A million stars are out tonight, a million more burn out of sight. Our world is bathed in radiant light; and we are all witness to its might.
What, then, is Time? Who of us can say? No-one knows, at the end of the day. One by one we will surely decay; our lives, like seconds, just tick away.
A thousand years, they will come and go, yet, still, none of us shall ever know why some seeds perish, while others grow; we can only accept it is so.
Who can tell what days may become, cold as the moon or hot as the sun? What you do now, it soon will be done; moments, like sparks, flash bright - then are gone.
IF I HAD A HORSE
If I had a horse I'd set out at dawn, when sunlight sifts the morning grey, and by the time the sky was bright, the light was sure, I'd be galloping hard and free. And there, the mountains. Beyond, the sea! Somewhere, out of view, a distant feel of blue. For a thousand miles or more we'd thunder over the land, embrace our green tomorrows, leave yesterday behind. And, always, the sun would shine, a bright shower in the morning; in evening a golden gleam. And, deep in the night, I'd taste the sweet taste of the earth and feel the tang of cold air. In starlight I would know what it means just to breathe; beneath a silver halo I'd know just what it means to be free. If I had a horse.
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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Nazrul’s Tumi Shundor Tai Cheye Thaki (Because you are so beautiful, I keep looking at you) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam.
From Public Domain
BECAUSE YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL
Because you are so beautiful, I keep looking at you Dearest, is that my real offence? If the chokor bird* cries While looking at the moon, the moon doesn’t shush it. Because I keep looking at flowers about to bloom Do flowers ever scold me? While viewing clouds Parched birds pine for rain, but the clouds don’t protest then. Even when they know the sun won’t shine on them, Silly sunflowers aren’t appeased. They are truly content Only when looking at their God. Charmed by your beauty, I got my sight back. Now, dearest, let my eyes have their feel!
*Partridge, a bird that is said to feed on moonbeams in mythology
Book Title: The Long Strider in Jehangir’s Hindustan: In the Footsteps of the Englishman Who Walked From England to India in the Year 1613
Authors: Dom Moraes and Sarayu Srivatsa
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
During the years, in the early seventeenth century, when East India Company began a search for the possibilities of trade with India via sea route, Thomas Coryate of the village Odcombe in Somerset, England, made an ambitious plan to travel to the Indies, as he called it, on foot. This wasn’t his first undertaking. Having travelled across Europe on foot before, writing a travelogue Crudities on his experience which brought him some fame, he now wished to travel to a place no Englishmen had gone before. Motivated by the thought of gaining more fame with this venture so as to win the affection of Lady Ann Harcourt of Prince Henry’s Court, even the idea of traversing 5000 miles on foot as compared to 1975 miles that he did in Europe did not dissuade him.
Known as ‘the long strider’, in 1612, Coryate set for his journey to the Indies from London. And in year 1999, more than three hundred years later, his journey and subsequent struggles, somehow inspired Dom Moraes to traverse the same route to correlate Coryate’s experience in the now altered places and its people. Coryate travelled alone, Moraes took the journey with Sarayu Srivatsa, the co-author of this book.
Dom Moraes, poet, novelist and columnist, is seen as a foundational figure in Indian English Literature. He published nearly thirty books in his lifetime. In 1958, at the age of twenty, he won the prestigious Hawthornden Prize for poetry. He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award for English in 1994. The Long Strider in Jehangir’s Hindustan was first published in the year 2003. Moraes passed away in 2004.
Sarayu Srivatsa, trained as an architect and city planner at the Madras and Tokyo universities, was a professor of architecture at Bombay University. Her book, Where the Streets Lead, published in 1997 had won the JIIA Award. She also co-authored two books with Dom Moraes: The Long Strider, and Out of God’s Oven (shortlisted for the Kiriyama Prize). Her first novel, The Last Pretence, was longlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize, and upon its release in the UK (under the title If You Look For Me, I am Not Here), was also included on The Guardian’s Not the Booker Prize longlist.
Srivatsa, who travelled with Moraes to all the places Coryate passed through, writes diary chapters coextending the same routes subsequently. So, each fictive reconstruction of a period and place of Coryate’s travel by Moraes is followed by a diary chapter for the same place by Srivatsa. In that sense the book becomes part biographical fiction and part memoir.
Coryate, son of a Vicar and dwarfish in stature, was seized by this desire to gain fame and respect. What desire seized the imagination of Moraes, eludes this reader. It, however, doesn’t escape the notice that both the writers shared somewhat similar plight towards the end.
Some of Coryate’s writing during the period did not survive as it was destroyed by Richard Steele, but the rest was sent to England and was posthumously published in an anthology in 1625. Basing his research on such sources, after extensive three years of investigation, Moraes managed to create an account of Coryate’s demeanour, his lived life in a new land with diverse people and customs at different places which he found both shocking and fascinating. Coryate found the people of India loud and violent but he was also touched by their generosity and kindness. He witnessed the disagreements between Hindus and Muslims, the caste system where the upper caste oppressed the people from lower caste, sati, and the ways of Buddhist monks, Sikhs, pundits of Benaras and Aghoris[1], the lifestyle of Jehangir and the city of Agra before Taj Mahal. He was fortunate to have an audience with Jehangir, the main reason of his travel, but he failed in securing his patronage or enough money to continue to China which he had been his original intent.
In Moraes’ writing, the era comes alive. Vivid imagery and description makes the struggles and sufferings of Coryate palpable on one hand and on the other offer a view on the unfolding of history in a country where these many hundred years later, the echoes of a past similar to the present can be heard. In the preface, Moraes posits one of the reasons to take on the book — to compare the India then with the country during his times. As the reader proceeds with the story, the comparison becomes apparent in Moraes’ construction vis-a-vis Srivatsa’s entries.
Towards the end, an ailing Coryate succumbed to his illness and his body was buried somewhere near the dock at Surat. He could not make a journey home in 1615, but in 2003 a brick from his supposed tomb was sent back to the church in Odcombe by Srivatsa where a ninety six year old vicar waited patiently for the only famous man from Odcombe to return home. The epilogue by Srivatsa gives an account of Moraes’ own struggle with cancer and his demise in 2004, a year after the book was published. It is but right that the soil from his grave in Mumbai also found a resting place in Odcombe.
Rakhi Dalal writes from a small city in Haryana, India. Her work has appeared in Kitaab, Scroll, Borderless Journal, Nether Quarterly, Aainanagar, Hakara Journal, Bound, Parcham and Usawa Literary Review.
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The first time I visited Rome was in early 1990. I was on a mission to find a better life after escaping the Iron Curtain of the Soviet Union. As punishment for my escape, my USSR citizenship was revoked, leaving me stateless, with the status of ‘Refugee of the World.’ I traveled light across continents, with just two suitcases filled with family photos, a few books, spoons, and small pots. I had almost no money in my pocket, but Rome and Italy were still a wonderful discovery and a source of immense cultural enrichment for me in 1990.
During that time, I visited Rome and its historical landmarks such as Vatican City, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, and the Trevi Fountain, to name a few. I also had the most important interview of my life in Rome, at the American Embassy, where I received the green light to go to the USA!
In May of 2024, during our Mediterranean odyssey, we spent some time in Rome. It was a deeply nostalgic and memorable experience for me! Revisiting Rome after so many years brought back a flood of memories and allowed me to see familiar places with new eyes.
I would like to share with you a chapter about my life in Italy in 1990, from my memoir Camel from Kyzylkum:
Italy
My first impression of Italy was that it was quite dirty and noisy. After I got used to the spotless cleanliness of streets and places in Austria, it disappointed me to see trash on the streets and in public places, along with graffiti. For the first time, I saw homeless people sleeping on rags on the marble floor of the subway in Rome. I also noticed how Italians get pretty animated when they talk, compared to very restrained Austrian people. But with time, my opinion about Italy changed—I fell in love with the country, and I grew to love the warmth of Italian people. I came to love Italian bread. The Italian language was like music to my ears, and I even learned how to speak some basics.
For the first two weeks in Italy, we were stationed at the bungalow summer camp south of Rome. It was January, and even during the day it was pleasantly warm outside, but at night it was cold. These bungalow houses did not have heat and were not equipped for the wintertime. I remember I was sleeping in my warmest clothes and even covered myself with a mattress from a spare bed in my bungalow. Nevertheless, I got very sick with a cold, so sick that I thought I would not survive it. During the day I walked to the seafront and sat there for long hours—the warm Mediterranean sun and fresh, salty sea air helped me to slowly recover.
After two weeks in the bungalow summer camp, we were told that we needed to rent apartments for ourselves in the nearby city of Torvaianica, a city south of Rome that was founded in the 1940s and is best known for its beaches. It has a population of about 12,700 inhabitants and extends for about eight kilometers along central Lazio’s coast. The refugee organization, HIAS, gave us money to cover rent and food. I do not remember the exact amount it was per person, but it was just enough for us not to be on the street dying from hunger. Later on, when I was already in the United States and working, I was required to reimburse HIAS for what they’d spent on me. I paid it back gradually, a small amount each month.
There were plenty of apartments available for rent in January. Many of them were at the seaside. Refugees from the Soviet Union usually shared one apartment—a two-room apartment for two families, a three-room apartment for three families. I was alone and in no way could I afford to pay for a room on my own. Someone from the group introduced me to a young fellow who was traveling alone, too. His actual name completely escapes my memory at present, but I’ll call him “Misha.”
Misha was in his early twenties. He was very smart and even knew English. For the first time in his life, he was separated from his parents whom he had left behind in the Soviet Union. Misha and I rented a room in the two-room apartment on the first floor of a building at the seaside. We could sit on the balcony and look at the beach and the Mediterranean Sea in front of us. The enormous wardrobe that was in the room divided our room into two halves to give each of us some privacy. Misha was absolutely unprepared for everyday life. He did not know how to manage the little money we had, how to do grocery shopping, or how to cook food. I felt sorry for him and suggested that he contribute some amount of money for food and I would shop and cook for both of us. Misha was happy to do that.
When I went for an interview for the first time at the American Embassy in Rome, I was asked a lot about places I had worked in the Kyzylkum Desert. They had a detailed map of Uzbekistan on the table and asked me about Zarafshan, Navoi, Uchkuduk. I was surprised; I thought they already knew more than I did.
After the first interview, I had to wait for the second one, a very important interview, after which a decision would be made on whether to allow my entrance to the United States. Many families were denied the entrance visa to the United States without being given any specific reason or explanation. These people had stayed in Italy for six months, for a year, or even longer. They found some jobs to support themselves and their families. Some of them decided to stay in Italy for good. It was an unsettling time.
Every day at 6:00 p.m., all Soviet refugees who stayed in Torvaianica gathered together at the central square of the city. There were a lot of us, and while I do not know the exact number, I remember how the square was filled with a Russian-speaking crowd, to the amazement of the local population of Italians. We were waiting for the messenger, usually a man who would stand in the middle of the crowd and read the list of people who had gotten permission to go to America. Even though I had not yet had a second interview in the American Embassy, these daily meetings were the biggest entertainment of the day and a learning experience—people mingled together, told stories, shared news, and made friends.
Misha always found me in the crowd after the announcing part was over and asked, “What’s for dinner tonight?” It seemed that he was always hungry. Even though I did not want to go home yet, I felt an obligation to serve him dinner. I thought he was acting like a little baby and since I was not his mother, it was bothering me. There was only one time when I sent Misha to the store to get something for me while I was cooking. He returned with an ice cream cake, our money for two weeks of our food ration gone. We divided the cake among all of the people who lived in both rooms of the apartment. This was the last straw for me. I canceled our contract and let Misha be on his own. Our living arrangements in the apartment remained the same, but I did not cook for him anymore. Meanwhile, we got a new tenant in our room. Another woman, approximately my age, joined us. Three of us shared the room up to the time of my departure.
The distance between Torvaianica and Rome was about 40 kilometers (25 miles), and there was bus transportation. I used the bus a few times. The ride was about 50 to 60 minutes. I did not go often, because the bus was usually packed with people and reminded me very much of the buses in the Soviet Union. Also, traveling by bus costs money I could not spare. Very soon I learned I could get to Rome by hitchhiking—every car driven by an Italian man would stop when they saw a young, pretty woman hitchhiking on the road. Several times I even hitchhiked with Misha. When the car stopped, I told the driver that he was my brother. I must say that most of the time Italians were very reckless drivers, and I felt uncomfortable in the car quite often.
