Tag: English

Categories
Poetry

Heralding Spring

By Stuart McFarlane

Bauerngarten (1907) by Gustav Klimt (1862-1918) 
SPRING


Nature has shed her wintry robes

to adorn brighter clothes.

A cornucopia of colours – bold

yellow, crimson, purple, gold.                                                                                                  

Far away the ample hills repose

where a new light softly grows. 

The sky is blue, the wind is fair.

A lone bird flies into the air.

In winter, silent seeds have toiled

to deny the grip of frozen soil.

Soon in the garden, green will                                                                             

bloom with tulips, roses, and daffodils

And the nourished roots shall bring 

forth the joyful fruits of spring.



UNTITLED


I feel a silky silence grow

as if all the world has died.

Night is as black as the crow,

no light to show habitation,

but the far off, orange glow

of firelight on the hillside.  



I hear a rippling river flow

through a valley, dark and wide.

The white of an owl swoops low –

wings spread, I watch it glide

and the distant orange glow

of firelight on the hillside.

 Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.                                                                                                                    

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Categories
Editorial

‘Imagine all the People, Sharing All the World’

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Let’s look forward to things getting better this New Year with wars tapering off to peace— a peace where weapons and violence are only to be found in history. Can that ever happen…?

Perhaps, all of us need to imagine it together. Feeling the need for peace, if we could dwell on the idea and come up with solutions, we could move towards making it a reality. To start with, every single human being has to believe firmly in the need for such a society instead of blaming wars on natural instincts. Human nature too needs to evolve. Right now, this kind of a world view may seem utopian. But from being hunter-gatherers, we did move towards complex civilisations that in times of peace, built structures and created art, things that would have seemed magical to a cave dweller in the Palaeolithic times. Will we destroy all that we built by warring – desecrating, decimating our own constructs and life to go on witch-hunts that lead to the destruction of our own species? Will human nature not evolve out of the darkness and chaos that leads to such large-scale annihilation?

Sometimes, darkness seems to rise in a crescendo only to be drowned by light emanating from an unknown source. This New Year — which started with an earthquake followed the next day by a deadly plane collision — was a test of human resilience from which we emerged as survivors, showing humanity can overcome hurdles if we do not decimate each other in wars. Bringing this to focus and wringing with the pain of loss, Suzanne Kamata, in her column tells us: “Earthquakes and other natural disasters are unavoidable, but I admire the effort that the Japanese people put into mitigating their effects. My hope is that more and more people here will begin to understand that it is okay to cry, to mourn, to grieve, and to talk about our suffering. My wish for the Japanese people in the new year is happiness and the achievement of dreams.”

And may this ring true for all humanity.

Often it is our creative urges that help bring to focus darker aspects of our nature. Laughter could help heal this darkness within us. Making light of our foibles, critiquing our own tendencies with a sense of humour could help us identify, creating a cathartic outcome which will ultimately lead to healing. An expert at doing that was a man who was as much a master of nonsense verses in Bengal as Edward Lear was in the West. Ratnottama Sengupta has brought into focus one such book by the legendary Sukumar Ray, Abol Tabol (or mumbo jumbo), a book that remains read, loved and relevant even hundred years later. We have more non-fiction from Keith Lyons who reflects on humanity as he loses himself in China. Antara Mukherjee talks of evolving and accepting a past woven with rituals that might seem effete nowadays and yet, these festivities did evoke a sense of joie de vivre and built bridges that stretch beyond the hectic pace of the current world. Devraj Singh Kalsi weaves in humour and variety with his funny take on stocks and shares. Rhys Hughes does much the same with his fun-filled recount on the differences between Sri Lanka and India, with crispy dosas leaning in favour of the latter.

Humour is also sprinkled into poetry by Hughes as Radha Chakravarty’s poetry brings in more sombre notes. An eminent translator from Bengali to English, she has now tuned her pen to explore the subliminal world. While trying to explore the darker aspects of the subliminal, David Skelly Langen, a young poet lost his life in December 2023. We carry some of his poems in memoriam. Ahmad Al-Khatat, an Iraqi immigrant, brings us close to the Middle East crisis with his heart-rending scenarios painted with words. Variety is added to the oeuvre with more poetry from George Freek, Ganesh Puthur, Ron Pickett, Stuart McFarlane, Urmi Chakravorty, Saranyan BV, JM Huck and many more.

Our stories take us around the world with Paul Mirabile from France, Ravi Shankar from Malaysia, Srinivasan R from India and Rebecca Klassen from England, weaving in the flavours of their own cultures yet touching hearts with the commonality of emotions.

In conversations, Ratnottama Sengupta introduces us to the multifaceted Bulbul Sharma and discusses with her the celebrated filmmaker Mrinal Sen, in one of whose films Sharma ( known for her art and writing) had acted. We also have a discussion with eminent screenplay writer Gajra Kottary on her latest book, Autumn Blossoms and an introduction to it.

Somdatta Mandal has reviewed Sudha Murty’s Common Yet Uncommon: 14 Memorable Stories from Daily Life, which she says, “speaks a universal language of what it means to be human”. Bhaskar Parichha takes us to Scott Ezell’s Journey to the End of the Empire: In China Along the Edge of Tibet. Parichha opines: “The book evokes the majesty of Tibetan landscapes, the unique dignity of the Tibetan people, and the sensory extremity of navigating nearly pre-industrial communities at the edge of the map, while also encompassing the erosion of cultures and ecosystems. Journey to the End of the Empire is both a love song and a protest against environmental destruction, centralised national narratives and marginalised minorities.” Meenakshi Malhotra provides a respite from the serious and emotional by giving us a lively review of Rhys Hughes’ The Coffee Rubaiyat, putting it in context of literature on coffee, weaving in poetry by Alexander Pope and TS Eliot. Rakhi Dalal has reviewed a translation from Punjabi by Ajeet Cour and Minoo Minocha of Cour’s Life Was Here Somewhere. Our book excerpts from Anuradha Kumar’s The Kidnapping of Mark Twain: A Bombay Mystery introduces a lighter note as opposed to the intense prose of Srijato’s A House of Rain and Snow, translated from Bengali by Maharghya Chakraborty.

Translations this time take us to the realm of poetry again with Fazal Baloch introducing us to a classical poet from Balochistan, the late Mulla Fazul. Ihlwha Choi has self-translated his poetry from Korean. Niaz Zaman brings us Nazrul’s Samya or Equality – a visionary poem for the chaotic times we live in — and Fakrul Alam transcribes Masud Khan’s Bengali verses for Anglophone readers. Our translations are wound up with Tagore’s Prarthona or Prayer, a poem in which the poet talks of keeping his integrity and concludes saying ‘May the wellbeing of others fill my heart/ With contentment”.

May we all like Tagore find contentment in others’ wellbeing and move towards a world impacted by love and peace! The grand polymath always has had the last say…

I would like to thank our contributors, the Borderless team for this vibrant beginning of the year issue, Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous art, and all our readers for continuing to patronise us.

With hope of moving towards a utopian future, I invite you to savour our fare, some of which is not covered by this note. Do pause by our contents page to check out all our fare.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the contents page for the January 2024 issue

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

Categories
Review

Common Yet Uncommon: Stories from Sudha Murty

Book review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: Common Yet Uncommon: 14 Memorable Stories from Daily Life

Author: Sudha Murty

Publisher: Penguin Books

For those who have not listened to her humorous and motivational talks and seen her bright and smiling face on social media platforms and talk shows, Sudha Murty is an educator, author and philanthropist who is the chairperson of Infosys Foundation. She is married to the co-founder of Infosys, N. R. Narayana Murthy. Writing both in Kannada and English, she has authored collections of short stories, travelogues, technical books, non-fiction stories, novels, and children’s books. The present volume under review, as the sub-title rightly claims, are simple yet memorable stories from daily life.

In the ‘Preface’, the author tells us that she has written her stories based upon her personal experiences of a particular region in northern Karnataka where she was born and raised in a middle-class family and has chosen this area as the setting for this book since it is her homeland.  She says: “The river Tungabhadra divides Karnataka into two parts – North and South. The northern part of Karnataka has its peculiar history…. There was an amalgamation of cultures, languages and food habits…. By and large, the people here are open-minded and outspoken, much like the flat and open land that Mother Nature has bestowed on them.”

Growing up in a small town with a distinct culture, she is well-versed with the customs of its community, though she herself has immensely changed with time.

