overwhelmed. We could barely move down the street without bumping into other tourists.
Night trainTrain station
The next day Alex texted the English woman. He must have been just as eager to meet the couple again as I was.
“Sorry, your cooking class was full. We booked another one. How about drinks this evening?” she replied.
Alex accepted. That evening we made our way to the bar she had suggested. They stood up and hugged us.
“I’m Jill* by the way. And this is Ian*.”
“I’m Alex, and this is Merri.”
We ordered a gin and tonic. They were drinking beer.
“Since we were meeting you today, we thought we’d better order a gin and tonic,” I explained. This drink brought back memories of England.
After we had sipped our drinks, Alex broached the question that was on my mind.
“So, what do you do when you’re not touring in Vietnam?” he asked.
“I write historical fiction. Ian has retired. When the children were younger, he supported me, but now it’s my turn to support him.”
I was beside myself with excitement. If you asked me which profession intrigued me most, I would have said a writer. I have little inclination to meet actors, politicians, astronauts, rocket scientists, or billionaires, but I certainly would like to meet writers (not to mention musicians). For the next couple of hours, Jill shared her experience of writing, and Alex and I shared our experiences of sailing. I was so excited that I lost my appetite and only nibbled a few snacks at the end of the evening. They told us that they lived in a nearly three-hundred-year-old house in Somerset*, one of my favourite places in the UK.
“Just a warning. We will visit,” Alex added.
“Certainly!” replied Jill.
“And please come sailing with us when our boat is ready!” I urged.
We parted company, and I floated all the way back to the hotel. I looked up her many books online and resolved to read her latest one as soon as I could.
A day later, Alex and I caught another sleeper to Hanoi. It was so pleasant rolling along the tracks that I was lulled to sleep as soon as I lay down. I informed Alex that when we returned to Adelaide, I needed a sleep machine that mimicked the motion of rolling along the tracks and provided the accompanying background noise.
When we exited the station a throng of taxi drivers approached us to offer us rides. We had been advised that it is more secure and economical to use the local ride called Grab[1]. I shielded Alex from one driver that persisted in following him around too closely. I positioned myself between Alex and the driver with my back to the driver. Then we looked over and saw a couple laden with suitcases and eyes glued to their phones. The husband made eye contact with me and gave an exaggerated Gallic shrug and I immediately knew they were French. They looked desperate, and I knew I had to put my rusty French to practice. Years of study at the Alliance Francaise did not equip me to use my French in context. French speakers tended to switch to English as soon as I made my opening gambit in French. This was either because my English accent was too strong, or the French speakers wanted to practice their English. However, this time, the urgency of the situation prompted me to use my French.
“Have you tried to use Grab? It’s less expensive,” I informed them.
“We couldn’t install it. We’re trying to contact the hotel. They were meant to pick us up.”
Her husband was persevering on the phone.
“We’re meant to be going home tomorrow,” the wife informed me. “But our flight has been cancelled.”
“Because of the…,” I offered, unable to quickly find the words for ‘Middle East conflict’.
“Because of the…,” she confirmed. She knew what I meant.
“We were here for our anniversaire,” she explained.
I knew that ‘birthday’ is ‘anniversaire’ in French, but as I was scrambling to communicate, I temporarily assumed that it meant its false friend, anniversary.
“How many years?” I asked.
“69 and 64,” she explained.
Whoops! She must have meant birthday. I pointed to Alex. “He’s ten weeks older than me,” I added.
She laughed and then switched to English.
‘Where are you from?” she asked.
She must have known we were anglophones, but not which anglophone country we came from.
“Australia,” I replied.
She was very surprised to hear this. I continued to scramble to make meaningful conversation, sacrificing precision for getting the words out quickly.
“We come from a town that no-one has heard of,” I added in exaggeration, reverting to French. “Our city Adelaide often gets left out when visiting performers and VIPs come to Australia.”
She laughed again. Then Alex saw on his phone that our Grab ride had arrived. We picked up our bags and exited the station.
Alex decided to join in in French.
