Tag: English

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Interview

 Magical Journey of Worlds and Words with Lya Badgley

Keith Lyons in conversation with Lya Badgley

Lya Badgley

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.

Where can readers find you?

Email: lyabadgley@comcast.net

Mobile: 360 348 7059

110 Cedar Ave, Unit 302, Snohomish WA 98290

www.lyabadgley.com

www.facebook.com/lyabadgleyauthor

www.instagram.com/lyabadgleyauthor

Youtube: www.youtube.com/@lyabadgleyauthor 

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[1] American musician

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

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

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

Categories
Poetry

A Balochi Poem by Mubarak Qazi

Translated by Fazal Baloch

THE MIRROR

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

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

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

Categories
Poetry

 On a Misty Morning

By Stuart MacFarlane

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

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

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Categories
Excerpt

Shabnam: A Novel by Syed Mujtaba Ali

Title: Shabnam

Author: Syed Mujtaba Ali

Translated from Bengali by Nazes Afroz

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

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.

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

Categories
Essay

 Bottled Memories, Inherited Stories

By Ranu Bhattacharyya

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.”

[1] Glass cupboard

[2] Bronze woks

[3] A rug for prayers

[4] A cloth wrap for the lower half of the body

[5] Workshop

[6] Ancient Sanskrit text on medicine, dated to 12th-13th century

[7] Pharmacy

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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Categories
Poetry

Amalkanti by Nirendranath Chakraborty

Translated from Bengali by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard

Nirendranath Chakraborty (1924 – 2018) was born in united Bengal. A poet, translator and novelist, he was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award for his poem based on the Emperor’s New Clothes in 1974, voicing the need to reacquaint with the innocence of childhood. The same year he was also awarded the Ananda Puraskar. Nirendranth Chakraborty translated Hergé’s comics into Bengali. Calcutta University bestowed on him an honorary Doctor of Literature degree. Amalkanti is one of his well-known poems, again critiquing societal trends.

AMALKANTI*

Amalkanti is my friend,
We had been at school together.
He came late to class every day, lessons unprepared.
When asked verb-declensions, 
He gazed at the window in such amazement, 
That we felt sorry for him.

Some of us aspired to be teachers, some, doctors, others, lawyers.
Amalkanti didn’t want any of that.
He aspired to be sunshine.
The blushing sunshine after the rains, in the late-afternoon of cawing crows,
Sunshine that lingers on the leaves of the rose-apple and bell fruit
Like a momentary smile.

Some of us became teachers, some, doctors, others, lawyers.
Amalkanti couldn’t become sunshine.
Today, he works in a dark printing press.
And he visits me from time to time;
Drinks a cup of tea, chats a little, then he says, “I’ll be off.”
I see him to the door.

The one among us who is a teacher today,
Could easily have been a doctor,
The one who aspired to be a doctor,
Would have also done well as a lawyer.
Somehow, we all got our wishes, all except Amalkanti.
Amalkanti couldn’t become sunshine.
Musing and musing, musing and musing
Upon the sun’s unflawed radiance, 
He had once aspired to become sunshine.

*(lit. “unflawed radiance”; also used as a name)
A Bengali recitation of Amalakanti by Shamshuzzoha, a poem by Nirendranth Chakraborty.

Debali Mookerjea-Leonard is the Roop Distinguished Professor of English at James Madison University. Together with research and teaching, she also translates Bengali poetry and fiction. Debali has the permission to publish this translation.

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Categories
Poetry

Every Day

Poetry by Hafeez Rauf, translated by Fazal Baloch

Hafeez Rauf

Hafeez Rauf belongs to the generation of the poets who emerged on the literary landscape in the early 2000s. Homelessness, exile, uprootedness and related agony are the recurrent themes of his poetry.

How far will the last 
sigh of the smoke stretch,
Rising from the tires
Burning in the distance?

The road lies closed --
No longer offers a passage.
Women and children,
Youths and elders --
All surrounded by an 
ever-rising wall of helplessness.

How far can their hands,
their voices reach?

Meanwhile,
A crumbling wall,
In the wall, a decayed door,
And the door gazes at the occasional passerby,
Stretching its sight as far as it can see.

It watches the deserted roads
With the frantic eyes of a man
Who, after losing something, 
searches his pockets in despair.