Written in Sudha Murty’s inimitable style, Common Yet Uncommon is an invigorating picture of everyday life where the foibles and strange behaviour of ordinary people are charmingly depicted. In the fourteen tales that make up the collection, Murty delves into her memories of childhood, life in her hometown, and the people she’s crossed paths with. These and the other “unembellished” characters who populate the pages of this book do not possess wealth or fame. According to her, they are outspoken, transparent, and magnanimous and are not polished in their speech or appearance. The crude veneer is no testimony to their unparalleled love and affection.  Yet, each one is unique. Their stories are tales of unvarnished humans, with faults and big hearts. But she has learnt something from each of them and they have left an indelible impression on her mind.

The title of each story is simple and tells us about fourteen unique characters who have nothing in common. They are “mutually exclusive but collectively exhaustive”. But in all of them, Sudha Murty herself appears as Nalini –- fondly called Nali by several –- who keeps on peeping in and out of every chapter, sometimes as a young girl, sometimes as a young adult and sometimes as a married woman.

In ‘Bundle Bindu’, she portrays the character of a man called Bindu who “had a knack for exaggerating”, but whatever knowledge of history and love for Kannada that she inculcated was not from the history teachers at her school but because of Bindu’s lessons. So, she considers him one of the most influential people from her childhood. ‘Jayant the Shopkeeper’ describes the failed business acumen of the protagonist and how many people would gather at his shop in the morning to drink tea, read the newspaper, and leave without buying anything. Later, after investing his entire savings, Jayant’s new shop called Modern Gift Centre also closed permanently within three months of its inauguration. Thus, he had no other option but to go and look after his son’s house and his child in Bangalore.

The next story, called ‘Jealous Janaki’, talks about an extremely assertive woman who was like a military commander and who “loved gossip, rumourmongering, misunderstandings, looking down on people and passing sharp remarks”. ‘Ganga the Unadaptable’ tells us how the beautiful Ganga would reject marriageable boys for different things and ultimately continued a spinster. In ‘Hema the Woman Friday’, Murty finds Hema to be one of the best philanthropists she had ever met as philanthropy doesn’t always mean giving money but helping others without expecting anything in return. A strange sort of husband-and-wife relationship comes out in a story called ‘Not Made for Each Other’, where one need not express his or her love only through words, but emotions prevail even in quietude.  ‘Selfish Suman’ describes the activities of a woman who always remained “within the circumference of me, myself and mine” and one who only looked out for her advantage in any situation.

‘Adventurous Bhagirathi’ chronicles the worldly-wise acumen of a woman brought up in a joint family whose prime asset was the balance of her mind and ‘Miser Jeevraj’, relates the story of a man who had always thought that money gave him an edge, and his wife and children would listen to him because of it. As time passed, Jeevraj became lonely and in the end, he realized that money is required in life, but it is not everything.  ‘Amba the Super Chef’ tells the story of a man who realised his wife’s worth only after she became ill with typhoid and could no longer make different dishes in different seasons and take care of his health. In ‘Sharada the Fortunate’, we read the story of a widow who chanced to meet an earlier rejected suitor, marry him in strange circumstances during a pilgrimage, and lead a new life once again with a new identity. ‘Chami the Charmer’ describes another woman protagonist who believed in making a strategy for everything in life and follow it. The final interesting story entitled ‘Lunch Box Nalini’ is narrated in the first person by the author herself and begins like this:

“I am Nalini Kulkarni. Elders have always called me Nali – a typical shortening of the name in North Karnataka. Here, Anand becomes Andya and Mandakini becomes Mandi. No wonder, the transition from Nalini to Nali was effortless.

Until now, I have peeped into everyone’s life and written about their characters. Now let me talk about myself – the best way to joke is not at someone else’s expense but at your own.

But how did lunch box get affixed to my name, you may wonder.”

The rest of the story is told in an extremely humorous manner of how her lost lunch box ultimately managed to find a groom for herself.

Testament to the unique parlance of a small town, Common Yet Uncommon speaks a universal language of what it means to be human. Reading these simple stories, one is instantly reminded of R.K. Narayan’s inimitable style and glorification of the common man. “Each character in these stories is a pearl. I am just the thread that weaves into this necklace, which I owe to my people and my land,” admits the author. A must read for everyone who loves to indulge in light-hearted reading and the spontaneous narrative style of Sudha Murty.

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

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

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Categories
Stories

The Monk Who Played the Guitar

Short story by S Ramakrishnan, translated from Tamil by T Santhanam

It was Malavika who sent me the video of the monk who plays guitar. Malavika is my daughter. She is pursuing fashion designing course in Kingston University, England. Her desires and interests are a puzzle to me. Some days ago, she sent a recording of a poem by William Blake in her voice. After that, she sent a photo of her carrying a placard in a demonstration against global warming. As clouds change to forms unimaginable, her interests keep on changing. After watching a butterfly, she had sent her impressions in writing. It seemed as though it was from a seasoned writer. 

Children who leave home for far off places, in a sense, leave us. She was no longer the girl she was in Chennai. The new country and new environment have changed her. The changes are reflected in her appearance and deeds. My wife did not like these alterations. Below the video of the monk who played guitar, she had given the caption: “Music is Meditation”. I could not understand her. At the age of twenty-two, I thought she would be fondly giving herself to worldly pleasure. But she was immersed in meditation, agitation and museum visits.

In the video sent by Malavika, the monk must have been about thirty years old. His head was tonsured. He wore a robe coloured orange. His ears were slightly big. He had a sharp nose and small lips where a smile was frozen. It was hard to find out if he was a Nepali or a foreigner. On his left arm, was tattooed the image of Buddha.

It was funny to see a Monk with a guitar. The image we have formed about saints and the looks of current day saints are not alike. Perhaps, we refuse to update that image. Perhaps, the meaning of sainthood has changed.

The musical piece was given the title “Falling flowers”. From the way he was playing, it seemed as real as the blossomed cherry leaves falling gently. The normal rapidity and gush associated with guitar music was not there. Like an insect that moves in the water, his fingers moved on the guitar strings. Music tunes to the past more easily than photographs. A small piece of music is enough to take us back to our school days.

I saw the video once or twice. I felt the urge to listen to it again and again. While listening at night, I felt as if the fragrance of incense was wafting into the vacant spaces of my heart. I found His name was Limang Tolma while searching for his other videos. There were hundreds of musical pieces by him. All of them were only seven minutes long. Evidently, he played the guitar for only seven minutes in a day. That too under the sal tree in Coben Monastery seated on a stool. Hundreds of people from various countries pour in to listen to his performance. All this I gathered while browsing the internet. His music was melodious and sweet. Why did he play for seven minutes only at each stretch was beyond comprehension.

To know more about Limang Dolma, I called Malavika on her mobile. She sent a message that she was observing silence for the past five days. Why this silence? Tongue can be tied down. But the mind? 

I told my wife. She responded that she had scolded Malavika and that was why she was doing this.

I could not understand. What was the skirmish between mother and daughter? I sent a message to Malavika asking her how long her silence would continue. “God only knows,” was her reply.

As I am a senior executive in an automobile company, I had to conduct two to three meetings in a day. My blood pressure sometimes would rise after returning from these meetings.Sometimes, I would have a headache too. At times, the meetings would last for ten hours. After the meeting, I would feel as if somebody has placed a pile of iron on my shoulders. I would feel sick, wondering why we could not conduct our work without talking, discussing or fighting.

One day, before the commencement of the meeting, I started to listen to the monk’s guitar music from my cell phone rather impulsively. I closed my eyes for seven minutes as though I was in a deep meditation. It was as pleasant a feeling as a moist breeze caressing my body. There was peace in my heart and an exhilaration I had never known before. On that day, I could sense the change in my voice and the way I was moving towards a solution. Somehow the officials of the sales department seemed to understand this. After the conclusion of the meeting while coming down in the lift, Amarnath said, “There was something new in your speech today. You spoke like a Zen Master.”

“Yes” I nodded approvingly with a smile. I was just wondering how a small piece of music could bring such a tremendous change in me.

I wanted to know more about Limang Dolma. Searching through the internet I was more and more astonished. The real name of Limang Dolma is Christopher Cane. He was born in Milan. He had pursued Anthropology. After coming into contact with a Buddhist monk, he has embraced Buddhism and become a monk in the Buddhist Monastery. He plays the guitar only under the tree of the monastery and nowhere else. Young people throng to him. They listen to his music. Some of them stay there for days together to savour his music. They wear T-shirts bearing his image with the words, “Buddha plays Guitar”. In an interview, a young lady asks him. “All saints in India hold one or other instruments. Why does Buddha not play any instrument nor is seen holding one?”

“He himself is a musical instrument. One who knows how to tune himself finds no need for a musical instrument. In the same way, Nature tunes itself. Is there any tune better than what the water plays?”

“Why do you play only for seven minutes?”

“Seven is the symbol of consciousness in Buddhism.”

