In a world torn by conflict, why would one mention hope or compassion? In an age of dystopian scenarios, why would we dream of utopias?
Perhaps it’s wishful musings, but at some level what people need to survive is probably something to look forward to — a speck of light — a wishful idea called hope. Hope builds resilience. Utopias are built on hope, on love and compassion. Dystopias are built on desperation and despair. They take fear or horror to the extreme and play on people’s vulnerabilities. They might induce a cathartic effect and one might say— we are better off as we are in the present or we must act so that this never happens. Is that something we can really say in a world where wars are disrupting peace and lives of all humanity, where violence against civilians is becoming an accepted norm, where shortages could also be a reality for most of us? Utopias, on the other hand, build on the element of an ideal, a dream towards which we can move on the bleakest day of our existence. They could be used to stir hope and envision a reality devoid of violence. And perhaps, some of it would congeal into a real-world scenario with smaller doses of the bad and ugly. In a conflict-ridden world, which almost feels like a reenactment of George Orwell’s 1984 (only about four and a half decades after his predicted date) what would touch your heart, give you a sense of relief— hope for a better future or dwelling on doomsday predictions? What would you want for your progeny?
Just before the pandemic changed our lives, a book was published where while questing for their own utopia, a group of young people became part of a dystopian reality. They were known as the ULFA rebels[1] and their story was told in Bulletproof:A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict by Teresa Rehman. The current relevance of this book cannot be undermined because not only does it humanise the insurgents perspective, but it also shows how a centrist set up can neglect the needs of particular fringe communities. In addition, Rehman’s heartrending stories of poachers and people who live unaccepted in the margins only strengthen the need for an unboxed world where tolerance and compassion would transcend these artificially created fences that divide and lead to violence. This issue features Rehman’s book and an online discussion with her which stretches beyond the confines of pages.
We have more poetry in our translations, some sombre and some funny. A Bengali poem written as a tribute by Nazrul on the death of his older friend, Rabindranath Tagore, has been rendered into English by Professor Fakrul Alam. To add a lighter touch, we have translated a fun-filled poem by Tagore. Isa Kamari continues to translate his own Malay poems to bring in flavours of the culture. This time his poems seem to urge a need to transcend age-old stratifications. We also have a Balochi human-interest story by Younus Hussain brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes’ column too has fiction. His humorous and absurdist fables continue to urge re-evaluation of the world as well as genres. We also have a poignant narrative built around a Vietnamese migrant family by Mario Fenech. Sayan Sarkar shares a tale upending norms set in Kolkata while Naramsetti Umamaheswararao narrates a story about a young boy overcoming his fears. Abhik Ganguly gives us a strange fiction set in the future in a different galaxy, where Earth is seen as the original planet of human evolution.
C Christine Fair, who is an established translator, has surprised us — like Lyons — this time with a personal memoir which dwells on the deeply annihilating impact of norms that define gender roles. Upending the idea of an immutable ruler who can overpower us, is an essay by Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan with its roots in the ruins Rameses II — known as Ozymandias too — and Shelley’s poem of the same name.
We have had an overflow of writing about the unusual and redefining norms in our non-fiction section. Odbayar Dorj weaves an unusual narrative and shares photographs from a village of scarecrows in Japan that has a population of 27 humans and 370 scarecrows. She tells us: “In a place where people and scarecrows live side by side, I began to understand something simple but profound: sometimes, when human presence fades, we find our own ways to fill the silence with memories, imagination, and love.” Humanity never ceases to hope. Filling in silences are narratives by Arathi Devandran and Mubida Rohman on how they deal with the quietness left by departed loved ones.
We have more from Meredith Stephens with photographs by Alan Noble on their trip to Vietnam — as they travel to places that are less touristy while Gowher Bhat explores the Sunday Book Bazaar at Old Delhi. Farouk Gulsara travels back to Penang where he spent his childhood and reflects on changes. Are they always for the best?
Suzanne Kamata takes up changes with a soupçon of humour as she writes of how the AI finally conceded to her husband, “Your wife is not wrong…” while Jun A. Alindogan writes of how social media can create mayhem if misused to spread fake news. Devraj Singh Kalsi resorts to sardonic humour of a darker hue as he explores ways to make a living.
Gulsara has also explored Sam Dalrymple’s Shattered Lands: Five Partitions and the Making of Modern Asiawhich starts with the extent of the British Empire with its western-most point at Aden and stretching in the east to Burma. There was a period from 1839 to 1867, when it stretched from Aden to Singapore[2], which was a part of Malaya, leaving out Siam or Thailand which never succumbed to colonial rule. The book starts at a later date — 1928 — and talks of the piecing of the British Empire, with questionable stances taken by historically heroic figures, thus urging a critical relook at our own past — just over the last hundred years.