Where will this caravan of smoke lead?
The door just gazes.
From Public Domain

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. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights.

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Categories
Slices from Life

The Pearl of the Indian Ocean

By Ravi Shankar

A panoramic view of Colombo. Photo courtesy: Ravi Shankar

My impressions of Colombo and Sri Lanka were positive. I was aware of the high human development indicators of the island nation, progress in access to essential medicines and the civil war. Sri Lanka shares many similarities with the state of Kerala in Indian in terms of topography, culture, food habits, high human development, outmigration, militant trade unions and a passion for egalitarian development. I also remembered the recent violent uprising against the former president and the image of the public frolicking in the pool at the presidential palace.

I was happy to receive an invitation to travel to Colombo in July 2023. I was invited to The Colombo Medical School, which was established by the British in 1870 and is one of the older schools in South Asia. It is the premier medical school of the country, and a new tower block has been constructed. The twenty-story tower is spacious and houses various departments. the humanities. The school was the first to start a Department of Medical Humanities (using art in the education of doctors) in South Asia. The physiology department has created a museum consisting of old instruments and apparatus that are no longer used. This is an excellent idea, and you remain in touch with the history of medicine.

The hotel where I stayed was located on Galle Face Road with the beach and the Galle Face green on the other side of the road. The beach was clean, and the park was originally laid out in 1859 by the British Governor General Sir Henry Ward. The Dutch had placed the cannons facing the ocean as a defence against the Portuguese. Sri Lanka had changed hands multiple times among the different colonial powers.

One of the striking features of Colombo is its cleanliness. The buses may be old and crowded but they are colourful. There are also rickshaws in a variety of colours, mainly green and red though yellow ones were less common. The kittul jaggery harvested from the fishtail palm or the jaggery palm is famous and I loved the gingelly rolls made with this jaggery. My second visit was in early January this year. The apartment where I stayed was attached to an old Sri Lankan house. The location was near to all conveniences but away from the noise and traffic.

I visited the Sri Lankan national museum, the largest in the country. It was established by Sir Gregory, the British governor of Ceylon (as Sri Lanka was then called) in 1877. The museum is housed in a white, neo-Baroque building and offers a fascinating glimpse into Sri Lanka’s past. The museum is well maintained though it is not air conditioned. The humidity is a constant presence in Colombo. The collection of antiques at the museum is extraordinary.

The Museum
Inside the temple
Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar

On my last evening in Colombo, I did some sightseeing. We went to the Gangaramaya temple, the most important one in Colombo. The architecture is a mix of Sri Lankan, Indian, Thai, and Chinese styles. The temple was started by the famous scholar monk Hikkaduwe Sri Sumangala Nayaka Thera in the late 19th Century. The temple has a rich collection of Buddha statues and huge collections of ivory that must be worth millions if not billions. Our next stop was the Lotus tower at 351.5 metres, the largest self-supported structure in South Asia. The lotus is a symbol of purity. view of Colombo city from the observation tower at the top is excellent. I could see the Galle Face Road where I had stayed during my last visit. We could see the Sri Lankan railway depots and stations.

Colombo is a fascinating city. There is plenty to see and do. Recent economic events have hit the island hard. During my subsequent visit I plan to explore other parts of this magical country. Serendip/Serendib was the ancient Persian/Arab name for the country. The name is believed to be derived from the Sanskrit Simhaladwipa (dwelling place of Lion’s Island). The lion occupies a prominent place on the Sri Lankan flag.

The three princes of Serendip in an ancient story had the knack of making unexpected discoveries and is the root of the word serendipity in English. Visit Colombo and Sri Lanka, who knows what serendipitous discoveries await you?

Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar

Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

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Categories
Poetry

Eight Short Poems by Munir Momin

Translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

                   A POEM
     Like a mat, we laid out the night,
 And birds adorned the jungle around their feet,
     Heart —- an ocean, and within the ocean,
   Each tide wore shackles around their feet.


A POEM

Everyday,
Time slips through my hands,
Like millet grains.
Would that you were a bird,
You'd be my guest!

A SCENE

Crystalline shards
Of shattered smiles,
Once they pierce the eyes,
The world, like a teardrop,
Seeks an escape
Towards the lap.