I loved my outings to Rome. I enjoyed exploring the beautiful city where every stone has a history. Once or twice a month, all museums in Rome were free and I took advantage of this. Visiting the Colosseum, St. Peter’s Basilica, the museums of the Vatican, including the Sistine Chapel and the Trevi Fountain, to name a few, all became unforgettable experiences and cultural enrichment for me.
On the days when I was not traveling to Rome, I was discovering Torvaianica. Some items and events from my time there will be engraved in my memory forever.
For instance, there was a shoe and leather accessories store across from our apartment. In the Soviet Union, Italian shoes and leather accessories always were part of every woman’s desirable outfit, but they were difficult to get. In the store across the street was everything I could only dream about: elegant leather shoes, hand purses, belts. I visited the store quite often—not to buy, just to look. The store seemed to me big and exceptional. Years later, in 2001, Sparky and I traveled to Italy and visited Torvaianica. We found the beachfront apartment where I lived at the beginning of 1990 and a shoe store across the road. To my amusement, all at once, I saw an ordinary little store where I calmly browsed —it did not give me the excitement that it had in 1990. Perception is everything, and I was a very different person by 2001.
The main drag of Torvaianica with its famous Italian bakeries, restaurants, and shopping sprawled along the Mediterranean coast. On the snuggly, warm Italian evenings of January and February, I liked to stroll the street, window shopping and people watching. Italian people did not like to hold back their emotions—they laughed, they talked loudly, helping themselves with gestures, and I loved the music of the Italian language. I always stopped at the window of one particular bakery to examine all of the wonderful baked goods on display, though I could not afford to buy any. One of these baked goods was filled with a mix of rich semolina and ricotta cheese, and was a shell-shaped pastry called Sfogliatelle; Zeppole was another pastry consisting of a deep-fried dough ball dusted with powdered sugar and sometimes filled with various sweets; there was also biscotti, Venetian cookies, and hot chocolate cake—I could not take my eyes off of these beautiful culinary arts. One evening, the owner of the store, a middle-aged Italian man wearing a white chef’s coat and hat, with a lush body, dark mustache, and kind, laughing eyes, came out carrying a plate with a few biscotti and Venetian cookies and offered it to me to taste. Bewildered by his offer and the fact that he, probably, had been watching me evening after evening in front of his window, I did not have the strength to refuse his marvelous-looking, tasty Italian pastries.
Finally, the day came when I received a letter from the American Embassy in Rome with the invitation for the second and most important interview of my life. As I struggled with the English language then, I clearly understood the date and time of my interview, but I completely missed the location. Besides, I was pretty sure that there was only one location for the American Embassy in Rome and I knew where it was. But I was wrong.
The interview was scheduled for 12:00 p.m. I wanted to be collected and prepared. To eliminate any possibility of being late, I arrived at the American Embassy in Rome at 11:00 a.m. It was a sunny, beautiful, spring-like day; I lost myself for a short time (while waiting) on the fascinating streets of Rome. The sidewalk cafes were full of business people enjoying their lunch hours. I was thinking, “Is there going to be a time in my life when I, like them, can sit leisurely at a sidewalk cafe and have lunch? And feel myself as confident, relaxed, and happy as these people?” I wanted to believe that this time would eventually come in my life.
At about 11:45 a.m., I returned to the American Embassy expecting to soon be called by the guard. There was a good crowd of people waiting, like me, to be called. One by one they went inside until only I was left waiting. It was after 12:00 p.m. I got anxious—I began to wonder why I was not being called. I showed my paper to the guard. He explained to me (mostly by gestures and with some Italian phrases) that my interview was in a completely different location on the other side of the city. I was shocked. First, I had no money to get a taxi. Second, I thought my life was doomed. With this realization, I stood on the curb of the street in the center of Rome and sobbed bitterly. Tears rolled down my face.
Well, the Italian people did not easily tolerate this scene. Soon enough, a taxi stopped by me. The driver got out of the cab and asked me what had happened. Continuing to cry, I showed him my paper invitation for the interview and tried to explain to him that I had come to the wrong location. He looked at the paper and then at me and started vigorously gesticulating, pushing me inside his cab. Even inside the taxi, I could not stop crying. The driver turned around to me shouting some equivalent of “Shut up” in Italian. I became quiet. I realized he was going to drive me to the address where I needed to be. While he was driving, I feverishly thought about how I would pay for my ride as I had very little money in my pocket. But I was wearing a gorgeous silver ring with a gemstone on the ring finger of my left hand. The ring was handmade with an intricate Gothic design and a big, beautiful, pink, tourmaline stone—it was my favorite ring! I bought it during my vacation in Latvia, a country on the Baltic Sea—Latvia was a part of the Soviet Union from 1940 to 1991. I immediately decided to pay for my ride with the ring.
We arrived at the address of the second location of the American Embassy. I paid for the ride with the ring. The grounds of the Embassy were surrounded by a high fence and the gates were closed. I was not sure how I could get inside. However, the gates opened for an incoming cab and I just sneaked through the gates and ran towards the main building. I entered a room full of people waiting to be called for their interviews. My face was red, mascara smeared across my face, and my hair was messed up. Immediately, I heard my name being called. I walked into a smaller room where two men asked me questions. Then one man with reddish hair said to me how he had grown up in Buffalo, New York. He asked me if I knew how severe the winter could be in Buffalo. I said, “Probably not worse than in Siberia.” They both laughed. With this, my interview was over. From that point, I would have to wait for the Messenger at the Torvaianica square to call my name and give me an official paper with “Yes” or “No” written on it.
After two weeks or so, the Messenger at the 6:00 p.m. gathering at the Torvaianica square called my name. I was not nervous; for some reason, I was sure that it would be “Yes”. I calmly opened the envelope—there were dates for my flight from Rome to New York City. It was exciting news for me, and in anticipation of big changes in my life, I started to prepare myself for the trip.
About the Book
Camel from Kyzylkum is an award-winning memoir that chronicles the remarkable journey of immigrating from the Soviet Union during the late twentieth century. It delves into themes of hope, struggle, family, and loss, offering a profound exploration of the human spirit’s yearning for freedom and self-determination. Through the author’s compelling narrative, readers gain a deep insight into life within the Soviet Union and the immense sacrifices and risks individuals undertake in pursuit of a better life.
The memoir traces a gripping path from Ukraine to the Kyzylkum Desert in Uzbekistan, and onward through Austria, Italy, and finally America. Along this journey, the author navigates personal truths and aspirations, illustrating the resilience and determination required to forge a new path in unfamiliar lands.
Camel from Kyzylkum is not just a memoir; it’s a transformative narrative that opens doors to unfamiliar worlds, encouraging readers to broaden their perspectives and empathize with the challenges and triumphs of others. It stands as a testament to the enduring human spirit and the universal quest for identity and belonging.
About the Author
Born and schooled in Ukraine, Lara Gelya spent the next two decades in the Kyzylkum Desert of the Republic of Uzbekistan, working at geological sites and expeditions of the Mining Industry. At that time Ukraine and Uzbekistan were parts of one country — the Soviet Union.
In 1989 Lara left the Soviet Union, lived in Austria and Italy before she, at last, found her way to the United States in 1990. Starting her life from ground zero again, and trying on so many hats, she was able to make a lengthy professional career that led to her eventual retirement on the shores of sunny Florida.
Now, enjoying her retirement, Lara fills her days with enriching activities like writing, creating videos and pictures, reading, gardening, cooking, traveling, and immersing herself in nature or entertainment. Her diverse interests and active lifestyle after retirement show a deep appreciation for life’s pleasures and a continuing curiosity about the world around her.
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Story by Veena Verma, translated from Punjabi by C. Christine Fair
In the darkest of night, a black car was winding its way along the black, wide, and desolate roads of Germany like a snake. Only the sound of the wind broke the all-pervasive silence. The wind and the car seemed to be competing to outpace each other. Far away in the distance, a glimmer of light briefly appeared and then vanished like a firefly. The silence and darkness returned once more. The electricity poles on the side of the road appeared to be standing with their heads bowed in exhaustion, yawning forth a light so dim that Manjit couldn’t even make out the time on her watch.
But Manjit didn’t even bother looking at her watch. She didn’t know the date, the day, much less the time. She didn’t know whether this country’s time zone was ahead of or behind that of India. She only knew that she had left her home on the 25th of October. She didn’t even have a calendar to look at the dates. But nature had given women one way to know the passing of a month. But that clock gifted from nature had become broken along the way. Manjit seemed to bleed every third day.
Sitting in the car, with eyes half open, she looked at her fellow travelers. There was the Gujarati driver and a white man in the passenger seat. Manjit was in the back with her son, Dipu, who rested his head in her lap. Dipu was the only one she knew. Manjit didn’t know who the others were, where they were taking her, or which routes they were driving. She only knew that she would soon meet her husband, Harjit.
Harjit, to whom she had been married six years ago. After spending only two weeks together, Harjit returned to Germany after promising to take her to Germany soon. The two weeks spent with Harjit felt like two minutes. It was like a beautiful dream which disappeared once she opened her eyes. Harjit promised her that within two months at the most, she would be with him in Germany. But years had passed, and Harjit still hadn’t sent the paperwork to call Manjit to Germany. He only wrote once to say that up to now, he had not yet divorced his German wife. Manjit and her family remained silent.
The Bride by Amrita Shergil (1913-1941). From Public Domain.
In this silence, there was also regret. Why did they marry this tall, slender, beautiful Manjit at the tender age of 20 to Harjit, who was already married? Manjit was faultless. No one ever said anything bad about her character. After finishing the tenth grade in the village, her father arranged for her to do her BA in a hostel in Ludhiana. Pragat Singh lived for his daughter whose mother died while she was a child. She was only five years old and her brother was only one year old when their mother passed away from pneumonia. Pragat Singh brought his young children, wailing like birds, under his wing and accepted God’s will. His relatives tried very hard to get him a second wife, but Pragat Singh was not ready to hear this.
“I will not allow a stepmother to come into this home…My children will not be neglected. What happened has happened. If I had had any luck at all, why did my first wife die? My God will take care of me. My children will grow up. Manjit will leave my home. When Kulbir turns 16, I will get him married. Happiness will return to the house. I’ve lived my life. All of you should pray for my children’s well-being.” Whenever Pragit Singh spoke with sorrow in his voice, the entire family wept.
Manjit remembered everything. Even though she was only five years old at the time, she remembered her mother’s passing very well. Throughout her childhood, she carried this loss in her gut. Without a mother, Manjit had to grow up early. She had to care for her little brother. She had to cook food for her father. All of the household responsibilities fell on her. Even though she ostensibly had a large family, they did nothing to help her other than expressing their sympathies.
Passing the tenth grade was a major milestone for Manjit. She had passed with distinction. Pragat Singh was very excited.
“Who says that daughters are less than sons? My daughter is my son. I will make her a lawyer…” Pragat Singh said with pride.
“Excessive education spoils girls…Moreover, because of her education, finding a suitable boy for her will be difficult. It’s hard to marry off well-educated girls. If the girl becomes a lawyer, you’ll have to find a judge,” the relatives caviled.
“So according to your logic, I should dump my daughter on some run-of-the-mill boy? I am going to send her to America or Canada. There, my daughter will enjoy her life. What is there for her here? Here, she’ll just toil away her life.” Pragat Singh had such lofty dreams for his daughter. He wanted to do everything he could to make up for the fact that the children had no mother. He wanted to give them all manner of comforts.
He enrolled Manjit in a girls’ college in Ludhiana where she stayed in a hostel. Sorrow tempered her father’s nature. With Kulbir, her relationship was more like that of a friend. Both siblings shared their secrets freely with each other. Kulbir paid less attention to his studies. She advised him to focus more on his studies, but he would just shrug his shoulders in response.
One day Manjit grabbed his ear and asked, “What do you mean to say by this shoulder shrugging?”
“Sister…If you leave after completing your studies and if I become a government officer, then Father will be left alone. If we both leave, then people will steal our land.” Manjit was incredulous hearing such a profound thing from Kulbir’s tiny mouth.
“I don’t understand, Biri…” She called her brother Biri from childhood.
