Nazrul’slyrics ofMor Ghumogore Elo Monohor (In my Sleep, Came the Enchanting One) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
The Heartless, a Balochi story by AbdulQayum Sarbazi, has been translated by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Dragonfly 2 has been composed and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem, Amra Choli Somukhpane(We Look Forward and March), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Clickhere to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: Pink Dreams is an autobiographical narrative by Priyanka, written and compiled by Deeksha Vats. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Clickhere to read.
Larry S Su, who migrated from a mud cave in Shaanxi province to America, shares his story of the changes he sees during three visits to his home and muses on the gaps he has observed between these two places. Clickhere to read.
Summer, Dune in Zeeland by Piet Mondrain (1872 – 1944)
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.
‘Burnt Norton’, Four Quartets (1941) by TS Eliot
If we look back in time, we have a better life than that of our ancestors. Though conflicts rage and climate change is a reality that we all dread, it can safely be said, we have progressed beyond the imagination of those who lived a hundred years ago. The fact that some books from the past still reverberate with echoes of what the present holds says much for the outliers or authors who could think out of the box. Despite this complex intermingling of ideas and times, perhaps the world will change more now than before. We do not know anything for sure though experts are always predicting a future that for most of us remains unknown. What we can present is our own estimate of what can be and a definite assertion of what is. Truth as such is a matter of perception. That complicates it further. However, one of the changes that is definitely here to stay is climate change and our changing environment. Given that this is the month that homes World Environment Day, we have a smattering of writings that revolve around nature and also the human spirit that defies age.
We have featured a writer who revels in nature and is an ageless voice that bridges multiple cultures, Ruskin Bond. As he turned ninety-two last month, he published multiple new books. We have an excerpt from one of them, Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond, a brilliant collection of snapshots of his interactions with nature over time — be it frogs, snakes or just trees. Some of the vignettes are humorous and some, as all classics are, thought provoking. Bond puts into words how he chose to work in Landour (a small town in Himalayas) and continued to write from there for sixty years. He talks of the spell the mountains cast on him, “I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape.” The other book excerpt is a contrast to Bond’s, a non-fiction called Burnout Highway by Anmol Diddan. It explores the collective suffering of stress at work where achievements distance humans from nature and a fulfilling life and urges readers to be open to changes.
In keeping with the theme of environment, Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Stephen Alter’s The Fragrance of Rain: A Brief History of the Monsoon. He tells us: “The Fragrance of Rain is much more than a history of weather. It is a meditation on nature, culture, memory, and belonging… Like the season it celebrates, the book is refreshing, nourishing, and lingering in its impact…” While Rakhi Dalal expresses her delight with Shyam Manohar’s The Cold War of Sadanand Borse, a novella translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto, Meenakshi Malhotra revels in Giti Chandra’s debut book of poems, Setting Traps for Light.
In translations, Professor Fakrul Alam has captured the flavours of Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics, which also echo of the rainy season or monsoons. Isa Kamari brings to us more of his Malay poems in English and Ihlwha Choi shares a rendering of his Korean poem, ‘Dragonfly 2’, into English. One of Tagore’s poems from Balaka (Flight of the Cranes, 1916) has found its way into this issue after being translated. We also have a touching Balochi story around social gaps from the late Abdul Qayum Sarbazi, brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes has continued sharing his short fables, which are absurd but also, comical! A sensitive story about the natural world mingled with Maori concepts by Keiran Martin seems so much in sync with the oceans while Jeena R Papaadi has woven a strange narrative located in a land that only one man could visit. Plamen Vasilev shares a human-interest story set in Europe and Rabiya Rehman takes us to Lahore in quest of a missing destination! Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s narrative takes us back to a village that opted for trees, thus enriching the environmental lore in this issue.
We have a real life heart rending story from a young girl in our Pandies Corner, written and related by Deeksha Vats, based on the story told by a victim of familial violations and violence.