A POEM

Just an evening,
From the seasons of your eyes,
Let my heart
Soar for a moment,
With the birds of silence.


STARS
If one night,
Suddenly,
Stars scatter across my eyes,
I’ll cast my eyes at your lap,
And spread the sky,
Upon the earth.


WAITING 

With the same pace and rhythm,
They sail ahead --
Yet the moon reaches the shore,
Long before the boats.

MELODIES AT DAWN

“Is there someone, each night who comes,
Sprinkling on the city's somnolent birds,
The colourful melodies of her words?”

“What secrets do I hold? What sights I’ve seen?
In the ambiance, a beauty sifted through,
Casting a strange, enchanting sheen,
Painting hues on voices, wings and silence.”


WORLD

In a bottle,
Carved from your beauty
I’ve preserved for me
A lush green moment of spring --
A nest,
In the nest,
A sweet birdsong.
A window,
Every morning it opens 
To a melodious overture of sea-waves
And a cold, bright moment of solitude --
Like a tear drop,
The size of a tiny pearl,
Sustaining you, me and my God.

Munir Momin is a contemporary Balochi poet widely cherished for his sublime art of poetry. Meticulously crafted images, linguistic finesse and profound aesthetic sense have earned him a distinguished place in Balochi literature. His poetry speaks through images, more than words. Momin’s poetry flows far beyond the reach of any ideology or socio-political movement. Nevertheless, he is not ignorant of the stark realities of life. The immenseness of his imagination and his mastery over the language rescues his poetry from becoming the part of any mundane narrative. So far Munir has published seven collections of his poetry and an anthology of short stories. His poetry has been translated into Urdu, English and Persian.  He also edits a literary journal called Gidár.

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

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Categories
Musings

In the Grip of Violence

Ratnottama Sengupta muses on the ongoing wars and violence as acts of terror and gazes back to an incident in the past which resulted in a powerful Bengali poem by Tarik Sujat that she has translated here

The world is in the grip of violence, Rabindranath Tagore wrote on March 5, 1927, sitting in the abode of peace – Santiniketan. Full 97 years later, the world is still in the grip of violence?

It’s Gaza today. Ukraine yesterday. Afghanistan some days ago. Sri Lanka not so long ago. Sometimes it is Bosnia. At other times, it’s Vietnam. Lands far flung and near adorn themselves with blood-red mark of hatred. Religion. Self-seeking dictators. Communism. Global lust for power. No matter what is at stake, the pawn is an innocent life. Always. A woman. An elder. An unborn child…

Tagore wrote Hingshay unmatto prithibi [1]– “The world is in the grip of violence as a prayer to the Almighty. The delirium is leading to conflicts, cruel and ceaseless… Crooked is the world today, tangled its philosophy. No bond is sacred.” And the anguish of such a state of affairs? It led even the Eternal Bard of Bengal to pray for a new birth of ‘Him of Boundless Life.’ “Save them,” Tagore had prayed to the Serene, “raise your eternal voice of hope” so that “Love’s lotus, with its inexhaustible store of nectar” may open its petals in His light. In His immeasurable mercy. To wipe away all dark stains from the heart of the continents.

In vain he prayed.

“Forgive them!” Jesus said, for “They know not what they do!” And what did the soldiers do? They gambled for his clothes by throwing dice! (Luke 23:34)

Forgive them? “Have you forgiven those who vitiated the atmosphere and snuffed out light for innocent lives?” Tagore asked the Almighty, in ‘Proshno (Question)‘. Have you forgiven those who deal hate in the secret hours of night? Have you embraced with love those who murder the helpless in broad daylight under the cover of ideology? Don’t you wince when a pregnant Bilkis[2] is gang-raped? Why do you shed silent tears when elected rulers choke people’s voice with furtive use of power?

And like his Prayer, Tagore’s ‘Question’ too has remained unanswered. And dumb sit the messiahs when men with mistaken notion of mission kill, maim, mutilate hostages who become mere numbers in newspaper headlines – until a new dateline wipes it off our collective memory.  Thus, once again, the world was shaken by brutalities carried out in the name of God, in Dhaka’s elite neighbourhood, Gulshan.