Our reviews include Rakhi Dalal’s take on Maithreyi Karnoor’s rather unusual stories fromGooday Nagar.Bhaskar Parichhahas wandered back to non-fiction with the late Kaukub Talat Quder Sajjad Ali Meerza’s Wajid Ali Shah: A Cultural and Literary Legacy, translated from Urdu by Talat Fatima, a history that makes us reassess views on the last of the Awadhi nawabs. Somdatta Mandal has also shares a discussion on Sushila Takbhaure’s My Shackled Life, translated from Hindi by Deeba Zafir and Preeti Dewan, a narrative that showcases the resilience of the author.
This issue could not have been put together without all our wonderful contributors. Heartfelt thanks for sharing your gems with us. Huge thanks to the Borderless team too who continue to support bringing in variety, colour and reinforcing our values. Much thanks to Sohana Manzoor for the fabulous cover art and to all those who share vibrant visuals with their writing. Many thanks to our readers too who make our efforts worthwhile. Do write in with your comments.
Look forward to greeting you all again next month!
Balochi Story by Younus Hussain; Translated by Fazal Baloch
Younus Hussain
The moment the story ended, I closed the book and tucked it beneath the pillow. It was one of the most fascinating stories I had ever encountered. Perhaps that is because the eyes of my mind are fixed on one place while yours are drawn to another. In the end, it is the eyes that measure the worth of what they behold. Just as my imagination began to shape the tale of those eyes, I felt as though the story, once finished, was beginning again from the very beginning. Soon, the tale seemed to whisper through the blazing winds that swept across the towering sand dunes of the Arabian desert. Most of the people in that hamlet belonged to the Al-Baj tribe, whose ancestors had migrated from Baghdad.
Among them was a young man renowned for the extraordinary power of his eyes. He could see far beyond the reach of ordinary sight, and even in the darkness of night, he saw as clearly as one does in broad daylight. The entire hamlet placed unwavering trust in his vision. More than once, he had warned the villagers of approaching storms and heavy rains before they arrived. The young man, barely twenty-years-old, was held in great esteem by the villagers, who respectfully called him Mullah. Yet despite their admiration, his faith remained humble and deeply devoted to God. While the rest of the village slept, he often stayed awake through the long nights.
Days and nights passed in this manner until, one day, as he lay in deep sleep, a dreadful plague swept through the hamlet.
“Mullah, wake up…”
“Mullah, while you sleep, calamity has fallen upon the village. Three people have suddenly gone mad. Even Abu Abbas has lost his mind!”
At the mention of Abu Abbas’s name, Mullah was stunned. He quickly slipped on his shoes and rushed outside. Abu Abbas lay upon his father’s cot, his eyes fixed lifelessly on the ceiling. Mullah stood frozen in shock as he gazed into those vacant, numbed eyes. A dark spirit had taken possession of him, and Mullah realised that he could hear the spirit’s voice.
Quietly, under his breath, Mullah began to recite prayers and sacred incantations. The spirit writhed in agony, and as it departed from Abu Abbas’s body, it spoke to Mullah: “I am leaving, but tomorrow evening this man will leave you all.”
Turning to the people around, Mullah said, “Only God knows His divine will, but by tomorrow evening, Abu Abbas will no longer be among us.”
His words proved true. By the following evening, the villagers were already digging Abu Abbas’s grave. The other two afflicted men also died within the very time Mullah had foretold.
Stories of Mullah’s extraordinary eyes spread far beyond the village. People from distant lands began bringing their insane relatives to him, hoping for healing and relief. With each passing day, the number of his followers and devotees continued to grow. Yet deep within, Mullah was troubled. Every few days, more people in the hamlet seemed to fall victim to evil spirits. Though he could foresee their fate and drive the spirits away, he felt powerless to stop the suffering itself. Each time one of his prophecies came true, he would spend the night in anguish and self-reproach, praying before God: “I am worthless. Among all these people, You granted this power to me, yet in doing so I have become an intruder upon Your divine will. Never once have You proven me wrong. You are greater and more powerful than these evil spirits. I am only Your sinful servant, while You alone are the Almighty. Protect our land from these evil forces.”
One day, there came a knock at his door.
“Is this the house of Saeed bin Hashim?”
Hearing his name, Mullah turned to his disciples and said, “This man seems to be in great haste. I will see him myself.”
Outside stood a man holding the reins of a camel.
“Sardar Aqrash of Al-Sawabi sends his greetings,” the man said. “He requests that you come at once. There is a patient in need of your help.”