“Father is alone, sister…All night he is exhausted…He needs someone to help him…Even though he doesn’t say anything, how long can this go on? Moreover, sons are supposed to take over the responsibilities of the family. Daughters become the assets of another family. You have studied a lot. You’ve studied enough for both of us. I am going to stay with Father. I have no plans for further study.” Manjit sighed upon hearing her brother speak as if he were an old man. It seemed to her as if neither she nor her brother ever got to be children. Both had to become responsible as soon as they were born. Both siblings sat there for some time, sharing their sorrows.
From that point onwards, Manjit didn’t pressure Kulbir to study. Moreover, she was very happy when she got called home right before the holidays to go meet a girl for Kulbir.
Kulbir was married even though he hadn’t even passed the tenth grade. The sadness was lifted. Happiness returned to Pragat Singh’s house. The family had a new member and liveliness returned. Relatives visited the house more often. The empty place of a woman had been filled.
Manjit had completed her BA and preparations were underway to marry her off. But no boy met Pragat Singh’s expectations. The prospective grooms came and went, but each time he found some fault with them. The search stretched out. Finally, Pragat Singh’s brother-in-law, Baldev Singh, said that a boy had come to Ludhiana from Germany. He’s an engineer there. To live in Germany permanently, he married a white woman in a “paper marriage” but they lived separately, and they would get divorced. The boy came from so far to marry a special Punjabi girl. He’s a boy from a very good family. He’s an educated, good-looking, strapping young man. He had no shortage of prospects. But because Baldev was Manjit’s uncle he could persuade them not to see these other girls right away. If they were to take out a matrimonial advertisement in the newspaper, there would be a huge line of girls, and it wouldn’t take long for there to be a bidding war.
Pragat Singh began to think about the boy’s second marriage.
Pragat Singh asked, “My daughter is not lacking anything. Why would I marry her off to a boy who is already married?”
Baldev Singh explained, “Look, it’s different in other countries…No one is virtuous there. People get married to settle there permanently. These white women do not find our sons suitable nor do they suit our sons. My friend’s son did exactly this. He went to England and married a white woman. Then after paying her off, he left her. White women agree easily. They never stay with one man for long. Now that boy is very wealthy, and he has taken a bride from Kapurthala back with him. The girl did a double BA!”
“But what will people say?” Pragat Singh was not convinced.
“How can you convince them? You don’t need to tell anyone…The boy knows and you know…Do what suits you. Don’t make a big deal about it. Fulfil your responsibility while you are still alive. In the future, we don’t know what your son and daughter-in-law will do.” Baldev Singh instilled in him the fear of an unknown future.
“No! My son would never betray his sister…” Pragat Singh was hurt by his suggestion.
“You married off your boy. He’s no longer yours to control. For now, you are the boss of your household. Whether you spend five rupees or fifty. It’s your call. No one would dare question you. Moreover, finding a boy from this kind of family is very difficult. The boy is a gem. A total gem. He is beyond reproach. He even takes care to iron his underwear. For the sake of my dead sister, I don’t want my niece to get caught up in the ruses of a mother-in-law or a sister-in-law. In a foreign country, there won’t be such family fights. Both the husband and wife are educated. They can enjoy life. Here, even the best government employee doesn’t make in a month what this boy makes in a week. And this is not temporary work. He has houses and cars. What difference does it make if he married a white woman to live there permanently? If a jatt [1]has land and vigour, then he can marry twice in one year, during the March and July harvests. These days, no one is a saint like you.” Baldev Singh’s flattery brought a smile to Pragat Singh’s sad face which flickered for a moment then disappeared much like a lightning bolt flashing ever so briefly in a dark cloud.
“Okay. I’ll consider your suggestion. You should do as you like. You are family. My daughter is your daughter…But I am asking Manjit’s preference.” Pragat Singh laid down this condition.
“You talk to Manjit. And also get Kulbir’s views. Even though he’s younger, his opinion still matters. By the grace of God, Kulbir is happily married.” Baldev Singh said his peace and got up.
Even though Manjit never argued with her father, Pragat Singh still wanted to have her consent before taking such a big step. When he raised the issue of Harjit with her, she became very bashful.
“If your mother were still alive, I wouldn’t have to ask you about this or discuss this with you. She would have done this herself.” Today he remembered his wife for the first time in years and his eyes welled up in front of his children.
Bride’s Toilette, Painting by Amrita Shergil. From Public Domain
“Do whatever you want father.” Manjit, crying, hugged her father tightly.
They cried for a long time in each other’s embrace.
The next week, he brought Manjit to a friend of Baldev Singh’s to meet Harjit. Manjit kept her eyes lowered and didn’t look at Harjit. Harjit took a liking to the fair-complected, serious, and shy girl. Five days later, she was married to Harjit. Harjit, lacking vacation time, returned to Germany two weeks later. It didn’t seem like two weeks had passed. Manjit dropped Harjit off at the Delhi airport. She felt as if she had seen off her own soul. Only her body was returning. Harjit’s loving touch awoke her virginal body and aroused a thirst in her. Like the hot earth which, upon experiencing a sudden momentary burst of rain, becomes ever thirstier.
Manjit no longer felt at home in her village. What game is Mother Nature playing that she feels like a stranger in her own home?
“It’s a matter of a little time. Harjit will send the papers…Then this separation will be over.” She was trying to console herself and care for the keepsakes of Harjit’s love. But Harjit had left her a hidden gift that she would realise much later – Harjits’s child. This was the real token of his love. Upon learning of this, a wave of happiness swept over the entire family. Manjit went to Ludhiana for the sole purpose of informing Harjit of the good news via phone. Harjit was very happy to hear this news.
Manjit forthrightly told him “Call me soon as I don’t want to remain alone.”
“I also want this…but I am helpless…That bitch is obstinate. She says that she will leave me and have me deported. She isn’t divorcing me. Just be patient for a while. I will do something,” Harjit assured her.
It was like this every time. She would stay up until the middle of the night writing him letters. She told him about her anxieties, she wrote about their love, and their child. She asked him about a name for the child, told him about the village gossip questioning why she hadn’t gone to her in-law’s family, and the growing burden on her father. But every question got the same response, “I am helpless…The issues are still being sorted….”
Some time had passed. Manjit’s son Dipu, began to crawl. But the paperwork from Harjit still had not come. The hopes and aspirations with which Pragat Singh had married off his daughter failed to materialise. After four years of having his daughter sitting at his home, he began to feel fits of panic. On several occasions, he wrote to Harjit to say that even though there was no shortage of wealth in the house, it still didn’t look good to have his daughter at her parent’s home. But Harjit repeated the same story that he wanted to do something but couldn’t.
In the meantime, Kulbir had two daughters. His wife, who had been an adolescent girl, grew into a woman and she began to rule the house indirectly. That very sister-in-law who out-danced everyone in the village at her wedding now did not speak with her politely. Leave aside not having conversations, she found a way to taunt her even in basic matters. She wasn’t half as smart or attractive as Manjit. But a woman whose husband loves her is the queen. The world will bow down to a woman—howsoever ugly or moronic she may be–if her husband values her. But even the most useless man will consider a woman who is beautiful and intelligent to be irrelevant if her husband is not with her. In our society, a man is like a woman’s identity card without which she cannot be identified.
Manjit was an intelligent girl. She very well understood her husband’s compulsions and her father’s responsibilities. So, she made a compromise with time and quietly waited for the papers to be sent from Harjit. She could tolerate all of this. But she couldn’t tolerate Kulbir’s avoidance and silence. Kulbir’s nature had completely changed in the last two years. Her little brother had been a friend. They spent their childhood laughing and playing together. They supported each other in times of sorrow. Now, he didn’t speak to her. He never spoke to her son Dipu nicely– as if he were some illegitimate child. And he didn’t speak that much with Father either. He usually spent his time away and the rest of the time with his wife.
Harjit occasionally sent a bit of money. But Pragit Singh forbade her from spending that money on expenses and told her to save it. Harjit sent clothes for Dipu a few times but Kulbir’s wife burned with jealousy. When her eldest daughter insisted upon wearing new clothes, she would drag her and punch her.
“Your father did not go to Germany…We are villagers…We have to make do with the little we have. I am not going to pamper my girls. I won’t let them become lawyers….” The sister-in-law let out her frustration that had been festering for several days.
“Sister-in-law, why do you beat your daughter? It makes no difference to me whether she or Dipu wear the clothes. Both are the same.” Manjit took her sister-in-law’s hand.
“How can they be the same? He has a rich father…His father seems to be some bigshot and her father toils all day in the soil. This will spoil the girls. There’s no question of me pampering my girls. I’m going to keep them on the straight and narrow otherwise they’ll make my life hell. We are already screwed because we haven’t sorted out the previous problem and we can’t bear more difficulties. My husband can’t sleep at all at night…” The sister-in-law, having made a mountain out of a molehill, went inside.
It seemed to Manjit that her sister-in-law wasn’t taunting her but simply speaking the truth. She hadn’t realised that Kulbir wasn’t her little brother anymore; rather, he was now the father of two daughters. The burden of Manjit wasn’t just born by her father or Kuldip but by the entire family. And not just by the family, but the entire village. And maybe by the entire country, whose culture views women as a burden or the wealth of another family. Perhaps, Harjit had forgotten his culture having settled in Germany. This was perhaps why he had become irresponsible.
Several such incidents made Manjit feel uneasy. Silence spread across the house. It was as if everyone was sulking at each other. Dipu began going to school. He went along with Kulbir’s daughters. Manjit never dropped him off at school. She had stopped leaving the house because people would pepper her with questions.
One asked, “Girl! Do you have any clue about your husband?”
Another said, “We know about those who live abroad…They do what suits them. We heard that he keeps a white woman. What was the need for your father to make this mess by marrying you off to someone so far away? Were there no boys in the Punjab?”
Because Manjit didn’t have the courage to leave the house, she remained inside. She kept her face hidden like a thief. Pragat Singh began to fall ill. His body was not robust to begin with. But the sorrow of his daughter devastated him. He was bedridden. Manjit’s heart sank when she saw him.
One day, Pragat Singh and Kulbir were engrossed in an argument about something. Just two days before, Manjit had gone to her friend’s home in Ludhiana to call Harjit. Upon her return, no one spoke to her.
“Have you done anything for Manjit or not, father?” This was perhaps the first time that Kulbir spoke to their father in a loud voice.
“What should I do, son? The boy turned out to be a duffer. We took a risk with this second marriage…” Pragat Singh took a deep sigh.
“The boy turned out to be a good-for-nothing. Are there no other boys in the world? Marry her off somewhere…” Kulbir’s patience had run out.
“How can we marry her off? What will people say?” Pragat Singh understood his son’s predicament.
“What are people already saying? You are always inside the house. I’m the one who has to interact with them. It’s going to be six years of her living here. In the future, I’ll have to marry off my daughters.” Kulbir was worried about his daughters’ futures.
“It’s not a big deal. Six years have passed by. So will another four. If he doesn’t call her, then he’ll return. Where will a woman with a child get a second husband?” Pragat Singh began coughing.
“So, you keep her for four more years. I can’t care for her. She frequently goes to Ludhiana. People are talking shit about us. So how long can you keep her here? Until her hair goes grey? Then you’ll marry her off? Right now, you should find someone who has been married twice or even thrice. But you won’t like any of them. You said, ‘My daughter will be a magistrate.’ Has the women’s revolution come? Yet, you gave her more education. Even though our relatives objected to more education, you did what you wanted. Even now if I say something, you are unwilling to listen. You, like mom, are going to die. But I’m the one who has to deal with the problems. If in the future she does something that disgraces us, who will we blame?” Kulbir seemed to be trying to find a solution.
Pragat Singh sat there thinking quietly.
“I am going to call your uncle. You don’t worry. First, we’ll hear what advice he has. He was the middleman.” Pragat Singh wanted to calm the situation.
“Forget this useless uncle. This is his mess. This son-of-a-bitch has never even visited. After getting us wrapped up in this bad marriage, he has stepped aside.” Kulbir abused his uncle profusely.
“It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry. Tomorrow, I am going to send someone to Tutian Ali village to call Baldev Singh,” Pragat Singh said calmly.
“Why will you send someone? I am going to Tutian Ali myself to get that bastard.” Kulbir got up.