“Bonne chance,” he said, hoping they would soon find their transport.
“Bon voyage,” she replied.
“Bon voyage,” I echoed.
I felt sorry and guilty as we boarded our Grab outside the station.
The third serendipitous encounter was on our boat tour in Lan Ha Bay. After spending the night on a small cruise ship, we boarded a dinghy to take us to the rowing boats which were to take us to the caves.
Our tour consisted of two Indian couples, two Danish girls, three Russian couples, and a young Australian family of four from the east coast. Each rowing boat seated eight. As Alex and I were lining up to board we were directed to the boat with the three glamorous young Russian couples. I was a bit concerned about how we would converse in the boat. Sitting in silence would be awkward. The only Russian I knew were those words from the media in the ‘80s, perestroika and glasnost. They wouldn’t get us far because these Russians would be too young to remember the times when these words were used. Alex and I averted our gaze, and the tour guide gave up trying to persuade us to board the boat. We turned around and saw the young Australian family lining up behind us. We smiled at them.
“Aussies!” I exclaimed. We had been deprived of conversation with our compatriots for quite a few days.
The six of us hopped in the rowing boat and were taken inside the stunning Lan Ha Bay. I am not sure that our conversation with our compatriots amounted to much, but it was animated and fun, and I hardly had the time to take in the wonderful bay.
Lan Ha Bay
Seeing the sights in other countries is both a privilege and an enormous treat. What is just as exciting is meeting locals, and the random, sometimes fleeting, and yet meaningful encounters with fellow tourists. We may meet Jill and Ian again. We will never meet the French couple again and don’t even know their names. We just hope they made it to their hotel and then safely back to France. We probably won’t meet the young Australian family again either. The east coast is just too far away. Nonetheless, we have been enriched by the knowledge shared by our kind, enthusiastic and energetic Vietnamese tour guides, and the unexpected encounters with fellow tourists trying to navigate this unique culture together.
* Some names have been changed.
[1] A Singaporean company that caters all over Southeast Asia
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
A desert flower Blooms alone A desert soul Amidst thorns and stone
The desert flower Dried to the bone Seeks its water on its own
the deserted lover bitter grown still thrives and blooms among the windblown
begs not for love from those unknown but seeks it all within cause trust has flown
Hurt has flamed to anger The ashes turn to hate The lover drinks deep of the self The soul needs to satiate
A freedom to be so untouched The lover is not alone The desert flower stands tall Seeks its water on its own
A. Jessie Michael is a retired Associate Professor of English from Malaysia. She has written short stories for online journals, local magazines and newspapers. She has published an anthology of short stories Snapshots, with two other writers and most recently her own anthology The Madman and Other Stories (2016).
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Sometimes, we have an idea, a thought and then it takes form and becomes a reality. That is how the Borderless Journal came to be six years ago while the pandemic raged. The pandemic got over and takeovers and wars started. We continued to exist because all of you continue to pitch in, ignoring the differences created by certain human constructs. We meet with the commonality of felt emotions and aesthetics to create a space for all those who believe in looking beyond margins. We try to erase margins or borders that lead to hatred, anger, violence and war. Learning from the natural world, we believe we can be like the colours of the rainbow that seem to grow out of each other or the grass that is allowed to grow freely beyond manmade borders. If nature gives us lessons through its processes, is it not to our advantage to conserve what nurtures us, and in the process, we save our home planet, the Earth? We could all be together in peace, enjoying nature and nurture, living in harmony in the Universe if only we could overlook differences and revel in similarities.
A young poet Nma Dhahir says it all in her poem that is a part of our journal this month —
This is how we stay human together: by refusing the easy damage, by carrying each other without calling it sacrifice, by believing that what we protect in one another eventually protects the world.
Translations has more poetry with Professor Fakrul Alam bringing us Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics in English and Fazal Baloch familiarising us with beautiful Balochi poetry of the late Majeed Ajez, a young poet who left us too soon. Isa Kamari translates his own poems from Malay, capturing the colours of the community in Singapore to blend it with a larger whole. And of course, we have a Tagore poem rendered into English from Bengali. This time it’s a poem called ‘Jatra (Journey)’ which reflects not only on social gaps but also on politics through aeons.
