Chapter 2of Isa Kamari’s novel, The Throne,has been translated by the author from Malay. We will be running the whole novel as serial through the year. Click hereto read.
A Tiny Piece of Homeland, an autobiographical narrative by Kallol Lahiri in Bengali, has been translated by V. Ramaswamy. Click here to read.
Walking Together, a poem, has been written and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click hereto read.
Swopno (Dream), a poem by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click hereto read.
We have started feeling the impact of climate change with a bevy of natural disasters this August. Glacial ice melts, peat fires, haze, rising seas, more storms, warmer climes and fires wiping out greenery are just a few that come to the mind. But, long ago, our ancestors — without the support of technology — survived climate events. Göbekli Tepe (Turkey), an ancient human settlement, more than 11,000 years ago was lush and green. People moved as it turned arid. Humankind was nomadic then. They moved with shifting riverbeds. In Europe, humans survived the last glacial age, about 20,000 years ago. Then, now when we are faced with the reality of climate change, why is it we tremble with trepidation? We even have technology in hand. Ideators and writers like Asimov found solutions. In Caves of Steel (1954), Isaac Asimov had humanity move underground to survive unfriendly surface conditions. He created a huge city underground for humanity while some moved into other planets. Perhaps, the time has come for us to think out of the box. And that is what we hope all of you will join to do in Borderless.
September has thrown up varied content. We have non-fiction which reflects on how changes are a part of human lore and how diverse cultures can co-exist to enrich each other. Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri dwells on this idea while talking of Nazrul’s approach to the Persian Ghazal. He writes, the poet through his adaptation of this form “showed how a culture can absorb another culture without losing itself, and how, in the process, both cultures can become something larger than they were before.” And perhaps from that largeness of thought will emerge a one-world community — that Yatish Kumar S espouses. Maybe from people who think beyond borders, we will find the solution to tackling and adapting to climate change. We have an essay from Charudutta Panigrahi where he attempts to arouse the survival instinct in humans. Young Shruti Keskar writes of how she finds a new lease to life by accepting and adapting to changes while Farouk Guslara philosophises on living and possessions. We have Meredith Stephens adding to the vivacity of non-fiction with a recount of her sailing adventures with wonderful photographs by Alan Noble. And Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in sardonic humour with his piece on art and artists.
A story-poem by Tagore, Swopno (Dream), has also been brought to us in English. An interesting memoir by Kallol Lahiri centring around his childhood in Bengal has been translated by V Ramaswamy. Translations offer fiction from Isa Kamari. He has transcribed in English the second chapter of his Malay novel, The Throne. The novel focussing on psychological torment is being serialised in Borderless.
Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed a rare book-centric memoir by Shanta Gokhale. He tells us, “Of Ancestors and Friends: A Life with Booksis an unusual kind of literary memoir. It is neither a conventional autobiography nor a conventional work of criticism. Instead, it occupies an intimate space between the two, tracing a life’s intellectual and emotional history through books.” Meenakshi Malhotra has discussed the renowned historian Romila Thapar’s memoir, Just Being, a book that reflects not only her own journey but the freedom and outreach that privilege and capability can bestow on women in South Asia. On the other hand, Mudassar Javed Baryar refers to the plight of birongonas, war time widows during the 1971 conflict that birthed Bangladesh, while discussing Saima Begum’s The First Jasmines. He reflects: “Begum’s profound innovation is to turn the narrative back not just to these women’s trauma but to their ‘humanity, resilience and heart’, depicting them as ‘architects of family and community’.” Somdatta Mandal has praised Omair Ahmad’s novel, Homecoming.
We have also featured Kanuprya Dhingra, who has written a book on a unique book bazaar. In a candid exchange, she tells us her non-fiction, The Sunday Book Bazaar: Delhi’s Book Street and the Making of a Reading Public, “is for the reader in Singapore, or Mumbai, or London, or Lahore who has their own version of this informal, unruly, necessary space and sees it reflected here. It is a book about books, the people who read them, and the people who make that possible…the book is for everyone.” It’s an interesting read almost inviting you to stroll into the serendipitous democratic reading space full of local colour and stories.
We would like to thank not only Dhingra but all our contributors for their wonderful work. Huge thanks to the fabulous Borderless team for their input and to Sohana Manzoor for her artwork. Thank you all — without all of you and our wonderful readers, it would be difficult to have a journal. In the spirit of ubuntu, heartfelt thanks.
Do pause by our September content’s page. And let’s look forward to the hope for happier climes and times.
They couldn’t simply walk out of the wedding and drive home. Earlier, a vintage double decker bus had conveyed the guests to the chapel in the neighbouring town, leaving cars behind in the car park. He gripped her hand muttering ‘’We’ll have to take the bus back.’’