Our non-fiction section homes Larry Su’s essay on how his life took him from a rural mud cave in Shaanxi province to the glamour of Chicago. Reflecting on the changes he has experienced on his rare visits to his original homeland, Su muses on the cultural and socio-economic gaps he has observed between the two places. Charudutta Panigrahi – as if in direct opposition — shares similarities between two diverse geographies.
Suzanne Kamata explores a custom which may not be that eco-friendly in her column from Japan. Jun A. Alindogan brings home the impact of climate disasters while dwelling on blessings with his narrative about a narrow escape from the Typhoon Ondoy (2009). While Meredith Stephen writes of sailing to Timor Sea with photographs by Alan Noble, Farouk Gulsara takes us on a cycling adventure around the mountains of Titiwangsa. In another musing, he also explores the idea of good and evil in a sardonic tone while Sai Abhinay Penna dwells on the grandeur and vastness of the universe over his morning jog. Gowher Bhat writes of a man for whom age seems to be just a number as he publishes his debut book at 93! One wonders at the frequency of such occurrences — we have writings about two authors above ninety in the June issue. In contrast, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in mortal fears while writing of visiting doctors with a soupçon of humour – some of it directed at himself.
Perhaps, laughter is really the best medicine to keep well! Ruskin Bond makes us laugh and writes of nature in a way that touches hearts and makes us forget the contrasting glitzy world, where we suffer stress and burnout. Our environment makes a difference, doesn’t it?
With that we wrap up our June issue. Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. To all our contributors, heartfelt thanks — we are because you are. And gratitude to our readers who make it worth our while to write and publish here.
We will next meet you during the monsoon months of South Asia though, near the equator, it rains almost every day and, in the Southern Hemisphere, it will be peak winter!
Gowher Bhat mulls over his conversation with Nazir Ahmed Khan, who published his first book at ninety-three
Nazir Ahmed Khan, the man who published his first book at ninety-three. Photo by Gowher Bhat
“Before Partition, people entered each other’s homes without hesitation,” says Nazir Ahmad Khan. “Life moved together.”
Born in 1933, Nazir Ahmad Khan belongs to a generation that witnessed significant social and cultural changes in Kashmir over many decades. His memoir, Biscoe Boy’s Echoes of Time, written in his nineties, is shaped by long memory and lived experience. Through personal recollections and reflections, the book presents glimpses of everyday life, education, work, sports, and social transformation across different periods of time.
Nazir Ahmad Khan explains that the purpose of writing the memoir was not to analyse events or offer commentary. Instead, he wished to preserve memories that might otherwise disappear with time. “I did not write to explain events,” he says. “I wrote to record what I actually witnessed over time.”
Recalling his early days in Kashmir, Nazir Ahmad Khan has memories in which people interacted freely and naturally. Homes remained open to relatives, friends, and neighbours, and social interaction formed an essential part of daily life. Families shared happiness and hardship together, and community bonds were maintained through constant communication and mutual familiarity.
According to Nazir Ahmad Khan, life during those years moved with simplicity and closeness to local surroundings. Most people depended on small businesses, agriculture, trade, and traditional crafts. Daily routines were modest, and relationships were shaped more by personal connection rather than by formality.
Education also had a deep impact and was viewed as very important. Although opportunities and resources were limited compared to today, learning was regarded as a source of discipline and personal growth. Schools played an important role in shaping character and responsibility among young students.
As years passed, society gradually changed. Expanding educational institutions, professional opportunities, and administrative systems introduced new ways of life. Traditional occupations continued, but they increasingly existed alongside modern professions and growing public institutions.
Nazir Ahmad Khan describes these changes as gradual adjustments that influenced everyday experience. Familiar neighbourhood patterns slowly evolved, and people adapted to changing social and professional environments. Yet many older values, particularly discipline, simplicity, and respect for community life, continued to remain important.