Christine C Fair has translated a story from Punjabi by Lakhvinder Virk, a story that reflects resilience in women who face the dark end of social trends, a theme that reverberates in Flanagan’s poetry and Meenakshi Malhotra’s essay, which while reflecting on the need of different perspectives in histories – like water and nomads — peeks into the need to recall women’s history aswell. This is important not just because March hosts the International Women’s Day (IWD) but because one wonders if women in Afghanistan are better off now than the suffragettes who initiated the idea of such a day more than a century ago?
This time our non-fiction froths over with scrumptious writings from across continents. Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos muses on looking at numbers and beyond to enjoy the essence of nature. Farouk Gulsara ideates about living on in posterity through deeds and ideas. Gower Bhat shares how he learns story writing skills from watching movies. Meredith Stephens talks of her experience of a fire in the Australian summer. Bhaskar Parichha writes with passion about his region, Odisha. We have a heartfelt tribute to Mark Tully, who transcended borders, from Bhowmick. And an essay on Arundhati Roy’s memoir, Mother Mary Comes to Me, from Somdatta Mandal, which explores not just the book but also the covers which change with continents. Prithvijeet Sinha travels beyond Lucknow and Suzanne Kamata brings to us stories about her trip to Phnom Penh.
Keith Lyons draws from the current crises and writes about changing times, suggesting: “Changes aren’t endings, but thresholds.” Perhaps, if we see them as ‘thresholds of change’, the current events are emphasising the need to accept that human constructs can be redefined. I am sure a Neolithic or an Australopithecus would have been equally scared of evolving out of their system to one we would deem ‘superior’. Life in certain ways can only evolve towards the future, even if currently certain changes seem to be retrogressive. We can never correctly predict the future… but can only imagine it. And Devraj Singh Kalsi imagines it with a dollop of humour where tails become a trend among humans again!
Humour and absurdity are woven into a series of short fables by Hughes while Naramsetti Umamaheswarao weaves a fable around acceptanceof differences. In fiction, we have stories of resilience from Jonathon B Ferrini and Terry Sanville. Bhat gives us a story set in Kashmir and Sohana Manzoor gives us one set in Dhaka, a narrative that reminds one of Jane Austen… and perhaps even an abbreviated version of the 2001 film, Monsoon Wedding.
In reviews we have, Mohammad Asim Siddiqui discussing Anisur Rahman’s The Essential Ghalib. Rituparna Khan has written on Malashri Lal’s poetry collection reflecting on women, Signing in the Air. And Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Deepta Roy Chakraverti’s Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor, a book that reflects on the resilience that makes great women. Thus, weaving in flavours of the IWD, which applauds women who are resilient while urging humans for equal rights for one half of the world population.
While we ponder on larger realities, Borderless Journal looks forward to a future with more writings centred around humanity, climate change, our planet and all creatures great and small. This year has not only seen a rise in readership and contributors — and the numbers rose further after our unsolicited Duotrope listing in October 2025 — but has also attracted writers from more challenged parts of the world, like Ukraine, Iran, Tunisia and Kurdistan. We are delighted to home writing from all those who attempt to transcend borders and be a part of the larger race of humanity. I would like to quote Margaret Atwood to explain what I mean. “I hope that people will finally come to realize that there is only one ‘race’—the human race—and that we are all members of it.” And I would like to extend her view to find solidarity with all living beings. I hope that there will be a point in time when we will realise there’s not much difference between, a lizard, a fly, a human or a tree… All these lifeforms are necessary for our existence.
I would want to hugely thank all our team for stretching out and making this a special issue for our sixth anniversary and Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for being with us through our journey. Let’s change the world with peace, love and friendship!
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 ChakravartiPublished 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 2013Published 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
Girish Ghosh (1844-1912) Actor and Director from Bengal ↩︎
(This review and online interview by email is by Mitali Chakravarty)
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 Kamatawas 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
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
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.
Borderless 