I was hooked! It was my first exposure to a computer though I had read about these in the newspapers and seen them on television. I think it was a Spectrum personal computer popular in the 1980s. My friend, Sanjay and I did a few simple tasks and played a few games on the computer. The games of the 80’s were slow and clunky by today’s standards. In those days however they were interesting and enticing. BASIC was the most popular computer language then. We also had COBOL and a few others. My good friend, Sanjay Mhatre was a bibliophile and a free thinker, and I often used to visit his place and borrow from his vast book collection. However, even in the 1980s there was uneasiness and opposition to computers and the fear that it would replace people and lead to mass unemployment was often mentioned.
The rise of information technology (IT) and the important role to be played by Indian companies was still in the future. I expect artificial intelligence (AI) will also open new jobs in the future. At my medical college in Thrissur, Kerala, India computers were still rare. Communist Kerala had a love-hate relationship with computers and technology. Maharashtra (a western Indian state) was an early adopter of computers, and my tenth- and twelfth-mark sheets were computerised while my MBBS ones were handwritten. During my postgraduation at Chandigarh, computers gained prominence in our conversations. Our head of the department was gracious enough to offer the services of his secretary for typing our research manuscripts when she was free. The only other option was to pay for the service from outside providers. In those days WordStar and WordPerfect dominated word processing.
Creating slides for presentations was a challenge. LCD projectors were not available, and we had to create physical slides with cardboard mounting. The slides were created on early versions of PowerPoint and photographed using a camera to create the physical ones. My co-guide, Dr Anil Grover (then a cardiologist) at Postgraduate Institute (PGI), Chandigarh mentioned how computers will become increasingly common and encouraged me to learn the Microsoft package of Word, PowerPoint, and Excel. PGI also started offering email facility on a limited basis. You had to write down the details of your email and take it to the IT section who will send your message. We had modems then, which took a while to connect and made a series of sounds with flashing lights while connecting to the internet.
In Pokhara, Nepal at the beginning of the twenty-first century, internet was still a luxury. Manipal College of Medical Sciences used to charge 10 Nepalese rupees to send a message. Faculty could type their message in Outlook and twice a day, the IT person would send and receive messages. In those days, a floppy disk was the most common external storage device, and I soon had a large and colourful collection of floppies. Floppies were not always reliable and sometimes the data on them could not be read. CD-ROMs were another storage device, but CD writers never became commonplace. At Mahendra Pul in the heart of Pokhara, a new cybercafé came up in the early 2000s offering internet browsing at 150 Nepalese rupees per hour. Compared to what we were previously paying, this was a steal!
The college also had an LCD projector though it was not commonly used by faculty members for teaching-learning. This was a large and clunky device. Earlier versions often had compatibility issues. You create your slides and hope for the best. These may or may not open on the laptop and may or may not be projected. One had to have a backup of the lecture on overhead projector (OHP) transparencies, just in case. We did not yet have easy access to computers or laptops. This came only later when the United States Pharmacopeia (USP) set up a drug information and pharmacovigilance centre at the teaching hospital. We got two excellent Dell computers, and the hospital provided us with internet.
The early computers were slow with a big, bulky, and heavy cathode ray screen. They had a blinking cursor and words appeared slowly after typing. The Hollywood movie, You’ve Got Mail (1998), follows the romance between Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks developed through email. The movie is a good introduction to the early days of the internet.
We had purchased a home desktop computer in 2001 or 2002. This purchase was a financial disaster. The computer required frequent repairs and drained our finances. Google launched its beta version of email, Gmail in 2004, and I was one of the early adapters. I became a fan of Gmail right from the start. It offered significant advantages over the then dominant Hotmail, Yahoo mail and Rediff mail. The storage was larger and there was no need to delete your old emails. Kist Medical College in Lalitpur, Nepal had purchased Dell desktop computers, and these were among the best ones I had used. Fast and responsive with good memory and speed. These had LCD monitors and looked sleek and modern.
