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.
Long before the first light reached the hills of south Kashmir, Nazia Khan was already awake.
In Kokernag, a picturesque village known for its springs, apple orchards, and green fields, mornings arrived slowly. A thin mist often rested over the landscape, covering the paths between homes and fields. The first sounds of the day came from ordinary things—the kettle beginning to boil, wooden doors opening, and cattle moving in the courtyard.
Inside her home, Nazia moved quietly.
At twenty-two, she had grown accustomed to mornings that began before the rest of the village stirred.
She prepared breakfast, swept the floor, and placed her parents’ medicines beside a glass of water. Before leaving the house, she entered her father’s room.
“Baba, your tea.”
Her father opened his eyes and looked at her.
“You woke up early again?”
Nazia smiled.
“The vegetables have to reach the market.”
His eyes moved towards the baskets near the door.
“You work too much.”
She adjusted the blanket around him.
“There is still a lot to do.”
For a moment, he looked at her without speaking.
The daughter he remembered holding as a child now carried baskets, managed the household, and worried about things he wished she did not have to worry about.
“You should also think about yourself,” he said softly.
Nazia smiled.
“I do, Baba.”
She did not explain further.
Outside, the morning air was cold. The smell of damp earth filled the courtyard. Nazia fed the cattle, collected fresh milk, and walked towards the family farm.
Her hands moved through the plants she knew so well, gathering spinach, beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vegetables that would soon be arranged on her small market stall.
Drops of water still rested on some leaves.
The baskets grew heavier.
But she carried them anyway.
By sunrise, she was walking towards the local market.
The road passed through the fields and orchards of Kokernag. To visitors, the village was a place of beauty and calm. To Nazia, it was the landscape of her everyday life—the fields she worked, the road she walked, and the place where her dreams slowly took shape.
At the market, she arranged her vegetables carefully. Her stall was modest. There were no bright banners or advertisements. The freshness of the produce and the trust of regular customers were enough.
“Your vegetables always look fresh,” an elderly customer said.
Nazia smiled while weighing them. “They were in the field this morning.”
The woman noticed a book beneath the table. “Are you studying?”
Nazia looked down at her Sociology textbook.“Yes.”
“How do you find time?”
Nazia paused. “Whenever I can.”
The woman looked at her quietly.
It was a simple answer. But it revealed the rhythm of her days.
By afternoon, the market began to empty.
The voices around her slowly faded. Shopkeepers started gathering their things, and the movement of customers became less frequent. Nazia covered the remaining vegetables, counted the day’s earnings, and placed the money carefully inside her bag. She already knew where most of it would go, her parents’ medicines, the household expenses, her brother’s education…small needs that rarely waited.
She lifted the empty baskets and began walking home. The road back was familiar, but it did not lead to rest. Behind the house, the fields were waiting. Nazia stepped onto the land and looked over the crops. She watered the plants, removed weeds, and checked the vegetables that would be ready in the coming days.
The work was tiring, but the soil felt familiar beneath her feet. It asked for patience, not explanations. Near the edge of the field stood a few young apple saplings. She often stopped there. They were still small, their branches thin and delicate, yet she treated them with the same care she gave everything else.
A neighbour had once looked at them and said, “These trees will take years before they give anything.”
Nazia had smiled. “That is why they need care now.”
She knew an orchard could not be built in a season. It required waiting, learning, and accepting that some things could not be rushed. Her dream of expanding the family orchard was not about a different life. It was about a more secure one. A future where her parents could worry less and where the land could support the family for years to come.
Whenever she found time, Nazia spoke with experienced farmers and learned about cultivation methods, soil care, and improving productivity. Her questions were practical.
How could the soil become healthier? Which trees would grow better? What mistakes should be avoided?
She listened carefully, knowing that every lesson could become useful someday. By the time Nazia returned home, evening had settled over Kokernag. The last light of the day rested on the orchards, and the fields that had kept her busy for hours slowly became quiet.