Once on the bus, he sat by the window his face turned away from her. She felt temporarily shut out as in silence he tried to grasp the betrayal. All she could do was continue to hold his hand. When he finally spoke, there was a rage she had not witnessed before. As if it was a secret weapon, he had kept hidden away from her.
His voice was granite. The few words were emphasised by a shake of the head. “I ‘d never have believed he’d do that to me.’’ Then the taboo four letter word was discharged like a bullet never before used against this favourite brother. Hearing it she took a sharp in breath.
Another silence as she saw him battle tears. His eyes filled, a few overflowing down his cheek to be hastily flicked away. She stroked his arm knowing that no words would palliate. It occurred to her that she was witnessing someone’s heart break. A cliché but this was not the romantic love the phrase was coined for but backstabbing by a sibling he adored. Suddenly an admission, “You warned me, but I wouldn’t listen.”
Sam and Maria loved an opportunity to wear fine clothes. In the current preference for casual dressing there were fewer occasions for them to peacock. So, this wedding gifted them a chance. Sam had treated himself to a new blue suit, ‘’ Don’t want to let Nick down,” he had declared. His black hair had been cut. Sam was fortunate that at 60 he still retained a full head, that gave him a youthful look. The style unintentionally echoed that of Rod Stewert and garnered
comments to that wherever he went. His red tie matched Maria’s red dress. Red was her colour and complimented her brunette hair worn long still even in her 50s. Applying her eye make-up contemplatively around her dark eyes, Maria considered how relieved she had been at the advent of Clair into Nick’s life. It had drawn his eyes away from her to this bubbly blonde girl whom Sam approved of largely because she made his brother happy again.
All eyes alighted on Sam and Maria as they entered the pub that would be the locus for the wedding festivities. They were eyed up and down simply because they were so well dressed. But Maria also picked up inquiring looks from a crowd who did not seem to know them. They were not hostile merely curious as to the couple’s identity. She assumed they must be friends of the bride and groom, strangers to Sam and Maria because they did not reside in the town that had a micro community of original families who stuck together in the face of an invasion of newcomers.
Nick stood with a pint of larger in his hand. A cue of guests greeted him, and he answered with his easy banter basking in the attention. Sam and Maria waited their turn like seeking an audience with a VIP. At length there was a pause. Sam, hand outstretched greeted him with their usual salutation, “Hello mate.” Maria kissed him and whispered, “You look great.” But, the brother’s bonhomie seemed to fade at the sight of them. There was none of the usual joshing that came so easily to them. Maria picked up a distance in his demeaner, as if he was mentally stepping away from them. His greeting was polite but not warm, treating them more like acquaintances rarely encountered. The brothers’ conversation was reduced to platitudes – “Nice day for it’’, “Looking forward to …’’ until a silence fell between them like a sword cutting off further dialogue.
“Well,’’ said Nick, “better greet the other guests.’’ and he was gone.
“Yes of course,” said Sam his words trailing after the brother. Maria saw once again the dynamics of the relationship. Her husband the elder, deferred to the younger, blind to the slight, making excuses. “He looks nervous.”
Sam and Maria were left drinks in hands feeling like extras lacking direction. The rest of the guests were clearly familiar with each other. In knots that precluded mingling, they exchanged hearty private jokes and shared anecdotes. To look less conspicuous, the couple examined the buffet, admired the blousy wedding cake. Eventually, they were forced to make small talk between themselves, until even that ran dry. Sam scanned the room and remarked, “Strange but I don’t know anyone here.”
An old lady presented herself in front of the couple and with all the forthrightness of the elderly asked, “Who are you?”
Sam with impeccable politeness responded, “I’m the older brother.’’
She looked surprised, “I never knew he had one.’’
Clearly, she was an elderly relative belonging to Clair. But Sam hissed to Maria, “Apparently, I don’t exist.’’ His tone was humorous but with a slight note of hurt. Nobody likes to have their existence challenged. At this point an uneasiness began to nudge Maria. A mixture of the brother’s off hand manner and her previous experience of being the butt of his ‘banter’ a word she came to associate with the smiling face of bullying.
She knew from the moment they heard of the engagement that Sam did not expect to be best man. There was a younger brother and although their relationship had been smashed years ago, Sam was fair-minded enough to accept that Nick would diplomatically not select either brother
for that honour. Indeed, Nick had been at pains to explain, “Don’t want to play favourites mate.” Consequently, Sam and Maria assumed the role would go to one of his friends.