Computer technology has made significant advances. I read that if cars had made similar advances to computers we could drive to the moon and back on a litre of gasoline. Chips started getting smaller and more powerful and are today fought over by the global technology superpowers. A variety of online applications started making their appearance with the spread of the internet. Some of these eventually became the internet giants of today. In India, internet became widely available, and the costs dropped significantly. Mobile technology also made dramatic advances. In India most people access the internet and carry out online tasks using their mobile phones. For around 12000 Indian rupees today you can get a decent mid-range phone. Today mobiles in the palm of your hands have greater processing power than the giants of the 1950s and 1960s. I remember reading a comic strip where a visitor from the future time travels to the present. He laughs on seeing the supercomputer, the most powerful one on earth. When asked why he shows a small ball and introduces it as a computer from his time with much greater processing power than the humungous supercomputer.
One of the major advances has been cloud computing and cloud services. We have Chromebooks that work on web-based applications and needs the internet to do things. Both Google and Microsoft offer a range of services including storage, meetings, messaging, and applications for text, presentations, and calculations. AI is now an integral part of applications. PowerPoint offers the designer option for slides and creates stunning backgrounds. I recently attended a workshop on Copilot, the AI support software from Microsoft that is fully integrated into all their applications. I like the transcribing option for interviews and focus groups offered by Teams and later by Zoom and this makes my life as a researcher easier.
Star Trek, Futuristic computing
When I was growing up, I had no clue about what would soon become commonplace. The world wide web, the ability to browse libraries and art collections, video conferencing, online work processes, applying for government and other services online, online fund transfer and remittance are now at our fingertips. The COVID pandemic shifted a lot of learning and even assessment online. Presently we mainly interact with computers using a keyboard. I am a fan of the sci-fi series, Star Trek, where people interact with computers mainly using their voice. Voice commands are already available and steadily improving.
I was slow getting into social media. Their judicious use is to be recommended. Facebook keeps me updated on what my friends, acquaintances and former students are doing. LinkedIn is the professional face I present to the world, Twitter (now X) is a concise way to stay connected and YouTube is a major source of entertainment. Computers have changed our life for ever. At a basic level these are based on the flow of electrons through circuits and on the pioneering work in atomic physics done at the start of the twentieth century.
The last three decades have seen developments and changes at unimaginable speed. Who knows what the next three will bring? Will progress continue at an ever-accelerating pace or will we eventually hit a roadblock? We may have to wait for Father Time to provide the answers!
Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.
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The title plunges us into the sacrality of resonant words, the Nadistuti sukta being a hymn in the Rigveda in praise of rivers. Poet, novelist and translator Lakshmi-Kaaveri equates the flow of the waters with ‘the flow of poetry’, the quiet mingling of streams of remembrance and phrases that shape into lines of verse. Her book is dedicated to Jayanta Mahapatra ‘who lives on’ and an exordium titled ‘Naman’ offers gentle tribute to H.K. Kaul, who was among the founders of the Poetry Society of India and passed away during the recent pandemic. Nadistuti is a brilliant and thought-provoking collection of poems that charts the timeless continuums while being aware of the fragility of human existence.
The book begins with a prayer to the River Narmada (meaning ‘the giver of pleasure’), which divides the north from the south of India. Yet the rippling waters have no boundary—a philosophical observation that I find marks much of this remarkable volume. Remembering Ganga, Yamuna, Godavari, Saraswati, Narmada, Sindhu, Kaaveri, devotees recite the shloka[1] at their morning bath seeking the blessings of the rivers. Though such rituals are mostly forgotten in modern times, the climate crisis should remind us of the consequences of such amnesia. The invisible Saraswati is possibly a metaphor for such “forgetting” simply because of her partial invisibility. Lakshmi Kannan’s vibrant lines recall the disappearance of the river as also of Saraswati’s appearance in another form as a revered Goddess invoked by “students, writers, musicians, dancers, painters”. From the Nadistuti I learned the word— ‘potomologist’—the study of rivers, but the book is far greater than an academic enquiry—it’s a recognition of the civilisational bloodline that is linked to the ancient rivers which were the earliest cradles of humankind.