Mullah asked, “Are their eyes fixed upon something?”
The man replied, “I do not know, for I have not seen them myself.”
The people of Al-Sawabi were of a different persuasion, yet Mullah, being a healer who understood the duty of his calling, agreed to go with them.
After traveling for half a day, they arrived at Aqrash’s settlement. Aqrash welcomed him warmly, then drew him aside and spoke in a low voice: “If the patient is possessed by an evil spirit, do not speak of it before others. Inform me privately. And if anyone asks, tell them nothing is wrong. I swear upon you by the holy prophets.”
The door to the room was locked from the outside. An elderly woman stepped forward, unlocked it, and silently withdrew into a corner. The moment Mullah entered, the heavy scent of burning incense and herbs told him that the patient had not yet received proper treatment. Upon the bed sat a young woman with disheveled hair falling across her face. Her head rested against the wall as she stared into silence, lost in distant thoughts. At once, Mullah understood that she was not yet possessed.
Something within him whispered, Your work here is done, you may leave now. Yet, he did not know what it was he found in the woman that had nailed his feet to the ground. Just as he turned to leave, a soft and melodious voice called out to him: “O man, come closer… Let me see those eyes of yours, the ones spoken of with such wonder.”
With his back turned to her, he stood deep in thought, struggling with his decision. Somewhere within, he sensed the coming of a storm. Then, in the stillness, he heard the soft chime of anklets halt just behind him.
“Saeed bin Hashim… is that your name?”
He turned.
Before him stood a vision of beauty and grace.
“Answer me,” she said softly. “Are you Saeed bin Hashim?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Then tell me… what illness do I suffer from?”
“You suffer from none.”
“I swear to you, I am mad.”
She looked into his eyes as though searching for something hidden within them. Yet, she seemed to find nothing.
“You swear without reason,” he said quietly. “You are perfectly well.”
“If only you knew,” she whispered, “that I am mad for your eyes.”
“You have seen them now,” he replied. “Did they bring you any peace?”
“I count myself fortunate,” she said, “for only a few days ago, I wished to see them.”
Then, gently taking his hand, she said, “Sit with me. I wish to ask your eyes something.”
Her delicate touch sent a strange calm through his entire being. In that moment, forgetting his role and purpose, he found himself unwilling to leave her presence.
“My name is Rabia,” she said softly. “I am Sardar Aqrash’s third wife. He adores me because I am still young. Tell me… what do your much-praised eyes say about my beauty?”
He looked at her from head to toe, as though seeing her beneath an entirely new light. A quiet fear stirred within him, for he sensed that his eyes might reveal more than his words ever could. As his gaze lingered upon her, Rabia seemed unable to endure its intensity. She drew her knees close to her chest and lowered her eyes.
“My delicate body cannot bear the heat of your gaze,” she whispered. “Do not look at me in this way. It feels as though I am melting from within.”
Without replying, he turned to leave.
“You may go today,” she said behind him, “but I will send for you again. I have faith in my beauty. One day, you will wait for my messenger with longing.”
A faint smile crossed his lips as he opened the door.
Outside, every eye turned toward him. “The patient is perfectly well,” he announced. “There is no cause for concern.”
Standing apart from the others, Aqrash waited anxiously for the truth. Mullah quietly shook his head, and relief immediately spread across Aqrash’s face. He stepped forward, embraced Mullah, and thanked him repeatedly. Moments earlier, his lips had trembled with fear, but Mullah’s words arrived like a cool wind, drying the beads of sweat upon his forehead.
Mullah departed for his hamlet. Though he returned home, his thoughts remained at Rabia’s doorstep. Her enchanting presence lingered within him. Her delicate nose, her dark cascading hair, her graceful fingers, and her heavy, drowsy eyes haunted his mind so much that he found himself waiting for the arrival of Rabia’s messenger.
.
On one side, Mullah remained occupied with driving out evil spirits; on the other, he was consumed by a restless longing to see Rabia again. The spirits feared his gaze, for he alone could truly see them. Whenever they fled the village, they would glance back at him with hesitation, and Mullah knew they were disciples of the Devil destined to return again and again.
One day, Rabia’s messenger came for him. From that time onward, he visited her every week, and with each meeting their bond grew deeper. Then suddenly, an entire month passed without a single message from her. Mullah became deeply troubled. During the day, his eyes remained fixed upon the road leading to her village. At night, when he lay awake in longing, the people mistook his sleeplessness for devotion and worship. Then, one day, Aqrash himself arrived.
