Tag: English

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.

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Categories
Poetry

A Homage to Yuan Zhen’s Grief of Separation

Poetry and translation by Rex Tan

A Homage to Yuan Zhen’s Grief of Separation*

Shall I compare an ocean's vastness to 
the width of the greatest river? The 
evening sky pales to the azure of the summit. 

The time I wandered through a familiar flower field --
I can’t be bothered to look back, partly due 
to Fate’s weaving hands, partly due to you. 

Smoking under the 
bleak wintery overcast
memories of your 
bright summery laugh dissipates 
into a fleeting mist.

Forlorn, I’m a shadow by the hills 
of a spire-filled dream.
And with a gentle flick, I cast 
the hanging memories of your sojourn 
into the wind. 

*The first two paras are a liberal translation of Yuan Zhen's "Grief of Separation". 
Yuan Zhen was a Tang dynasty poet, lived from 779 to 831 in Luoyang, China

Rex Tan is a journalist by trade and a poet at heart. As a Malaysian, he is fluent in English, Mandarin, and Malay, yet he calls none his first language.

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Categories
Review

Anime Novel Comes of Age

Book Review by Aditi Yadav

Title: She and Her Cat

Author: Makoto Shinkai and Naruki Nagakawa

Translator: Ginny Tapley Takemori

Publisher: Penguin Random House

Makoto Shinkai is a giant in the world of anime. His animated movie Kimi no Nawa (Your Name) garnered worldwide critical acclaim and commercial success. He is often hailed as the ‘next Miyazaki’ in the world of animation.  His first work as a director was a five-minute long monochrome Japanese animation movie titled Kanojo to Kanojo no Neko (She and her cat) released in 1999 which won grand prize the DoGA CG Animation Contest in 2000. In 2013, Shinkai along with Nagakawa wrote a novel under the same name, whose English translation, She and Her Cat, was released in 2022.

The novel narrates four interwoven sub-plots involving four females and their feline companions.  Shinkai weaves a rich tapestry which plays out like a movie capturing a wide spectrum of colours, sounds and emotions. The cats appear more caring and observant about their humans, while the latter often seem indifferent or distant. Nevertheless, they give each other support and much needed warmth of life.

The novels starts on a rainy day in spring, when Miyu happens to find an orphaned kitten in a carton. A chance encounter or a fated one, either way, they discover each other on a depressing spring day with dripping skies. Notwithstanding the crestfallen  hearts and morose weather, the blossom of a soulful bond springs to life.

There is a cryptic hint of shared melancholy as the kitten remarks “… her hair and my fur were heavy from the rain.” It’s like one sad heart recognising the other and finding inexplicable comfort and sense of belonging as it feels, “I was now her cat.”

Miyu names him Chobi. The novels voices alternately between felines and humans, as we get to see their respective worlds in the narration.

Chobi is a restless fur ball as he skips about in animated action to catch Miyu’s attention; and watches her all day long as she cooks, sings, washes laundry, wears makeup, and so on. He is happy in a warm, cozy world where he is cared for. He thinks of Miyu as his ‘grown-up girlfriend’. In contrast, the owner doesn’t think of it as any life changing experience. But subconsciously, she begins to change, without a trace of conscious awareness.

While Chobi goes around the neighbourhood, he makes friends with other animals. He shares an endearing relationship with an old dog named Jon. Jon has the demeanour of a stately guardian. His encouragement uplifts Chobi’s spirit making him feel a part of the world. He has interesting tales to shares about life, cosmos and philosophy. Chobi opens his heart to Jon wishing to ‘fill the gap’ in Miyu’s heart. 

Chobi also befriends a white chirpy cat. She discovers an ‘awesome’ human named Reina who doesn’t shoo her away as a stray cat. Instead, she feeds her and names her Mimi.  Reina studies art at the technical college where Miyu is an administrative officer. Mimi notices how passionate Reina is about painting and sketching and how ‘weird’ she smells –- of paints, spices, alcohol, perfume and tobacco. Despite being talented she is struggling to find her footing in the world of growp-ups.

Mimi brings back memories of the cat she owned during high school. While the adults around the adolescent Reina were critical of her talent, her feline companion gazed at her paintings with fascination. The cat’s innocent gesture had the warmth of sunshine in the winter of her troubles. Reina has a resilient personality. As Mimi was an abandoned frail kitten, she finds strength in Reina’s optimism, independence and self-confidence. There is a mutual bond that serves to fill the vacuum inside them.  