Several characters from Sam’s time in the town began to drift in. They too skirted the clusters of guests who were strangers to them and gravitated towards Sam and immediately went down memory lane. This involved bemoaning the town’s infestation of newcomers that had driven up the price of housing.
Maria had never been part of these reminiscences since she was not deemed a local. Letting them meander through their shared past, she idly looked at the people in the bar now brimming with wedding guests in all manner of outfits. Consequently, she was first to see the entrance of Nick’s best friend and David, the younger brother, and observe as they gravitated towards the grinning groom. Standing together she saw instantly that the three men were dressed in the same wedding livery. Grey suits, lilac ties and buttonholes. It was a subtle and elegant look. She read the situation clearly. There was only one reason that David would be included in this ensemble. With her pulse racing as if she had been running, she knew that she must prepare her husband. Stepping close to him, despite the group still chewing on the past, she whispered directly into his ear “David is best man,” But Sam brushed away her words with “No Nick would never do that to me.” She felt sick at this blind faith.
In some ways the younger brother and Sam were alike. Both were bright and attended grammar school. Both excelled at sport. Both developed an unhealthy relationship with alcohol. But while Sam had taken full advantage of everything a grammar school education had to offer, David had squandered his schooling. Sam had recognised and seen off his alcohol dependence while David continued to embrace it. As such he took low grade jobs which he routinely lost when he stole from the till or the cellar to fund his drinking. The rest of the family were indulgent towards this dilettante lifestyle. His routine was beer for breakfast, followed by a lurch up the high street around 11 am to spend a couple of hours in the bookies, then home for an afternoon sleep before heading out in the evening to the pub. This waste of life infuriated Sam. He had patiently tried to help him quit the drink, but each time he failed. Largely because David was resentful of his older brother. He envied his career, his abundant travel and his strong will that enabled him to kick the drink. For Sam the death knell to their relationship came when David stole a substantial amount of money from their mother. While the rest of the family forgave him, Sam would not. The brothers had not spoken since.
When the local gossip was finally exhausted, Sam turned back to his wife. “What made you say that?’’ he frowned.
“See for yourself,” she gestured.
There was silence as he took in the group of men clearly at ease with each other, smiling over their pint glasses. She saw as he observed them a slight flicker of doubt in his grey eyes. That were usually so inscrutable. ‘’ I see David’s on his best behaviour.’’ He remarked dryly as he observed that his brother was clasping a pint of coke. Before Maria could prepare her husband still further, the moment was sabotaged by Aunty Francis, the much-loved sister of his late mother. With her typical acuity she had observed the sartorial anomaly and greeted Sam with a “Didn’t you get the dress code memo?’’
“Apparently not,” he replied. As the three of them chatted, Maria wondered what was going through her husband’s mind. He betrayed nothing but listened attentively as Aunty Francis gave a precis of events on her side of the family.
As they clambered onto the vintage bus that had been hired as a ‘fun’ means of transporting the guests to the wedding venue in the neighbouring city, it became evident to Maria that they were the only relatives from Nick’s side of the family on board. Puzzled she pondered how the others were getting to Canterbury. She decided not to highlight this observation to Sam but wondered if with his eye for detail, had he picked on this oddity himself?
The other passengers were quite literally in high spirits. Having imbibed liberally at the pub, they now passed around hip flasks. Alcohol had unleashed their playful side. Guffaws bounced around the vehicle as the old double decker navigated the narrow country lanes bashing overhead trees, jerking its passengers abruptly from side to side like a fairground ride. Maria forced a smile at the antics. She tried to share her husband’s faith in his brother, thrusting to the back of her mine the side of Nick she was more familiar with.
The bus arrived at the venue prematurely. It was a small Zoroastrian chapel built into the ancient city walls. It had been chosen for its quirkiness. Fellow passengers finding the doors firmly closed to them were content to mill about looking at watches still however in celebratory mood. Sam was not good at aimlessly wandering so suggested a coffee in a nearby café. Making their way through the Saturday morning shoppers their appearance was met with curious stares. An elderly quartet enjoying a late breakfast remarked, “You two look fabulous. Is it your wedding day?’’ Setting them right Sam hissed to his wife ‘’ We do scrub up well.’’
In their absence the venue doors had been opened. It was a small building more like a priest hole than a chapel. Its shape was dictated by being part of the fabric of the ancient wall. The ceilings were low and the walls made of the same flint as the wall itself. It accommodated about 40 seats. None of the plain pine chairs had been reserved apart from the front row nearest the altar. Of course, the maths did not stack up. There would necessarily be a remainder of guests without seating. Consequently, there had been a free for all when the doors were opened. Every chair was now occupied. The overspill would have to stand at the rear.