Some extraordinary and innovative aspects Lakshmi’s book deserve special mention. First, the remarkable prose- poem called ‘Ponni Looks Back’ which stretches the boundaries of imagination in a charming manner. Ponni is the name of the river Kaaveri in classical Tamil Literature. It flows through Tamil Nadu and Karnataka and is always perceived as a woman. Lakshmi tracks Ponni’s autobiography as though writing a Bildungsroman, the education and growing up of an innocent girl and her experiences along the way. Therefore, Ponni is born as a small unobtrusive stream on the Mysore-Coorg border. Then she becomes prominent and significant, and a vital witness to history—the Hoysala kingdom, the classical arts of Belur, Halibid, Somnathpur, then carrying on further to wrap around the islands of Srirangapatnam and Srirangam and so on. I enjoyed the autobiographical voice of Ponni reveling in her centuries of testimony to all the changes she has observed and imbibed—till we come to the new politics that is destroying rivers and society today. Ponni says, “One day I heard different voices floating over my waters…they sit around tables, shout at each other and refer to me dryly as the Kaaveri dispute, wrenching my waters apart”. Like yet another goddess, Sita, she chooses to end her journey. Ponni merges with her mother, the Bay of Bengal —her love and amity having completed what tasks she could undertake towards humanitarian goals. The world of manmade disasters is a chapter River Kaaveri would rather not participate in.
My question here is: “Do poetry and politics merge?… Can poets continue to be as Shelley called them ‘the unacknowledged legislators of the world’?” This brings me to another significant aspect of Nadistuti: Lakshmi’s brand of subtle feminism. Predictably, I am drawn to the poems that argue against son-preference, challenge gender stereotypes, and poke gentle barbs at unenlightened men.
Second, I cite a longish poem called “Snake Woman” from the section titled Chamundi, because it combines rituals, dream imagery, gender prejudice and the paradox of son preference. The ritual is called Nagapuja and has strict rules of abstinence from certain foods like snake gourd, and it entails hours of prayer—the chant being:
Please grant me a male child Oh, King of Cobras I will name him Nagaraja In your honour.
Something strange started happening that the pregnant woman could never dare reveal to the world. She dreamt every night of a female baby cobra wearing jhumkies (long earrings) and a jeweled girdle and sporting a red dot on her forehead. Well, the baby born was female—and the happy mother, though a little fearful, called her Nagalakshmi. The mother-in-law showed acute displeasure: “She can have any name. Who cares!”
Another pregnancy, again the rituals of Nagapuja—more stringent than before. No dreams this time. And an eagerly welcomed boy-child is born, enthusiastically named Nagaraja. And guess what? As he grows up, he ‘hissed at is mother’, ‘bared his fangs at his father’ and ‘spewed venom on his sister’. These are poet Lakshmi Kannan’s vivid vocabulary for the revered son! And the snake woman sister, what happened to her? She sloughed off her skin seasonally, grew strong, capable and emerged as a “lustrous one”.
I selected this poem for more than just Lakshmi’s clever reversal of gender prejudice. Snakes have a central place in the folktales and folklore of India. The word used, “theriomorphic”, denotes situations, where animals and human beings interchange bodies and identities. Snakes are not evil—they are often the progenitors of good deeds and the shapeshifting happens for many commendable reasons. The figuration of the snake as exclusively evil does not derive from Indian mythology. Lakshmi’s poem, this one and several others, tread this beautiful territory of humans and non-humans sharing a common abode, the Earth, and there is an implied lament that we have ignored this vital connectivity.
And finally, I am delving into the emotive, personal poems that end the collection. Called ‘Fireside’, it invites memories of WB Yeats’ classic lines:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book…
Lakshmi addresses many members of her family; they are named, thanked and remembered for their acts of love and compassion. Because Lakshmi believes in history and continuities, as we have seen in ‘Ponni Looks Back’, and the Nagalakshmi reference, these too are poems about lineage, heritage, respect and love—the attributes that make life worthwhile. Lakshmi’s mother (addressed in the poems as Amma) was Sharada Devi, an acclaimed painter in Mysore and Bangalore whom the daughter remembers with her easel-mounted canvas gently acquiring colours, the landscapes emerging from the contours of her imagination. Today, Lakshmi Kannan, the poet of Nadistuti, looks at a blank sheet of paper and compares that to her Amma’s canvas—the words will surely incarnate. Another poem has a redolent title ‘In Search of Father’s Gardens’, upturning African American writer Alice Walker’s book In Search Of Our Mothers’ Gardens, but for me it’s a tale reminiscent of Lakshmi’s early novel Going Home that I had reviewed decades ago. It was a book about ancestral homes and families breaking up. In the reconfigurations over time, Nadistuti’s final section presents poems to members of Lakshmi’s immediate family, named, but not too personalised, making this an exemplary template for those who hesitate to present the private in public poetry. With beauty, grace, gratitude, humour, irony—each person emerges as a tributary in the flow of the poet and writer we know and love as Lakshmi- Kaaveri. The last poem ‘If You Want to Visit’ is deeply poignant. It’s not a farewell poem—instead it’s an invitation to an eternal companionship:
Come Visit me now I’ll not have a word of complaint I’ll gather all of these and leave with you.