“Seven minutes is not enough for us. Can’t you play more?”

“Will you take honey in a gulp? Is a spoonful not enough?” he asks.

I admired Limong Dolma fo his speech, poise and the way he handled guitar. I too felt like wearing a T-shirt bearing his image. I sent the video of Limang Dolma to some of my friends asking them to listen to his music. Only Mohan Muralidharan, a neurologist and my school mate, sent a reply saying that a man from Turkey played better than the monk and shared the video. Why should one musician be compared to another? Can’t this foolishness be avoided?

I called Mohan and blurted out my irritation. He said in a mocking tone, “You’re aging. That is why you listen to a monk playing the guitar. Music should make us feel young. It should twinge our nerves. You have never touched a musical instrument in your entire life. Can you whistle atleast?”

Mohan was right. I haven’t even played the mouth organ which many played during my school days.

I felt like owning a guitar. The same evening, I went to a musical store in Leo mall. I showed the video of Limang Dolma and asked for a guitar like the one in the video. The face of the girl at the counter brightened. “Limang Dolma?” she asked. I felt glad that she too has listened to the music. She brought a guitar from inside. I told her, ” I don’t know how to play guitar. This is for my daughter.”

The girl told with a smile, “Limang Dolma was a thief. He was in prison. After his release, he became a Monk. People say he speaks to Buddha through his music.”

“Really!”

“I overheard two girls talk of it when they came to purchase a guitar.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I believe it partially.”

“Which part?”

“That he speaks to Buddha,” she smiled.

She looked like my daughter when she smiled. Perhaps for young girls Buddha is a different personality. May be, the Buddha known by the ones who have crossed fifty years like me and the Buddha these young girls adore are not the same.

When I brought guitar home, my wife chided me.

“Why have you brought this? Who will play?”

“Just let it be,” I responded.

“Is it a show piece to be kept just like that?” she asked.

I did not reply.

I placed the guitar in Malavika’s room close to her bed. I had a feeling that Malavika had returned. I sent that night the picture of guitar to Malavika by WhatsApp. She sent an emoji of two clapping hands. Also, she sent a message “We are going to visit Limang Dolma.” 

Though I felt happy, I was eager to know who was the other in the ‘We’. I did not venture to ask Malavika. Instead, I asked, “When?” She did not respond.

After five days, she sent a picture to me. She was among the hundreds of youngsters before Limang Dolma, as he was playing the guitar. My eyes were cast on a young man with long hair, not on Limang Dolma. The young man hung his arms around Malavika’s shoulder.

Who was this fellow? How long had she known him? I could not see his face properly. I widened the image. An European face. Perhaps was he also a musician?  I thought of asking Malaviika. But I curbed that thought and went on to ask about the musical event, as I called her. She was full of cheer. She told me,” Listening to Dolma’s music, one feels like a kite fluttering in the air. I do not know what to say. Flying to heaven.”

“I read somewhere that he was a thief,” I said.

” Oh, that’s a myth constructed by magazines. When asked about this, Dolma says raindrops do not have a past. Jonah and myself were in the Monastery for three days. Wonderful experience!”

A question arose on my mind as to who Jonah was. I was not sure whether to ask her or not. Why wouldn’t she talk about him?

I asked, “Is Jonah a musician?”

“Dad, how do you know? Indeed, he is. He plays the guitar well. It was he who introduced me to Dolma’s music.”

“Is Jonah your classmate?”

“No, he works in a bar where I hold a part time job.”

“You didn’t tell me,” I pretended to be angry.

“Dad, don’t tell Mom about this.”

“About your working in bar?” I asked deliberately.

“About Jonah too?” she laughed. As she was so laughing, she seemed to be some other young girl. After she hung up, I was thinking about Jonah. Was he a good person or bad? Was he also a thief earlier? Or could he be a drug addict? Who were his parents? Was he in love with Malavika? Had I become old? Was Mohan right? I

 admired a Monk playing guitar somewhere. But I do not like Jonah who also plays guitar. Why? I was perplexed. Suppose if Limong Dolma put his arm around the shoulder of my daughter, would I dislike him too? I was confused.

Two days later, Malavika forwarded a video of Limang Dolma downloaded in her phone. Limong Dolma walked as though he was floating in the air. He sat under the tree. Peace was on his face as he tuned the guitar — the same music that I savoured earlier. No longer did I feel close to that music. Somehow, instead of Limang, Jonah’s face came before me. I felt as if a bitterness had settled down on my tongue.

The same night, Malavika called me. Before my asking anything, she said, ” After visiting Limang Dolma, I do not feel like listening to his music again”

 “Why?” I asked as if I did not know anything.

“I do not like it any more just the way I suddenly liked it before.”

“How is Jonah?” I asked intentionally.

“Do not talk about him. I hate him. I hate whatever he introduced to me.”

Inwardly I was happy.

” Any problem? Shall I talk to Jonah?”

“Why should you talk to him? The days I moved with him, it was a nightmare. Daddy, why do you not rebuke me?”

“You are not a kid, after all.”

“But you think of me as a kid only. You don’t know me as Mom does.”

I was flummoxed. I could hear Malavika sobbing for the first time ever. I did not know how to console her. I hurriedly gave the phone to my wife. She started walking towards the kitchen with her words of consolation. What has transpired between her and Jonah? Why was she weeping? I could not make out. At the same time, I was happy that she disliked the world she created for herself and moved back towards my world. A thought arose that she was coming home. I asked my wife what Malavika had said.

“That boy is not good. I told her from the beginning itself. But she did not pay heed.”

“Did you know about Jonah before?”

“She told me six months back. I scolded her saying that your Dad will not like this. I have spoken to Jonah also.”

“To Jonah? You?”

“Yes, I could not understand a bit of what he spoke.”

“What is the problem now?”

“It’s over. No use talking about it!”

I could not understand what happened. But Malavika had been closer to her mother than to me. She had shared everything with her mother. I was pained at this. Why then did she asked me not to tell her mother? Why this drama? Children after growing up, treat their father as a plaything. The daughter I know is now the girl I do not know. I could not reconcile myself to this.

I heard the guitar music of the monk that night. I was more attracted to the tree than to the music.

Leaves do not stay on the tree for long. When a leaf falls, the tree does not reach out to catch it. When falling leaves sail along the wind, the trees can do nothing but look at them in silence. Somehow, the music stirred a grief in me.

As I prepared to leave for office next morning, I saw my wife keeping the guitar next to dustbin. What was the fault of the guitar after all?

” What are you going to do with this?” I asked.

“Anish told me, he will take it. What do we do with this? Malavika does not want it any more.”

I nodded giving the impression that she was right. But I felt sorry while doing that.

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S. Ramakrishnan is an eminent Tamil writer who has won the Sahitya Akademi Award in the Tamil Language category in 2018. He has published 10 novels, 20 collections of short stories, 75 collections of essays, 15 books for children, 3 books of translation and 9 plays. He also has a collection of interviews to his credit. His short stories are noted for their modern story-telling style in Tamil and have been translated and published in English, Malayalam, Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, Kannada and French. 

T Santhanam is a retired Bank Executive in Bangalore, India. He has a passion for literature with a special affinity for poetry. He writes poetry in Tamil. He is also a blogger.

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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

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

Categories
Interview Review

The Chronicler of Untold Banjara Stories

In Conversation with Ramesh Karthik Nayak, author of Chakmak, with an afterword on Banjaras by Surya Dhananjay and art by Ramavath Sreenivas Nayak, published by Red River.

They always wish they wander
into black clouds like Banjara Tribes: 
the people with no address on the earth, 
gypsies in the tales of time.

Here are stories of a people who have never voiced their lores in English. The Banjaras had oral folk lore as old as the hills. They relocated to various places in the world. One group wandered down to the South, where some learnt to write their spoken language — Gor Boli — in Telugu. To this group belongs young Ramesh Karthik Nayak who has given us a wonderful book of poems describing the life of Banjaras as well as concern that in the process of integration, they seem to be losing parts of their heritage. Called Chakmak[1], the book leaves a lingering aftertaste not just with words but also with the vibrant artwork by Ramavath Sreenivas Nayak and an informative essay on Banjaras by Surya Dhananjay.

Banjara art in Chakmak by Ramavath Sreenivas Nayak

You travel with the book to a place of wonder and yet it’s not all smooth sailing as the poems introduce notes of accord and discord into the conversation. Reality and discontent creep in.The poetry is layered with images, simple and yet of a definitive flavour. There is poignancy in the poet’s lines when he says:

The ippa flowers grieve
releasing inebriety
listening to the story of our tanda*.