No provision had been made for Sam and Maria. Losing out in the seating lottery they were forced to stand at the back of the chapel joining a rag tag of the couple’s acquaintances, who knowing their place had not troubled with formal wedding attire. Trainers and track bottoms sufficed.
The front row was clearly reserved for close family members such as Aunty Nancy and her family. The two brothers sat side by side. Their positioning screaming to all that David was best man. This casting roles was now undeniable, even to Sam. He gripped Maria’s hand as he stared at the front row only able to articulate, “I don’t believe he’s done this to me.’’
“Betrayal,” Maria thought to herself takes many forms. It can be blatant. An affair. Theft from a trusted friend. But it could also be subtle, cunning even. This was the kind she was witnessing. It was designed as a personal slight, targeting Sam only, so not obvious to outsiders thereby avoiding censure. Any accusations of exclusion could be disingenuously argued away by ‘We just wanted everyone involved in the ceremony to be coordinated.” But it was the hurt caused by these actions, felt acutely by Sam and to a lesser extent by herself that was the reality. They were not particularly sensitive or mimsy but knew when they were being slighted. It was not an oversight either. The proof of intention lay in the withholding of information, that created this shock that felt like an assault. She knew that if Nick had simply revealed his plans to Sam, he would have understood and accepted as his brother’s right to have the wedding he desired.
Maria looked up at her husband. His face was white. His mouth set in a line. She had no time to sympathise as the wedding march suddenly issued from the sound system. The choreography of the proceeding’s events built upon this undertone of spite. The bride was a petite woman whose best attributes were her blonde bob and baby blue eyes that gave a false impression of innocence. At forty and married before, she had nevertheless opted to wear a white confection. But it was the presence of Ted, Sam’s stepfather, parading her up the aisle that slapped the couple in the face. Maria spontaneously articulating, “My God, Ted’s giving her away!”
This man was a controversial figure to her husband. He attributed his mother’s premature death to Ted’s negligence. A heavy drinker, he had insisted, despite a long flight from Florida that he and Joan have a night cap at their local. Clumsy with exhaustion she had misjudged the gap between the car and the curb and taken a bad fall from which she never recovered.
With no-one to rein in his drinking, Ted became a familiar in the pub at the end of his road. Drinking despite doctor’s warnings until he compromised the use of his legs. The last Sam and Maria had seen him was confined to an electric wheelchair.
Yet here he was Lazarous-like walking the bride down the aisle dressed in the wedding livery; his steps sure, thoroughly pleased with himself. The insults seemed to come like a flight of arrows.
Behind the bride was his middle-aged sister, resplendent in an overblown lilac dress that even a young girl would struggle to carry off.
“Ridiculous,” thought Maria repressing a giggle. “She looks like a giant blueberry.”
Sam had seen enough. “We’re leaving after the ceremony.”
Maria greeted the words with relief. They would not have to attend the lavish reception that might, as the evening wore on, prove incendiary. The idea of grinning through the speeches, pretending they were not hurt at the exclusion, made her inwardly groan. The couple had been subtly wrong-footed. If they made a scene in public, lost their composure, they would be accused of ruining the wedding.
So as the newly weds embraced and the congregation applauded, Sam and Maria, slipped unremarked out of the chapel doors. One advantage of being consigned to the back, Maria conceded was the proximity to the exit.
Waiting at the bus stop she allowed Sam to brood. Maria took stock of the family. All their relationships were messy. Sam and his sister Karen skilfully skirted each other at family events including their mother’s funeral. Bridges between these two could not be repaired. She had accused Sam of stealing from their mum. Her mother-in-law had set her straight, but no apologies were issued and Sam was not a forgiving man especially where his beloved mother has concerned. Maria although she loved her mother-in-law, as an outsider could see, she was often loath to call her family to order. Strange since as a retired lawyer she had a fiery reputation when practicing but this did not translate into the governance of her children. As a result, grievances stewed. Maria saw that now sister and sister in-law worked in cahoots. They wanted a happy Facebook family. Sam and Maria had no place in their plans. It was clear that the wedding livery, the synchronisation of the wedding party were messages to the elder brother. He was being evicted.
As the local bus slowly wound its way back to the town where their car was corralled, Sam began to open up more. “I’ve bailed him out so many times.’’
Maria was aware of the phone calls from Nick asking for a loan to cover a gambling debt or car repairs. Sam had given without hesitation, reporting to her with a grin, “Nick’s in a pickle again’’ — entirely accepting of his brother’s flaws. She was also aware that Sam had for years treated his brother to expensive outings to soccer matches and Formula 1 Races, happy to pay for days out with the favoured brother whose company he so appreciated.