Traditional crafts such as weaving, carpet-making, woodwork, and papier-mâché also gained wider recognition over time. These crafts connected local skill and artistry with larger markets while preserving traditions rooted in Kashmiri life.
The life of Nazir Ahmad Khan itself reflects this period of transition and development.
He studied at the Tyndale Biscoe School, which he describes as one of the most influential institutions in shaping his outlook and discipline. According to Nazir Ahmad Khan, the school focused not only on academics but also on physical activity, service, courage, and responsibility.
“It was not about comfort,” he says. “It was about preparation for life outside school.”
The school encouraged students to develop confidence and resilience through activities such as swimming, sports, outdoor exercises, and teamwork. Students were expected to learn discipline through action and responsibility rather than produce grand results based on classroom instruction alone.
For Nazir Ahmad Khan, the values taught at the school remained meaningful throughout his life. Many students from that generation later entered different professional fields, including administration, engineering, medicine, education, business, policing, and sports. He believes that the school’s emphasis on discipline and commitment helped shape their future journeys.
Nazir Ahmad Khan explains that the title Biscoe Boy’s Echoes of Time itself comes from his years as a student at the Tyndale Biscoe School. Since the institution played a central role in shaping his personality, discipline, and outlook on life, he chose the title Biscoe Boy as a reflection of that lifelong connection and identity.
The professional life of Nazir Ahmad Khan moved through several important departments and institutions. Over the years, he worked in transport administration, food supply systems, youth development, and sports administration, eventually serving as Director General of Youth Services and Sports.
When speaking about his career, Nazir Ahmad Khan describes his work in practical and modest terms. His responsibilities often involved coordination, management, organisation, and public service.
“My work required patience and responsibility,” he said.
Alongside his professional life, football remained an important part of his identity. His long association with the sport continued across many decades. For Nazir Ahmad Khan, football represented discipline, teamwork, dedication, and collective participation.
He recalls local football culture with warmth and clarity, remembering tournaments, playgrounds, and the enthusiasm people once carried for the game. Sports, according to him, brought people together and encouraged qualities such as cooperation, endurance, and mutual respect.
Even in old age, many of these memories remain vivid in his mind.
When discussing his memoir, Nazir Ahmad Khan explains that the book developed slowly over time through recollections, notes, and reflections gathered across many years. The writing process itself became an exercise in revisiting moments that had quietly remained preserved in memory.
“It came in fragments,” he says. “Not in order.”
The memoir therefore does not follow a strictly linear structure. Instead, it moves through scenes, experiences, observations, and remembered moments that together form a portrait of a long and eventful life.
Nazir Ahmad Khan notes that writing in old age changed the nature of memory itself. Certain major events became distant, while small ordinary moments returned with surprising clarity. A classroom, a road, a conversation, a sports ground, or a familiar face often remained more vivid than larger public developments.
“At this stage,” he reflects, “you do not arrange life. Life arranges itself in memory.”
This observation perhaps captures the spirit of the memoir. Rather than focusing on grand conclusions, the book remains attentive to everyday experiences that quietly shape a person’s understanding of life over time.
At its core, the narrative suggests that memory is built not only through achievements or milestones but also through ordinary moments that remain connected to place, relationships, education, work, and routine life.
Throughout the memoir, Nazir Ahmad Khan repeatedly returns to the idea of documentation rather than interpretation. He views writing as a way of preserving lived experience honestly and simply.
“What I have written is not the story of everything,” he says. “It is what remains when everything else has settled.”
Seen in this way, the book becomes more than a personal memoir. It serves as a reflective record of changing times, social life, education, sports culture, and everyday experience across generations in Kashmir.
Through these recollections, Nazir Ahmad Khan preserves glimpses of a world shaped by simplicity, discipline, community life, and gradual social change. His memories remind readers that the essence of history often survives not only in official records or major events, but also in classrooms, neighbourhoods, friendships, routines, and the quiet persistence of memory itself.