*tanda: settlement

And:

No ghunghtos*  were left in the tanda, 
all have disappeared
along with the people
who were born
and grew
within the ghunghtos.

*ghungtos: veils

And yet the culture seems to have had an innate wisdom as the tribe harmonised with nature:

The thunders devour our huts and us.
So, to threaten thunder, we howled.
We should raise our voices whenever we need to. 
Or else we die.

In the titular poem ‘Chakmak’, Nayak tells us about his life as a Banjara and then reflects:

The world is trying to heap the chakmak together, 
ransack our tribe for stones
and change the tanda into a haat* 
of banjara tribes.

The chakmak in the haat were ready to burst 
with chronicles untold.
You gather the people.
The flute disappears.
I try fabricating the remaining tale.

*haat: market at a fair

Nayak for all his flavour and wisdom experiences a severe disconnect and finds himself in almost perhaps, an immigrant’s world, where it is hard to adjust to the reality of the ethos that connects him to the larger world and he feels an outsider in the world that he was born into. Torn between these two, the young writer is fascinated by death. He tells us –

Since my childhood
I saw death as an untouchable

In this candid conversation, Ramesh Karthik Nayakn– a young lecturer, presenter on Doordarshan[2] and an upcoming voice for a people who have remained voiceless over centuries following oral traditions — talks of this strange position he finds himself in. He tells us more about his people, his perceptions and his poetry.

Ramesh Karthik Nayak

Congratulations on being the first Banjara writer to have done a full book in English. Reading your book, one gets a whiff of Banjara life as it was in the past. Can you tell us about their life and beliefs? The creation myth seems unique… maybe you can tell us a bit about the colours you have reflected in your poetry?

Thank you. There is a vacuum in indigenous literature. Not enough indigenous literature has been produced till now. This vacuum won’t be filled until we the insiders turn outsiders. After some time, when we question our identity, we start seeking our own history and go back into the past. In this process, we practise a few things (writing, singing, painting, dancing or sculpting) which slowly turn us into an insider.

Each and every colour has a significance in our lives. All colours will be seen in our attire. If there are any colours missing, they will be reflected in the mirrors embroidered into our garments while we travel.  

There are many beliefs and occupations seen among us.

If, the calf’s ceremony (Bhessi Puchre). When a buffalo gives birth to a calf, based on the calf’s gender, after 5 or 7 days, we conduct a ceremony with seven triangle-shaped stones (Shaathi Bhavani [3] :Manthrali, Kankali, Hinglaj, Mariamma, Thulja, Sheetla, and Dhavalagar) by offering lapsi (rice boiled in milk and cooked in jaggery). The Saathi Bhavani look after their children (who share their arts and crafts with nature for free) and their cattle safely and provide them with natural resources abundantly. Only after this ceremony, the milk from the lactating cow can be shared with others. Until then, no single drop could be shared outside the home. If the milk was shared with others before the ceremony, the calf’s life would be in danger. Thus, we respect animal needs too.

Another very distinctive ritual is a death ritual of a young married person. Friends or family members of the deceased pierce pins under the dead person’s feet so that the corpse is hindered from walking back without pain. They believe that the young person will have a yearning for their hamlet and children. So, the ghost might want to haunt their homes. Also, while taking the body to its final destination, the deceased’s friends throw mustard seeds along the way. While coming back home, they pluck off the pins off the feet and pick up each grain. They keep picking the grains the whole day. The cycle keeps repeating.

Did Banjaras — who at the end you call gypsies — ever grow roots and become farmers? You have a poem about a farmer. Did your ancestors give up their nomadic lifestyle to opt for farming?

Our ancestors used to sell salt by wandering from place to place. They used to thatch roofs and transport stuff from place to place. They sang songs handed down orally and embossed traditional tattoos. They would stitch clothes with infinite designs, etc. Now everything has turned upside down. Now, we are growing up eating many types of leafy and root vegetables, rice, corn and sorghum instead of our traditional foods.

In Telangana, wherever you travel by the highway, you will see Banjaras on both sides of the roads selling fruits and vegetables. Other common occupations among us are farming, driving auto rickshaws, selling crafts, making bricks in kilns, etc.

Your dialect/ language Gor Boli had no written script and I read in the afterword that the traditions were oral. So, did you learn about your culture purely from oral traditions? Are your two books written in Gor Boli written in Telugu or in just plain Telugu? Which language are you most comfortable in? Which language did you grow up speaking?

I have learnt many things by seeing and listening. Whenever I ask my parents about something they simply smiled instead of giving an answer. They did not want to share any cultural things about our community. They always asked me to concentrate on my studies. That might be one of the reasons that I always keep thinking of my people and their history. 

I grew up with the Telugu language. In 1999/ 2000, I was sent to a private school for my education. From then onwards, I thought I was a Telugu. Later, I realised I’m a Gor (Banjara/ Lambadi). Now I am a hybrid Gor. I want to localise myself from hybridity. I have published two books in Telugu. One is in English. These three books are just an introduction to an existing community. To write down the sensibilities and other things, I think this life won’t be enough. There is only one book which I haven’t been able to publish yet, written in Gor Boli with Telugu script. I’m comfortable with Telugu. People tell me that I stammer when I speak Gor Boli. They also say my way of speaking is like that of a child. Nowadays, I believe I’m comfortable with Telugu, Banjara (Gor Boli) and English. 

In your poem, ‘Who am I?’, you mention eviction. Did you or your tribe face displacement? Tell us your story.

Yes, it happened with my grandparents. Before that, they used to stay in abandoned lands. They would stay in one area for two to five years and then migrate to a different place to get enough grass for the cattle or herd they had. Earlier, my grandparents were settled near a hilly place, where there was a pond. Then, in 1970s, the then-state government relocated my grandparents to Jakranpally Thanda, also called VV Nagar Tanda, near to the highway road NH44 and a village Jakranpally (now known as Mandal) near to our tanda.

 Still, in our state, some nomadic communities face eviction. 

The Banjaras depicted in the art in your book seem to be a musical lot. Does music impact your poetry?

Yes indeed. Women are trained to sing their plights in a song, which we call Dhavlo. This was the name of my short story collections in Telugu. The event could be happy or sad, but everything would be sung in a song. Some of the lyrics can be so heartrending that listeners could start to cry. Our people cannot survive without singing. Some people also misunderstand our Dhavlo as Rudali’s [4]song. Each and every moment is made into a song for self or for children or just to survive. I hope the flow of my blood has music, then automatically my words would atleast carry a little bit of music with it. So that could turn into a poem that you read.

You seem to be steeped in lores from the past, and yet you bring it all to us in English. How did you develop your fascination for words? Tell us how from a tanda you moved into school textbooks?

It started when I was admitted into private school. I stopped talking to others. I would stare at our school ground, where there were some other nomadic families sheltered in the tarpaulin tents. I felt like going to them. They were not Banjaras, but they had donkeys and horses. I still remember the scene. In the summer, near our school, a canal was being dug. Accidentally, a boy fell under a heavy vehicle and died. His mother picked him and kept him in her lap and wept.

I was fascinated. I thought of killing myself. And in this way, death always put herself first in my words.

Later, as I changed many schools, I grew lonelier and started drawing landscapes. I started writing to create captions for my drawings. Thus, my drawing drove me into writing. Writing turned into a habit; later it became a compulsion. When I came across Toni Morrison’s quote, “If you find a book you really want to read but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it”, I could connect and also to the stories of Mahasweta Devi. Because of my writing, I have developed my skill in Telugu and English — at least I can express the way I feel. Later, after getting published, with the help of my friends, Aparna Thota and Chaitanya Pingali, the Balder Bandi (Bullock Cart) attracted readers and an autonomous college prescribed a poem in the under-graduate curriculum and the book was prescribed in the post-graduate curriculum.

Why did you name your book Chakmak, a flintstone. Is the poem named as such at the centre of the story you want to share with the readers?

In our community, we bow down to the earth in front of a rock or stone to offer ourselves. We also use the rocks for other things like I have mentioned in the poem. So, in our community, things which are regarded as sacred should also be useful in other ways. They should not sit idle or be untouchable. In our daily lives, we do see many stone and pebbles, but we don’t even take a look at them, instead we kick them off. I wanted to highlight that even rocks have history.

Also, many rock were getting blasted in our areas. We are just losing our natural resources. We are losing the peacock and fox cries that echo from the top of rocks.

I sensed a sense of regret in your poems for the loss of a way of life. Do you feel that it is better to stay indigenously and not integrate with the mainstream? Do you think it helps integrate with the mainstream?