And the next day, at the break of dawn, he brought Baldev Singh on his motorcycle.
The three men went on arguing for some time. After considerable discussion, Baldev promised to do something quickly and then left.
Even though Manjit didn’t hear everything, she sensed that something important would happen. She was like a bird in the forest who seeing the direction of the wind can predict a storm.
A few days later, Baldev returned and explained that an agent who lived in Jalandhar would illegally deliver Manjit to Germany for Rs 5 lakhs. Once she reached Germany, she could apply for political asylum just as others did. She could live there till Harjit got his divorce and they could live together.
At first, Pragat Singh was not amenable to this. But, seeing no other way, he relented. When Kulbir and his wife learned about the amount of 5 lakhs, they made it clear that they were not going to pay for it. From that point onward, neither spoke to the father or the uncle. Upon hearing this, Manjit felt as if finally, there was a glimmer of hope in her dark world.
When they discussed this with Harjit, he refused.
Harjit explained, “Coming here through an agent is very dangerous. Women are raped by them. How can a woman come like this? Moreover, she has a child with her.”
“The legendary lovers of the Punjab, Sassi and Sohni, took even greater risk to cross rivers to meet their lovers. I will be coming by plane. Don’t worry. It’s become very difficult for me to live here now. I can’t explain everything on the phone. With great difficulty, God has given us this opportunity.” Manjit choked up as she made her appeal. Harjit relented.
“It’s fine. Do as you wish. I won’t stop you.” Harjit gave the green signal.
Pragat Singh immediately agreed without seeking the advice of the pandit. After speaking with his brother-in-law, Baldev, Pragat Singh sold some land and arranged the 5 Lakhs to give to the agent. He didn’t ask Kulbir. However, he did inform him that by selling Manjit’s share of the land, he had fulfilled his obligation. Hearing Kulbir use such hurtful words for his sister, Pragat Singh felt aggrieved, and he wanted to do anything to bring back happiness to his depressed and hapless daughter.
“Why should this poor girl be punished for our mistakes? I feel like I have had two daughters. I spent five lakhs for the marriage of my second daughter. Parents will do anything to settle a daughter in her own home.” God knows how Pragat Singh managed to summon such confidence despite being ill and frail.
Manjit knew that her brother and sister-in-law would be angry when they heard about selling the land. But there were no other options available. She hesitated to speak to her brother. But a woman could understand a woman’s pain. So, she tried to explain everything clearly to her sister-in-law.
“Sister-in-law, I don’t know why I am so unfortunate that my father had to sell ancestral land to reunite me with my husband. But all of these things are on my mind. This is a loan to me and to Harjit. When I reach, I will return every cent.” Manjit felt like a criminal.
“Sister-in-law, go to your in-laws even if you have to take the earrings off my ears to do it. It’s not a loan. Educated girls take their equal share. Had Harjit intended to send money, he would have done it a long time before. Why does he need to do this? Harjit has artfully extracted his share of the land. Fine. It’s finished. We’ll make do. Father must also be very happy that he gave his daughter her share. But he never even spoke with us politely about this.” Manjit lost her courage to discuss things further when her sister-in-law spoke rudely, nostrils flaring.
She didn’t want there to be a conflict in the house because of her. Whatever relationship that she still had with her brother would also be lost. With a heavy heart, she swallowed her tears so that her father wouldn’t know what she was suffering.
Kesar Singh, the agent, was given Rs 4 lakhs. The remaining one lakh was promised to be handed over once Manjit reached Germany. Dipu, who from childhood had picked up on the idea of flying, would see a plane flying in the sky and say “Daddy’s plane has come! I am going to see Daddy!” With her child in her lap, Manjit said her final goodbyes to her village. In the middle of the night, she left her beloved village, like a thief.
“Father, we will come back soon.” She placed her head upon her father’s chest as he lay upon the bed.
Pragat Singh began to wail. He took $500 and some jaggery from underneath his pillow and gave it to his daughter and grandson as a blessing.
“Child, if your mother were alive…” His pillow was soaked with tears.
“Father, my sister-in-law and mother are the same. Don’t you worry about me. Both Kulbir and my sister-in-law have taken very good care of me.” Manjit paid her respects to her brother and sister-in-law who were standing nearby.
Pragat Singh took a deep sigh. Manjit picked up Dipu and left the house.
She had no idea when she left her house how long her journey would be or even how she would know when she reached her destination. The agent, Kesar Singh, had her passport delivered with a visa for Moscow. Kesar Singh’s man would take her from here. At the Moscow airport, she hid herself among the other passengers and came outside. Standing outside the airport she was looking everywhere frantically. For some 15 minutes or so, she stood there waiting for the agent’s man but no one came. She didn’t have a lot of luggage. She had only three suits for herself and three for Dipu in a handbag. The agent explained that she shouldn’t take a lot of luggage because she would have to walk along the way.
Just as she was thoroughly exhausted and thinking about sitting upon the ground, a South Asian man passed by her.
“You are Manjit, right?,” the man asked discretely.
Upon hearing her name, Manjit was startled. But she quickly got a hold of herself and nodded her head affirmatively.
He instructed, “Follow behind me slowly. Don’t arouse suspicion.” He then slipped in front of her.
Manjit put Dipu down to walk, and they began to slowly follow the man. Outside the airport, a white car was waiting, driven by a white man. When the South Asian man went and sat in the car, she picked up Dipu and walked briskly to the car. She climbed inside and sat Dipu on her lap. The car started with a jerk and took off slowly like a bullock cart.
Manjit looked outside the window. people with strange faces and clothes roamed about. Store sign boards were written in Russian, which she didn’t understand. She prayed to God and sat quietly with her son in her lap.
They arrived at some desolate place and stopped in front of a building. When the old, rusty door opened, a foul odor filled the air. Manjit was seated in a room on the second floor. In the room, there was only one bed, a desk, and a chair. Manjit laid the sleeping Dipu on the bed and began looking for water to wash her hands and face.
The South Asian man explained, “There’s a shared kitchen here, Madam…Boys in your situation are staying in the adjoining rooms. I mean those with illegal papers.”
Confused, Manjit responded, “Illegal? But Uncle Kesar arranged my papers…These are genuine…”
“In our profession, no one has an uncle. Agents and goldsmiths don’t even spare their own fathers…. How did you get this wrong impression?” The man gave a lecherous laugh, his black, filthy teeth glimmered like watermelon seeds.
Manjit was in disbelief. “This is fraud,” she said in English.
“Don’t speak English. You will get caught…And if you get caught, four other men will suffer along with you…Sit here quietly. The kitchen and the bathroom are below. You go and wash your face and hands, and I will bring you something to eat.” And as he was leaving, Manjit handed him Dipu’s empty milk bottle.
“Oh. I forgot to tell you my name…People call me Tony…But this is my fake name, just like your passport.” As soon as Tony said this, Manjit’s whole body began to tremble.
After Tony left, she locked the door to the room. Not only did she not go downstairs to wash her hands and face, but she didn’t even as much as turn on the lights in her room. She shivered as she sat in the darkness.
About an hour later, Tony returned with things to eat and drink.
He was worried. “Something terrible has happened.”
“What happened…?” She also became concerned.
“Because your visa is fake your name is not showing up in the computer at the embassy here. The embassy people told me to bring the woman because they are starting a case.” Tony sat down with his head in his hands.
Fearfully, she stood up from the bed. “Now what will happen?”
“Who knows what will happen…We have a man working in the embassy. I have just returned from meeting him. He is on his way here. Look, maybe this will get sorted out…The man is very useful…If he uploads your name in the computer somehow…Otherwise….” Concerned, Tony shook his head.
“Otherwise, what will happen?” Manjit went and stood next to him.
Tony laid out the possible punishments. “The police will capture you. Jail is also possible. They may send you back to India…and you may spend seven years in jail here. They’ll send your kid to an orphanage…”
“No…No…This cannot happen.” Manjit let out a shriek.
“Shut up, you crazy bitch! You’re going to get caught and you’re going to get me caught.” Tony got up and put his hand over her mouth to muffle her sounds and he put the other hand on her back.
“This can’t happen.” Manjit shook her head in disbelief.
“Why can’t it happen? Everything is possible. In the underworld, everything is possible.” Tony removed his hand from her mouth but not from her back.
An idea came to Manjit’s mind. “Can I call my husband or the uncle in India?”
“I thought you’re an intelligent and educated women. But you seem like a complete moron. Where are you going to find a phone here? What if the police record your voice on the phone? You will bring this trouble upon yourself.” Tony expressed sympathy.
Manjit, out of options, asked him, “So…what should I do?”
“Look. I’m not nuts. I am worried about you. This guy is coming, Peter. He can do a lot of things. If he manages to understand the problem, then he will sort it out. Guaranteed.” Tony grabbed her and sat her down on the bed.
Manjit asked, “How should he understand?”
“Bas[2]. Just watch what is going on…” As Tony elaborated, there was a knock on the door.
“Look, he’s here.” Tony ran to open the door.
A short, obese man entered. It was hard to tell from his colour whether he was white or South Asian. He sat down as he blew smoke from his cigar. He stared at Manjit and then at Dipu, who suddenly got up from his sleep. Seeing the situation, Tony picked up Dipu and carried him outside.
Manjit was stunned. Peter got up from the chair and sat her on the bed. Manjit was terrified and tried to get up, but he had pinned down her arms.
“Sit up. Don’t worry.” When Peter spoke Punjabi, Manjit sighed relief.
“I…I…I…am very tired…I want to relax.” She began to sense some looming danger.
“Don’t make such a fuss. There is no shortage of women in Russia. I have come here only to help you because you are an Indian girl. I have an obligation to help out my own people because no one over here is going to look after us.” When Peter spoke, Manjit could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“I don’t need any help.” Manjit pushed him and she ran towards the door.
“Don’t be so stupid, girl. You entered this country illegally. It’s very rare to come across Indian girls here. If anyone gets suspicious, you’ll get caught. You need a visa for Germany, and you need papers.” Peter pulled back her dupatta.
“I don’t need anything…” Manjit tried to open the door, but it was locked from the outside.
Manjit threatened, “I am going to scream and call the others for help.”
“Screaming happens every day here. No one will bother. Everyone here is a thief. Illegal immigrants like you. They value their lives.” Rather than kowtowing to her threat, he scared the shit out of her.
Manjit felt as if she were imprisoned. She banged her head on the door with all her might then she began to wail.
“Don’t be foolish. In life, nothing happens exactly as a person wants. You have to give something to get something. I am with you…I’m going to help you cross over…” Peter forcefully took her into his embrace and turned off the light in the room.
Helpless and in tears, Manjit sat on the floor with her head in her knees. Peter did not force her onto the bed. He satisfied his lust on the foul-smelling carpet on the floor. Leaving Manjit lying on the floor, he took a key from his pocket and opened the door then put on his coat and went outside.
Injured, Manjit stood up and began looking everywhere for something with which she could take her life. Amidst the things on the table, she glimpsed a long knife. She had just picked up the knife when the door opened, and Dipu came in alone.
“Mommy…” Dipu yelled. The knife fell from Manjit’s hand.
“Mommy. Uncle has given me so many toys…” Dipu showed her a large packet which he held in his small hands.
“My son…If you hadn’t been born, I would have killed myself. How can I go to your father being disgraced like this?” Manjit hugged her son and began to sob.
“Mother, who beat you?” It was very difficult for little Dipu to understand his mother’s suffering.
“No one, son.” Manjit collected her wits.
While feeding Dipu, she thought that some way or another, she would hand over Dipu to Harjit to whom he belonged. After this, nothing else would matter. What had she done with her life? She was living only for Dipu. Otherwise, given all that happened after her marriage, she would have killed herself somehow to remove the burden from her father’s mind. She tried to move on from the rape that had happened. Then she wiped her eyes and began to put Dipu to sleep.
That night, Tony did not return. She spent the entire night awake. The next morning, Tony returned with fresh milk and bread. Manjit wanted to smash Tony’s head with a brick. Tony understanding her mental condition went downstairs with eyes glancing downward to make tea. After some time, he came upstairs. He had a smile on his face.
“Your situation will be sorted out, Madam.” Tony said in a conciliatory tone of voice.