Her younger brother was sitting with his books open.
“You are late today,” he said.
Nazia placed the basket on the table. “The fields were not finished with me.”
He smiled, but then noticed the tiredness on her face. “Api, do you ever get tired?”
Nazia sat beside him. “Yes.”
“Then why don’t you rest?”
She opened his notebook and looked at his homework. “Because you have to study.”
He looked at her for a moment. “But why is my studying your responsibility?”
Nazia remained silent for a few seconds. Outside, the evening wind moved through the trees. “Because I know what education can do,” she said.
Her brother lowered his eyes. “One day, I will earn and take care of you.”
Nazia smiled. “First, complete your studies. That will be enough.”
He nodded and returned to his books. For him, it was a promise for the future. For Nazia, it was a reason to keep going.
Later that evening, her mother called her. “Nazia.” She sat beside her. “You spend your whole day working,” her mother said. “You should think about yourself too.”
Nazia held her mother’s hand. “I do.”
Her mother looked at her gently. “When?”
Nazia looked around the room—the medicines beside her father’s bed, her brother’s books on the table, the walls that held years of memories. “When I see both of you comfortable,” she said. “When Baba does not have to struggle. When my brother finishes his education.”
Her mother remained quiet.
She wanted her daughter to have a life with fewer responsibilities. But she also knew that love sometimes chooses a difficult path. After dinner, when the house became silent, Nazia opened her books. The lamp on her study table was small. Outside, Kokernag had already gone to sleep.
During the day, those hands carried baskets, milk containers, and farming tools. Now they turned the pages of a sociology textbook. Some nights she studied for hours. Some nights exhaustion arrived before the final page.
There were moments when sleep felt heavier than the books in front of her. Moments when she wondered how long she could continue carrying so many things at once. But the next morning always arrived. And with it came another beginning.
Her Master’s degree in Sociology remained one of the things she refused to leave behind. Education was not an escape from her family. It was part of the future she wanted to create. When Nazia spoke about the years ahead, she rarely spoke about her own comforts. She spoke about her parents. She hoped that one day she could take them to Delhi for specialised medical treatment.
“They spent their lives taking care of us,” she said. “I want them to receive good care too.”
She also spoke about the young apple trees growing quietly at the edge of the field. She knew there were no guarantees. A harvest could fail. A plan could take longer. A dream could demand more patience than expected. But farming had taught her something important. Growth often happens quietly like a seed beneath the soil or a new leaf on a branch.
A tree becomes stronger season after season.
Perhaps the people who visited her small market stall would never know her entire story. They would see a young woman selling vegetables. They would not see the mornings before sunrise, the medicines arranged beside her parents’ bed, or the books waiting for her after a long day. They would not see the worries she carried silently. But Nazia knew that every part of her life belonged to the same journey.
As evening settled over Kokernag, Nazia walked home along the familiar road. The orchards stood quietly beneath the fading light. The fields that had demanded her attention throughout the day were finally resting. Inside the house, the familiar sounds continued — a cup being placed on the table, a door closing softly or pages rustling. They were small moments that rarely appear in stories, yet they quietly shaped lives.
Soon, another morning would arrive.
The kitchen light would come on before sunrise. The cattle would need attention. The baskets would need filling. The road to the market would wait. And Nazia would walk it again — not because her days were easy, not because she had found every answer but because the people and the place she loved had become part of who she was.
In Kokernag, where apple trees take years to bear fruit, Nazia had learned the quiet lesson that the land teaches everyone who works with it: some things worth growing couldnot be rushed. They needed time, care and patience.
The young apple saplings in her field were still waiting for their first harvest. So was the future she was trying to build.
As the first light touched the hills again, another morning began.
From Public Domain
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
Charudutta Panigrahi introduces us to to the eighteenth century literary giant, Upendra Bhanja, who gave up his crown for the love of words. Click here to read.
Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan highlights the contemporariness of Sangam Literature with discussion about a narrative based on trust and power politics. Click hereto read.