“I came personally because we have already troubled you more than once,” he said. “After you left, she recovered completely and lived happily with her family for more than a month. But last night, her condition worsened again. Even the old healer of our village spoke your name. If you would come once more, I would remain forever grateful to you.”
But Mullah needed no persuasion. For days, he had already been waiting anxiously for even the smallest word from Rabia. That night, Rabia adorned herself like a bride, as though she had just been led into the wedding chamber.
“You were right,” he whispered. “Without you, I am incomplete.”
“Did you wait for my messenger every day?”
“The road to your village bears witness,” he replied.
“And I waited for you each day as well,” she said softly. “Ask the mirror.”
They drew so close to one another that no distance remained between them.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
“Do you wish to test me?”
Rabia’s lips trembled faintly. The beads of sweat upon her cheeks only deepened the radiance of her beauty. In a quivering voice, she said:
“If I ask something of you, will you grant it?”
“Ask it. And if my tongue refuses, I shall cut it out and lay it before you.”
“I cannot bring myself to say it.”
“Swear upon my life and tell me.”
“I will ask for something without which you yourself will remain incomplete.”
“Only do not ask me to live apart from you,” he said. “Without you, I would be nothing.”
Rabia lowered her gaze before whispering:
“Can you give me your eyes?”
“My life is dearer to me than even my eyes,” he replied, “yet if you asked for my life as well, I would place it before you. As for these eyes, I have long since laid them upon the path of your messenger.”
“I feel,” she said softly, “as though my beauty is incomplete without your eyes.”
Mullah slowly raised his hands toward the sky, “O my Almighty God…”
Yet in that moment, a strange feeling overcame him. It seemed as though his tongue no longer wished to bow in humility before any power greater than itself. The moonlit beauty of Rabia’s face stirred something within him, and his tongue began to speak like that of a plaintiff before destiny.
“O my Lord! Whatever You will, comes to pass. Life and death rest in Your hands alone. Nothing can happen without Your permission. Even the longing that arose within my heart was placed there by You. It is said in Alborz that a single bowl of water is worth a hundred years of loyalty. I, too, have pledged my loyalty. Do not look upon me as of different faiths. Look instead upon our love. O my Creator, grant us honor. Let the tale of our bond become known throughout the world, so that lovers may one day swear oaths in our names. O God, fulfill her innocent wish. Do not let me be humiliated before my Rabia.”
Then he fell silent. Tears of defeat slipped from his eyes, and in the depths of his sorrow, he whispered: “O God… if You refuse me this, then I shall go to Egypt and seek out magicians to fulfill my beloved’s wish…”
He continued mumbling in broken desperation until, suddenly, he felt his vision begin to fade. Darkness slowly gathered before his eyes, and just before the last trace of light vanished, he saw Rabia overcome with joy.
The moment he saw his eyes upon Rabia’s flower-like face, he fell into prostration and wept.
Rabia’s laughter rang through the room. Delighted by the new world before her, she gazed at her fingers in wonder, then gathered her hair into her palms and admired it. She lifted the edge of her scarf before her eyes, marveling at the beauty of her clothes. Everything around her seemed transformed, as though creation itself had been born anew.
“Go,” Mullah said proudly, “look at yourself in the mirror. If you were amazed merely by these eyes, then any desire to reverse this decision would only dishonor our love.”
She stood before him and looked into the empty sockets that had once held the eyes now belonging to her.
“Tell me, my beloved,” he asked softly, “what do you see within your eyes?”
“From what I can understand,” she replied, “they are filled with fear.”
“Good,” he said quietly. “What else do you see?”
“I see that your heart is trembling.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“My heart… afraid?”
“Perhaps it is.”
“Perhaps,” she whispered, “it regrets the choice it has made.”
“My heart would never commit such disloyalty,” he replied.
“And if it did?”
“Then I would tear it from my chest and lay it at your feet this very moment. My poor heart rejoices only because your wish has been fulfilled. It is these eyes that are afraid… afraid that, in your delight with this new vision, you may forget them and cast them out from the world of beauty.”
“Tell them they are a gift from you, a token of your love. They should take pride in belonging to someone as brave as you.”
“I swear,” he replied, “fear shall never find a place within your eyes. But as for waiting… I can promise nothing. Do not make me suffer any longer.”
“I will send my messenger soon,” she said softly. “And if he delays, then curse both him and me.”
“This tongue prays only for your well-being,” he answered. “How could it ever curse you?”
“I am fortunate that you love me.”
“And now, let me go. I will return to you.”
“Do not leave me.”
“I must travel far away. My world… grant me permission.”
As he departed, he said: “My prayer is that your beauty, along with your eyes, becomes renowned throughout the world. May the praise of your eyes travel as far as China.”