But Manjit did not respond. She looked in Tony’s direction with fury in her eyes. With that same, old lustful smirk, he began to pour the tea into the cups.
“Whatever was meant to happen, has happened…Take this tea. Wash your face and hands and change your clothes…Take a look at how ugly you look.
“Your man lives in a country of white women… Where women stand beneath streetlights and call men with a gesture of their hand. How did your husband pick you, such low-grade stuff?” When Tony exceeded all limits of indecency, Manjit could no longer control herself.
“What do you know about my husband, you bastard? When I tell him of your misdeeds, he will eat you alive.” Abuses shot from Manjit’s mouth like bullets.
“You are going to tell your husband? About my misdeeds? From where has this brave man come who will eat me alive? If he had any feelings for you, why didn’t he come and get you himself? Why are you going through an agent?” Tony laughed sarcastically.
“He had to…” Manjit began to say something but quickly stopped herself.
“Compulsion is just an excuse. Here, men sleep around with dozens of women. What do you know about your husband? What will you get by telling him? Your honour is in your hands. Moreover, no man in this world would keep a woman in his house who has slept with strange men. You’ll just create problems for yourself. You’ll pay the price.” Tony’s words silenced Manjit.
For some time, she went on thinking in silence.
“You don’t worry. You are a married woman. Here, we don’t abandon unmarried girls. What will come of you? So, has anyone compromised your virginity? After all, you have a kid…Who will ever know? Your sacrifice will not go wasted. Take a look. I bought your papers from Peter. You’ll be allowed to travel onwards.” Tony withdrew the paperwork from his pocket.
A sparkle returned to Manjit’s sad eyes. Having forgotten all of her pain and sorrow, she began to eat a biscuit with her tea.
“What else is going to happen to me?” Manjit made herself get up to go to the bathroom to wash her face and hands.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw that what Tony said was true. Her face looked haggard. Looking at herself carefully after so many months, she sobbed. Her face was gaunt. Her eyes were sunken with dark circles appearing all around them.
Her face had become skeletal. The veins in her long neck were clearly visible. Her body was emaciated. The darkness of her sorrows snatched her rosy glow and left her face sallow. Her one-expressive face had become a portrait of despair. Her youth had faded.
“Sorrow and anguish consume a person…,” she said to her reflection in the mirror then she washed her hands and face.
Deep inside a person, no matter how despondent and defeated by life they may feel, there is still some glimmer of life that illuminates a path out of this darkness. This is where Manjit was. Somehow, her heart told her that there would be an end to her misery. She, like an ordinary woman, would reach her husband’s house and forget all of her hardships. Holding this thought, she spent the whole day playing with Dipu. Just like a person, who after sustaining an injury is weak but healed by nature and rebounds twice as strong to face down challenges, Manjit too resolved to ford this difficult path.
“What was to happen, has happened. What was my fault?” Holding this thought, she began trying to forget the incident of that night.
She was asleep at midnight when she felt something moving on her chest. Fear seized her breath. When she opened her eyes and looked, she saw Tony stretched out next to her, his right hand exploring her body.
“Bastard.” Manjit grabbed his hand and twisted it.
“Don’t speak loudly, Madam. People outside will hear,” Tony whispered.
“Let them hear, you prick. Get out of my room.” Manjit, with all of her strength, kicked him in the legs.
“Stop it…Stop it. It’s not good to get so angry. Am I any worse than Peter? If Peter could enjoy himself, what’s your problem with me taking a turn?” Tony didn’t mind her kicks of rage and smiled, revealing those black teeth.
“That happened once,” Manjit clarified.
“If it happened once, then what’s the problem with it happening again and again?” Tony now began to show his manliness. He tore Manjit’s clothes. Manjit was helpless and looking all around. Tony spread a blanket out on the floor and put Dipu to sleep. Manjit was grateful that at least her child was not watching him violate her.
But Manjit’s wish would not remain fulfilled for long. On the third day, Tony came with two other men, Pala and Narman.
“These are our men, and they will take you across the border with Russia…” Tony introduced them to her.
Upon seeing these men, Manjit didn’t like them. One could see the debauchery in their eyes. Then Manjit began to shake with some unknown fear. A woman, no matter how simple she may be, is an expert in reading the eyes of men. And Manjit set out on that path where there was no dignity or honour. She put Dipu to sleep then she took a blanket and tried to sleep. The loud drunken laughter coming from the other room kept her awake.
A while later, Pala came into her room and dragged her out from underneath the blanket. He was the rape champion. He didn’t let Manjit put up the slightest resistance and, like Peter, gave evidence of manliness on the floor of the room. When Pala had exhausted himself, Narman came. He couldn’t speak a word of Punjabi, but every torturer understands the language of cruelty and how to use it. Narman was not unfamiliar with this language. This happened repeatedly throughout the night. As if both men had decided their turns. Inside, Manjit had lost her will to say anything. She was not prepared for these sudden assaults.
The next day, Tony stayed with her the entire day. Because of the incident the night before, whatever hesitation he had was now gone. Now he violated Manjit in front of Dipu. If Dipu cried, he threatened to turn him over to the police. Several days passed like this. So, when Tony finally handed over the paperwork to travel onwards, Manjit could not believe it. Tony took four hundred dollars from her, claiming that it was for purchasing things and bribing onward agents.
“Take these jeans and top and put it on. You’ll get caught in Indian clothes.” And then he told her to change her clothes.
The next day, Pala and Narman put her on the train going to Budapest. The long trip took two days and nights and was exhausting. But at all times, on the train, there were checkers and other passengers. Because of this, she was not afraid of those two sadists. At the border with Hungary, the railway employees gathered the passports which, upon reaching Budapest, were returned.
Once they reached Budapest, Pala and Narman dropped her off at a flat and returned.
“So be it. I escaped that hell,” Manjit consoled herself.
According to what Paul said, two men going by the names of Ali and Makhan would facilitate her border crossing into Austria that evening. Manjit stretched out on the sofa and began waiting for these two strange men.
It was now quite dark but the two men had not come. Manjit felt restless. She didn’t know where she was, their ages or even what they looked like. But it turns out that she didn’t have to wait much longer. Around nine o’clock at night, the door to the flat opened and the two young men came in together. One was dark complexioned and the other was wheatish.
Manjit sat up on the sofa.
“It’s okay. Be comfortable. You can stay where you were,” the dark-complexioned man said.
The two men looked at each other and made secretive gestures. Manjit saw everything and ignored it. She had become used to tolerating such filthy gazes and rapacious behavior. The two of them went into the kitchen and began warming something. Then they took out a bottle of booze and put it on the table. The dark one, Ali, filled two glasses with alcohol and offered some to Manjit.
“No.” Manjit answered with hatred.
“Makhna. You take this,” Ali yelled at Makhan who was standing in the kitchen.
“No. I am not drinking,” Makhan answered from the kitchen.
“Drink it, bastard! If you drink, you’ll have the courage to act.” Ali picked up the glass and went to give it to him in the kitchen.
Ali returned and put Manjit’s neck in his right arm and kissed her for a long time. Manjit did not resist. It was as if she had lost the power to fight back. Dipu got up and began to play with the brass statues on the shelf. He had become accustomed to seeing everything.
“You do not have a visa for Austria. The police are very strict here…,” Ali began to strike fear in Manjit’s heart.
“I know. I do not have a visa. I know how strict the police are. However strict they are, compared to animals like you, they will be gentle…” Manjit suddenly boiled with rage.
Ali and Makhan looked in her direction in bewilderment.
“What do you want to say, girl?” Ali asked in an annoyed voice.
“Why are all of you dogs all alike?” Manjit’s voice was also piqued.
“From which jackal and wolf-infested jungle have you come? You should be grateful that they didn’t chew on your bones or your kid’s.” Ali’s eyes had the sparkle of a butcher, and he grabbed Manjit by her braid and yanked it hard. Manjit let out a cry and even Dipu began to cry out of fear. Ali slapped Manjit on the face two or three times and grabbing her braid dragged her into the other room.
Ali said “We have become bored with white meat. These days, we rarely get any Indian women.” He then rendered Manjit helpless and threw her on the bed.
“Makhan’s turn came after Ali’s. Then came Ali’s turn, then Makhan’s. Both of them repeatedly did their duty.
After abusing her like this for some time, Ali demanded one hundred dollars from her so that he could give it to the agent who would take her onward. Manjit withdrew the last one hundred dollars from her bag and handed it to him. In the evening, Ali put her in a car and took her to the snow-covered mountains ahead. Before getting out of the car, he gave some instructions to Manjit.
“The next station after this will be your husband’s house. Once you’ve reached there, you should not talk about us. Even we have a reputation. You also will be disgraced. For this reason, you should forget everything that has happened during your journey.” Then he handed her over to Jack, the driver of the Sky Train, and left.
Jack took her to a guest house. He then said something in an unknown language to the older white woman sitting at the reception and they both laughed. Manjit could neither understand anything nor did she want to.
At night, Jack came to make use of his manliness. Manjit laid quietly on the bed like a corpse.
The next evening, Jack took her on foot along the twisting mountainous route. Ahead there was a dense forest and the darkness of night. But Jack wanted to make her cross the border at midnight, when the soldiers on guard would change shifts at midnight. They spent several hours walking along the uneven path. Both were ready to drop due to the cold and exhaustion. Both took turns carrying Dipu, who was asleep.
“Look! There is Germany…” Jack signaled towards the wire fencing ahead.
Manjit looked ahead with wide eyes as if she were searching for her lost destination in the darkness.
“We must crawl under this wire. There is a current running through it twenty-four hours a day. If it is touched by you ever so slightly, you will be caught.” Jack warned her of the dangers.
She hesitated for a moment.
Jack warned her, “Do it quickly. Otherwise, I will leave you here and go back.” Then she gathered her courage and laid herself out in the crevice that had been excavated beneath the wire. She squeezed herself through to the other side on her back. Jack handed her Dipu in the same way, then ran towards the dark forest.
Manjit, without wasting a single minute, turned towards the left following Jack’s instruction. Around five hundred feet ahead, there was a black car waiting for her in the darkness. Without giving it much thought or consideration, she got into the car. The Gujarati driver started the car without even turning around to look.
As the car sped up, Manjit’s memories came flooding back just as rapidly. She remembered each and every moment of her life like some story. Only she knew what had happened to her, what she had suffered, and what she endured in silence. She could tell no one. She was contemplating the deep extent of a woman’s suffering. She worships like a God the very one who destroys her. She wasn’t even considered worthy of explaining the reality of these so-called gentlemen who have been appointed the caretakers of society. If she were to say the slightest thing in protest of their cruelties, she would be punished. Society would boycott her. She would be exiled from the homes of her father and husband, and the mark of the stigma would always be a target on her forehead. Perhaps fearing this, she would tolerate all of the abuse quietly and would not share her agony.
Up to this point, she had endured in silence. Her heart had already been crushed in her own country, where people and her relatives taunted her and ruined her life. Without any other option, she had to set upon this dangerous path. Otherwise, somehow or the other, she would have remained waiting for Harjit her entire life. She had no objection. But in this way, she was kicked out of her village.
Physically, she had been eviscerated by the monsters of this unknown land. Monsters who roamed around everywhere in the guise of men, whose hunger could only be sated by the flesh of women. They didn’t leave any meat on her body. Ali was correct when he said that if they could, they would chew on her bones. There was no part of her body that did not have the marks of the teeth and nails of those monstrous beasts. Even now, she felt their rough hands probing her body as if they wanted to tear away her flesh. Who knew which hand belonged to whom? There were so many hands, and they all felt the same. It was as if they weren’t fingers on her entire body, but lizards slithering. Filthy lizards, under whose stench, the fragrance of the beautiful moments spent with Harjit were vitiated.
She was thinking about Harjit when she recalled with great intensity all of those incidents that happened to her.
“Should I tell Harjit about this?” she asked herself.
“No. You’ll just cause problems for yourself.” Tony’s words were ringing in her ears.
“How can one keep such an enormous truth away from the man with whom one will spend her entire life?” she asked of the darkness.
“In the entire world, there has never been a man born who will let a woman who has been with another man in his house.” Ali’s eyes glimmered in the dark.
“Then what should I do?” Worried, she clutched her bag.
She found a packet of hard cane sugar, which her father had given her for good luck. She felt as if her hands had frozen.