Art by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775–1851). From Public Domain
Floods, heatwave, hurricanes and storms — wild weather rips parts of the earth. While experts attribute these to El Niño and climate change, one wonders if peace and lifestyle choices could have any impact to reverse the changes on our home planet. Do wars add to our deep distress? We lose people, homes, what we nurtured and loved, the beautiful cities and structures we built, even forests, fields and rivers. The nuclear holocausts, the killing fields of the World Wars, the mined fields of Cambodia and Vietnam which continue to maim farmers… all these should have taught us to avoid wars but now when the television throws up images of war-torn zones, one wonders if those are worse than climate disasters?
In climate disasters we lose lives, homes and cities too — but people can step in to help and rebuild after the disaster. In a war setting, rescue workers are at a risk as bombs mow down terrain and destroys the tenor of daily lives. The disasters born of climate change too can be irreversible — especially with rising water levels, depleting shorelines and warmer climes ripped by storms. Which is worse — wars or climate disasters? What do you think? Could we go back to a pollution free world and reverse the darker impacts of climate change?
Just as history accepted wars and moved on, perhaps the time has come when climate change has to be accepted as a part of the new reality, and we have to find new ways of life. Exploring such stories is a book by Rajat Chaudhuri,The Climate Crossroads: Literature’s Encounter with a Planet on Fire. It has been reviewed by Bhaskar Parichha who tells us: “It reminds us that the climate crisis is not solely a scientific or political problem but also a crisis of imagination. Rajat Chaudhuri demonstrates with remarkable insight that stories are among humanity’s most powerful tools for understanding uncertainty, confronting ecological loss, and envisioning more just futures.” Somdatta Mandal, on the other hand, has brought in more on environment with her discussion of Siddharth Kak’s A Fire over Mount Everest. Andreas Geisbert adds colour to this section with his exploration of Angel Ramon’s Requiem of a Lost Nation. Satya Narayan Misra has reflected on Bhaskar Parichha’s Icons of Odisha – Lives that Shaped a State, a non-fiction whose excerpt tells us much about the journey of the author to bring to us community builders in various streams of life. We also have a bit from Kanupriya Dhingra’s non-fiction about a book bazaar that flourishes despite bookshops finding it hard to survive, The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi.
Our interviews this month touch upon environmental issues with Keith Lyons conversing with Helen Townsend, environmental entrepreneur and plant enthusiast who is high on sustainability and earth friendly solutions while Suzanne Kamata has interviewed Lily West who has travelled to all the countries in the world and has put it all down in her memoir, West goes East. Like Kamata, she teaches in Japan now. Kamata has also given us a humorous piece on remote controls. Humour is a sentiment that has also been wrought into our nonfiction with a flourish byDevraj Singh Kalsi too. He writes of his wedding sherwanialmost with a passion like the Dickensian Ms Havisham[1] exhibited for her crumbling wedding gown, except it has a different tone — that of wry tongue-in-cheek irony. Farouk Gulsara has a similar twinge of sarcasm as he muses on uncertainties in the future. Ian C Smith brings in a bit of the weather as he muses on a rainy day while Subramaniam Cheemalapati muses on the star-studded sky, dwelling on his anecdotal childhood experiences. Gowher Bhat introduces us to an aid worker who helps war victims. Meredith Stephens continues on her sailing adventures in Western Australia with photographs by her husband, Alan Noble. The photograph of the pink jellyfish is awesome. Do check it out!
Translations have brought in a shower of poetry with Tagore’s poem on a rainy-day hinting at shared confidences. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated Bengali lyrics Nazrul wrote for his friend and mentor, Rabindranath Tagore. Ihlwha Choi has brought to us a whiff of the Korean summer with his verses and Fazal Baloch has brought to us soulful poems from Balochi by Mohammad Hussain Anqa. Isa Kamari’s translations carry a flavour of Malay life in Singapore, and this set of verses bring to a close his book, The Lost Mantras. We are very privileged to have his entire book translated solely in our pages. Isa Kamari is an eminent literary voice of the Malay Singaporean community.