He left. In a sorrowful voice, Rabia called after him: “Rest assured, the moment you reach home, my messenger will arrive.”
But days passed.
A few days later, people found Mullah wandering in delirium and brought him back home. His followers said he had neither eaten nor drunk anything for an entire month. Now he sat against a wall, his sightless face turned endlessly toward the threshold, waiting for the messenger who would bring word from Rabia.
The endless waiting had robbed him of sleep. His followers and the villagers grieved for him, believing that his eyes had fallen beneath some terrible curse. The evil spirits, meanwhile, rejoiced. Physicians were summoned from distant places, yet none could heal him. His suffering became a source of anguish for the entire village.
One day, someone said: “I have heard of an old woman whose eyes can see deep into the soul of the afflicted.”
Preparations were immediately made to bring her. When the old woman finally arrived, she looked upon Mullah and spoke in a trembling voice: “The Lord is greatest… but your Mullah has only one day left to live.”
Tears filled the eyes of everyone present. A few doubted her words, but Mullah himself became convinced that it was his own eyes that had dared to pronounce such a fate.
“May God protect them,” he thought.
Nearby, two men whispered quietly: “She speaks the truth.”
“She is an experienced woman. It is said she once deceived Sardar Aqrash’s wife and stole her eyes.”
At those words, Mullah became certain that the old woman’s prophecy could not be false. For one brief moment, he longed to see his own eyes again. Yet he feared looking into the prison where they now lived. And in the silence of his heart, he whispered: “Rabia, do not blame me. It is your own innocence and foolishness that allowed fear to enter your eyes.”
After the old woman departed, Mullah stretched out his legs and slowly forgot the threshold he had watched for so long. Gradually, his eyes began to close.
Far away, he could hear the soft voice of a shepherd singing a lonely raga while guiding his flock.
Younus Hussain is widely regarded as one of the foremost contemporary short story writers in Balochi language. He is known for enriching the landscape of Balochi fiction with compelling narratives and literary depth. His stories are often cited in most discussions of Balochi literature on account of their artistic merit and narrative power. A hallmark of Younus’ writing is his exploration of individuals grappling with the tension between cultural expectations and the personal inner conflict. Most of his stories capture these recurring themes with clarity and emotional resonance, offering a vivid portrait of the human condition shaped by tradition and transformation.The translated story is taken from his first anthology “Be Dasten Sareechk” (The Armless Scarecrow) published by Balochistan Academy Turbat in 2025. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights to this story.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Meenakshi Malhotra writes of the diverse ways histories can be viewed, reflecting on the perspective from the point of view of water, climate, migrations or women. Click here to read.
Sometimes, we have an idea, a thought and then it takes form and becomes a reality. That is how the Borderless Journal came to be six years ago while the pandemic raged. The pandemic got over and takeovers and wars started. We continued to exist because all of you continue to pitch in, ignoring the differences created by certain human constructs. We meet with the commonality of felt emotions and aesthetics to create a space for all those who believe in looking beyond margins. We try to erase margins or borders that lead to hatred, anger, violence and war. Learning from the natural world, we believe we can be like the colours of the rainbow that seem to grow out of each other or the grass that is allowed to grow freely beyond manmade borders. If nature gives us lessons through its processes, is it not to our advantage to conserve what nurtures us, and in the process, we save our home planet, the Earth? We could all be together in peace, enjoying nature and nurture, living in harmony in the Universe if only we could overlook differences and revel in similarities.
A young poet Nma Dhahir says it all in her poem that is a part of our journal this month —
This is how we stay human together: by refusing the easy damage, by carrying each other without calling it sacrifice, by believing that what we protect in one another eventually protects the world.
Translations has more poetry with Professor Fakrul Alam bringing us Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics in English and Fazal Baloch familiarising us with beautiful Balochi poetry of the late Majeed Ajez, a young poet who left us too soon. Isa Kamari translates his own poems from Malay, capturing the colours of the community in Singapore to blend it with a larger whole. And of course, we have a Tagore poem rendered into English from Bengali. This time it’s a poem called ‘Jatra (Journey)’ which reflects not only on social gaps but also on politics through aeons.
Christine C Fair has translated a story from Punjabi by Lakhvinder Virk, a story that reflects resilience in women who face the dark end of social trends, a theme that reverberates in Flanagan’s poetry and Meenakshi Malhotra’s essay, which while reflecting on the need of different perspectives in histories – like water and nomads — peeks into the need to recall women’s history aswell. This is important not just because March hosts the International Women’s Day (IWD) but because one wonders if women in Afghanistan are better off now than the suffragettes who initiated the idea of such a day more than a century ago?