“When your father comes to know your story, he will kill himself by eating poison. Harjit won’t keep you…How will you go — having left Dipu alone in this cruel world? You have seen the savagery and reality of this world. For this reason, you will remain quiet. Leave the decision in the hand of God…Women tolerate anything to preserve the honour of the family.” The packet grabbed her hand.
“So be it…If this ever gets out, then I will explain to Harjit that I destroyed myself for his son. If it hadn’t been for Dipu, she would have ended her story by leaping into a well in the village. Maybe Harjit will forgive me. He is so educated and gentle. If he cannot understand my pain, then curse this life.” Thinking about this, she began her journey quietly like a train that would stop at several stations, and travelers would get on and off continuing forward towards its final destination.
“In just ten minutes, we will deliver you to your husband.” The Gujarati driver said in Hindi, breaking the silence.
Manjit’s heart began to pound hard and her hands and feet began to tremble. Her mouth was dry. She ran her hands over her hair and fixed her chunni[3].
“Have I really reached my husband’s country? What will be the first words I say to him?” But Harjit wouldn’t let her say anything. He would run to her and bring her into his arms in front of everyone…Maybe he’d even forget Dipu…But she would stop him herself to say, “Take care of your child. With great difficulty, I cared for him these last five years. Now it’s your turn.” All of this seemed to be a dream.
Suddenly the car stopped with a jerk beneath an electricity poll. Manjit looked outside from the window. Some man was standing there with his hands inside the pockets of a leather jacket. Manjit watched with great attention. This was indeed Harjit. He got a little heavier and perhaps this was why she didn’t recognise him.
The driver got out of the car and was talking with Harjit for some time. Manjit began to feel anxious. Why was Harjit taking so long? Why hasn’t he come over to open the door and embrace her? When Manjit could no longer control herself, she slowly opened the door and came outside. Outside there was a frigid wind blowing and her chunni flew off, but Manjit didn’t realise this. Taking soft steps, she approached Harjit and the Gujarati man.
“Who is this,” Harjit asked in surprise.
“This is your wife…,” the Gujarati said happily.
“My wife? Dude, you have brought me the wrong woman. This is not my wife…” Harjit said worriedly.
“Believe me, sir… This is your wife. Look carefully.” The Gujrati was very distressed.
“Do you think that I am looking at my wife for the first time? She is very beautiful. Here. Look at her picture…” Harjit took his wallet from his pocket.
Manjit saw that Harjit was showing the photo of her when she was a maiden with two braids in which she is standing holding a book to her chest…a young girl.
Manjit wanted to say something, but the words would not come out.
“You certainly should be able to recognise your child?” The driver wanted to give more proof.
“When the wife isn’t mine, how can the kid be mine? Go. Go make an idiot of someone else…,” Harjit said in a stern voice and quickly went and sat in his car parked on the other side of the road.
“You…You. Please listen to me.” The driver ran behind him.
But Harjit, with a jolt, turned his car around and disappeared in a plume of smoke.
Just as Harjit’s car turned around, Manjit’s mind began to spin… She felt dizzy, and everything around her seemed to be spinning. It was as if the entire universe was spinning…Manjit lost her footing. Before the driver could do anything, she fell to the ground.
[1] Jat here refers to a person from the farming community. It also could be the caste of the boy
Veena Verma is a Punjabi short story writer based in UK. She has brought out three anthologies of short stories.
C. Christine Fair, the translator, is a professor in Georgetown University’s Security Studies Program. Her books include In Their Own Words: Understanding the Lashkar-e-Tayyaba (OUP 2019); Fighting to the End: The Pakistan Army’s Way of War (OUP, 2014); and Cuisines of the Axis of Evil and Other Irritating States (Globe Pequot, 2008). Her translations of Hindi, Urdu and Punjabi stories have appeared in the Bombay Literary Magazine, Bombay Review, Muse India, Kitaab, The Punch Magazine, and Borderless Journal. She reads, writes and speaks Punjabi, Hindi, and Urdu.
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Lya Badgley’s life reads like an exotic adventure book you can’t put down, but she writes plot-driven suspense about women overcoming life-changing odds, against a backdrop of global conflict. In this interview, she shares her views about creativity, courage, persistence and resilience.
You’ve had an interesting life – how often do people say that to you? How do you tell the story of your life in a short elevator pitch?
I’ve been very lucky to have had choices – many do not. That said, being born in Myanmar to Montana parents, was a good start. From Seattle’s arts scene to documenting war crimes in Cambodia and opening a restaurant in Yangon, my life experiences fuel my creativity. I’ve been a mother, a former city council member, and an environmental activist and now write novels drawing deeply from my lived experiences.
So, you were born in Yangon, Myanmar. How did your parents from the Rocky Mountains come to be in Burma? What are your first memories from there?
My parents discovered the wider world when my father was stationed in northern Japan during the Korean War. They fell in love with Asia, and he went on to dedicate his life to academia, earning a doctorate in political science. They first arrived in Burma (Myanmar) in the late 1950s. One of my earliest memories is coming home from kindergarten in up-country Burma and telling my mother that all the children spoke English in class. Astonished, she accompanied me to school the next day, only to find that the children were speaking Burmese. I had simply assumed it was English. To this day, I love languages.
What kind of environment did your parents create which encouraged your creativity?
My mother was a true artist, always encouraging me to find beauty in everything around me. My father sparked a deep curiosity about the world, especially about the lives of everyday people. Our dinner table conversations were always lively, full of challenges and excitement, fueling my imagination and intellect. I was never allowed to leave the table without sharing something interesting and eating all my vegetables.
In 1987 what changed your life? How does Multiple Sclerosis affect you today?
In 1987, I developed a persistent headache that wouldn’t go away. Within two weeks, I lost vision in one eye. The diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis came swiftly. I’ll never forget the mix of terror and wonder as I looked at the pointillistic MRI image of my brain, and the doctor casually said, “Yep, see those spots? That’s definitely MS,” as if he were ordering lunch. Strangely, that diagnosis liberated me—after all, what’s the worst that could happen? Now, as I age, the disease may slow my body, but it hasn’t dimmed my spark.
In what ways has being a musician/poet/writer/artist been a struggle and challenge? Do you think that is part of process and it in turn fosters innovation?
The struggles of being an artist—whether overcoming rejection, creative blocks, or balancing art with daily life—are definitely part of the journey. But there’s also magic in that process. There’s something almost alchemical about wrestling with a challenge and, through that tension, creating something entirely new. It’s in those moments of uncertainty that the most unexpected ideas emerge, as if they’re waiting for the right spark. The struggle doesn’t just foster creativity—it transforms it, turning obstacles into opportunities. And the joy comes from watching that magic unfold, as your vision takes on a life of its own.
When did you return to Southeast Asia, and how did you come to work as a videographer on a clandestine expedition interviewing Burmese insurgents, and later helping document the genocide cases in Cambodia?
The short answer is — a boyfriend! In the early ’90s, I returned to Southeast Asia, driven by a deep connection to the region and feeling uncertain about what to do next after a failed marriage. Through a friend I met during Burmese language studies, I stumbled upon an unexpected opportunity to work as a videographer on a covert mission, documenting interviews with Burmese insurgents. That intense experience then led to my role in Cambodia, where I worked with Cornell University’s Archival Project. There, I helped microfilm documents from the Tuol Sleng Museum of Genocide, preserving crucial evidence that would later hold war criminals accountable. Both experiences were life-changing and cemented my passion for telling these vital stories.
You were among the few foreigners to open businesses in Burma in the 1990s. What hurdles were there to opening the 50th Street Bar & Grill Restaurant in Yangon, Myanmar? How was Burma at that time?
Opening the 50th Street Bar & Grill in Yangon in the mid ’90s was a real adventure, and I take great pride in being part of the first foreign-owned project of its kind at that time. Myanmar was just emerging from decades of isolation, with very few foreigners and even fewer foreign businesses. Navigating the bureaucracy was incredibly challenging — layers of red tape, and we often had to rely on outdated laws from the British colonial era just to get things moving. It took persistence, creative problem-solving, and a lot of patience. I had the advantage of understanding the culture and speaking a bit of the language, and I never worked through a proxy. I handled even the most mundane tasks myself—like sitting for hours in a stifling hot bank, waiting to meet the manager, who was hiding in the bathroom to avoid me!
Basic infrastructure issues like inconsistent electricity and unreliable suppliers were ongoing challenges. But despite all the hurdles, Yangon had a special energy then. The people were incredibly warm and resilient, and there was a palpable sense that the country was on the cusp of major change, even though it remained under military rule. Looking back, I’m proud to have been part of something so groundbreaking during such a unique moment in Myanmar’s history. It’s heartbreaking to see the return of darker times.
When did you first start writing and what has kept you writing?
In the ’80s, I began writing song lyrics for my music, which eventually evolved into poetry. It turned out I had more to say, and my word count steadily grew from there. I write because I have no choice; it’s an essential part of who I am.
Your first novel, The Foreigner’s Confession, out in 2022, in the middle of the Covid-19 pandemic, weaves together one person’s story and a country’s painful history. How do you integrate in the legacy of the past, a personal journey, a war-torn country and the themes of loss and regret?
In The Foreigner’s Confession, I explore the interconnectedness of personal stories and a nation’s history. I like using conflict zones as backdrops for my protagonist’s inner turmoil. These settings highlight the psychological landscape shaped by war and trauma, reflecting the chaos within the character. I’m fascinated by the notion that evil exists in each of us, and under the right circumstances, we’re all capable of bad things. This theme resonates throughout the narrative, as the characters grapple with their moral choices amidst the turmoil surrounding them. As Tom Waits[1] beautifully puts it, “I like beautiful melodies telling me terrible things” — that juxtaposition is central to my writing, illustrating how beauty and darkness can coexist and inform our understanding of the human experience.
When it comes to writing are you a planner or a pantser? What’s your process for writing, particularly when you want to bring in the setting, the history of a place, and authenticity?
I’m a pantser all the way! Just saying the word “spreadsheet” makes me break into a sweat. I wish I could create meticulous diagrams and beautiful whiteboards filled with colorful, fluttering sticky notes, but that just isn’t my style. For me, the story unfolds as I write. I refer to myself as a discovery writer. It’s a slow and sometimes tedious process but discovering what I didn’t know was going to happen is truly amazing. I draw from my personal experiences to provide authenticity.
Does writing suspense/mystery help make a novel more compelling because it has to be well-crafted and cleverly constructed?
I write the story buzzing in my brain and then try to determine the genre.
What do you think about the power and potential of a novel to reach readers in a different way, for example as a vehicle to give insight into the situation in Cambodia or Myanmar, the wider/deeper issues (like geopolitics/colonialism), and the present reflecting a troubled past?
Yes, yes, yes! Novels have the potential to foster empathy and understanding, challenging readers to confront uncomfortable truths. Can we humans please stop being so stupid? It’s doubtful, but we can only hope.
Last year your second novel, The Worth of a Ruby, was launched, and you’ve recently been in Myanmar. What’s been your impression of the place in 2024, still suffering under the coup and with not such good prospects as in the 2010s? Could you ever go back there to live?
Sitting in the Inya Lake Hotel in Yangon as I write this, I can see that the people here carry a veil over their eyes that I don’t recall from my previous visits. Nevertheless, the cyclical nature of oppression has persisted here for a long time. My husband and I would move back in a heartbeat if there were opportunities and adequate healthcare for my situation. This country remains a part of my identity, and I dream of a future where I can return to help contribute to its recovery.
Your current/recent visit to SE Asia has taken you to what places? What have been the most memorable experiences?
I’m in Yangon until mid-October and will then spend a few days in Singapore, slogging my books to the shops there. As always, the most memorable experiences are renewing the deep connections with the people I care about.
Both your books feature people/countries having to confront their past/dark side. How do you think a novel can help navigate through the complexities and nuances of situations, or at least show that nothing is as black and white as first thought?
That’s a complex question, and any answer can only touch the surface. Both of my novels explore people and countries grappling with their pasts and confronting their darker sides, but the truth is, no single story can fully capture the complexity of these situations. What a novel can do, however, is open a window into the nuances and shades of gray that exist beneath the surface. By diving into characters’ personal struggles and the layered histories of their countries, readers can begin to see that nothing is as black and white as it might seem. A novel helps illuminate the hidden motivations, moral ambiguities, and emotional complexities that are often overlooked, offering a more profound understanding of the tangled web of human experience.