We have news about our hardcopy poetry anthology. We have had six media coverages in less than three months. Professor Malashri Lal deems: “For those of us who still believe in principles of care and compassion, humanism and amity, Wild Winds is a lifeline to keep afloat…It is especially commendable for wrapping global concerns in the fine tissue of hope.” And Mandal tells us: “Reading through these one hundred poems is indeed a pleasurable experience even for readers with a more prosaic temperament.” We are delighted that the book has had a warm welcome. Huge thanks to our publishers for giving us a hardcopy platform.
Thanks to all our contributors, readers and the fabulous team that make borderlessjournal.com come alive each month with a vibrant soul. Huge thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Do pause by our contents page for the July 2026 issue.
In a world moving away from compassion, there still exist souls who refuse to turn away from human suffering. Farhana Javid is one of them.
Farhana is a psychologist and humanitarian aid worker working for an organisation she prefers to leave unnamed. She has been working in conflict areas around the world since 2011. Her work has taken her to places such as Syria and Ukraine, where she supports families searching for missing loved ones, children who have stopped speaking, and survivors trying to rebuild psychological stability after loss.
People describe her in many ways: a psychologist, a humanitarian, a deeply spiritual woman shaped by faith and compassion, a person of rare intelligence. Yet none of these titles fully capture her. To the broken she becomes hope, to the lonely, warmth, to the wounded, a source of healing. And to those who know her closely, she is remembered for her quiet strength, steady presence, and generosity that never asks to be seen. She never seeks attention. Goodness, she believes, should move quietly like a prayer whispered in the depth of night when only God is listening. Her faith does not make her fragile. It anchors her. It lives in presence, in listening without interruption, in staying when others withdraw, in silence that holds rather than escapes.
She does not arrive with answers. She arrives with presence, clarity, and trained emotional steadiness. She listens without absorbing. She understands without collapsing. Her strength is not distance from suffering, but the ability to remain grounded within it.
Some places do not leave easily.
Syria stays with her in sharp, unsoftened memory. Ukraine stays with her in a quieter way, not as shock, but as a lingering awareness that reshapes how she understands human endurance.
In Ukraine, she remembers underground shelters where children draw homes on paper, as if imagination can protect them from collapse. One child once asked her whether the sky could break. She did not soften the question. She told him that even when things feel broken, people learn how to live beneath what remains.
In Syria, she remembers a mother repeating her son’s name again and again, as if naming alone can resist disappearance. Farhana sat beside her without interruption, allowing grief to exist without distortion, without forcing it toward closure.
These moments remain within her not as wounds, but as disciplined memory held with clarity.
Her former husband once struggled to understand her calling. He belonged to a quieter life, one rooted in continuity, shared presence, and the belief that love is built through constant togetherness. For him love meant closeness that does not leave. For her, love also meant responsibility toward suffering that cannot be ignored. Over time, this difference did not break loudly. It stretched slowly into silence that neither of them could hold forever. Eventually, they parted with mutual respect and quiet dignity.
And still she remains a mother. Her children, Soha and Zaidan, live with their grandmother in Srinagar, in a house that breathes differently under her care. Their grandmother, Farhana’s mother, holds the home with quiet discipline and deep tenderness. Though she has household helpers, she often chooses to cook herself, finding quiet joy in serving warm meals to Soha and Zaidan. The children grow within this rhythm. Absence does not weaken their bond with their mother; instead, it shapes it into curiosity and a quiet, growing pride.
Soha often asks, “Mama, when you are there, do people trust you easily?”
Zaidan once asks, “Do children speak to you immediately, or do they stay silent at first?”
Farhana answers with calm honesty. “Trust takes time,” she says. “Safety is not immediate. It is rebuilt slowly.”