Here is the confluence of all that Nadistuti says: the day’s prayer in the morning, the Ponni River encapsulating history, the rituals that pass through many generations, and the legacy of a poet’s words embedded in the annals of time. An exquisite and meaningful collection of poems, Lakshmi has introduced concepts of poetic writing that are evocative of the ancient Rigveda and equally provide the guiding lamps for modern choices.
Malashri Lal, Former Professor in the English Department, University of Delhi, has published twenty one books of which Mandalas of Time: Poems, and Treasures of Lakshmi: The Goddess Who Gives are the most recent. Lal has received several research and writing fellowships. She is currently Convener, English Advisory Board of the Sahitya Akademi.
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I arrive just as Spring begins — There are the usual songs And dancing which excite, Especially, the merry young.
For oldies, like I, it’s nostalgia. I recall Yeats and his haunting line — The young in one another’s arms — What happened in my life? Where did my youth go?
It’s okay mutters a soft voice — You have other springs to enjoy!
Excerpted from WB Yeats’s ‘Sailing to Byzantium’ (1927)
Kirpal Singh is a poet and a literary critic from Singapore. An internationally recognised scholar, Singh has won research awards and grants from local and foreign universities. He was one of the founding members of the Centre for Research in New Literatures, Flinders University, Australia in 1977; the first Asian director for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize in 1993 and 1994, and chairman of the Singapore Writers’ Festival in the 1990s. He retired the Director of the Wee Kim Wee Centre.
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Something has been broken Some other has been torn I feel a rush in my veins There are drops of sweat over my forehead My eyes are drowsy Body feels weak My legs are trembling I’m bleeding
The blood’s flowing Between my thighs I don’t know from where I’ve got cut But I know This blood, my blood Is not the product of wars Of violence and hatred It signifies life Of theirs and mine
I bleed, and they don’t But they talk of equality And get silent on differences Of uniqueness of the women and queer-kind Some of us bleed every month Others are made to bleed because they love all colours Rests of us are mothers They give birth to babies in a pool of blood
But at the sight of it They turn faces, they curse us Are they scared of our blood? Or are they blind?
And then comes that blood Which is celebrated worldwide The blood of outcastes, enemies, powerless And those who don’t fit in the binaries The blood with which borders are drawn The blood for which forests are burnt And wars are fought and lost countries are bombed Management of this blood becomes the State affair Like development And amid all this We bleed for life
Anjali Chauhan is a feminist researcher, journalist, and writer based in India. She is currently pursuing a doctoral degree in Political Science at the University of Delhi and working with BehanBox, a feminist media website, as a consultant.
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I am currently staying with friends in the city of Exeter and they have given me a room, a room that contains a desk and a chair. This is a huge relief. One thing I have discovered since returning from India three months ago is that a desk is a valuable and uncommon item. I had always taken them for granted before. They never impinged on my consciousness.
My consciousness was rather neglectful in that regard, it seems. I assumed that everybody in the world regarded desks (and chairs) as fundamental aspects of existence. It simply never occurred to me that people might not require desks because they didn’t need to write books. I had forgotten that not everyone writes books all the time. What an oversight!
Since arriving in Britain, I have stayed with friends in a variety of locations but, only in Exeter, have I had a desk and chair. Only here, have I been able to sit and work on my next book. Or rather, only here have I been able to do so with relative ease, sitting perched on an adjustable chair, slightly hunched over, three fingers on each hand tapping away at the keyboard (I was once a two fingered typist but I have since improved), a desk lamp providing illumination and a mug of coffee not far away, and even disordered pages of written notes sharing desk space, because it happens to be a big desk.