On July 1, 2016, before the Cinderella hour struck, five militants entered the Holey Artisan Bakery with bombs, machetes, pistols, and opened fire on men and women, from Italy, Japan, India, Bangladesh. Sunrise. Sunset.. Sunrise… unsuccessfully the police tried to secure the hostages. An elite force of the Bangla Army had to raid to put an end to what BBC News described as “the deadliest Islamist attack in Bangladesh”. Meanwhile? The toll had risen to 29 lives, totaling 17 foreigners, three locals, two policemen, five gunmen, and two bakery staff who were trying to earn their daily bread!

Since Gulshan is home to many embassies and high commissions in the capital of the secular nation, the news stirred up the world in no time. And prayers poured in – over cellphones, on Facebook, television and newspapers too.  Prayers of wives for their husbands. Prayers of mothers for their sons. Prayers of a niece for her aunt. Prayers of American friends for their Indian batch mate. But once again, prayers went unanswered…

Among those who did not survive to tell the story was Simona Monti of Italy who worked in textiles. Then 33 years of age, Simona was soon to go to her home an hour away from Rome, to deliver the child she had nursed in her womb for five months. But Michelangelo too did not live to breathe in the world vitiated by hatred. When the news reached her brother, he prayed his Simona’s bloodshed would make this “a more just and brotherly world.”

His prayer, too, remains unanswered.

But poets and other men of conscience did not remain silent. Within days of the incident Tarik Sujat wrote Janmer aagei aami mrityu ke korechhi alingan  (Even before my birth I embraced death, July 6, 2016). No diatribe in his words, but the muted cry of an unborn being jolts us. That cry left me with a tear in one eye and fire in the other…

On my very first reading I was touched, I was moved, I fell silent. The pensive mood of the embryonic life turned me reflective. Anger, rage, fury was not the answer to hostility, loathing, abhorrence, I realised. So will you, as you go through the poem that was handed out in Magliano Sabino when Simona’s hometown prayed for her eternal rest.

I Embraced Death Before Birth 

Even before my birth I embraced death.
I have no nation, no speech,
No stock of my own.
No distinction between Holy-Unholy,
Sin and Virtue, Sacred or Cursed.
Having seen the ghastly face of life 
I've swallowed my last drop of tear...
My first breath did not pollute 
The environs of your earth.
My last breath was the first gift 
Of this planet to me!

Maa!
You were my only playhouse,
My school, and my coffin.
I had yet to open my eyes -
And still I saw 
The sharp nails of executioner
Ripping apart my naval cord.
My ears were yet to hear sound,
Still I could catch bells 
That summon lads to schools...
The obscure sound echoed 
Through churches, temples, 
And minarets of masjids
Until, slowly, it fell silent...

My first bed was my last.
My mother's womb was 
My only home 
In the unseen world.
On that nook too, darkness descended. 
Floating down the river of blood 
I groped for my umbilical cord 
To keep me afloat...
My tiny fingers, my soft palm
Could find nothing to clutch.

In that Dance of Death 
My unseeing eyes witnessed
Koran, Bible, Gita, Tripitak
Bobbing in receding blood.
In the achromatic gloom
Of my chamber 
I got no chance to learn 
A single mark of piety!

Still...
I embraced death before I was born. 
My mother's womb is my 
Grave, my coffin, my pyre.
The world of humans 
Is enveloped in fire -
A few droplets of my meagre body 
Does not quench its thirst!

(Translated from Tarik Sujat’s Bengali poem by Ratnottama Sengupta)

Why has this portrayal of a tormented soul found voice in French, German, Swedish, Italian, English…? Why has it been translated into 17 languages? In the answer blowing in the wind lies hope for mankind. For, the answer is: Not every man is created in the image of Lucifer.  That is why, when Giulia Benedetti learnt that she will never again see her aunt Nadia Benedetti, that “she will not talk, will not comment on fashion, will not sing together again…” she wrote on Facebook: “Do not forget. Do not lose her memory. Do not let crazy people massacre. Do not let them win…”

And I immerse my voice in the Bard’s to say: “Let life come to the souls that are dead…” And I pray, bring harmony, bring rhythm, bring melody in our lives, O Serene! Wipe away every dark cloud from the world yet to dawn!

[1] The world is crazed with greed

[2] Bilkis Bano was gangraped in 2002 https://thewire.in/rights/in-her-own-words-what-bilkis-bano-went-through-in-2002

Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of  The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award. 

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