Gowher Bhat is a columnist, freelance journalist, beta reader, book reviewer, avid reader, and educator from Kashmir, and a published author of both fiction and nonfiction. He serves as a senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
In conversation with Teresa Rehmanwith focus on her non-fiction, Bulletproof: A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict and a brief introduction to her book. Click here to read.
Translations
Robihara(Sunless)by Kazi Nazrul Islam has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from Bengali. Clickhere to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
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!
There was a time when watching films was nothing more than rest, an evening comfort after work, a temporary escape into worlds beyond my own. Like most people raised in an era saturated with visual storytelling, I consumed narratives without questioning their construction. I laughed, worried, and wondered alongside characters, yet I rarely asked how those emotions were engineered or how those journeys were shaped. Stories simply happened, and I accepted them as complete experiences rather than crafted designs.
My relationship with cinema began to change when my relationship with writing deepened. As I started shaping my own manuscripts and essays, I discovered that watching films could be far more than entertainment. They could instruct how to be subtle, practical, and immediate. Gradually, the screen became a classroom where narrative structures revealed themselves through observation rather than formal lectures. This transformation did not occur overnight. It emerged from habit, curiosity, and a need to look beyond spectacle into construction.
I did not learn storytelling theory in abstraction. I learned it by noticing patterns and by asking why certain stories held my attention while others dissolved into forgetfulness. The first lesson I absorbed was that nearly every compelling narrative rests upon a recognisable arc, a beginning, a middle, and an end. This realisation might seem elementary yet seeing it repeatedly across films gave it clarity and emotional substance. I began recognising this structure not as formula but as rhythm, the natural pulse of storytelling that guides audience engagement.
In the beginning of a story, I observed how filmmakers introduce their worlds with efficiency and intention. Characters appear within contexts that suggest their ordinary reality. Atmosphere, tone, and relationships are established with subtle precision. Tensions are hinted at, even when not fully expressed. Soon an event disturbs equilibrium. Something shifts irreversibly, and the narrative awakens. I came to understand this as the true starting point of storytelling. Watching this transition repeatedly taught me how crucial it is to establish stakes early in writing. Without disruption, there is no curiosity, and without curiosity, there is no reader commitment.
As I continued observing, the middle portion fascinated me most, because here stories breathe and struggle. I noticed how conflicts deepen, relationships evolve, and obstacles accumulate. Rarely does tension remain static. Instead, it escalates, twists, and transforms. Films helped me grasp pacing, how narrative momentum must be sustained without overwhelming or exhausting the audience. I learned to appreciate shifts in direction where revelations redirect expectations and intensify engagement. Translating this insight into writing helped me maintain movement in long narrative stretches that might otherwise drift.
This exploration also introduced me to the art of foreshadowing, those delicate hints planted early that later bloom into significance.
At first, I experienced these moments subconsciously, feeling satisfaction without understanding its source. Later, I trained myself to detect them consciously. A line of dialogue, a recurring symbol, or a passing gesture might appear trivial, yet later return with emotional resonance. Observing this taught me the elegance of preparation and restraint. Foreshadowing became a lesson in trust, demonstrating how writers guide readers gently rather than instructing them bluntly. It is not manipulation. It is anticipation crafted with care.
From foreshadowing I moved toward understanding twists. Watching narratives unfold, I realised that satisfying surprises rarely appear without groundwork. Effective twists do not betray logic. They reinterpret it. They cause viewers to revisit earlier scenes mentally and perceive them differently. This discovery reshaped my own approach towards writing. I began questioning whether my narrative turns felt earned or merely sudden. Films revealed that the most powerful twists balance unpredictability with inevitability. They shock the mind while satisfying the intellect.
Eventually, the story advances toward culmination, the climax. I learned to recognise this convergence where tension peaks and decisions crystallise. Cinema often dramatises this moment visually, yet its structural importance remains universal. Climax is not spectacle alone. It is consequence. It represents the meeting point of character, conflict, and choice. Observing this repeatedly helped me appreciate emotional resolution as much as narrative resolution. Writing began to feel less about describing events and more about guiding emotional progression toward meaningful closure.