The story saunters along the neighbourhood detailing various encounters between humans and animals.

Cookie, Mimi’s kitten gets adopted by Aoi’s family. Aoi is a chronically sad girl because she carries an emotional scar in her heart. Cookie notices that permanent sadness around her and wants her to get better. As they live together, the little feral companion, thaws the frigidness inside her.

The non-human characters often give deep insights into the human world… “no human is always strong, but then no human is weak forever, either.”

Kuro, a fat old cat isn’t scared of his own death, but worried that his owner Shino would have a tough time after he departs, as he says, “humans are really frightened of death…not just of their won deaths, but of those of us dogs and cats too.” While Jon, the dog, claims he’d become eternal when he dies.

The book begins with on a wet spring and winds its way through the sound of summer cicadas and the winter snow, through life and death, to reach a bright scenery of cheerful cherry blossoms.  

Shinkai paints a multi-layered world through the eyes of humans, cats and dogs, which comes alive in Takemori’s lucid translation. It is a heartwarming and uplifting read that moves like a ‘slice-of-life’ anime and reminds you of reasons to be grateful for this life as Chobi concludes, “I love this world…with absolute clarity”.

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Aditi Yadav is a public servant from India. She is also a South Asia Speaks fellow (2023). Her works have appeared in Rain Taxi Review of books, Mint Lounge Magazine, EKL review, Usawa Literary Review, Gulmohur Quarterly, Narrow Road Journal, Borderless Journal and the Remnant Archive. 

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Gopal Lahiri

Courtesy: Creative Commons
CELEBRATION

This morning there is a celebration in the prettiest world.
A tiny bird starts singing and then swings over the lake.

Imagine lifting the water jug and finding it empty
in the monsoon; it’s only dry winds blowing all seasons.

Fairy lights dance on the yellow grass, the avian world
knows there is less rain, roots die deep within.

Somewhere at the corner of the sky, grey clouds build up
and now other birds join singing in the curtains of leaves.

How important it is to stay together, looking at everything,
then fly away drawing a great circle over and above!

They whistle and show how happy they are in unison,
their small ecstatic faces shine under the moist sky.

The trees, the oak leaves on the water’s edge and
those yellow reeds clap as the birds’ rest on the pine top.

RESISTANCE

You can’t tell a nest from a tangle of jasmines,
can’t tell a snake shedding its skin.

At times rocks meet, strike, roll together 
to the first obstacle or the end of the slope.

You can’t tell hands from ivy choking in a fence.
beyond the split windows of the room,

can’t recognise a man who lives in my very own clothes,
my mirror notes only the geranium and growing pains.

You take steps to the place where you begin to vanish
until you go back and wait under the shadow,

like an inheritance, like land surfacing
a morning halved by grey and white clouds.

Some space to breathe, but just enough --
I must find myself in the wind’s swelling lung.

WONDROUS THING 

Perhaps they are mother and daughter
still together from last year’s final clutch.
I keep waiting for one of them to start a nest
out in the marshy woods, the great blue
robin rookery is in full swing --
building four nests in the still leafless sycamore
each in full view of the bold eagles.

The forest is cooler and shadier than my yard.
Spring ephemerals are just emerging --
little strands of stalkless flowers
and pepper root toothwort that I look for.
Happy still to see that spring
seems a bit slower to arrive at the woods.
In their eyes, it remains a wondrous thing.

Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 29 books published, including eight solo/jointly edited books. His poetry and prose in Bengali and English are published across various anthologies globally. His poems has been translated into 16 languages.

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Categories
Essay

The Saga of a Dictionary: Japanese-Malayalam Affinities

By Dr. KPP Nambiar

Can anyone say for sure, when Japan and Kerala or, for that matter, Japanese and Malayalam languages, came into contact for the first time? No, it is all buried in the chronicles of yore! This is so, in spite of the legendary Bodhidharma travelling from somewhere in the South-West part of India (Kerala?) to China on its way to Japan in AD 520, albeit still disputed!

With the arrival of the Portuguese in Southern Japan from Cochin(?) during AD 1543, there was obviously a possibility of Malayalee priests or laymen including ‘horse trainers’ and cooks, reaching Japan along with Portuguese navigators. But records of such visits are yet to be made public, being either in Portuguese, Chinese or Japanese archives.