Yes! A desk large enough to include not only my computer but books and messy piles of paper with garbled messages on them (messages that made total sense when I wrote them but now seem baffling and cryptic). There is plenty of spare space for me to move my mouse with grand sweeping gestures (instead of trying to restrict it to an area no larger than a beer mat). I have found a paradise of sorts. It is a desk that fulfils its promise, a desk that has no wobbly leg, that is high enough to prevent my legs bashing against the edge (and it is a blunt edge, thank goodness) but not so high that I have to crane up. It is a good desk, noble and honest. It is a friend and facilitator.
I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but friends who have accommodated my presence in their houses (while I seek a permanent place of my own) have been unable to cogitate the importance of a desk because the act of writing seems of no great importance to them. Can’t you balance your laptop on your lap? That is a question that seems perfectly logical to them. But no, I can’t. It slides off, just like cats often do when they fall into a deeper sleep and their muscles relax. My computer might call itself a ‘laptop’ but that seems to be a nickname rather than an accurate description of what it can do.
Well, if you can’t balance it on your lap, just don’t write anything. That is their solution to my dilemma. And I have written less, yes, and I do miss the big desk I had in India with the power socket right next to me and enough space on a generous surface for two or more mugs of coffee at once. Indeed, the desk was large enough so that my wife was able to do her writing on her own computer at the same time without either of us interfering with the other! Can you imagine a desk like that? That was a palatial desk.
Of course, I have done my best to improvise. I have used a cardboard box as a desk and sat on the edge of the bed. I have used the edge of the bed as the desk and sat on the cardboard box. I have tried to use a narrow bookshelf as a desk, standing up to type while striking my head on the shelf above it. I sat on the stairs and used the higher step as a desk. None of this has been practical or comfortable. Desks are hugely underrated.
One of my friends kindly gave me a bedroom into which she thoughtfully placed an inflatable bed and then she inflated it for me with an electric pump. It was a small room and the bed, fully inflated, was very large, so large that it took up all the space in the room, every cubic centimetre. Opening the bedroom door, I was immediately confronted with the bulging bed, which I had to climb onto. I tried writing on this bed but there was a leak. It slowly deflated and before long I was in the middle of a choppy pseudo-sea, feeling nauseous, while my fingers kept missing the keyboard of the undulating computer. No wonder sailors lost on the ocean have written so few books!
It is a different situation when I am looking after cats or dogs or other pets for friends who are away on holiday. Then I am able to employ kitchen tables as desks (although cats seem to want to take up most of the space on these surfaces too) and my computer and notes don’t even have to be cleared aside for dinner. I can eat dinner on my lap somewhere else.
That’s right, laps are for dinners and pets, not for laptops. I know there are writers who can write without desks and chairs. People who can sit cross-legged on a carpet on the floor or even while in the lotus position, serenely balancing the computer on their kneecaps as if it is a bridge anchored to two boulders and spanning the abyss between them. I admire such individuals, I guess, but I am not flexible enough to do likewise. I mean, I have a flexible mind, but my body doesn’t follow the example my mind sets.
Some ingenious inventor ought to invent a portable desk that folds up and can be carried in a pocket. Also, a chair that can be carried in the other pocket. It would reduce the frustration and sadness of desk-bound scribblers like myself. It would be an act of mercy. An alternative solution is for everyone in the world to start writing books, so they appreciate the necessity of a desk. In the meantime, I am making good use of the desk I have been loaned and I will miss it when I am gone from my current temporary residence.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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Title: Bhang Journeys: Stories, Histories, Trips and Travels
Author: Akshaya Bahibala
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
Akshaya Bahibala is a poet, bookseller, publisher, and library advocate. He is the co-founder of Walking Book Fairs, an independent bookstore and publishing company, as well as one of the most beloved bookmobiles in India, having journeyed over 35,000 kilometres through 20 states to promote a love of literature. Bahibala has authored four books in Odia. This book marks his debut in English. This captivating book is full of unexpected twists and turns, offering a unique blend of memories, adventures, and intriguing facts about a well-known substance. It serves both as an exploration and a cautionary tale.
Bhang Journeys: Stories, Histories, Trips and Travels by Akshaya Bahibala is an eye-witness account of the cannabis in one part of India – Odisha. Quite a bit of research and ideation seems to have gone into the book. This book is truly captivating due to its exploration of a controversial subject — bhang or cannabis..