Then comes the ending, not merely stopping the story but settling it. Watching endings taught me that resolution does not require complete explanation. Instead, it must honour the journey undertaken. Closure arises through thematic harmony rather than exhaustive answers. Some endings comfort, some provoke reflection, and some remain deliberately open. Each variation revealed to me that endings must resonate rather than conclude mechanically. This awareness influenced how I approach narrative responsibility in my own work.
Beyond structural awareness, films broadened my understanding of storytelling elements intertwined within that structure. Dialogue revealed character identity through vocabulary and rhythm. Settings shaped emotional atmosphere and influenced decision making. Secondary characters reflected or challenged protagonists, often revealing hidden dimensions. Physical gestures conveyed interior conflict that words might obscure. Observing these layers expanded my appreciation for narrative texture and encouraged me to incorporate similar awareness into my writing.
Yet while learning from cinema, I also became aware of its limitations in comparison with the written form. Films often rely on action and expression to communicate thought, whereas writing allows direct entry into the interior life of characters. This distinction reminded me that visual storytelling could inform craft without replacing literary strengths. The purpose was not imitation, but adaptation. I absorbed lessons about pacing and structure while preserving the depth of introspection unique to prose.
One practice that accelerated my learning was revisiting familiar films analytically. Knowing outcomes freed me to examine construction rather than suspense. I studied how scenes transitioned, how tension was distributed, and how narrative clues were planted. Sometimes I watched without sound, observing gestures and movement alone. At other times I focused exclusively on dialogue patterns. These exercises sharpened my sensitivity to storytelling architecture and strengthened my capacity for conscious observation.
Reflecting on this journey, I recognise that films can never replace reading or scholarly study. They complemented them. In a cultural moment where visual narratives dominate collective imagination, ignoring their instructional potential would be wasteful. The screen became not a distraction from writing, but a partner in understanding it.
Today, when I sit to write, echoes of those observations accompany me. I think about beginnings that invite curiosity, middles that sustain tension, and endings that resonate emotionally. I consider foreshadowing that prepares revelation, twists that deepen understanding, and climaxes that honour investment. These insights have become instinctive rather than theoretical, woven into my creative process through attentive viewing and reflection.
The screen, once merely entertainment, became an unexpected mentor. And perhaps that is the quiet gift of storytelling in all its forms. It teaches those willing to observe. For me, learning structure through films did not diminish the magic of writing. It enriched it, providing shape to imagination and confidence to craft.
I still watch films for enjoyment. I also watch with awareness. Somewhere between these two experiences lies growth, the gradual shaping of a writer who learns not only from books and lived experience, but from the stories unfolding in light and motion before him. In that space between viewing and reflection, I continue discovering new dimensions of narrative, reminding myself that learning, like storytelling, never truly ends.
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Gowher Bhat is a a columnist, a freelance journalist, and educator from Kashmir. He writes about memory, place, and the quiet weight of the things we carry, often exploring themes of longing, belonging, silence, and expression. A senior columnist in several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley, he is also an avid reader and book reviewer. He believes the smallest moments can carry the deepest truths.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Nazrul’s Jonomo, Jonomo Gelo(Generations passed) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read and listen to a rendition by the famed Feroza Begum.
Ajit Cour‘s short story, Nandu, has been translated from Punjabi by C Christine Fair. Click here to read.
The Scarecrowby Anwar Sahib Khan has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao moulds children’s perspectives. Click here to read.
Notes from Japan
In American Wife,Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.
Conversation
Neeman Sobhan, author of Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome, discusses shuttling between multiple cultures and finding her identity in words. Click here to road.