However, according to Takako Mulloor, a daughter-in-law from Japan living in Kerala for the past half a century, such obscurities need not always be the case.  She remembers the story of four Japanese youths who happened to visit Quilon and from there to North Kerala, sometime during the reign of Ōtomo Sōrin (1530-1587).

Sorin was one of the few feudal lords of Japan (Daimyo), to embrace Catholicism under the influence of Portuguese missionaries. Originally known as ‘Fujiwara-no-Yoshishige’, he was very powerful at the time, ruling most of Japan. Apparently, he thought it apt to ascertain the ‘truth’ behind the new religion that was spreading fast in his domain. Thus, he is said to have deputed four Japanese youths to Rome and Europe – a new world — to meet the Holy Pope and report back to him.

These youths, after completing their mission successfully, landed in Quilon, on their return voyage. Quilon was a flourishing port of that period. Due to some unknown reasons, they proceeded further north towards Cochin by local crafts, called ‘Kettuvalloms’. Unfortunately, one of them caught malaria and died somewhere on the way and was buried.

According to personal communication from Takako, such records are available with the NHK ( Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai) Brodcasting Corporation of Japan. She remembered that a TV team from NHK had visited Kerala sometime in 1979-80, to make a documentary on these youths and to locate the grave of the one who had lost his life. Takako was their interpreter on this mission, being fluent in Malayalam, Japanese and English.

While I was in Japan from 1965 to 1969, very little information was available in Kerala about Japan. Prior to leaving India, except for some writings by the renowned author MT Vasudevan Nair, the knowledge of Japanese language or culture was scanty.

On joining Osaka University of Foreign Languages (Ōsaka Gaidai), I was fascinated by the general manners of people in and out of the university. They were always kind, polite and willing to help especially students and others from abroad. 

Despite having an advanced ‘Language Laboratory’ and excellent faculty, my language proficiency was mostly strengthened by the people on the street or in the villages of the Osaka suburbs. From the very beginning, I was also struck with an inexplicable quality in their language, with its unaccented delivery and melodious intonations that always reminded me nostalgically, of Malayalam!

Amazingly, both these languages were similar in several respects such as the order of alphabets, vowels and structure of sentences that usually didn’t end in a consonant.

We foreign students had to learn some special topics namely ‘Things Japanese’ that included Flower arrangement (Ikebana); Japanese theatre traditions Kabuki, Bunraku and the oral Rakugo and so on. In general, most of them including folk arts, proverbs, and day to day practices, reminded me of the village life in Kerala.

For instance, ‘banishing’ evil spirits from home was just the same as practiced in villages here. Above all, I could also recognise a few Japanese words more or less similar in meaning and pronunciation, synonymous with Malayalam!

That was when the idea of a Japanese-Malayalam Dictionary germinated in me. But, back in Tokyo University after completing six months’ language course, my attention was mainly focused on research, to earn a doctorate. Still, I was able to hone my Japanese speaking skills by constant interaction with the local people who were always enthusiastic about teaching foreigners, their language.

During the second year in Tokyo, unexpectedly one day, the Indian Embassy in Tokyo called me to enquire if I could teach a few senior Japanese government officials, Malayalam.

Didactic skill being not my forte with Malayalam, my first response was a polite ‘no’, despite the attractive remuneration offered. But the potential pupils would not be dissuaded. Thus started my part-time job as ‘Malayalam Teacher’, in Tokyo. Nearly three years of teaching came to an end on my completing my doctoral research, so as to return home.

Contacts with my erstwhile students were soon reduced to almost nil. One exception was an exchange of communication with a Shyoichi Itoh, who retained his interest in Malayalam as also Kerala. Occasionally, he used to write to me in Malayalam to my great delight, for comments and correction. He had also written some articles on Kerala in Japanese journals, on topics of interest to Japanese readers, based on his experience.

The unique Writers’ Co-operative of Kerala (SPCS) was one of such topics covered. Similarly, at my request and as suggested by the editor M T Vasudevan Nair, he wrote an article for the Malayalam weekly, Mathrubhoomi, focusing on the ritual suicide of the famous Japanese writer Yukio Mishima, in 1970. He had also written a guide book for Japanese students interested in learning Malayalam entitled ‘Malayalam for Beginners’.

Subsequently in 1974, Itoh made a surprise visit to me in Poona where I was working at the time. In fact, he came with the happy news of joining The Tokyo University of Foreign Studies (TUFS) as Professor and Head of the Department of Malayalam. That was a deserving recognition of his dedication to the study of Malayalam. His Malayalam for Beginners is still in use in the University and elsewhere.