I’m afraid for my people. They are losing their sensibilities. Their fascination for modern lifestyle is making them disregard their identity as Banjaras. Sometimes, I even feel like I should go to each and every one and explain to them why we should choose ourselves as we have been. Being segregated from the mainstream is also part of our identity. So, I hope for now there will not be any integration with the mainstream population. Of course, you may be wondering that Ramesh Karthik Nayak is now living with mainstream society and telling this. Yes, I’m living with this society, where I feel suffocated with the artificial lifestyle. I know I will be just a guest to my land, where I keep cheating my people, writing their lives on paper. Mainstream society once had pity on indigenous communities, but now it has turned envious, because our people are getting benefits like reservation from the government.

In ‘A Day in the Rainy Season’, you have spoken of a rain ritual where people howl: in ‘Roseland’ you have written of how roses is not what Banjaras grow and in ‘On the Forest’, you reaffirm that the Banjaras are in harmony with the green. Given the need for a greener world, would you say that Banjaras lived in harmony with nature? If so, how?

Nomadic or Adivasi people always believed in nature. And they still insist that they are an extension of the greenery, which is a quarter part of this cosmos. And the harmony that the reader experiences in my poems cannot be explained except as part of our traditions. But I want to make a point. In tribal communities, love and hatred are two different things that resonate at different wavelengths. Their way of living reflects love always to the outsiders. Without beliefs and rituals offered to the trivial things, you cannot even imagine a single day in the life of tribals. It will be incomplete.

You have mentioned untouchability. Have you or yours ever faced it in the present day or is it something from the past? In ‘Death’, you equate death with untouchability.

I have had my education in distance mode. So, I don’t know about the discrimination that happens in schools and colleges. But I heard many things related to discrimination from friends. Now, I regularly hear that these nomads (Banjaras) migrated from somewhere and they even have reservations now. They don’t belong to this land, they say.

To support my studies, I used to distribute leaflets in bus stops. I used to work in a photocopy shop operating machines, sold books at events, did catering, and helped as an air-conditioning mechanic. While working, few people did not want me to work for them because I was a Banjara. 

In the past, our people were herders. They were not allowed to touch the water that the owners’ animals drank. And they were always accused of stealing. They were always treated as thieves and murderers (Criminal Tribes Act, 1871) in some areas. In some areas of course, Banjaras were treated with due respect because of their hard work. However, there have been times when they would not be allowed to get into the bus to sit with others, especially when they were in Banjara attire.

In 2016, I visited a tanda near Medchal. On my third visit, a group of women told me their plight about selling fruits and vegetables, how people bargained with them because of their indigenous identity or because of their broken Telugu, how some people took credit and never paid. Later, an older woman, Kokhli, talked about the well. Whenever these Banjaras want to fetch water from the well, which belonged to a landlord near their tanda, the farm workers used to excrete into the water so that the Banjaras could not quench their thirst. But unfortunately, they had no other choice. So, they had to draw from the same well for drinking. The same thing also happened recently in Tamil Nadu. I’m trying to record all these in my stories and poems.

Since my childhood, I have had a great love towards death. I even dreamed of dying many times. That’s how death came and repeated more in my poems. 

What are your future plans? Any other book in the offing?

In our Telugu states, we have 35 tribal communities, which includes Girijanas — nomads dwell near to the hills or abandoned lands, and Adivasis — people dwell within the forest (Gond, Koya, Nayak Pod, Gutthi Koya, Pardhan, Banjara, Matura Lambadi, etc). I want to write more about all the tribes in Telugu and in English languages. It might be in any genre. Sometimes a single topic can be expressed in multiple formats like in a poem, short story or essay. 

Presently, I am co-editing (with Prof Surya Dhananjya) a compilation of Telangana Banjara stories in Telugu. I am also working on my second short story collection Banjara Hills in Telugu along with English poems (which I am rewriting from Telugu).

Thanks for giving us your time and for a brush with your people through the book.

From Chakmak, art by Ramavath Sreenivas Nayak

[1] Flintstone

[2] National TV network in India

[3] Seven Goddesses

[4] Mourner’s songs in Hindi

(The online interview has been conducted through emails and the review written by Mitali Chakravarty.)

Click here to access the book excerpt

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Categories
Poetry

Maithili Poetry by Vidyanand Jha

Translated by Vidyanand Jha from Maithili to English

Madhubani Painting or Mithila Art
TRANSLATION

My eyes made through swimming 
in the waters of the pond full of algae
carry greenery, see greenery everywhere. 

My blood made of the juice of Ladubbi mangoes,
flow in my veins continuously, sweet, juicy.

Made from pieces of Rohu fish,
made from Garai Garchunni fish, 
my body is shimmering, slick. 

The sound of the hooves of Salhesh’s* horses, 
the reverberations of the sound of the Chaukitora dance, 
the desolation of the consequences of Vidyapati*,
and my voice, my clear language
made from mixing all these — 

Gets translated —
speaking an unknown language outside my home, 
spending my life in an unknown place, some other place, 
losing myself, making myself into someone else 
making myself into a customer in a glittering market. 

And my Maithil existence
gets translated
into Indian citizenship. 

*Salhesh is a folk deity in Mithila(Nepal and Terai region in India)
*Vidyapati (1352-1448) was a Maithili poet


TOGETHERNESS

A filled in disused well reverberates with 
the mumbled Sahajiya song of a Vaishanvi*,
mixed with your name whispered softly,
mixed with the sound of a thundering river flowing in full spate. 
So many eager songs swirl,
straining to come out of our souls
to touch the heights of the sky.
Sounds are mumbled, words are mumbled
in a filled disused well. 

On the banks of a water tank
under a tree with leaves falling, 
in a locked old box
are kept for many years so many embraces, kisses so many,
pressed and folded for many years, 
the touch of your skin on mine - quivering, exciting,
impulses so many, so many disappointments. 
Everything is folded and kept inside. 
A box that is rusting slowly is thrown away. 
It’s becoming one with the earth slowly.

Routes to many cities utterly unknown, 
paths to many villages deserted
wait to be measured 
by your feet, by my feet. 
Many fabulous scenes, strange scenes many, 
sad scenes many, grotesque scenes many
await our eyes,
lost in an unknown corner of this Earth,
in a deathly silent lost village,
Or in an utterly unknown strange city.

Would my being be
yours?
Or maybe on the path of annicca*, 
I would be, you would be
separately, alone.
Or is that that I wouldn’t be, you wouldn’t be?

*Sahajiya -- a form of Hindu tantric Vaishnavism; Vaishnavi -- a woman follower of Vishnu
*annicca—Buddhist principle of impermanence
Photo courtesy: Ira Jha

Vidyanand Jha is a poet, short story writer and literary critic in Maithili. He is also a translator translating texts from and into Maithili primarily to and from English. He has been publishing Maithili poems in literary journals since 1980s. He has three poetry collections to his credit: Parati Jakan (Like a Morning Song), published by Sahitya Akademi in 2002, now in its second edition; Bicchadal Kono Pirit Jakan (Like a Lost Love) published by Antika Prakashan in 2019 and Danufak phool Jakan (Like Danuf Flowers) published in 2021. He has received many prestigious awards for his poetry in Maithili. His translations from Maithili have appeared in journals like Indian Literature and Anthologies like The Book of Bihari Literature. He was awarded Katha Translation Award in 1998.

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Categories
Poetry

Poems for Peace

By Stuart McFarlane

    GAZE ON GAZA

Gaze on Gaza; and weep.                                                                                              See the child in A and E,                                                                                                       the child, alone, in A and E.                                                                                               See the man who stares,                                                                                                          the man who only stares.                                                                                                See the woman who screams,                                                                                         the woman who only screams.

The bloody bandage, discarded limb,                                                              the blasted street, all rubble.                                                                                               Thick smoke billowing; low down                                                                                    a tepid sun that strains to shine.  
                                                                         
See another bloodied child,                                                                             the mother who still screams,                                                                             and a father who only stares.                                                                                              See what may not be unseen.                                                                                       Try, if you can, to avert your eyes.                                                                   Gaze on Gaza.                                                                                                             Gaze on Gaza. And weep.


     A DAY LIKE ANY OTHER

A birth of light on the skyline,                                                                                                                                   as keen as a glinting knife,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             seeps through the sky like red wine,                                                                                                                              a sweet celebration of life.                                                                                                                            So the sun rises at its preordained time,                                                                                              the world awakes, night is gone,                                                                                                                      as it continues its inevitable climb                                                                                                             in a sky far too blue for the Somme.                                                                                                              And a mutilation of light and sound                                                                                           destroys the day, destroys my brother,                                                                                              shells, shrapnel tear up the ground                                                                                                            on a day in France; a day like any other.

