The pigeon net in the balcony of the high-rise cuts up the view in neat little squares as if arranging the urban landscape for a scale drawing of modern life. Life and art chase each other like a dog its tail. And sometimes, they catch.
2.A Garnishing of Cats An old sofa thrown out of house and home like an inanimate black sheep is ripped for your pleasure by a garnishing of cats in varying states of yawn or stretch. Wispy rainless clouds showing through the jagged cityscape as a passing thought summarise the world as a problem that makes one care too much.
3.A Dog Who Looks Like a Person Who Looks Like a Dog
A dog who looks like a person who looks like a dog must only try half as hard as a dog who looks like a person who doesn’t look like a dog.
Synchronising for loyalty is a lopsided test. It is unjust and unequal.
A dog must fight to overthrow the oppressive system of the hegemony of lookalike affiliations.
A dog must walk – no, not now! It’s rhetorical. Sit! – with his head held high and not bend down to sniff every scent of domination.
A dog must turn three times – no, make it four for good measure – to flatten the earth of human expectation before he sits – no, not now. Get up!
Ok, go get the ball, I’ll get the leash. Don’t jump! Stay. Good boy.
4.Flight and Less Bird
The dog killed the turkey not for hunger or for sport, but because it failed to fear him. When admonished for this uncalled-for murder, he laid down the feathered carcass as offering of appeasement to the vegetarian farmer and went off to sun himself among the alphonsos. The man promptly buried the bird and resolved to keep only chickens to rid his cows of ticks. They would squawk and scatter and flee from the dog dutifully.
5.Sealed
Dear diary, I saw a seal today in the northern brine of subjective directions which will be too cold for me in every season. At first, I thought it was a drowning dog and was surprised by the lack of alarm on the beach – intrigued even by the delighted smiles. The revelation came as a clapping child. Ong ong ong as he imitated Sea World barks I felt a homograph of the animal bobbing on the waves observing the observers with uncertain humour; mine matched my embarrassment, which I held closed with false familiarity – sealed it in, if you’d pardon the obvious – only to tell it to an unused page like a private joke. Dear seal, I saw a diary today.
6.A Short Story
A gull came to a foot of where I sat on a picnic bench that had been moved overnight from its original spot under the oak tree to a more sunny part of the field. I was warmer here but grimaced nonetheless to show my displeasure at the change. The gull wasn’t disappointed that I had no food. It sat down like a roosting hen and I told it a story of my country where there were no gulls.
From Public Domain
Maithreyi Karnoor is an author and poet, most recently of the short story collection Gooday Nagar, and the Kannada novel Hettavara Neralu. Her debut poetry collection is Skinny Dipping in Tiger Country.
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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!