My last meeting with Prof. Itoh was during early 1982, when he visited my official residence in Tokyo, with his dear daughter. At that time, I was on a government of India assignment (1981-’85), renewing old contacts as well.

Sadly, Prof. Itoh passed away rather prematurely, in 1998.

After taking superannuation from my employer — an international organisation at that time – at the beginning of the current millennium, I settled down in Cochin, India. Still, the dictionary dream was alive and efforts for bringing Japanese and Malayalam closer, was always a passion!

During the early nineties, despite being immersed in professional activities, I had undertaken the translation of Nobel Laureate Yasunari Kawabata’s [1]novel, Yama no Oto or ‘Sound of the Mountain’ (1971) directly from Japanese to Malayalam as Malayute Shabdam.

Published by Current Books (Trissur) in 1994, the translation was well received by Malayalee readers, resulting in more editions. Considering the fact that such translations are usually based on the English version due to language constrains, my work, directly from the original Japanese, is thought to be the first of its kind, in Malayalam.

However, the dictionary project could not be taken up immediately even after retirement, due to personal preoccupations. Ultimately, work on this long-awaited project was started in 2002, two years after retirement, in right earnest.

An old dictionary of Japanese-English-Japanese format, brought along from my ‘student’ days in Osaka was used as the first reference source. Published in 1950 by the Obunsha Company of Tokyo, it was the only one available for me at that juncture.

Following untiring work, the first draft was ready in two years. It was prepared in the Japanese-English-Malayalam format covering some 2000 foolscap pages and nearly a hundred thousand head-words. The meaning of each word and phrase was given in English and Malayalam with Japanese pronunciation in Malayalam fonts. The entire manuscript was compiled in long hand, without using a typewriter or computer!

Thereafter, attempts to get a competent publisher in Kerala was futile mainly due to the non-availability of Japanese fonts for printing. As a final solution, it was felt necessary to obtain fonts from Japan. However, the impasse was broken finally when my old friend and great historian Prof (Dr.) M.G.S. Narayanan introduced Toshie Awaya, a faculty member of the TUFS, as a conduit for assistance from that university.

While discussing various possibilities with Awaya, it was a pleasant surprise to know that late Prof. Itoh, my ‘old student’, used to be her Malayalam Professor!

Subsequently, on visiting Japan with my wife, a meeting was arranged with the late Indologist and renowned historian, Prof. Noboru Karashima, whom I knew during Tokyo University days. He was living in Kamakura, and Awaye took us to his very impressive residence for discussion.

On that occasion, as he suggested, it was decided we meet Prof. Jun Takashima and Prof. Makoto Minegishi engaged in dictionary-related research, in TUFS. They were attached to the Institute of Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa (ILCAA). Established in 1964 within TUFS, this institute was engaged in promoting academic exchanges between Japan and other Asian-African nations, having been recognised as competent to carry out that task.

The two Professors during a meeting that ensued in the Institute, were amazed to see the sample manuscript of the dictionary that was shown to them. Firstly, use of ‘long hand’ instead of typing or computer printing, seemed out of this world to them.

Another fact, of more importance, was that the dictionary used as reference source material was outdated. It was pointed out that in view of the fast-evolving nature of languages with the addition of new words incessantly, the earlier work had become redundant.

While agreeing to discard the manuscript, we decided to start afresh using a latest dictionary as source to digitalise the new version with the help of a software developed by Prof. Takashima! It was also agreed that the manuscript thus produced with my data would be arranged in a ‘camera-ready’ copy at the ILCAA, that could be suitably published in Kerala.

After several exchanges of visits from India to Japan and Japan to India followed by umpteen number of corrections and revisions, the promised ‘final’ product was ready by the end of 2018.

Then, it was a matter of finding a qualified publisher. The Kerala State Institute of Languages, Thiruvananthapuram, that readily agreed, was found to be the most appropriate one to accomplish that task, in an excellent manner.

The formal release of the beautifully printed and bound Japanese-Malayalam Dictionary of some 1500 pages was formally carried out in the presence of the ILCAA Professors, by Kerala State Cultural Minister A.K. Balan.  Hideki Asari, Minister and Dy. Chief of Mission, Japanese Embassy, New Delhi and several other dignitaries were present on the occasion in Thiruvananthapuram on March 8, 2019.