Once the days fell gently, like apples from a tree,                                                                              and all our summers gathered there.                                                                                               Older now, the kitchen, my mother here with me,                                                              where burning butter permeates the air.                                                                                   A bicycle on a country lane, church bells pealing,                                                                       a looming shadow, then a doorbell ringing,                                                                                a face, not quite a smile, eyes afraid of feeling,                                                                                 a shaky hand, a telegram and the news that it is bringing.                                                                   And a conflagration of bells and butter                                                                                   destroys the day, destroys my mother.                                                                                                  And my time, too, will come; complete and utter.                                                                                On a day in France; a day like any other.

 Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.                                                                                                                    

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Categories
Stories

Jonathan’s Missing Wife

By Paul Mirabile

Courtesy: Creative Commons

The alarm-clock rang at seven as usual. Jonathan, puffy-eyed, yawned and slammed down the catch violently. He then rolled over towards Heather, his wife, who always needed a firm nudge to get her up in the morning. Alarms had absolutely no effect on her eardrums. Roll he did but the left side of the bed was empty! Odd, Jonathan, a light sleeper, had not heard the creaking of the bed. Besides, he had always been the first to rise in the mornings.

He threw off the blankets, blurry-eyed, and shuffled to the loo. Throwing a bathrobe over his pyjamas, Jonathan glided barefoot into the kitchen. No one! Into the sitting-room. Empty! He opened the door to their son’s now unslept in room and took a peep. Nothing! He shrank back when he saw the large map of Southeast Asia scotched to the wall over his son’s desk, and two books laid out open: André Malraux’s La Voie Royale[1] and Somerset Maugham’s The Gentleman in the Parlour: A record of a journey from Rangoon to Haiphong. He closed the door quietly with a religious deference.

A bit ruffled by this unaccustomed morning void in the house, Jonathan quickly washed, dressed, drank a cup of coffee and decided to investigate the strange absence of his wife. First he telephoned her bridge-club mates, Molly, Susan and Julie. Not one had seen or heard from her since their last get-together last week. Nonplussed, Jonathan dialled Heather’s sister’s number, Hazel at Luton. She had no great love for him but …

Hazel answered the phone, yawning, vague and aloof. No, she hadn’t spoken to Heather since Tuesday. It was Friday. “Maybe she’s out buying a mink stole,” she scoffed with unaffectionate irony. And she slammed the receiver down. Jonathan winced, poising his phone over its hook. He let it drop with a dull thud …

He fell back into a wicker chair chaffed by Hazel’s customary curtness. From the large bay window of his Town Council flat he gazed musingly out at the dwarfed pine trees that separated the pavement from his tiny front garden. The autumn leaves, sad, spiralled up and down against the grey sky, tumbling about the yellowing grass. He rocked back and forth meditatively. Wherever could she be? This was not like her, he repeated over and over again. He suddenly thought of the detective’s report…No, it had nothing to do with that. He was sure of it.

Jonathan shot out of the wicker chair and stepped out the front door. He would make a few rounds of Stevenage before doing anything too hastily. He got into his brand new 1975 Ford Cortina and roared off to their favourite pub, The Duck or Grouse. Why she should ever go there at this time of the morning seemed absurd. But one never knows … Heather worked there in her younger days as a barmaid, perhaps she popped in for a chat before shopping.

The inside of the pub was cloaked by the darkness of early morning emptiness. The owner, Lawrence, a squinty-eyed bloke, was busy juggling bottles of liquor and whistling some ridiculous television series tune. His huge, round, pink, hairless face lit up in surprise at the sight of Jonathan. The pub-owner stopped juggling, staring at him out of his squinty, shabby eyes.

“A bit early for a pint, mate!” he boomed in that portentous fatuous voice of his. “Where’s your better half ?” And he gave Jonathan a conspicuous wink. Jonathan, in no mood for Lawrence’s boring humour, came to the point :

“Heather has gone off, or I think she’s gone off.”

“With who ?” came the other’s equivocal repartee.

“Don’t mess about, Lawrence. Just tell me whether she’s been in or not.” Lawrence rubbed his hairless chin thoughtfully and shook his head. He turned towards the kitchen in the rear and cried out, “Have you seen Heather about, love?” A faint voice between splashes and the clanging of kitchenware answered in the negative. The pub-owner shrugged his burly shoulders. Jonathan pursed his lips, turned his back to him and strode dejectedly to the door. As he reached the low door Lawrence shouted out huskily: “Cheerio old boy ; give my regards to the misses … when you find her … Mind the head, duck or grouse!” Jonathan bit his lip, disregarded the caustic remarks and stalked into the streets.

Back in the car he weighed up the situation, fuming over Lawrence’s uncalled for insinuations. Heather was over sixty ! He frowned. The cheeky sod believed the whole thing to be a joke. Gone off with who?

Perhaps she’s at the pictures. No, at this time of day? What’s on? Oh, that stupid action film. She’d never go in for that.

His eyes lit up — the grocer’s, yes, of course, she went out to the grocer’s shop just across from the Cromwell Hotel. Jonathan headed towards the Cromwell in downtown Stevenage Old Town without a second thought.

The dumpy, red-cheeked Mrs Whitby was all smiles when she caught sight of Jonathan stumbling into her empty shop, although the redness of his face and his bloodshot eyes startled her — that is, piqued her curiosity. 

“All right, Jonathan ? You’re not looking very jaunty this morning,” she began in her hoarse, cocky voice.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he lied. “But listen, has my wife been in this morning?”

“Can’t say that I’ve seen her. Why? Has the misses been playing hide and seek with her mate?” She gave him a sly wink. Jonathan stiffened. He never liked Mrs Whitby and this feeling was manifestly reciprocal. Nor did Heather for that matter. She thought her vulgar. Alas, this was the closest grocery shop to their flat.

“You must take this seriously, Mrs Whitby,” responded Jonathan sharply. “She’s nowhere to be found, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Go to the bobbies,” she suggested tersely. “It’s their job to find missing people, right ? Be quick about it though, she might have been abducted by some romantic stranger stirring about Stevenage.” Mrs Whitby chortled, rolling her crossed eyes in a grotesque manner. Jonathan pulled a dour face.

“Oh don’t talk nonsense. There are no romantic strangers stalking about Stevenage, and if there were, they would never have chatted up a sixty-five year old woman.”

“Well, well, well. How do you know that a woman at sixty-five couldn’t seduce a man?” Mrs Whitby riposted dryly as if she herself, in her sixties, had ensnared a few ‘romantic strangers’. “You should know, sir, that old birds do catch the worm.” Jonathan was shocked by the vulgarity of the metaphor. Then she added lightly, “Go to the police station or call Scotland Yard. You know, Scotland Yard always finds missing people. Mind you, most times they’re dead, but they find a few alive.”

Jonathan stared at the ungainly woman in disbelief; the words stabbed at his chest with poignant thrusts. She noticed Jonathan’s ghastly mien and wanted to retract her statement but it was too late. She quickly said, “But sometimes they find them alive, they do. Don’t worry about Heather; she can take care of herself good and proper.”

He left the grocery shop as if in a drunken stupor, staggering into the cold, wind-swept streets. Melancholic leaves twirled about, descending in crispy clusters to the pavement. Above they dangled precariously from naked boughs, then down they plummeted from the high arching tree-tops, floating like fairy lights, bouncing to the pavement and street listlessly, their silken colours obscured by the mud. Jonathan followed intensely their errant adventure; the spiralling leaves drew him ever closer to their Fate. Suddenly, he drew back from the scene lest he become emotionally devoured by it. The morning events grew more and more estranged to him, like a bad dream or a doctor notifying you that your cancer was incurable. Plucking up courage he took a deep breath, dashed for his car and raced off to the police station in Stevenage New Town.

Jonathan stopped the car abruptly. There, tottering along the pavement was his neighbour Andy. He had no overcoat and sported a stained starched white shirt. His long, wavy hair had visibly not been combed. Andy was certainly drunk! Jonathan pulled up beside him and called out, “Andy! Do you have a minute?”

Andy, indeed drunk, stopped short in his footfalls. When he realised it was Jonathan, he danced over to the Ford flapping his arms like a bird. Andy was in a delightful mood.

“Blimey, Jonathan old fellow, fancy meeting you here.” Andy skipped back and forth, jovially tapping Jonathan’s car window with his tobacco-stained fingers.

“Stop dancing for heaven’s sake,” an exasperated Jonathan yelled out. “Have you seen Heather about ?”

Andy froze in his side-stepping and posed as if to have his photo taken. He turned his beetle-like eyes on his neighbour, “Have I seen Heather ? Well … “ He put a finger to his temple. “Yes, I might have dreamt of her last night or the night before … lambent eyes sparking like wine, teeth, milky white.”