Maria listened attentively, her eyes never leaving his face as the idea of the brother he thought he knew began to die in the face of so much reality. He recalled how as a youngster himself he had become in loco parentis to his siblings, while his mother worked long hours in London and dad managed a public house. With a five-year distance between himself and his brothers and sister, he had made their supper, prepared lunches, ensured their homework was competed and readied school uniforms for the following day.
Sam’s mind was clearly being torn apart. He still struggled to find excuses, trying to make sense of his brother’s betrayal. “Do you think it’s Clair’s doing?’’
She saw him clutching at straws, trying to shift the blame on the pretty blonde who had turned his head and responded with a noncommittal “maybe’.
Then his thoughts changed tack again, “Well I never knew he was so weak.’’
Quite suddenly, he issued what she knew to be a death sentence to the relationship, “I will never forgive for this, never speak to him again.’’ His wife knew that this was not just anger speaking. Sam had a propensity of cutting people who had crossed him out of his life. There would be no way back for the brother. The judgement would be final.
Turning towards her he then pronounced, “You are my family now.’’ Words she never thought she would hear him say, content that she would always share him with this brother. Long suspecting that if it came to a choice Nick would be chosen over her.
While many women would have rejoiced at these words, would feel relief at no longer being subjected to Nick’s hectoring, his public put downs, all behaviour unheard of amongst her own family and friends, the emotional responsibility felt like a great weight placed upon her.
“But will I be enough?” She responded anxiously.
He hugged her. “Of course.”
Maria wondered if this was the right time to reveal her own experiences of the brother, especially his spiteful behaviour which gone unchallenged through out his life, practiced upon her even in front of her own friends, evidenced by his remarks at her own wedding reception “Déjà vu here, I can’t remember what number marriage Sam’s on now.” The other guests were left open-mouthed.
But Maria knew the timing was not right. It would seem opportunistic as if she was airing her own grievances. Perhaps too it would be too much truth for her husband to manage for one day. It would be a conversation for another time.
Later that evening although they did not articulate it, watching TV they each listened for the phone. Expecting a call that would either challenge why they were missing from the reception or enquire if someone was sick – a normal reaction to their absence– one that would at least suggest the wedding had not been a deliberate snub. But the call never came. The family it seemed were satisfied that they had achieved their objective. Either that or during their revelry, they simply had not registered the couple’s non-attendance.
Fiona Sinclair is a retired English teacher. She lives in the UK in a rural village with a Yamaha motor bike, a feral garden and a husband. Fiona has been writing poetry for over 15 years. She has had several collections of poetry published by small presses in the UK. Over the last 3 years, Fiona has written short stories that have been published in good magazines in both the US and UK.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
It has been a strange year for all of us. Amidst the chaos, bloodshed and climate disasters, Borderless Journal seems to be finding a footing in an orphaned world, connecting with writers who transcend borders and readers who delight in a universe knit with the variety and vibrancy of humanity. Like colours of a rainbow, the differences harmonise into an aubade, dawning a world with the most endearing of human traits, hope.
A short round up of this year starts with another new area of focus — a section with writings on environment and climate. Also, we are delighted to add we now host writers from more than forty countries. In October, we were surprised to see Borderless Journal listed on Duotrope and we have had a number of republications with acknowledgement — the last request was signed off this week for a republication of Ihlwha Choi’s poem in an anthology by Hatchette US. We have had many republications with due acknowledgment in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and UK too among other places. Our team has been active too not just with words and art but also with more publications from Borderless. Rhys Hughes, who had a play performed to a full house in Wales recently, brought out a whole book of his photo-poems from Borderless. Bhaskar Parichha has started an initiative towards another new anthology from our content — Odia poets translated by Snehaprava Das. We are privileged to have all of you — contributors and readers — on board. And now, we invite you to savour some of our fare published in Borderless from January 2025 to December 2025. These are pieces that embody the spirit of a world beyond borders…
I Am Not My Mother: Gigi Baldovino Gosnell gives a story of child abuse set in Philippines where the victim towers with resilience. Click here to read.
Persona: Sohana Manzoor wanders into a glamorous world of expats. Click here to read.
In American Wife, Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.
Sandy Cannot Write: Devraj Singh Kalsi takes us into the world of advertising and glamour. Click here to 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.
A discussion of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal, with an online interview with the translator. Click here to read.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao makes up a new fable. Click here to read.
Feature
A review of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal, and an online interview with the translator. Click here to read.