With such a happy finale of a hard work put in during some sixteen years of my post-retirement years, the dictionary may represent a milestone in the annals of Japanese-Malayalam affinities.

During the half a century that elapsed from the time of my first landing in Japan and the release of the dictionary, major changes are manifested in the ethos of Japan-Kerala interactions. Exchange of visits by artists, academics, writers and common people, resulted in the publication of several travelogues, translations, studies, and so forth enabling people of these two parts of the world to come closer, as I dreamt in the 1960s.

Several literary works from Japanese were translated into Malayalam by eminent writers from Kerala including M.K. Menon (Vilasini), K. Kunhikrishnan and others!  General studies were also published about Japan, in Malayalam. An in-depth study of Kerala-Japan cultural relations is available in the remarkable book, ‘The Throne of Chrysanthemums’ by the gifted writer and artist, K. Asok Kumar.

In addition to such developments, many professionals from Kerala are now finding gainful employment in Japan, something unheard of a few years back.

In conclusion, it has to be emphasised that the age-old affinity between Japanese and Malayalam needs to be studied afresh by our linguists and historians, in the light of significant evidence emerging from various new studies.

When Rev.(Dr.) Robert Caldwell (1814-1891) postulated the theory of possible origin of Japanese and Tamil languages from the same root, there was no mention of Malayalam, in particular. So also Japanese professors – Akira Fujiwara (1981) and Susumu Ohno (2007) — who revived that hypothesis recently, were also not referring to the Malayalam connection.

Meanwhile, some of our erudite linguists such as Prof. Naduvattom Gopala Krishnan, were able to prove the ancient origin of Malayalam, from the same root as modern Tamil, proving eligibility of both these languages to be included in the ‘Classical Languages’ category, already accepted officially.

According to Prof Gopala Krishnan, the very fact that some ‘Malayalam only’ words were identified in ‘Sangam Literature’ of 300 BCE- 300 ACE, reaffirms its classical position. Even epigraphical evidence from the Edakkal Caves of Wayanad (Malabar), that go back to 6000 BCE, are said to be supportive of ancient origin of Malayalam, together with Tamil.

As such, there is an urgent need for a relook into our perspective of the gamut of Japanese-Malayalam affinities!

[1]  Yasunari Kawabata (1899-1972) was the first Japanese to win a Nobel prize in 1968

Dr. KPP Nambiar, formerly a Consultant/Technocrat at the UN Food and Agriculture Organisation, is the author of many scientific papers and books, including a 1500-page Japanese-Malayalam dictionary.

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Categories
Poetry

Cast Away the Gun: Balochi Poetry by Mubarak Qazi

Translated by Fazal Baloch


Mubarak Qazi (24 December 1955 – 16 September 2023). Photo courtesy: Kamanchar Baloch
Fellow traveler! “Moons and seasons” have changed.
The eyes and the gaze are now trailed to elsewhere. 
You too forget the roar of muskets and bullets, 
Of our sorrow and happiness, the reasons have changed. 
Speak of the sun,
Of the moon.
Speak of light, 
Of life.
Cast away the gun! 
  
Fiddle pain, pluck soulful strings. 
Stop rhyming songs, extolling the curse of war. 
Don’t raise the fire of envy and hatred anymore. 
I long for love, its love I’m so desperate for. 
Speak of wine,
Of wineglass.
Speak of pain,
Of colors. 
Cast away the gun! 
  
Remind me of soft-treading maidens, 
And of sweet and dainty betel nuts.
Nobody’s pain is ever healed by fire and steel. 
Remind me of those fair and pretty damsels.
Speak of flowers,
Of lips. 
Speak of love, 
Of intimate moments. 
Cast away the gun!

Mubarak Qazi (1955-2023), is one of the most prolific and popular of modern Balochi poets. He is credited with making poetry a vocation for the masses in a lucid vocabulary. In other words, Qazi is lile the conscience of the people — one who addresses them in a language they can easily comprehend and decipher. Instead of maintaining a subtle or vague approach, he conveyed his sentiments in simple and unembellished language. He has published ten anthologies of poetry. The translated poem is taken from the second edition of his first anthology published by Drad Publication Gwadar in 2007.