“Stop mucking about and just tell me whether you’ve seen her or not,” the wife-seeker lashed out, beside himself. Andy had always been the ingratiating neighbour, ‘stepping in’ uninvited for tea at four, or more often, for a few shots of Jonathan’s expensive Armagnac at seven!

“I can’t say that I have, Johnny.”

“Stop calling me Johnny! Are you sure? You look absolutely sloshed.”

“Yes I’ve had a few, but I am able to peer through the fumes of Glenfiddich[2] and grasp the dire urgency of the situation. Now let me see,” and he rolled his eyes about in their orbits. “Sorry mate, I haven’t seen your wife since ‘mi own troubles and strife’[3] buggered off with the manager of the Cromwell.”

“What are you insinuating ?” Jonathan eyed him coldly.

“Nothing old boy ; no need to make a row over a flown bird. You know what they say, when the cage is left open birds will fly out.”

“Drunken fool !” Jonathan rolled up the window and sped off to the police station. It soon dawned on him that he had no time to lose. All these ridiculous enquiries led him nowhere. No one took either him or the affair with any seriousness. But was it all that serious? What would the police do? Would they snicker at him, cast amusing glances at one another as he narrated his morning’s ordeals? Would they twitch their moustaches whilst rubbing their clean-shaven chins? Before he had any answers to these questions, he had parked across from the local police station.

Unexpectedly there were no twitching of moustaches or amused glances for the simple reason that behind the desk, congested with sheaves of documents and notes, sat one very clean-shaven police officer, his corrugated, oval face beaming with absolute boredom. As Jonathan staggered forward, the police officer peered at him out of steel, blue eyes. The frosty peering of those eyes examined him from head to toe. Jonathan suddenly felt very self-conscious, like when one forgets to put on underwear on an outing, or trying on shoes at the shop with holes in your socks. In a state of exhausted excitement, he reported everything he had experienced since the alarm-clock woke him up at seven sharp. He even had a photo of Heather in his wallet. The officer obediently jotted down every word in a very professional manner. This show of professionalism put Jonathan somewhat at ease, although he did feel his energy flagging, his verbosity aimless.

The officer held the photo in front of him, studying it carefully. After a few minutes, he turned his attention to Jonathan whom he studied for a minute or two. Those steel, blue eyes bore into his. Jonathan felt terribly awkward.

“I shall have Scotland Yard check all English citizens having left the country on flights to Southeast Asia,” the officer finally stated, beating his brows. These words were spoken as if they brooked no questioning. Jonathan, however, was in no mood to be brow-beaten by a young police officer whose cryptic words left him more in a muddle than when he arrived. This being said, he did express a tinge of anxiety as if the officer were keeping him in the dark by withholding a piece of information that concerned him personally.

“Why Southeast Asia ?” he stuttered.

“Why not Shangri-La for that matter?” The other, amused by Jonathan’s caustic humour, leaned over the desk with an enigmatic smile.

“Are you not Jonathan Richards, father of the teacher who went missing in Thailand some six or seven months ago ?” Jonathan, abashed, fell back.

“Yes I am. But I fail …”

“To see the motive of your wife’s disappearance in connection with your son’s? In that case, allow me, sir, to put you in the picture. Instead of contacting us or Sotland Yard, you went about hiring a private detective whose reputation, as far as our files show is a far cry from Sherlock Holmes’.” He chortled at his own comparison.

Jonathan remained stoic, unamused by such a preposterous assumption. Was this officer making fun of him ?

“My son’s disappearance has nothing to do with my wife’s!” he managed to retort tartly.

“Does it not?” came the other’s terse rejoinder. Jonathan unzipped his vest and unbuttoned his collar. The air had become sultry, laden with danger, unexpectedness.

“I shall not be misled or abused,” he objected without conviction.

“Misled ? Abused ? Dear sir, here you are whimpering about your missing wife after having whimpered about your missing son. What have you done for both ? You sent an incompetent fool to Thailand for an extravagant fee, when in fact, if I am not mistaken, your wife urged you to go contact the police or Scotland Yard.”

Jonathan, aghast, went pale, jarred by the officer’s personal details. He was at the edge of despair, but at the same time was beginning to understand …

“How dare you pry into my family affairs ? Did my wife come to you in secret ? Are you in league with her … hand and glove ?”

“Secret ? Hand and glove ?” he chuckled. “I should think not Mr Richards. It seems that all this is a secret only to you!”

At that blow Jonathan took hold of the officer’s untidy desk. He immediately straightened up, “Am I then responsible for both their disappearances?”

“Now, now, let us not get all rattled over an incident that has been in our files for months. Yes, your wife, Heather, I believe, informed us of your son’s misfortune after Sherlock Holmes had given her his trashy report. You know that the police keep abreast of these foreign matters.”

“That means you urged her to leave then…?” Jonathan shouted, his peevish, bloodshot eyes blurry from anger and insult.

“Not exactly.” The officer replied coolly, twiddling a pen about his thumb. “The police do not urge, as you put it; we merely suggested that since the detective in question happened to be a crank, or charlatan if you wish, other means of locating your son would have to be adopted.”

“Such as?” Jonathan’s voice rose a pitch.

“Such as you yourself going to fetch him, old chap! And since you haven’t made a move for over six months, well, it appears that the misses has taken it upon herself to do what you should have done.”

The accusation addressed so pointedly at him drove him to a frenzy.

“Are you accusing me of parental misguidance ? How dare you …” he shouted, flushing red in the face.

“Let us not get nasty now, Mr Richards. Would you prefer that I send you packing with trite remarks or stencilled phrases like ‘oh, not to worry, it can happen to the best of us. Keep a stiff upper lip’?”

“Rubbish! Anyway, how can you be so sure about all this? Has she left you a note?”

“Police intuition, my good man. Intuition,” snorted the officer all smiles, his cold blue eyes gleaming with rakish roguery.

“Intuition ! What nonsense !” Jonathan exploded.

The officer resumed in a mollifying tone, “Just go home and wait for a letter or a phone call. We, too, shall do our own investigation. No need to put yourself out.” The aloof nonchalance of the police officer’s reaction and comportment infuriated Jonathan even more. He turned on his heels and scuttled out of the station as if having been tutored by some old nanny.

The late morning sun lay hidden behind layers of thick, grey clouds. He felt a sudden chill. A sudden urge to scream at passers-by that eyed him with either indifference or overt suspicion. A scream that would bring back his Heather … his son !

“We can go find him together, Heather … please …,” he lamented to himself. A few drops of rain fell on his feverish forehead. He let the drops drip down into his parched mouth. He needed a drink. The whole sky was engulfing him in a white cloak of despondency. The chills grew longer, succeeded quicker.

“No, impossible ! She couldn’t have gone on her own. She knows nothing of travelling nor of taking care of herself. I’ll call Heathrow to confirm it.”

That officer’s smirk burned his insides. “How dare he tell me more about my wife than …” Jonathan’s train of thought came to an abrupt halt, “A conspiracy! Yes, everyone is ganging up on me; that blasted sister of hers, Andy, Mrs Whitby, Lawrence … even the Stevenage police ! The whole lot of them are in on it. How dare that officer address me as an old chap ! Heather planned this behind my back in connivance with a pack of deceiving scourges …”

In a savage rage he kicked at the water-logged leaves that clung to the pavement. He struck at them violently whilst the pitter-patter of rain fell heavier and heavier. Several leaves rebuffed his vicious assaults, clinging all the more securely to the now drenched pavement. He flew into a tantrum beating the rebellious leaves, “I’ll show you!” he cried aloud, wrenching them out of their refractory state, tearing them to pieces with his boot.

Several women passing by stopped to observe this unusual spectacle. Jonathan, suddenly conscious of their regard, ceased his petulant outburst. There he stood, cutting a gloomy, lonesome figure in the now pouring rain. He felt like a helpless child. He moved swiftly to his car, flung open the door and sped off home, thoroughly disgusted with the police, his neighbours, Stevenage … with Humanity as a whole …

Once at home, wet as a rat, he immediately threw himself down on the sofa in the sitting-room. He wanted to cry but could not. He thought of Heathrow. As he reached for the receiver, his bloodshot eyes fell on a folded piece of paper stuck between the blue china bought in Amsterdam, the artificial wax orchids and two family picture frames on the mantelshelf of the hearth. Why had he not seen that this morning? He stood and looked at it carefully. Heather’s handwriting had scribbled his name on the fold of the paper. With a trembling hand he unfolded it. A sudden sadness overwhelmed him…

Dearest Jonathan,

Off to Southeast Asia to find our Francis. I’m sure you understand my decision given the fact that for six months you have made no move yourself. I had no other choice love, believe me. You’ll be on your own for some time, but you’ll get on just fine without me. I’m sorry I said nothing of this to you, but woman’s intuition told me what you would have been very cross with me if I had. Now that I am gone pray for my safe return with our dear Francis securely at my side.