There’s a kind of man who doesn’t need to announce his presence. You don’t see him on podiums, and his name rarely appears in headlines. He won’t interrupt a conversation, let alone command a crowd. And yet, if you were to trace the quiet veins of compassion that pulse through a place, you’d likely find him at their heart.
In Pulwama, that man is Gamgeen Majeed.
He doesn’t wear a badge. He doesn’t quote speeches. And yet, when someone needs a ride to the hospital, when a blood bank sends out a late-night request, or when a neighbour needs someone to listen as he’s already on his way. He doesn’t do it because he must. He does it because, for him, there is no other way.
In a time when kindness is often curated and shared online, Gamgeen’s way of living feels rare. It’s a quiet, unadvertised generosity. A way of being that seeks no witness. It is the opposite of performance as it is presence.
Gamgeen Majeed is from Pingalgam, a modest village in South Kashmir. If you ever pass through, you might notice the walnut trees, or the scent of burning wood curling up from small homes. You might see the narrow road that winds quietly through the landscape, lined with aging willows and old stories.
It’s not the kind of place you read about in books. But it’s the kind of place where lives like his are made humble, rooted, unwavering.
Gamgeen has spent decades doing what many people only dream of: living in service to others. He’s never been part of an NGO. He has no titles. There are no newspaper features with his name in bold. And yet, people remember him. Not for what he owns or says, but for the space he holds in the lives of others.
He has mopped hospital floors after storms, held hands in silence when words would only fail, and stood vigil in hospital corridors while doctors worked inside. His acts are not scripted. They are not fuelled by ambition. They arise, quietly and surely, like spring after a hard winter.
Perhaps the only visible trail of his quiet mission lies in the numbers: 207 pints of blood donated over the course of his lifetime. That number is staggering but not just for what it means physiologically, but for what it says about the man behind it.
But even numbers fail to tell the full story. Gamgeen didn’t walk into hospitals only when it was convenient. He answered calls in the middle of the night. He trekked in snow to reach clinics. He gave blood before breakfast. He often waited in hospital lobbies without being asked — just in case someone might need him.
He once said, softly and without ceremony:
“My blood is the least I can give. If it keeps someone breathing, that’s enough reward for me.”
There’s no fundraising banner that can capture that kind of thinking. No award can quite do it justice. Because his belief isn’t in acts of charity. It’s in human continuity — in being part of the thread that keeps another person alive, even if just barely.
From LD Hospital in Srinagar to the dust-covered wards of small rural clinics, Gamgeen’s blood has likely flowed through hundreds of lives. Children. Elders. Strangers. People he never met and never will. That’s the thing about quiet heroes: they don’t trace their impact. They simply live it.
It would be easy to call Gamgeen a saint or a hero. But doing so might miss the point. What makes his story remarkable is not grand achievement but his belief in small, repeatable, often unseen acts of goodness.
He visits patients he doesn’t know. He buys fruit for old men sitting alone in hospital lawns. He once stood for hours outside a labour ward because a nurse had mentioned they might need help if a donor didn’t show up. No one called him. He just showed up anyway.
There’s a term in philosophy — “ethics of care.” It speaks to a form of moral life cantered not on rules, but on relationships. It’s about showing up. Again, and again. Even when no one’s watching. Even when no one says thank you.
You might wonder where this kind of spirit comes from. Some say it’s upbringing. Others say it’s temperament. Maybe it’s both. But perhaps it’s also born from quiet observation from watching elders serve without speech, or mothers feed neighbours before eating themselves.
In the old ways of village life, compassion wasn’t taught. It was modelled. It was lived. You saw it when your uncle lent a hand to fix someone’s roof. You saw it when your grandmother lit an extra oil lamp — not for herself, but for the family next door.
It’s tempting to imagine that service comes only in certain shapes: doctors, social workers, teachers. But Gamgeen reminds us that you don’t need a role to make a difference. You don’t need an organization to help someone. You only need willingness and the courage to act.