Reads the blurb: “For ten years, from 1998 to 2008, Akshaya Bahibala was in the grip of bhang, of ganja—drinking it, smoking it, experiencing the highs and lows of an addict on Puri’s beaches with hippies, backpackers and drop-outs from France and Japan, Italy and Norway. Then he drew back from the edge and tried to make a life, working as a waiter, a salesman, a bookseller. He starts this journal-cum-travel book with startling, fragmented memories of his lost decade. From these, he moves to stories about people across Odisha whose lives revolve around ganja-bhang-opium.”
Bahibala commences the book by recounting his experiences of indulging in bhang and ganja on the shores of Puri. He also spends time with a considerable number of foreigners — Caucasian men and women who appear to visit Puri for the purpose of getting high. The author mingles with Japanese, German, French, Italian, and Israeli tourists, sharing meals, borrowing money, exchanging bhang-infused biscuits, occasionally engaging in fights, all while listening to Bob Marley’s soulful rendition of “No Woman, No Cry” in a state of intoxication.
The book has some interesting details like how the owner of a government-approved bhang shop prides himself on selling the purest bhang available, claiming it can make people as forgiving and non-violent as Jesus. Another story is about how an opium cutter, learnt how to massage a lump of opium with mustard oil and carve it into tablets as a boy. There is a heart wrenching narrative of a girl who survived cholera by licking opium and became a lifelong addict. Yet another, is about the yearnings of a goldsmith with an opium de-addiction card for 20 grams a month, but he longs for more — atleast 25 grams. There is also the story of the ganja farmer who flies to Puri from Punjab in a helicopter.
The hallucinations induced by the drug are reflected in the case study of a young man, suffering from ganja-and-bhang-fuelled paranoia, convinced that Indian and American spies are after him makes for an interesting yet concerning read. Descriptions are given of angry villagers indulging in violence against excise department officials who try to destroy ganja plantations.
Alongside these narratives, are official data on opium production, seizures, and destruction; UN reports on the medicinal benefits of cannabis and a veteran’s recipes for bhang laddoos and sherbets. The author delves into the process of creating bhang, highlighting its complete legality in India (unlike charas and ganja, which are prohibited under the country’s 1985 Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances Act). Additionally, there is a subtly humorous account of a Brahmin bhang shop owner who offers intriguing insights into the procurement and sale of bhang. Bahibala also discusses opium (referred to as afeem locally) cutters and government-operated facilities where opium is manufactured. He sheds light on opium addicts, for whom the government provides a de-addiction program.
The author concludes the book on a rather melancholic tone, discussing the current state of affairs in Puri and the significant changes that have occurred over the past two decades. The absence of foreign tourists on Beach Road, the police cracking down on public marijuana use, the proliferation of hotels and restaurants, and the eagerness of owners to expand and construct more establishments are all highlighted. Additionally, the author reflects on the individuals he once knew during his youth, noting that some have relocated to other countries while others remain in the area.
This book offers a comprehensive perspective on the bhang/charas/ganja culture in India, covering aspects such as production, sale, purchase, and consumption under peer pressure. The author’s personal experiences and lessons learnt add depth to the narrative, making it a captivating read. It is a liberating and unfiltered account, unconcerned with conforming to political correctness and yet, there is his own story, where he feels he ‘lost’ a decade of his life to addiction.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
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Story by Ilma Khan, translated from Hindustani by Janees
Songs of Freedom bring stories from women — certainly not victims, not even survivors but fighters against the patriarchal status quo with support from the organisation Shaktishalini
Dr.Ilma Khan is 24 years old, was born and brought up in Rampur, Uttar Pradesh, India. She is studying BUMS (Bachelor of Unani Medicine & Surgery) and currently practising in the same field. Ilma loves to describe herself as ambitious, flawless and fearless, believing in ‘good vibes’, big dreams, and self-love always.
Dear Me . . .
2023
This year I met the most broken version of me, but also the strongest…
24 years ago…
Wednesday, 11 November 1998,
I was born into a family where when a woman is pregnant, she was expected to deliver a baby boy, but I was born…
I do not remember my childhood, but I do remember my family always wanting a boy. And so here we are with seven sisters now and one brother. I always wonder why they always wanted a son? What would have changed in their lives if they had a male child?