Autumn Garden by Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890). From Public Domain
September heralds the start of year-end festivities around the world. It’s autumn in one part and spring in another – both seasons that herald change. While our planet celebrates changes, dichotomies, opposites and inclusively gazes with wonder at the endless universe in all its splendour, do we? Festivals are times of good cheer and fun with our loved ones. And yet, a large part of the world seems to be in disarray with manmade disasters wrought by our own species on its own home planet. Despite the sufferings experienced by victims of climate and war-related calamities, the majority will continue to observe rituals out of habit while subscribing to exclusivity and shun change in any form. Occasionally, there are those who break all rules to create a new norm.
One such group of people are the bauls or mendicants from Bengal. Aruna Chakravarti has shared an essay about these people who have created a syncretic lore with music and nature, defying the borders that divide humanity into exclusive groups. As if to complement this syncretic flow, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s piece on a human construct, literary clubs spanning different cultures spread over centuries – no less an area in which we find norms redefined for, the literary, often, are the harbingers of change.
Mandal, herself, has a brilliant translation featured in this issue. We have a review of her book, an interview with her, and an excerpt from the translation of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas. Written and first published in the Tagore family journal, Bharati, the narrative is an outstanding cultural bridge which even translates Bengali humour for an Anglophone readership. That Sen had a strictly secular perspective in the nineteenth century when blind devotion was often a norm is showcased in Mandal’s translation as well as the stupendous descriptions of the Himalayas that haunt with elegant simplicity.
Our fiction this month seems largely focussed on women’s stories from around the world. While Fiona Sinclair and Erin Jamieson reflect on mother-daughter relationships, Anandita Dey looks into a woman’s dilemma as she tries to adjust to the accepted norm of an ‘arranged’ marriage. Rashida Murphy explores deep rooted social biases that create issues faced by a woman with a light touch. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao brings in variety with a fable – a story that reflects human traits transcending gender disparity.
The September issue would not have been possible without contributions of words and photographs by many of you. Huge thanks to all of you, to the fabulous team and to Sohana Manzoor, whose art has become synonymous with our journal. And our heartfelt thanks to our wonderful readers, without who the effort of putting together this journal would be pointless. Thank you all.
In the taxi from the station, Emily hugged her freedom as if it was an expensive handbag. At twenty-nine, she was returning from her first ever weekend away from home.
London had meant an orgy of sightseeing that her old friend Hannah was happy to accommodate. Like a time poor tourist, Emily had galloped through St Pauls, The Tower of London and Westminster Abbey until her friend had begged for a sit down and some food. “These buildings have been here hundreds of years,” she panted, not understanding that Emily’s default setting was playing catch up.
Now Emily trotted up the bungalow’s short driveway, a suitcase in one hand and, in the other, shopping bags ripe with new clothes. ‘No more hand me downs’ she thought with a smile.
It was an exceptionally warm spring that year, as if the weather, too, was in cahoots with her. Inserting the key into the front door, Emily knew from experience that the pokey bungalow trapped extremes of weather. So, with windows and doors shut up for four days, she knew it would be like entering a forge.
But, stepping into the hall, she was struck by an uncanny chill, as if an air conditioner had been switched to its maximum setting and left unchecked for many hours. It did not provide a welcome contrast to the unseasonable spring weather outside. Instead, she began to shiver, the hairs on her arms raised like hackles and a rash of tiny goose pimples spread across her skin.
Emily instinctively pulled on a cardigan and wrapped it around her. She waited for the chill to dial down. It did not. In fact, if anything, it intensified. Her next response was to move into the small kitchen to see if the freezer door had swung open, reasoning that in a place little more than a bedsit, the chill from the freezer might well have filled the place with cold air. But the door was secure. She then went methodically room by room, trying to find some other source for the cold. She found no answers, but the bedrooms, bathroom and sitting room, were all equally as chilled as meat lockers.
This frosty atmosphere did not frighten her. Emily was accustomed to weird and little phased her now. Standing with her hands on her hips in the sitting room she suddenly recognised the atmosphere as the brooding anger that was her late mother’s trademark. Since childhood, she had been familiar with this withdrawal of affection for some minor misdemeanour, anything from ripping her jeans in some Tom boy escapade to playing out with friends, ignoring her parent’s curfew. At these times, her mother’s beautiful features became an ice queen mask as maternal love was switched off, a punishment that stung far more than a slap or being confined to her bedroom.
Now the adult Emily, suspecting that death did not dissolve a person’s worst traits, knew that the house was overwhelmed by her mother’s disapproval of her daughter’s behaviour in the aftermath of her death. From her mum’s perspective, she had betrayed her on many counts. So, this was, Emily suspected, a sort of supernatural sulk.