Over the years, he’s become a sort of myth in the region — not because of anything he’s done to earn it, but precisely because he hasn’t tried to. His story spreads in whispers. A nurse tells a new recruit. A mother tells her son. A shopkeeper shakes his head in admiration when recounting how Gamgeen showed up one snowy evening, carrying warm tea and blankets for a patient’s family stuck outside.
He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t wait for praise. He just walks in, offers help, and leaves. Sometimes without even saying goodbye.
In a world where we’re often overwhelmed by scale — global problems such as climate change, mental health issues, deforestation — a man like Gamgeen is a kind of anchor. He reminds us that you don’t have to change the world to matter. You only have to show up for the person in front of you.
He reminds us that kindness doesn’t need to be viral. It needs to be real.
He reminds us that integrity doesn’t require recognition. It only requires consistency.
And perhaps, most of all, he reminds us that the greatest legacies are not built through declarations but through deeds.
We spend so much of our lives chasing light — chasing visibility, acknowledgment, a moment in the sun. But maybe the real task is not to find the light, but to let it fall where it belongs.
Because in every village, in every small place tucked away from the maps, there lives someone like him — someone who teaches, simply by living, showing that kindness doesn’t need permission.
It only needs practice.
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Gowher Bhat is an author, columnist, freelance journalist, book reviewer, and educator from Kashmir. His work explores the human condition with depth and sincerity. He believes in the quiet power of words to inspire change and compassion.
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Ratnottama Sengupta muses on her encounter with the writings of eminent artist and writer, Dhruba Esh, and translates one his many stories, Amiyashankar Go Back Home from Bengali. Click here to read.
Some books speak in metaphors. Some shout their brilliance. Some want to be dissected, reviewed, analysed like puzzles. But Six of Cups isn’t that kind of book. It doesn’t ask you to do much. It just wants you to sit with it.
Neha Bansal’s poems don’t pretend. They don’t try to be clever. They don’t need you to clap. What they ask for is something quieter — your stillness, maybe. Your memory. They speak softly. Almost like they’re afraid of waking something in you. And maybe that’s exactly what they do.
This is a collection of fifty poems. Simple on the surface. But like most simple things, they carry weight. Not the kind that crushes. The kind you forgot you were holding until you’re reminded.
Reading Six of Cups is like finding an old sweater at the back of your closet. You didn’t even know you were missing it. But the moment you hold it, you’re somewhere else. In another time. Another house. Another life.
The title itself comes from the tarot — a card about childhood, nostalgia, kindness, innocence. The poems live in that space. They revisit things that aren’t just personal, but also collective such as homemade meals, festivals, sibling fights, old TV serials, chalk-smeared hands, and monsoon evenings. There’s a familiarity here that doesn’t feel manufactured. You don’t get the sense that Neha Bansal is trying to be nostalgic. She just is.
There’s a poem about Doordarshan[1]. It doesn’t try to explain the significance. It just takes you there — back to the old wooden cabinet TV, the warm static before the signal settled, the family crowding around the screen. It doesn’t say much and yet it says everything.
‘Sibling Squabbles’ is a small miracle. It captures that strange love we carry for the ones who shared our roof, our food, our secrets. The kind of love that includes shouting, pushing, sulking. But also defending each other, silently. Even now.
‘Paper Boat’ and ‘Mint Chutney’ — two more standouts don’t indulge in poetic imagery. Instead, they lean into the senses. The tartness of raw mango on your tongue. The wet smell of monsoon earth. The steam of evening tea. You read them and you’re not just reading. You’re smelling things. Tasting them. Hearing the old kitchen door creak open.
Neha Bansal is an Indian Administrative Services officer. It’s an unexpected background for a poet, maybe. Bureaucracy is about order. Poetry, one imagines, is about chaos. But in these poems, there’s order in the chaos. There’s discipline, but not rigidity. Every word is chosen carefully. Nothing feels excessive. Nothing is wasted. She writes like someone who listens closely to the world, to people, to memory. Maybe that’s what makes her poetry so honest. Her poems for people who’ve lived. People who remember the smell of their mother’s shawl. People who know the comfort of routine — boiling milk, folding bedsheets, watching Ramlila in the open field. They’re for the ones who’ve carried small hurts for years and never said a word.