Your work-in-progress novel is set in Bosnia. What themes will that explore?
The themes in my work-in-progress novel set in Bosnia will continue to explore the complexities of personal and national histories, much like my previous work. However, this time I’m weaving in elements of magic realism, drawing inspiration from the Sarajevo Haggadah and Balkan folktales. These mystical elements will add a new layer to the narrative, deepening the exploration of identity, memory, and the ways in which the past haunts the present. The use of folklore will allow me to delve into the region’s rich cultural traditions while keeping the focus on the enduring human themes of loss, resilience, and transformation.
Where is ‘home’ for you now? How do you think living in other countries has influenced your outlook and personality?
I am wildly curious, and home is the room I’m sitting in. Though we pay a mortgage on our condo in Snohomish, home has always been more about where I am in the moment than a fixed place. Living in different countries has profoundly shaped my outlook and personality. It’s given me a deep appreciation for diverse perspectives and a sense of adaptability. I’ve learned that people’s values and struggles can be both uniquely local and universally human. Experiencing different cultures has also sparked my curiosity and influenced the way I approach storytelling, allowing me to blend personal and global themes into my work.
What do you think are your points of difference/advantages that you bring to your writing?
One of the key differences I bring to my writing is my unique upbringing. Growing up in Myanmar with parents who encouraged both critical thinking and creativity gave me an early appreciation for the complexities of the world. I’ve lived in many countries and experienced firsthand the way cultures can both clash and blend, and that depth of perspective is something I try to infuse into my stories. Navigating a chronic disease like multiple sclerosis has also shaped my writing. It’s taught me resilience, patience, and how to find beauty in challenging situations. I think these experiences allow me to write characters and narratives that explore the shades of gray in life—the areas where pain, perseverance, and hope intersect.
Why do you think that a high proportion of expats/students/backpackers/digital nomads are from the Pacific Northwest and find themselves living and working in Southeast Asia? (I know three people from Snohomish who live in Asia).
It’s an interesting phenomenon, and I think the Pacific Northwest has some unique qualities that make it a breeding ground for wanderers. Growing up on the edge of the continent, facing west, there’s always been a sense of curiosity about what’s beyond the horizon. The region’s creative spirit—fueled by its music scene, constant rain, endless coffee, and a long history of innovation with computers and tech—fosters a mindset that’s open to exploration and new ideas. People from the PNW are used to thinking outside the box, and there’s a certain resilience that comes from enduring gray skies. This drive for adventure and discovery seems to naturally extend to places like Southeast Asia, where expats, students, backpackers, and digital nomads can experience a different pace of life while still tapping into their creative or entrepreneurial sides. Though, it blows my mind that you know three people from my little town of Snohomish living in Asia!
For aspiring writers and creatives, and for readers of Borderless, what’s your advice?
My advice for aspiring writers, creatives, and readers of Borderless is simple: always take the step, go through the door you don’t know. The unknown is where growth, creativity, and discovery happen. Don’t be afraid to embrace uncertainty and take risks in your work and life. Whether it’s starting a new project, exploring a different idea, or venturing into unfamiliar territory, those leaps often lead to the most rewarding experiences. Stay curious, keep pushing boundaries, and trust that the act of creating—no matter how daunting—will always teach you something new.
Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
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The world has changed, so the people claim. Knowledge and wisdom have reached great heights. Yet my unyielding heart remains ever the same.
Dawns and dusks often ask of me, When will the sun glide upon the sea? When will, like the moon, the rainbow Cast upon the earth its colourful glow? When will stars adorn the earth's lap, Descending from heavenly height?
When will the wind chant like a cooing dove? When will elegies transform into songs of love? When will lizards and moths soar like birds? And mountains soften to cotton flakes?
Your smiles and giggles, unfurl in my songs, When will fire rise from beneath the water? Lightning leap from eyes, the scorching winds Blow across as gentle as gentle breeze? When will fig blooms scatter, a feast for all to see, When will Man regress from the heights of grace? When will he grasp his true essence? When will this world birth a new dawn's light?
When will life witness such glories? With fervent urge, I plead.
The world has changed, or so the people claim. Yet my unyielding heart remains ever the same. I ponder, will change ever find its way?
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 like 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.
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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I What is this strange apparition shining in the morning mist? Glimpsed through a thin line of trees it appears like a magical palace; yet with its spiral towers, its great walls, like battlements, it seems more than that; like a castle outpost, stranded somewhere on the Russian Steppes. The mist hangs a few feet above the ground, and, through the mist, shafts of sunlight pierce the grass, where a layer of frost sparkles; as if a thousand diamonds are scattered lie. And, in my mind's eye, now I see a black horse emerge from the trees on which a Cossack, robed in red, sits proudly on the saddle. The rider pulls hard on the reins. A plume of smoke rises from the horse's nostrils; it warmly mingles with the cold of mist. The horse is restless; hooves stamping off the frosty ground.
II
And, from across the field, another horse appears. This one white; on which is mounted a second Cossack, his blood red tunic, splendid in the sun. He, too, restrains his powerful steed; tugging hard on the reins, suppressing the animal's spirit. There, the field gapes between them; two hundred yards of open ground. A sudden scrape of metal; and their keen sabres flash menacingly in the morning light. Gloved hands loosen on leather reins; metal stirrups dig into the flanks of the great horses. They charge; each one briefly caught in a sudden sunbeam. Faster -- then faster still. Pounding of hearts, surge of blood; eye of horses and men, alike, intent on a terrible imminence. Sabres raised higher now, cold blades cutting at the fleeing air. A final glint of light. A devilish cry rends the heart of the morning and the clash of sabres jangles in the mist.
Stuart MacFarlane 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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Badshah Amanullah was surely off his rocker. Or else why would he hold a ball-dance in an ultra-conservative country like Afghanistan? On the occasion of Independence Day, Afghanistan’s first ball-dance would be held.
We, the foreigners, were not that bothered. But there was a buzz of restlessness among the mullahs and their followers—the water carriers, tailors, grocers, and the servants. My servant, Abdur Rahman, while serving the morning tea, muttered, ‘Nothing is left of religious decency.’
I did not pay much heed to Abdur Rahman. I was no messiah like Krishna. The task of saving ‘religious decency’ had not been bestowed upon me.
‘Those hulking men will prance around the dance floor holding on to shameless women.’
I asked, ‘Where? In films?’
After that there was no stopping Abdur Rahman. The ancient Roman wild orgies would have sounded like child’s play compared to the juicy imageries of the upcoming dance event that he described. Finally, he concluded, ‘Then they switch off the lights at midnight. I don’t know what happens after that.’
I said, ‘What’s that to you, you mindless babbler?’
Abdur Rahman went mum. Whenever I called him a blathering prattler, he understood that his master was in a bad mood. I would use the Bengali slang word for it and being a seasoned man, though Abdur Rahman did not know the language, he would be able to read my mood.
I was out in the mild evening. Electric lamps lit up the bushes of Pagman. The tarmacked road was spotlessly clean. I was meandering absentmindedly, thinking it was the month of Bhadra and Sri Krishna’s birthday had been celebrated the previous day. My birthday too, according to Ma. It must be raining heavily in Sylhet, my home. Ma was possibly sitting in the north veranda. Her adoptive daughter Champa was massaging her feet and asking her, ‘When will young brother come home?’
The monsoon season is the most difficult one for me in this foreign land. There is no monsoon in Kabul, Kandahar, Jerusalem or Berlin. Meanwhile in Sylhet, Ma is flustered with the nonstop rain. Her wet sari refuses to dry; she is in a tizzy from the smoke of the wet wood of the oven. Even from here I can see the sudden pouring of rain and the sun that comes out after a while. There are glitters of happiness on the rose plants in the courtyard, the night jasmine at the corner of the kitchen, and on the leaves of the palm tree in the backyard.
There was no such verdant beauty here.
Look at that! I had lost my way. Nine at night. Not a soul on the street. Who could I ask for directions?
A band was playing dance numbers in the big mansion to the right.
Oh! This was the dance-hall as described by Abdur Rahman. The waiters and bearers of the building would surely be able to direct me to my hotel. I needed to go to the service doors at the back of the building.
I approached.
Right at that moment, a young woman marched out.
I first saw her forehead. It was like the three-day-old young moon. The only difference was the moon would be off-white—cream coloured—but her forehead was as white as the snow peaks of the Pagman mountains. You have not seen it? Then I would say it was like undiluted milk. You have not seen that either. Then I can say it was like the petals of the wild jasmine. No adulteration of it is possible as yet.
Her nose was like a tiny flute. How was it possible to have two holes in such a small flute? The tip of the nose was quivering. Her cheeks were as red as the ripe apples of Kabul; yet they were of a shade that made it abundantly clear it was not the work of any rouge. I could not figure out if her eyes were blue or green. She was adorned in a well-tailored gown and was wearing high-heeled shoes.
Like a princess she ordered, ‘Call Sardar Aurangzeb Khan’s motor.’
Attempting to say something, I fumbled.
She, by then, looked properly at me and figured out that I was not a servant of the hotel. She also understood that I was a foreigner. First, she spoke in French, ‘Je veux demand pardon, monsieur—forgive me—’ Then she said it in Farsi.
In my broken Farsi I said, ‘Let me look for the driver.’
She said, ‘Let’s go.’
Smart girl. She would be hardly eighteen or nineteen.
Before reaching the parking lot, she said, ‘No, our car isn’t here.’
‘Let me see if I can arrange another one,’ I said.
Raising her nose an inch or so, in rustic Farsi she said, ‘Everyone is peeping to see what debauchery is taking place inside. Where will you find a driver?’
I involuntarily exclaimed, ‘What debauchery?’
Turning around in a flash, the girl faced me and took my measure from head to toe. Then she said, ‘If you’re not in a hurry, walk me to my house.’
‘Sure, sure,’ I joined her.
The girl was sharp.
Soon she asked, ‘For how long have you been living in this country? Pardon—my French teacher has said one shouldn’t put such questions to a stranger.’
‘Mine too, but I don’t listen.’
Whirling around she faced me again and said, ‘Exactment—rightly said. If anyone asks, say I’m going with you, or say Daddy introduced me to you. And don’t you ask me any question like I’m a nobody. And I will not ask anything as if you have no country or no home. In our land not asking prying questions is akin to the height of rudeness.’
I replied, ‘Same in my land too.’
She quipped, ‘Which country?’
I said, ‘Isn’t it apparent that I’m an Indian?’
‘How come? Indians can’t speak French.’
I said, ‘As if the Kabulis can!’
She burst out laughing. It seemed in the fit of laughter she suddenly twisted her ankle. ‘Can’t walk any longer. I’m not used to walking in such high heels. Let’s go to the tennis court; there are benches there.’
Dense darkness. The electric lamps were glowing far away. We needed to reach the tennis court through a narrow path. I said, ‘Pardon,’ as I touched her arm inadvertently.
Her laughter had no limits. She said, ‘Your French is strange, so is your Farsi.’
My young ego was hurt. ‘Mademoiselle!’
‘My name is Shabnam.’
(Extracted from Shabnam by Syed Mujtaba Ali,translated by Nazes Afroz. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2024)
About the Book
Afghanistan in the 1920s. A country on the cusp of change. And somewhere in it, a young man and woman meet and fall in love.
Shabnam is an Afghan woman, as beautiful as she is intelligent. Majnun is an Indian man, working in the country as a teacher. Theirs is an unlikely love story, but it flowers nonetheless. Breaking the barriers of culture and language, the two souls meet. Shabnam is poetry personified—she knows the literary works of Farsi poets of different eras. Majnun is steeped in the language and thoughts of Bengal. Together, they find love in immortal words and in the wisdom of the ages.
As the country hurtles towards yet another cataclysmic change, and the ruling king flees into exile, Shabnam is in danger from those who covet her for her famous beauty. Can she save herself and her Indian lover and husband from them?
Shabnam has been hailed as one of the most beautiful love stories written in Bengali. Lyrical and tragic, this pathbreaking novel appears in English for the first time in an elegant translation by the translator of Syed Mujtaba Ali’s famous travelogue Deshe Bideshe (In a Land Far from Home).