This time our non-fiction froths over with scrumptious writings from across continents. Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos muses on looking at numbers and beyond to enjoy the essence of nature. Farouk Gulsara ideates about living on in posterity through deeds and ideas. Gower Bhat shares how he learns story writing skills from watching movies. Meredith Stephens talks of her experience of a fire in the Australian summer. Bhaskar Parichha writes with passion about his region, Odisha. We have a heartfelt tribute to Mark Tully, who transcended borders, from Bhowmick. And an essay on Arundhati Roy’s memoir, Mother Mary Comes to Me, from Somdatta Mandal, which explores not just the book but also the covers which change with continents. Prithvijeet Sinha travels beyond Lucknow and Suzanne Kamata brings to us stories about her trip to Phnom Penh.
Keith Lyons draws from the current crises and writes about changing times, suggesting: “Changes aren’t endings, but thresholds.” Perhaps, if we see them as ‘thresholds of change’, the current events are emphasising the need to accept that human constructs can be redefined. I am sure a Neolithic or an Australopithecus would have been equally scared of evolving out of their system to one we would deem ‘superior’. Life in certain ways can only evolve towards the future, even if currently certain changes seem to be retrogressive. We can never correctly predict the future… but can only imagine it. And Devraj Singh Kalsi imagines it with a dollop of humour where tails become a trend among humans again!
Humour and absurdity are woven into a series of short fables by Hughes while Naramsetti Umamaheswarao weaves a fable around acceptanceof differences. In fiction, we have stories of resilience from Jonathon B Ferrini and Terry Sanville. Bhat gives us a story set in Kashmir and Sohana Manzoor gives us one set in Dhaka, a narrative that reminds one of Jane Austen… and perhaps even an abbreviated version of the 2001 film, Monsoon Wedding.
In reviews we have, Mohammad Asim Siddiqui discussing Anisur Rahman’s The Essential Ghalib. Rituparna Khan has written on Malashri Lal’s poetry collection reflecting on women, Signing in the Air. And Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Deepta Roy Chakraverti’s Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor, a book that reflects on the resilience that makes great women. Thus, weaving in flavours of the IWD, which applauds women who are resilient while urging humans for equal rights for one half of the world population.
While we ponder on larger realities, Borderless Journal looks forward to a future with more writings centred around humanity, climate change, our planet and all creatures great and small. This year has not only seen a rise in readership and contributors — and the numbers rose further after our unsolicited Duotrope listing in October 2025 — but has also attracted writers from more challenged parts of the world, like Ukraine, Iran, Tunisia and Kurdistan. We are delighted to home writing from all those who attempt to transcend borders and be a part of the larger race of humanity. I would like to quote Margaret Atwood to explain what I mean. “I hope that people will finally come to realize that there is only one ‘race’—the human race—and that we are all members of it.” And I would like to extend her view to find solidarity with all living beings. I hope that there will be a point in time when we will realise there’s not much difference between, a lizard, a fly, a human or a tree… All these lifeforms are necessary for our existence.
I would want to hugely thank all our team for stretching out and making this a special issue for our sixth anniversary and Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for being with us through our journey. Let’s change the world with peace, love and friendship!
Majeed Ajez (1977-2026) was a remarkable Balochi poet. He started his poetic journey in the early 1990s and soon established himself as a prominent ghazal writer. Although he also wrote free verse and experimented with other forms, the ghazal remained his true forte, a form through which he expressed his poetic vision with remarkable ease and finesse. In a literary journey spanning nearly three decades, Ajez published three anthologies of poetry.
(1) Each night the sun is lifted on a bier, No wonder shadows live but briefly here. The earth lies hushed, no whisper in the air, And darkness, like the god, stays silent there.
(2) No green fruit, nor any cooling shade The jungle echoes with a dove’s mournful cry As fire is bound to wood in flame So too is the bond between the world and I
(3) Your scarf waved softly and moonlight flowed. Your lips stirred and flowers kissed the air. The flock wanders and faints upon the plain. The shepherd’s eyes are caught in honeyed glare.
(4) A melancholy song descends in melody, I wonder to whom your bright bangles confide. Your morrow and the day beyond gleam radiantly, While my yesterday and today lie dark as a grave inside.
(5) To death and pain unfamiliar I stand. In each breath an apocalypse unfolds. Here kohl is worth far less than dust and sand. Here tears and blood alone are sold.
(6) Not even the thinnest comfort warms my children’s bowl. The famished fishermen no longer venture to the sea. To flee the ravenous wolves haunting the darkened wilderness, A poor shepherd feeds his herd on water at the sea.