Love, your Heather.

P.S. I shan’t tell Francis that his poor Patty died. It would break his heart. I’ll let you handle that on our arrival.   

Resignedly Jonathan let the note drop to the carpeted floor. He returned to the sofa and lay back exhausted, brooding over his wife’s leaving … her lack of affection … of honesty towards him. “A conspiracy!” he whimpered, planned by the police and Heather. “And strike me dead if Hazel wasn’t involved in the whole thing ! That brazen hussy probably put her up to it …”

His face dropped into his hands and he began to cry softly. He dried his tears and fixed his attention on the picture of sixteen-year-old Francis on the mantel shelf with his dog Patty, at that time just a puppy. The reality of the situation creeped into the empty house. His whole existence seemed suddenly forfeited. What had prompted his conduct? He had only himself to blame for the whole mess. It was true, they were right. He had done little for his only child. Hiring a detective had been his idea, a way of compensating for his apathy, indifference … even his obtuse disregard of the whole affair as if Francis had been a victim of his own puerile doings, and would just have to find a way out of the mishap himself. Alas, at that time he had no means of weighing the consequences of his indolence in his wife’s eyes. She surely despised him! Jonathan, jaded by these unwelcoming but candid thoughts, stretched out on the sofa and dozed off into a troubled sleep.

A very troubled sleep during which he dreamt that his death had awakened him to life. Little did Jonathan Richards know his wife would never return …

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[1]          The Royal Road

[2]        A Sottish malt whiskey

[3]        ‘my wife’ in Cockney rhyme

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Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.

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Categories
Editorial

We had Joy, We had Fun…

Pre-historic cave painting in France

La Tauromaquia. Leap with the Spear by Picasso (1881-1973)
Courtesy: Creative Commons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a wonderful festive season!

Best wishes,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Wild long grass

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Categories
Slices from Life

Onsen and Hot Springs

Meredith Stephens explores Japanese and Californian hot springs with her camera and narrative.

One of the pleasures of living in Japan is taking a dip in the hot springs, otherwise known as onsen. Although I lived in Japan for more than twenty years, it was ten years before I could bring myself to regularly visit an onsen. This is because I could not bring myself to accept the notion of communal (albeit segregated) nude bathing, which would be taboo in the West. My long-term expat English friend in Japan continued to entreat me to visit the onsen, and so I eventually capitulated. Would everyone in the onsen be slim, and would they look down on a curvy westerner? Would I attract glances because of my physical difference? I visited one of the many onsen in Matsuyama with my two daughters. Nobody appeared to look at me. The onsen was not full of young slim women. There were many elderly and infirm in the onsen. Maybe the young were already healthy, and they did not need to visit an onsen.

There was a wide range of pools at the onsen. One had a walking pool, in which you walked anti-clockwise. Another had pools with jets that could be turned on to massage your back, a carbonated pool, and stone beds to lie on while watching a television screen placed on the wall which faced you. Another had an outdoor area, with separate bathtubs, a communal pool, a communal cold pool, and a pool inside a cave. There was also a sauna. Inside was a bucket of salt. You could scoop some salt out of the bucket and throw it over your shoulders. There was a clock in the sauna. I could not bear to stay in as long as the other patrons and would sometimes let myself in the door and then walk straight back out again.

I made up for the ten years of not visiting the onsen by becoming a regular patron, usually visiting at least once a week. I returned to Australia at the beginning of the pandemic, and one of the many things I missed about Japan was visits to the onsen. The next time I was able to visit an onsen was over three years later, on a visit to California.

My companion Alex and I drove from Shaver Lake to Mono Hot Springs Resort, both in the Sierra Nevada. We wound up the mountains through the site of the Big Creek Fire. On each side of the road were charred tree trunks.

Huntingdon Lake, California

As we drew closer to the resort, we turned onto a narrow road with large granite boulders on each side. Dump trucks charged towards us, and we took shelter in the many turn-outs.

After this hair-raising drive we arrived at our destination at 4 pm. We collected the key to our hut from the office and made our way there. I remembered an experience from an onsen resort in Japan, where patrons boasted how many times they had bathed in the various pools, and decided I would do the same at this Californian hot spring. We consulted the map and decided to visit the bath house. We had purchased swimsuits for this purpose. In Japan being clothed in an onsen is taboo, but in America it is quite the contrary. The first thing I noticed outside the bath house was the sign saying, ‘No Dogs Allowed’.

Why would you bring a dog into a bath house? In Japan, I had seen a sign saying, ‘No-one with tatoos can enter’, but never — ‘No dogs’.

I entered the bath house expecting to see large communal pools as in Japan, but instead discovered individual showers and baths in separate rooms with doors that could be locked. Apparently, the water was piped into the bath house from the source across the valley. Next, we decided to cross the valley to take a dip in one of the outdoor springs. In order to cross, you had to wade through a river gripping on to a rope, and tread across river rocks.

Alex went ahead of me, and I slipped into the icy cold water onto the river rocks. I tried to grasp the rope, but it eluded me. After several attempts, I managed to grasp it.

“Alex! Help!” I shouted.

I was aware of the glance of onlookers on the rocks witnessing my panic. Alex climbed onto the rock on the other side, extended a hand, and pulled me to the other side. The onlookers offered words of encouragement. We walked across the granite rocks and up the grassy hill, to find El Padro baths. Other bathers kindly and unnecessarily stepped out of the bath to offer us a place. Unlike Japanese baths it was muddy underfoot. We bathed there for twenty minutes, then continued up the grassy hill to the Iodine Bath.

This was similar to El Padro. We bathed here for another twenty minutes and chatted to a fellow bather. Then we headed back to our hut, this time walking a considerable distance out of our way in order to cross the bridge rather than wade through the river again.

The next morning, we decided to return to the baths before breakfast, in the hope of having them to ourselves. We went back across the bridge and headed up the grassy hill to the mud bath. The mud bath was shallow, just deep enough to sit in. The base of the pool at one end felt like grains of granite, and at the other end soft slimy mud. We could feel the heat pulsing from the edge of the pool. We spread mud over our neck, shoulders and legs, soiling our new swimsuits. We lay in the pool for twenty minutes enjoying the sensation of the warm mud on our bodies. Then we stepped out and washed the mud off in a metal bath.

We returned to our hut to wash off the rest of the mud, and rest, before visiting another pool called Li’l Eden. We trudged up the road in the sunshine for about thirty minutes, before spotting a downhill path leading to the pool. The path turned into a steep granite decline. A rope had been placed there to assist in ab-sailing. I had never ab-sailed before, but I followed Alex’ example, placing the rope in between my legs, clutching it, while carefully placing my feet in suitable footholds. I descended safely, albeit with muddy sleeves and sodden shoes. We spotted Li’l Eden and entered. It was a large muddy pool. If I sat on the mud at the bottom of the pool, I could feel the heat pulsating through the mud. After luxuriating in the mud, we hopped out and decided to return to the hut via the path and cross the river, rather than the bridge. We trod through the long muddy grass back down the hill. This time, instead of wading through the river across the river rocks to get to the other side, we decided to walk along a log which had been placed there for this purpose. What if I fell into the cold waters below? At least the log was a shorter distance than wading through the river holding the rope, so I decided to try. I quickly placed one foot in front of the other and a few seconds later I was safely on the other side.

We had two lengthy conversations with fellow visitors, and what struck me was that both of them said that this was their favourite place in the world. One said he had come here over one hundred times and preferred it to more famous destinations such as Yosemite and Kings Canyon. The other said she loved it so much that she spent her entire summers here. (In winter the road is closed because of the snow.)

I’m glad I had the chance to visit Californian hot springs after having spent so many years visiting Japanese ones. The latter are much more manicured. Each bath has a unique quality, and clothed attendants come in regularly to test the water quality. The Californian hot springs were more rustic. Other than the bath house, they required physical effort to get to each one, and the floor of each springwas unsealed. Many bathers had tattoos, but this was unremarkable. Both the Japanese onsen and the Californian hot springs are charming in their own ways. Yet, it was only because I had succumbed to the encouragement of my friends in Japan to indulge in frequenting onsen that I had braved the almost inaccessible roads to reach Mono Hot Springs in California.

Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her work has appeared in Transnational Literature, The Muse, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, The Journal of Literature in Language Teaching, The Writers’ and Readers’ Magazine, Reading in a Foreign Language, and in chapters in anthologies published by Demeter Press, Canada.

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

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