Decades before, her mother’s life of delicious domesticity was ruptured by dad’s sudden death at 40. Now there were bills to settle, a living to be earned and a daughter to raise. But mum was unable to face the challenges. She was proactive only in seeking a replacement for dad, a knight on a charger who would solve her troubles. However, she soon found that she was considered more mistress material than wife. Her beauty was too showy for a rural backwater and millionaires with money to purchase shiny things were in short supply.
She had begun drinking just to take the edge off her problems, in the days following her husband’s death. Failure to find a new man sent her mother’s moral compass spinning off its course. Liaisons with a series of rogues paid the bills. Sex was anaesthetised by copious amounts of booze then. It also helped to blur the truth of herself in the dressing table mirror.
For Emily, her dad’s death was the death of her childhood. As family and friends peeled off with mother’s plunging reputation, at eleven she was promoted to confidante. By eighteen, when her own life was becoming fecund with opportunity, her mother’s needy ‘You won’t leave me too’ tethered Emily to her and the bungalow. She procured her wine in the morning and put her to bed when it finally overwhelmed her.
Emily did this because she adored her mother. She was absolutely partisan, saw her as a beautiful victim relentlessly kicked by fate. Decades passed in this dreary routine. Mother and daughter’s lives contracted to the parameters of the tiny bungalow. Even the rogues fell away, except one who visited weekly, left money discreetly on the sideboard, claiming he expected nothing in return. However, his eyes constantly alighted on Emily like a fly, suggesting he was, in fact, watching an investment develop.
Then, in her mid-fifties, the knight she had always sought rode in to save mother. Sadly, it was more black than white and arrived in the guise of a tumour. Turning her back on treatment and determined that cancer would not run riot in her body as it done with her husband, she decided that suicide would be the cleanest exit.
The finding of the lump winded Emily. She crawled like an invalid through those early days of diagnosis. All the while mother insisted there would be no discussion and life would default to their version of normal. Emily’s shock was compounded when she understood that her mother expected her to facilitate death. Sick to her stomach, she nevertheless agreed, thereby giving her mother peace of mind. But she secretly offered up desperate prayers that it would not come to it.
The origins of the suicide pact were hazy. Looking back, it was like trying to accurately recall a nightmare. Had her mum suggested it? Or had Emily been unable to contemplate life without her? Either way, mother’s relief was evident. In her addled mind, it was an elegant solution to an ugly problem.
From her contracted perspective Emily could not envisage a future for herself. She was isolated as a heroine in a Victorian novel, having had no contact with her family since she was eleven. In a sense she had grown up supernumerary to her mother who took precedence even in something as basic as clothes. Emily had not had her own new garments since childhood. As she grew into a young woman, mother would rummage in her own chest of drawers to provide underwear, jeans, and tops. Largely because all surplus money must go on alcohol.
Mother had also guessed that the one remaining rogue who kept a seemingly friendly eye on them, in fact had an agenda. Whilst Emily lacked her mother’s beauty she had the asset of youth. Some residual maternal instinct must have kicked in here. She knew that her protection was finite now. The rogue was playing a not so long game for the prize of a vulnerable young woman. In retrospect, Emily thought mother’s advocacy for the suicide pact was a blur of all these factors, with perhaps a jigger of jealousy as well for her daughter’s youth and health.
In the months before the cancer overwhelmed, Emily basked in her mother’s praise, “You are so brave.” Even at 28, she still craved the approval that was dealt out so meagrely. Of course, mother had no idea that it was all bravado, but it helped ameliorate the prospect of the pact and almost made her decision worth it.
But in truth Emily was horrified. It was as if the cancer had invaded both their bodies, decided both their fates. At times she was able to park her terror by bingeing on classic literature and junk food. Other times, at night, she lay awake, horrifying images running riot in her mind, silently screaming, “I don’t want to.” At these times, her love of life fought with love for her mother.
Mum sensed when the cancer was making its final move. Laying claim to her brain, it was gradually stealing her mobility and reducing her voice to a whisper. That day, Emily downed a bottle of wine herself to take the edge off proceedings. Unaccustomed to alcohol, she worked in a haze. The afternoon took on a ‘down the rabbit hole’ unreality. She talked her way through the preparations. This served to focus her mind and subdue fear. But there were still moments when she felt like a prison warder forcing her petrified body towards the noose.
A lack of basic physics saved her. The flex caused the water in the bath to merely ripple like a mini tide. There was an element of dark humour about the botched attempt, but neither laughed. Emily took the failure as an intervention by fate. As she clambered from the bath the truth tumbled from her mouth. “No, I don’t want to.”