(7) You walked this path with quiet grace and elegance, I breathed a heavenly breeze, spread far and wide. Leave Ajez be—he’s mad, indeed, quiet mad— He wept for long, then laughed through all the pain inside.
(8) No one looks this way anymore, For whom should I turn my head and see? Who knows what fate the coming day may store— Today’s but yesterday’s echo to me.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Six years ago, a few of us got together to bring out the first issue of Borderless Journal. We started as a daily blog and then congealed into a monthly journal offering content that transcends artificial borders to meet with the commonality of felt emotions, celebrating humanity and the Universe. Today as we complete six years of our existence in the clouds, we would like to celebrate with all writers and readers who made our existence a reality. We invite you to savour writings collected over the years that reflect and revel in transcending borders, touching hearts and some even make us laugh while exploring norms.
In this special issue. we can only offer a small sample of writings but you can access many more like these ones at our site…Without further ado, let us harmonise with words. We invite you to lose yourselves in a borderless world in these trying times.
Rebel or ‘Bidrohi’, Nazrul’s signature poem, ‘Bidrohi‘, translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Manish Ghatak’s Aagun taader Praan (Fire is their Life) has been translated from Bengali by Indrayudh Sinha. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem, Tomar Shonkho Dhulay Porey (your conch lies in the dust), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty as ‘The Conch Calls’. Click here to read.
Ihlwha Choi spent some time in Santiniketan and here are poems he wrote in reaction to his observations near the ‘home of R.Tagore’, as he names Santiniketan and the Kobiguru. Click here to read Nandini.
Rituals in the Garden: Marcelo Medone discusses motherhood, aging and loss in this poignant flash fiction from Argentina. Click here to read.
Navigational Error: Luke P.G. Draper explores the impact of pollution with a short compelling narrative. Click here to read.
Henrik’s Journey: Farah Ghuznavi follows a conglomerate of people on board a flight to address issues ranging from Rohingyas to race bias. Click hereto read.
The Magic Staff , a poignant short story about a Rohingya child by Shaheen Akhtar, translated from Bengali by Arifa Ghani Rahman. Click here to read.
A Cat Story : Sohana Manzoor leaves one wondering if the story is about felines or… Clickhere to read.
When West Meets East & Greatness Blooms: Debraj Mookerjee reflects on how syncretism impacts greats like Tagore,Tolstoy, Emerson, Martin Luther King Jr, Gandhi and many more. Click here to read.
The Day Michael Jackson Died: A tribute by Julian Matthews to the great talented star who died amidst ignominy and controversy. Click here to read.
Potable Water Crisis & the Sunderbans: Camellia Biswas, a visitor to Sunderbans during the cyclone Alia, turns environmentalist and writes about the potable water issue faced by locals. Click here to read.
My Love for RK Narayan, Rhys Hughes discusses the novels by ths legendary writer from India. Click here to read.
Travels ofDebendranath Tagore: These are travel narratives by Debendranath Tagore, father of Rabindranath Tagore, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.
Baraf Pora (Snowfall): This narrative gives a glimpse of Tagore’s first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated by Somdatta Mandal . Clickhere to read.
The Day of Annihilation: An essay on climate change by Kazi Nazrul Islam has been translated from Bengali by Radha Chakravarty. Clickhereto read.
Reminiscences from a Gallery: The Other Ray: Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen. Click here to read.
The Bauls of Bengal: Aruna Chakravarti writes of wandering minstrels called bauls and the impact they had on Tagore. Click here to read.
Most people like you and me connect with the commonality of felt emotions and needs. We feel hungry, happy, sad, loved or unloved and express a larger plethora of feelings through art, theatre, music, painting, photography and words… With these, we tend to connect. And yet, larger structures created over time to offer security and governance to the masses—of which you and I are a part — have grown divisive, and, by the looks of it, the fences nurtured over time seem insurmountable. To retain these structures that were meant to keep us safe, wars are being fought and many are getting killed, losing homes and going hungry. We showcase such stories, poems and non-fiction to create an awareness among those who are lucky enough to remain untouched. But is there a way out, so that all of us can live peacefully, without war, without hunger and with love and a vision towards surviving climate change which (like it or not) is upon us?
Creating an awareness of hunger and destruction wreaked by war is a heartrending story set in Gaza by JK Miller. While Snigdha Agrawal’s narrative gives a sense of hope, recounting a small kindness by a common person, Sayan Sarkar shares a more personal saga of friendship and disillusionment — where people have choice. But does war leave us a choice as it annihilates friendships, cities, homes and families? Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s story reiterates the belief in the family – peace being an accepted unit. Vela Noble’s fantastical fiction and art comes like a respite– though there is a darker side to it — with a touch of fun. Perhaps, a bit of fantasy and humour opens the mind to deal with the more sombre notes of existence.