There’s a kind of sacred quiet in this collection. That might be its most remarkable trait. In a time when poetry is often loud, performative, and built for clicks, these poems resist the noise. They’re not dramatic. They don’t climax. They settle in. They let silence speak.
In one of the most moving pieces, Neha Bansal writes about an old family tradition — Janmashtami, the celebration of Lord Krishna’s birth. But it’s not about religion. It’s about her grandmother drawing tiny footprints with rice flour. The quiet anticipation of the festival. The waiting. The softness of belief, not its spectacle. It’s in those tiny footprints that the poem finds its magic. You can almost see them fading slowly on the tiled floor.
These poems understand that memory is not a highlighted reel. It’s a soft murmur. A drawer that squeaks when you open it. A spoon stirring something warm. A phrase you haven’t heard in years but still know by heart. Neha Bansal knows that nostalgia isn’t about grandeur. It’s about the details we almost miss.
Her form is mostly free verse. But that doesn’t mean it’s careless. She knows how to pause — where to breathe. The white space around her lines isn’t empty. It holds meaning. A kind of emotional residue. You finish a poem, and it doesn’t end. It lingers. Like the scent of someone who just left the room.
There’s no poetic ambition here and that’s its strength. These poems don’t ask to be poetry. They just are. And that’s why they work. You trust them. You feel at home in them.
I thought of my own home while reading these pages. Kashmir. The long winters. My grandmother in her worn pheran, roasting cornflakes and walnuts on an old iron tawa, her hands, cracked and slow. The hush of mornings. No urgency. Just living.
That’s what Six of Cups reminded me of — the art of simply being. And how much that art is vanishing now.
Some poems mention festivals like Lohri, Janmashtami, Diwali. They present them as they are — domestic, lived-in, full of ordinary magic. For those unfamiliar, there’s a glossary at the end. But the real understanding happens not through translation, but emotion. Neha Bansal doesn’t lean on metaphor much. And when she does, it’s light. A passing breeze, not a storm. She doesn’t build complex imagery. But she does ask you to notice. In a world of scrolling, skimming, glancing — she’s saying, “Stop. Look. Listen.”
Even the titles of her poems have that simplicity: ‘Old Shawls’, ‘Grandmother’s Halwa’, and ‘First Rain’. They sound like diary entries. And in a way, they are. Only they’re not just her diary — they become ours too.
The brilliance of Six of Cups is that it democratises poetry. It makes it accessible again. You don’t need a theory. You need memory. You need feeling. That’s it. If you’ve ever missed someone or some place or even some version of yourself — you’ll get this.
And maybe that’s the beauty of it. It doesn’t want to be studied. It wants to be remembered. Like an old friend. Like a childhood street. Like a scent you can’t name but know in your bones.
The last poem in the collection doesn’t try to wrap everything up. There’s no neat ending. It just… fades out. The way light fades at dusk. Slowly. Gently. Without warning.
You close the book and feel something that isn’t quite sadness. It’s quieter than that. Maybe it’s the feeling of being seen. Or the feeling of remembering something small that meant something big. You sit with it for a while. You let it settle.
Six of Cups is not a loud voice. It’s a warm room. A soft light. A hand reaching back, not to pull you into the past, but to remind you it’s still with you. That you are made of it.
And maybe that’s what poetry should be sometimes — not a performance but a presence.
Gowher Bhat is a published author, columnist, freelance journalist, and educator from Kashmir. He writes about memory, place, and the quiet weight of things we carry. His work often explores themes of longing and belonging, silence and expression. He believes the smallest moments hold the deepest truths.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