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

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Categories
Interview Review

Festivities Celebrating Loneliness: The World of Isa Kamari

An introduction and a conversation with Isa Kamari, a celebrated Singaporean writer

Isa Kamari

Isa Kamari is a well-known face in the Singapore literary community. He has won numerous awards — the Anugerah Sastera Mastera, the SEA Write Award and the Singapore Cultural Medallion, the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang. He has been part of university curriculums and has written for the television. With 11 novels, nine of which have been translated from Malay to English — and some into more languages like Arabic, Mandarin, Urdu and Turkish, French, Russian Spanish — three poetry books, plays and one novella written in English by him, one can well see him as a leading voice in literature on this island that seems to have grown into a gateway for all Asia.

Kamari’s writings dip into his own culture to integrate with the larger world. The most remarkable thing about his works, for me has been the way in which he has brought the history of Singapore from the Malay perspective into novels and made it available for all readers. The most memorable of these actually gives the history of the time around which the Treaty of Singapore was signed between the British and the indigenous ruler in 1819, handing over the port to Raffles, the treaty that was crucial to the founding of modern Singapore. The novel is named after the year of the treaty.

Other novels like Song of the Wind , Rawa and Tweet — all bring into perspective how the local Orang Seletar integrated into the skyscrapers of Singapore. We can see in his writings how the indigenous moved to be integrated into a larger whole of a multi-racial, multi-religious accepting modern city. One of his novels, One Earth (1999), is like an interim almost, set during the Japanese occupation in Singapore. The narrative dwells on the intermingling of races in the island historically. Kiswah and Intercession are novels that cry out for reforms on the religious front.

He also has novels that delve into individual journeys to glance into the maladies of the modern-day world. Whether it is faith, or career, he brings into focus the need to heal. Recently, Kamari has brought out a book of short stories, Maladies of the Soul, to focus on just this. His fifteen short stories centre around the issue mentioned in the title. In the first ten stories, he writes of old age, of mental stress, of compromises made to achieve success, of anxieties just as the title suggests. These are internal conflicts of people in a country where most have enough to eat, a house to live in and access to education for their offsprings. Then in the last five stories, he moves towards not just showcasing such maladies but also resolving, using narratives that are almost surrealistic, or poetic. They are not happy but reflective with the ability to make one think, look for a resolution. They are discomfiting narratives.

One of the last stories is given from the perspective of a silkworm — a powerful comment on the need for freedom to survive. Another has the iconic Singapore Merlion emote to an extent. The writing escapes the flaw of being didactic by its sheer inventiveness. One is reminded that this is a book by an author from a city-state which has resolved problems like poverty to a large extent. That the journey was arduous and full of struggle can be seen in Kamari’s earlier novels. But now, that people have enough to eat and live by, he takes the next step that is necessary. His stories demand not just being familiar with the issues they faced in the past, but also suggest a movement towards resolving the social problems that in a developed country can warp individuals to make them non-functional and make the society lose its suppleness to adapt and progress.

One of the stories like his earlier novel, The Tower, reflects the climb of a careerist, an architect, up a tower he has built, while recalling the compromises made. The interesting thing is the conclusions have a similar impact. And then, there is yet another story that is almost Kafkaesque in its execution, where a man turns into a bull — a comment on stock trading or people’s obsession with money and to compete?

The book needs to be read sequentially to get the full impact of his message. For, he is a writer with a message, a message that hopes to heal the world by integrating the spiritual with modernisation. In this conversation, he discusses his new book and his journey as a writer.

What makes you write? What moves you to write? Why do you write?

I need to be disturbed by events, issues and thoughts before thinking of writing anything. I would then ponder and research on the topics at hand. Only when I have my own tentative resolution of the conflicting elements, I would begin to write. Most often, my views and positions will change as I write further. In that sense writing is a form of discovery and therapy for me.

Tweet in Spanish

Do you see yourself as a bi-lingual writer or a Malay writer experimenting in English? You had written your novella, Tweet, in English. Later it was translated to more languages. How many languages have you been translated into? Do you feel the translations convey your text well into the other language?

Culturally, I think in Malay. English is a language of instruction for me. When I attempt to translate my Malay works into English, the writing sounds and feels Malay. Tweet is a result of a challenge I imposed upon myself to write creatively in English. The result is not bad. Tweet has been translated into Malay, Arabic, Russian, French, Spanish, Azerbaijan and Korean. I wouldn’t know how well the novella has been translated because I do not know those languages. I trust the translators whom I choose carefully.

Throne and Tweet in Russian
Tweet in French

The stories of Maladies of the Soul first appeared in Malay. Now in English. Did you translate them yourself, being a bi-lingual writer? Tell us your experience as a translator of the stories. Did you come across any hurdles while switching the language? What would you say is the difference in the Malay and English renditions?