In contrast, her mother sobbed at the abortion. Having lost all agency to cancer, she could not now determine her own death. Her daughter, with strength gained from years of practice, now supported mum back to bed.
And then her mum performed the only selfless act of the past twenty years. She instructed Emily to phone her estranged grandmother. As is often the case, the two hit it off. Whilst Emily had never resembled her mother, she now saw her genes were gifted from this woman. They shared the same brown hair and eyes. Their temperament was similar, too. The granddaughter inheriting her indomitable spirit.
Of course, Emily knew there would be a reckoning in the future. At some stage she would have to make peace with the guilt she had stashed away in a corner of her mind; the broken promise of living on after her mother, the disloyalty of accepting her grandmother’s protection, the process of carving out a future for herself. But, at the moment, Emily was distracted by the sheer novelty of living.
And now, suddenly, she began to throw open all the windows and doors. The heat waiting outside burst into the bungalow, seeing off the cold from every corner, melting the ice of her mother’s anger until, standing bathed in sunlight, Emily smiled, knowing that, for now, her mum was routed.
.
Fiona Sinclair lives in a village in the UK. She is a poet with several collections published by small presses. Fiona has just begun writing short stories especially about subjects that cannot be covered by poetry.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
In Did He Ever?,Rhys Hughes gives fun-filled verses on Lafcadio Hearn, a bridge between the East and West from more than a hundred years ago. Clickhere to read.
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. Clickhere to read.
Poetry, prose — all art forms — gather our emotions into concentrates that distil perhaps the finest in human emotions. They touch hearts across borders and gather us all with the commonality of feelings. We no longer care for borders drawn by divisive human constructs but find ourselves connecting despite distances. Strangers or enemies can feel the same emotions. Enemies are mostly created to guard walls made by those who want to keep us in boxes, making it easier to manage the masses. It is from these mass of civilians that soldiers are drawn, and from the same crowds, we can find the victims who die in bomb blasts. And yet, we — the masses — fight. For whom, for what and why? A hundred or more years ago, we had poets writing against wars and violence…they still do. Have we learnt nothing from the past, nothing from history — except to repeat ourselves in cycles? By now, war should have become redundant and deadly weapons out of date artefacts instead of threats that are still used to annihilate cities, humans, homes and ravage the Earth. Our major concerns should have evolved to working on social equity, peace, human welfare and climate change.
One of the people who had expressed deep concern for social equity and peace through his films and writings was Satyajit Ray. This issue has an essay that reflects how he used art to concretise his ideas by Dolly Narang, a gallery owner who brought Ray’s handiworks to limelight. The essay includes the maestro’s note in which he admits he considered himself a filmmaker and a writer but never an artist. But Ray had even invented typefaces! Artist Paritosh Sen’s introduction to Ray’s art has been included to add to the impact of Narang’s essay. Another person who consolidates photography and films to do pathbreaking work and tell stories on compelling issues like climate change and helping the differently-abled is Vijay S Jodha. Ratnottama Sengupta has interviewed this upcoming artiste.
Reflecting the themes of welfare and conflict, Prithvijeet Sinha’s essay takes us to a monument in Lucknow that had been built for love but fell victim to war. Some conflicts are personal like the ones of Odbayar Dorj who finds acceptance not in her hometown in Mongolia but in the city, she calls home now. Jun A. Alindogan from Manila explores social media in action whereas Eshana Sarah Singh takes us to her home in Jakarta to celebrate the Chinese New Year! Farouk Gulsara looks into the likely impact of genetic engineering in a world already ripped by violence and Devraj Singh Kalsi muses on his source of inspiration, his writing desk. Meredith Stephens tells the touching story of a mother’s concern for her child in Australia and Suzanne Kamata exhibits the same concern as she travels to Happy Village in Japan to meet her differently-abled daughter and her friends.
As these real-life narratives weave commonalities of human emotions, so do fictive stories. Some reflect the need for change. Fiona Sinclair writes a layered story set in London on how lived experiences define differences in human perspectives while Parnika Shirwaikar explores the need to learn to accept changes set in her part of the universe. Spandan Upadhyay explores the spirit of the city of Kolkata as a migrant with a focus on social equity. Both Paul Mirabile and Naramsetti Umamaheswararao write stories around childhood, one set in Europe and the other in Asia.
Do pause by our contents page for this issue and enjoy the reads. We are ever grateful to our ever-growing evergreen readership some of whom have started sharing their fabulous narratives with us. Thanks to all our readers and contributors. Huge thanks to our wonderful team without whose efforts we could not have curated such valuable content and thanks specially to Sohana Manzoor for her art. Thank you all for making a whiff of an idea a reality!