And to Zaidan she adds, “Some children speak. Some remain silent for a long time. Silence is also protection.”
They listen not with fear, but with growing understanding.
And pride quietly forms within them.
“My mama helps people in war places,” Zaidan says once.
Soha adds softly, “She sits with children who cannot speak after what they saw.”
It is admiration shaped by understanding, not imagination.
When Farhana returns this time from Syria, she is composed and steady. Not distant, not overwhelmed, but quietly adjusting from the intensity of field awareness back into the slower rhythm of home. There is no visible break in her, only a subtle shift, as if her mind is still moving at a different altitude and gradually settling into familiar ground again. She speaks less in the beginning, listens more than usual, and carries a kind of alert stillness that comes from having lived too long where everything required attention. Yet nothing in her feels lost. It is not absence she brings back with her, but experience that is still finding its place within silence.
For the first days she remains quiet. She works on her laptop. She sits by the window for long hours. Time around her feels unclaimed, as if she is still moving between two worlds of experience.
Her mother does not interrupt her silence. She places food beside her, adjusts her cotton stole when it slips, and allows space for return without demand.
Her grandmother watches with understanding, knowing this is not emotional collapse but professional reintegration.
Soha and Zaidan stay close, not only seeking her presence but trying to understand her inner world.
One evening their grandmother says, “Let’s go to Dal Lake.” Her tasbeeh[1] moves slowly between her fingers. She adds softly, “The lake brings clarity when the mind has carried too much.”
Soha steps forward immediately. “Mama, come with us.”
Zaidan adds, “Even I am going. You cannot refuse now.”
Farhana looks at them for a moment, then nods. “Alright.”
They leave as evening settles over Srinagar.
The city is alive with its familiar summer movement, people heading toward Dal Lake, voices blending into warm air, the energy of evening gathering near water. It is not chaos, but rhythm, a collective turning toward stillness.
At Dal Lake, wooden shikaras wait along the shore, rocking gently against the water. They step into one together. The boat shifts, then steadies as it moves away from land.
The shore recedes slowly, not like disappearance, but like release.
Soha’s voice breaks the silence gently.
“Mama… does it stay with you when you come back?”
Farhana looks at the water before answering.
“Yes,” she says. “But not as pain. As understanding. It becomes part of how I see human beings.”
Zaidan asks, “Like what?”
“Like knowing how much people can survive and still remain human,” she replies.
Soha looks at her with quiet admiration.
“You really help them.”
Farhana shakes her head slightly.
“I help them remember what already exists within them.”
A silence follows, calm and full.
Then Soha asks softly, “What do you actually do there?”
“I sit with people in distress,” Farhana says. “I help stabilise emotional trauma. I make sure they are not alone while they are trying to hold themselves together.”
Zaidan murmurs, “That sounds important.”
“It is,” she says simply.
From behind them, her mother speaks, her voice steady with faith and lived wisdom.
“She has always been like this. Clear in thought. Steady even in difficult places.” The grandmother adds with quiet pride, “Even as a child she never turned away from pain, but she never lost her balance either.”
Her mother continues with calm conviction.
“Farhana was never meant for a small life. God gave her a heart that sees beyond comfort, beyond fear, beyond borders. And I am proud of her. Proud that she is my daughter. Proud of the way she carries light into places where others hesitate to go.”
She adjusts her tasbeeh slowly.
“But even those who carry light across the world must return to rest. Life does not place weight without wisdom. God places ease within burden. And home is part of that mercy.”
Farhana listens, grounded and steady.
After a pause she says quietly, “I am here. I am present. That is enough for now.”
The boat continues across Dal Lake as evening deepens into gold.
Soha leans into her. Zaidan sits close. Her grandmother closes her eyes in prayer.
Soha’s hand stays in hers. Zaidan sits close. Her mother continues her remembrance.
Together they drift forward, not as a family untouched by distance, but as one held together by something deeper than absence, something quieter than separation, something that still knows how to get back together.
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
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.