Yes, I translated all the stories in the book. I had to overcome my own fear that the stories might end up too Malay in expression and feel. But I told myself to be true to my own voice and not be inhibited by language structure and convention. I would not know exactly the difference between the two renditions. I was just interested to tell the stories.

Is this your first venture into a full-length short story book? Tell us how novels and short stories vary as a genres in your work. How do you use the different genre to convey? Is there a difference in your premise while doing either?

I have produced just one collection of short stories. In each of the short stories, I had to be focussed on expressing concepts and philosophies on a single problem of the human condition. In my novels the concepts and philosophies are varied, expanded, more complex and layered but yet interrelated and weaved around dynamic human experiences facing common predicaments or challenges of an era.

One of the things I noticed about the book was that the stories would convey your premise better if read in order. Is that intentionally done or is it a random occurrence?

The short stories can be weaved into a novel. There is a central spine, which is my observation and philosophy of life which bind them all. The intrinsic sequence or order is not intentional, but perhaps it is the psychological thread and latent articulation of the storyteller.

Some of the stories seem to have echoes in your novels, like Kiswah and Intercession, both of which deal with crises in faith. Did your earlier novels have a direct bearing on your short stories?

I used to transform my poems into short stories, and from those write novels. The genres are just tools for me to express my thoughts and feelings. I use whatever works. I have even experimented on weaving short stories and poems in a novel. I wanted to create prose that are poetic, and poems that are capable of conveying a narrative. My latest novel, The Throne, is a result of this experiment.

Some of your stories touch on the metaphorical, especially the last five. Some of the earlier ones describe unusual or even the absurd situations we face in life. As a conglomerate, they explore darker areas of the human psyche, unlike your novels which were in certain senses more hopeful, especially Tweet. What has changed to bring the darker shades into your writing? Please elaborate.

The stories in Maladies of the Soul have a common theme of alienation in various facets and dimensions of life. As such the expected feeling after reading them is that of gloom and hopelessness. That is intentional as a revelation of the deeper and hidden fallacy of modern life that appears organised and bright on the surface. I wanted my readers to be shaken or at least moved to ponder and reflect on our current, shallow and fractured human condition. There is a better life if we were to look the other way and be more mindful and caring of each other and our environment.

I still recall a phrase from your novel, The Tower, “Festivities celebrating loneliness”. Would you say your short stories have moved towards that?

Exactly.

Why did you choose short stories over giving us a longer narrative like a novel?

It is like giving my readers bite sizes of my exploration and philosophy of life. I leave it to the readers to weave the stories into a whole, and reflect upon their own experiences, thoughts and feelings, perhaps in a more integrated and holistic manner.

What are the influences on your writing?

Life itself. Like I mentioned earlier I do not write in a vacuum. I engage life in my writing as a way of validating my ever-changing existence. I want my life and writing to be authentic and significant. Hopefully, meaningful to others too.

What can your readers look forward from you next?

I have just completed a draft of a novel in Malay, Firasat. As in all my novels, I offer a window towards healing by embracing a rejuvenated Malay philosophy called firasat which is an intuitive, integrated, balanced, lucid, harmonious and holistic way of life.

Thank you for sharing your time and your writings with us.

(The online interview has been conducted by emails by Mitali Chakravarty)

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Categories
Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

An Experiment with Automatic Poetic Translation

Courtesy: Creative Commons

I am intrigued by the whole process of translation, a most remarkable alchemy of words and meanings, and when it comes to the translation of poetry, I find the operation especially bewildering and beguiling. But this is not the place for me to discuss my views on the mechanics of the subject, for in fact I have no such views. I am not a translator. I merely wish to explain that the following poem is the result of a minor experiment I have been planning for a long time, a variant of the ‘Chinese Whispers’ game, performed using an automatic translation program. A poem is written, a poem using fairly obvious imagery, and then the translation game begins. The poem is translated from English into another language, in this case Albanian, then from Albanian into another language, Arabic in fact, and from Arabic into Basque, and so on. Eventually the poem exists in Zulu, and from there it is translated back into English.

Possibly it will no longer sound like a real poem at this stage. But it can be easily adjusted, turned into something resembling a new poem, and presented as a continuation of the original poem. The final poetic work will consist of the original stanza followed by the manipulated stanza. If they enhance each other, so much the better, but if not, nothing much has been lost.