The translation section hosts a story by Hamiruddin Middya, who grew up as a farmer’s son in Bengal. Steeped in local colours, it has been rendered into English by V Ramaswamy. Nazrul’s song revelling in the colours of spring has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Atta Shad’s pensive Balochi lines have been brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch. Isa Kamari continues to bring the flavours of an older, more laid-back Singapore with translations of his own Malay poems. A couple of Persian verses have been rendered into English by the poet, Akram Yazdani, herself. Questing for harmony, Tagore’s translated poem while reflecting on a child’s life, urges us to have the courage to be like a child — open, innocent and willing to imagine a world laced with trust and hope. If we were all to do that, do you think we’d still have wars, violence and walls built on hate and intolerance?
Mario Fenech takes a look at the idea of time. Amir Zadnemat writes of how memory is impacted by both science and humanities while Andriy Nivchuk brings to us snippets from Herodotus’s and Pericles’s lives that still read relevant. Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan gives the journey of chickpeas across space and time, asserting: “The chickpea does not care about your ideology, your portfolio, or your meticulously curated identity. It will grow, fix nitrogen, feed someone, and move on without a press release.” It has survived over aeons in a borderless state!
In book excerpts, we have a book that transcends borders as it’s a translation from Assamese by Ranjita Biswas of Arupa Kalita Patangia’s Moonlight Saga. Any translation is an attempt to integrate the margins into the mainstream of literature, and this is no less. The other excerpt is from Natalie Turner’s The Red Silk Dress. Keith Lyons has interviewed Turner about her novel which crosses multiple cultures too while on a personal quest.
Holding on to that idea, we invite you to savour the contents of our February issue.
Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for making this issue possible. Heartfelt thanks to our wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork.
Enjoy the reads!
Let’s look forward to the spring… May it bring new ideas to help us all move towards more amicable times.
Poetry by Atta Shad: Translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
Whether morning or eventide, dawn or twilight— what remains to be said of the rainbow and raincloud, of the scented breeze, of the beloved earth? The heart seems withdrawn from all.
The heart, a patient mendicant, feels and endures each rebuff. Desire wanders beneath the scorching sun, a traveler without a destination.
Night falls, (so we’ve heard). Day breaks, (so they claim). But who can tell of day and the night? Both are deemed dead now. Joy wraps itself in mourning’s cloak.
Love’s springtide carries the green pulse of bloom. Yet to slay hope, to shatter a vow, is a catastrophe enough for any age. Love and wrath are bound in a single knot.
In the mirror of dreams the world becomes a marketplace. And in that marketplace a shadow falls over translucent melodies of spring, over verdant meadows, over pearl-laden, swaying fields.
Eyes go blind. Ears turn deaf. Only wealth gleams, only riches glitter.
What remains to be said of the rainbow and raincloud, of the scented breeze, of the beloved earth?
In this marketplace you are for sale. So am I.
The heart, a patient mendicant feels and endures each rebuff. Desire wanders in the scorching sun, a traveler without a destination.
Atta Shad(1939-1997) is the most revered and cherished modern Balochi poet. He instilled a new spirit in the moribund body of modern Balochi poetry in the early 1950s when the latter was drastically paralysed by the influence of Persian and Urdu poetry. Atta Shad gave a new orientation to modern Balochi poetry by giving a formidable ground to the free verse, which also brought in its wake a chain of new themes and mode of expression hitherto untouched by Balochi poets. Apart from the popular motifs of love and romance, subjugation and suffering, freedom and liberty, life and its absurdities are a few recurrent themes which appear in Shad’s poetry. What sets Shad apart from the rest of Balochi poets is his subtle, metaphoric and symbolic approach while versifying socio-political themes. He seemed more concerned about the aesthetic sense of art than anything else.
Shad’s poetry anthologies include Roch Ger and Shap Sahaar Andem, which were later collected in a single anthology under the title Gulzameen, posthumously published by the Balochi Academy Quetta in 2015. The translated poem is from Gulzameen.
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 of Atta Shad from the publisher.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Five poems by Pravasini Mahakudahave been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das. Click here to read.
A Poet in Exileby Dmitry Blizniuk has been translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov. Click hereto read.
Kalponik or Imaginedby Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click hereto read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: The Seven Mysteries of Sumona’s Life is an autobiographical narrative by Sumona (pseudonym), translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Click here to read.