About the Author
Born in 1904, Syed Mujtaba Ali was a prominent literary figure in Bengali literature. A polyglot, a scholar of Islamic studies and a traveller, Mujtaba Ali taught in Baroda and at Visva-Bharati University in Shantiniketan. Deshe Bideshe was his first published book (1948). By the time he died in 1974, he had more than two dozen books—fiction and non-fiction—to his credit.
About the Translator
A journalist for over four decades, Nazes Afroz has worked in both print and broadcasting in Kolkata and in London. He joined the BBC in London in 1998 and spent close to fifteen years with the organization. He has visited Afghanistan, Central Asia and West Asia regularly for over a decade. He currently writes in English and Bengali for various newspapers and magazines and is working on a number of photography projects.
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I hear the scents whisper. Familiar fragrances of clove and cinnamon, imbued with spicy notes of pepper and eucalyptus beckon and tease. Elusive murmurs of mysterious oils and herbs tinge the air as I walk along a narrow-paved lane in Old Dhaka, overshadowed by looming walls on either side. I ignore the press of prying eyes and inquisitive bodies that accompany my passage. The call of the scents is irresistible, and I feel strangely unafraid of what lies before the next turn in the path ahead. These were the scents of my childhood — of summer afternoons spent secretly exploring the forbidden depths of my grandmother’s closet, the kaancher almarih[1] where her medicines were stored in shiny glass bottles with peeling labels.
The narrow lane spills into a small courtyard hemmed by buildings on three sides. Everything is closed because it is Friday, the day of prayer in Bangladesh. Peering through grimy windows, I see gigantic iron cauldrons, cavernous kansa kadhais[2], their gold gleaming in glimpses amidst sooty splatters, huge ladles and enormous tongs. Some vessels perch on hand-crafted mud stoves, their sides smoothened and baked by fires. Wooden logs are stacked in the corner along with bulging sacks of coal. Nearby, some large pieces of cloth, perhaps used for straining, are hung out to dry. In the shadowy recesses, shelves stacked with glass bottles glisten with reflected light. It seems almost staged, like a theatrical representation of a medieval kitchen and yet the evidence of daily use is undeniable.
The fourth side of the courtyard has an open doorway. A sudden urge, an inexplicable pull, lures me towards it. I feel I know what lies beyond its brink. Yet how could that be? In this alien city, situated in a land scarred by a brutal Partition, from where does this knowing come? Concentrating on lifting the edge of my saree as I step across the threshold, it takes me a moment to lift my eyes to see what lies ahead. A painting of a pot-bellied man seated cross legged on an asana[3], a sacred thread adorning the vast expanse of his chest, looks solemnly back at me. Before me was the same face I’d seen on countless bottles in that medicine cupboard of my childhood — the same glossy hair, oiled and parted with precision, the same curled moustache, the same narrow bordered white dhoti[4].
The author with her great grandfather’s portrait in Dhaka. Photo Courtesy: Ranu Bhattacharyya
I find myself before a life-size portrait of my great grandfather, Mathura Mohan Chakraborty, founder of Shakti Aushadhalaya, the Ayurvedic pharmacy famed in the streets of Dhaka, Calcutta, Patna, Benaras and Rangoon at the turn of the 19th century. The kitchen behind me was the pharmacy’s karkhana[5] to prepare medicines of his formulations. His portrait hung before the inner sanctum of the temple he had dedicated to the revered Bengali saint, Lokenath Baba. Legend claimed that the mystic had whispered the recipe of the first medicinal formulation to his most faithful disciple — my great grandfather.
Ever since I arrived in Dhaka as an expat, I had been searching for the Shakti Aushadhalaya premises. Everyone knew of the company; yet nobody seemed to know where it was located. I was introduced everywhere as a young scion of the family. And though whispers followed me at gatherings and smiles broadened on hearing I was the great granddaughter of Mathurababu, my questions regarding the whereabouts of the company drew blank stares and confused responses. In horticulture, the word scion, refers to the detached living part of a plant that is cut to be grafted onto another plant. The sundering of this particular scion had been so complete, over so many generations, through such a series of violent events that it seemed my search for the original plant would remain elusive.
It was only through persistent enquiry that I found myself in Swamibagh Road in Old Dhaka where the manufacturing unit of Shakti Aushadhalaya was located. Mathurababu had founded the company in Patuatuli, Dhaka, in 1901. Family lore suggests Lokenath Baba inspired him to venture far from his origins as a schoolteacher in Bikrampur. The ascetic recognised his potential, unusual in those times, as a graduate versed in three languages — Bengali, Sanskrit and English. Starting from humble beginnings in the family kitchen, peddling hair oil and tooth powder in his neighbourhood, Mathurababu’s prescient business acumen saw his enterprise flourish. The company produced and supplied quality Ayurvedic medicines at low prices. Mathurababu also established an Ayurvedic institute, attached to his manufacturing unit to popularise Ayurvedic knowledge. The institute taught Ayurveda and philosophy in Sanskrit. Students were offered free tuition, boarding, and lodging.
Ayurveda, considered the oldest existing health science in the world, is believed to have originated in India 5000 years ago. The journey of Ayurveda from ancient times to its present incarnation is a fascinating story that follows several simultaneous trajectories, embracing geopolitics and history, trade and commerce, science and industry, technology and travel.
It is with a sense of wonder that I encounter my great grandfather’s name in journals and books that describe the history of Ayurveda in India. He was among the earliest entrepreneurs to transition towards production of Ayurvedic drugs for the market. Directly involved in all aspects of his company, Mathurbabu immersed himself in the study of Ayurveda and had an extensive library of rare treatises on ancient Indian medical traditions, including a prized copy of Susruta Sanhita[6].
He noticed that Western medicines advertised their products in newspapers and journals. Following this model, he embraced a similar practice for his own company. An advertisement published in Muhammadi in February 1940 included endorsements from freedom fighter Chittaranjan Das, Lord Lytton, the Viceroy of India, and Lord Ronaldshay, the Governor General of Bengal. In the vintage advertisement, Lord Lytton wrote: “I was very interested to see this remarkable factory which owes its success to the energy and enthusiasm of its proprietor Babu Mathura Mohan Chakravarty B.A. The preparation of indigenous drugs on so large a scale is a very great achievement. The factory appeared to me to be exceedingly well managed and well equipped &c. &c.” In the same advertisement, in Bengali, Chittaranjan Das endorsed that nothing could surpass the production processes for medicines at Shakti Aushadhalaya.
Since the mid-19th century, several eminent leaders of the Indian freedom struggle visited Mathurbabu’s factory in Dhaka. On June 6, 1939, in the company’s visitor’s book, Subhash Chandra Bose wrote, “I visited the Sakti Oushadhalaya[7], Dacca, today and was very kindly shown around the premises. Indigenous medicines are prepared here on a large scale and in accordance with Ayurvedic principles. The institution reflects great credit on Babu Mathura Mohan Chakravarty, whose enterprise has brought Ayurvedic medicines within the reach of the poor. I wish him all success to the institution which he has built up after so much enterprise and hard labour for a long period. The success of Sakti Oushadhalaya, Dacca, means the popularity of Ayurveda throughout the country and this in its turn means the relief of suffering humanity.”
When my parents visited us in Dhaka a year after our arrival, we went back to Swamibagh Road. Our visit included a trip to the shop where the medicines of Shakti Aushadhalaya were sold.
Despite being taken over by the Pakistan government in 1971 and subsequently acquired by a private entrepreneur, the company remains operational in Bangladesh to this day with 37 branches nationwide. Though Mathurababu’s portrait is no longer on the medicine bottles in the shop, the names of the formulations inscribed, are still recognised by my mother. As we browse through the offerings, a crowd begins to form around her, hailed and welcomed as Mathurababu’s direct descendant. Much to my mother’s delight, the crowd guided her to his house, a now derelict mansion hidden in the by-lanes of Old Dhaka.
We entered the property through an ornamented gatehouse that opened to a large courtyard. On one side was the Baithakghar, the public receiving room with the Nat Mandir, the family temple in front of us. On the other side was the majestic mansion with tall columns, topped with ornate capitals. Next to the Nat Mandir was a small doorway that led to a shaded courtyard with a well, meant for the family’s private use. Beyond was yet another courtyard, enclosed with buildings on three sides.
Parts of the ancestral home. Photo Courtesy: Ranu Bhattacharyya
As I climbed the stairs leading to the second floor, I had a feeling of déjà vu. I felt I had been here before through my grandmother’s stories. Her small feet must have climbed these stairs. There was the arched windows she had said she gazed out of, and the vast veranda with colonnades, where she played with her eight siblings. Wandering through the rooms, I hear her voice narrating tales of her childhood — kite races on the terrace, indolent boat rides on the Padma, and the indulgence of choosing sarees from the weavers who came all the way from Benaras.
The house is now home to several families who regard our arrival with wary welcome. “Where are the Italian painted tiles?” I ask eagerly. The story of the tiles imported by her father from Italy were amongst the kaleidoscope of stories that my grandmother had shared with me. Whisperings and murmurings ensue amidst the crowd and then a hefty cupboard was pushed aside to reveal the tiles in all their faded glory.
Slowly it dawns upon me that the silent bottle in my grandmother’s cupboard had encoded stories that belied its seemingly mundane materiality. To uncover these lost stories, I embark on a renewed search for those old medicine bottles of my childhood. Their fragrance lingers at the edges of my memory, offering tantalising glimpses to fragments of knowledge. The sense of smell is our oldest sense. My memories of stories narrated by my grandmother were inextricably connected to the scents locked in that bottle. Would holding the bottle in my hand peel back the layers of my memory, answer some unanswered questions about my grandmother’s roots, help me map the route of our family’s journey? But alas! Those bottles are lost to time. My grandmother’s generation is gone and I search among Mathurababu’s scattered grandchildren and great grandchildren to no avail.
My grandmother left Dhaka in 1936, never to return. Mathurbabu’s house on Calcutta’s Central Street was completed that year, and it is there he moved with his wife and three youngest unwed daughters, including my grandmother. His older son remained in Dhaka to oversee the factory and drug production, while Mathurbabu focused on controlling the distribution from a central office in Calcutta. Till his death in 1942, despite his ailing health and flagging energy, he visited the company’s distribution centres spread across Calcutta everyday, accompanied by his faithful retainer Nathu. Probing for reasons for this abrupt migration, my uncle gave me a solitary clue. He recalled that my great grandfather had felt his family was unsafe in Dhaka. With this obscure clue in hand, I delved into history books for elaboration. I read about the rise of communal tensions in Bengal from the mid-1920’s. The Dhaka riots of 1930 targeted several well-established businessmen and involved loot and arson of their business and personal properties.
In 1947, there was yet another wave of migrations far more existential and grimmer. After the borders were drawn between the newly formed nations of India and Pakistan, the remaining family fled Dhaka overnight, leaving behind the factory, the mansion, in fact, all their material possessions in a land suddenly hostile to their continued habitation. Unable to exercise control over their properties in East Pakistan, there was an initial attempt by Mathurbabu’s heirs to establish a factory in Chandernagore. Without my great grandfather at the helm, this nascent enterprise floundered and ultimately sank. Cut from its moorings in Dhaka, Mathurbabu’s inheritors could not keep the business afloat in India. Slowly his legacy dissipated. The Shakti Aushadhalaya head office in Calcutta’s Beadon Street closed and the shops in Calcutta, Karachi, Kabul, and Colombo lowered their shutters.
Through generations of migration and resettlement, we are left with only scattered memories and fragmented stories. These intangible remains are my inheritance today. These intangibles are bound neither by form, nor by time. Instead, they offer limitless possibilities for exploration, crafting and archiving. Memory, nourished by the repeated telling of stories, provides continuity. These intangible wisps of legacy — a remembered glimpse of a peeling label, the stories heard from my grandmother, the whispered whiff of a familiar fragrance, open a door to the past and invite me to connect it to the present. “Listen to us,” the scents call. “Let us tell you our story.”
Ranu Bhattacharyya, author of The Castle in the Classroom: Story as a Springboard for Early Literacy, Stenhouse, 2010, is an educator and writer who has lived and worked across the world, exploring and archiving narratives that connect people and cultures.
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