The Transformation

The transformation is lengthy
but painless,
it does not drain us. The way
ahead is clear
as far as the glowing horizon
where the moon
has promised to rise. The eyes
of the night
stare intensely in preparation
for blinking
thanks to the white eyelid of
a belated moon
and we grow wise when at last
it arrives, saying
that the stars belong in sleep
and so they do and so
do we and finally
the change
occurs
rest
ful
ly.

This poem was automatically translated between all the following languages:

English – Albanian – Arabic – Basque – Bengali – Czech – Dutch – French – German – Greek – Hindi -Indonesian – Korean – Latin – Macedonian – Maltese – Nepali – Persian – Portuguese – Romanian – Sanskrit – Slovak – Swahili – Thai – Turkish – Urdu – Vietnamese – Welsh – Zulu – English

And the result, after a very small manual adjustment, is:

After a long time
I’m still crying,
a street name outside of us.
This is obvious at first:
bright horizon.
Where is the moon?
And so ends the contract.
Dinner?
I can’t wait to get ready.
This is not a rumour
of white hair
or months.
Finally we bring you a sage.
They started talking,
you are sleeping,
and so
I continue to do so.
Be careful,
what’s up is silence,
targeted
from where?

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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Categories
Review

The Greatest Indian Stories Ever Told 

Book Review by Bhaskar Parichha

Title: The Greatest Indian Stories Ever Told: Fifty Masterpieces from the Nineteenth Century to the Present 

Editor: Arunava Sinha

 Publisher: Aleph Book Company

The Indian subcontinent has had a long tradition of storytelling that is referred to as ‘contes’ or tales, by the French. ‘Kathasaritsagar‘ by Somdev in Sanskrit compiled in the 11th century CE is a great example of this. Flavourful folk tales can also be found in renditions after the 11th Century CE — like the ‘Singhasan Battisi’[1].

Various Indian languages soon adopted this genre, gaining popularity throughout the country. Over the past 150 years, hundreds of memorable and popular stories have been written in more than 20 different languages. There are many ways in which they have become cultural cornerstones. Even those who do not read books often quote from a Premchand story or refer to a Tagore character in conversation. There are more people who know about our recent history as a result of Manto’s stories than any other history book published.

The Greatest Indian Stories Ever Told: Fifty Masterpieces from the Nineteenth Century to the Present  edited by Arunava Sinha, is a welcome addition to the genre. As an English translator, Sinha specialises in translating Bengali fiction and non-fiction from Bangladesh and India into English, including classic, contemporary, and modern works. More than seventy of his translations have been published so far in India, UK, and USA. He has twice won India’s top translation prize, the Crossword Award for translated books. He teaches at Ashoka University, where he is also the co-director of the Ashoka Centre for Translation.

This anthology contains stories that draw inspiration from a wide range of Indian regional dialects, languages, literature, and cultures, and includes early masters of the form, contemporary stars, and brilliant writers who came of age during the twenty-first century.

Among these authors are some of the most revered in Indian literature and have, between them, won almost every major literary award, including the Nobel Prize for Literature, the Jnanpith Award, the Sahitya Akademi Award as well as numerous other honours at the state, national, and international level. 

There is a plethora of literary delights in this collection, from Tagore’s evocative prose to Amrita Pritam’s emotional depth, from Ruskin Bond’s enchanting stories to Mahasweta Devi’s thought-provoking stories. It is a treasure trove of narratives translated to or written in English. If all these weaving the colours of the diversities in India are to be savoured across all the Indian states with diverse languages, they need to be in English. Collections of some of the best literary short fiction written by Indian writers began to emerge in the country at the end of the nineteenth century. And now in the twenty first century, the trend has been retained by this collection.

A must-have for any Indian literature enthusiast, The Greatest Indian Stories Ever Told provides a literary journey that explores space and time, which makes it a precious collector’s item that will become a valuable over time. Anyone who is interested in India’s rich cultural heritage as well as the rich tapestry of Indian storytelling should definitely read this anthology in order to gain some insight into the country’s rich cultural heritage. It promises to be an exciting and enticing literary feast, leaving readers awe-struck and enriched by the depth and beauty of Indian storytelling whether you are familiar with these eminent authors or are new to them, regardless of whether you know their work or not.

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[1] Collection of ancient Indian folk tales; Literally, 32 tales of the throne, compiled after the 11th century CE

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