This greatly impacted my life and I decided to take matters in hand. I decided to do all the work which a boy could do. That didn’t seem to help much because I was constantly reminded of my ‘disabilities’, that ‘physically I was a girl and I should know my limits’, that I ‘should remember that one day when I would turn eighteen and I would get married. My parents’ house was just another impermanent motel’.
So, I started believing that this is my parents’ house and after marriage I would go to my husband’s house. But what if … they tell me someday that, ‘this is NOT YOUR home!’.
THEN WHERE EXACTLY IS MY HOME?
— LETTER TO MYSELF —
Dear Ilma, I am meeting you after so long. You know it's been six years since we talked… Just wanted to tell you that you were so genuine and innocent. I remember you always worried about little things, but you know this time it's different -- as in a ‘good different’. The Ilma I know now is strong enough to face her own journey. She has faith that she can always stand up for herself. The only things that haven't changed are the fact that she still likes to chill like you, she loves the rain, she does everything which is full of madness and enjoys every little moment of her life, she loves snow too…Though you were quieter than her you know. This Ilma -- she is aggressive, bold -- unlike your shy and scared self… Oh yes and her nails have finally grown. She doesn't gnaw her nails like you. She loves to put paint on these. Can you imagine that?
Since that time, I started dreaming of having my home, a life full of adventures and freedom. But as I grew older, my family and relatives started asking about marriage. I was studying in college at that time.
I was completely shattered that I was very close to my career goals, but all this will stop me from achieving my dreams. Religion of course played a very important role in my life, as I was allowed to do things under ‘some limits’ because my family believed so.
I was just sixteen years old when my engagement was fixed with one of my cousins while my heart cried out in loud protest. But I was not able to express this to anyone. I decided that I would do something for myself — so that I could respond to all that was happening to me in which family members were complicit.
I had studied hard. When I completed school. I gave entrance exams and got selected for the medical profession. Since that time, I have been trying to tell my family members that I do not want to marry the person they choose.
Everything was going fine. I was living my life, but one call changed everything.
— LETTER TO MYSELF —
Dear Ilma,
I know you always wonder how you will pursue your career, how you will live your life if allowed to live on your own terms, about how smooth things will go if a person or your family will let you go or just abandon you or not want you to live by their rules. But don't worry now because time has changed things, she is doing every single thing step by step, the way you thought it would be in future. She is here to fulfill your dreams. I know you love to help the one in need. You know she has got a platform where she learns these things and is helping other ‘survivors’. I promise when you will see this Ilma, you will be amazed because she is exactly the way you wanted her to be.
My mother called me, and said, “We are coming to pick you up after 3 days. You are getting married. Resign and come back with us. We have to do the preparations.”
I was silent. I could not utter a single word during the call. A feeling of hopelessness and helplessness mauled at me.
Somehow, I managed to muster the courage, assemble my shattered self together and called my mother –
“I don’t want to resign. I want to work. I want to be financially independent. I can’t marry now. This is not the right time.”
“No! You are 23 now and this is the right age. We have made the decision!”
“I don’t want to marry that person. He is annoying and this is final! I am not coming home!”
“How dare you talk like this? We are coming now to get you and you have to come with us. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
I was thinking about my next step. I took help from an NGO2 and they helped me. When my parents came, they promised that they would not ask me to marry any person and they would allow me to study. Somehow, they managed to convince me emotionally, and I decided to go back home with them to celebrate the festival of Eid.
When we were home, suddenly the behaviour of my mother changed, she snatched my phone and said, “Now do whatever you can? We will see how you will say no to marriage. There, we were helpless because of that NGO but now it’s all our say.”
REMEMBER THAT HEIGHT OF FEAR WHEN…
Her parents abused her physically with a belt, blood was coming out from her nose and head. After all those arguments her parents finally decided to take her life and locked her in a room. She was locked up in a room, with no hope of light in the darkest time. She was afraid, they were talking outside the room – planning and plotting. Her uncle was fighting with her family members to let her live. He was asking them not to kill her – to spare her. She lost all hope. Every second she was breathing, thinking this could be the last, this could be the last… this could… be the… last. It was difficult to control her emotions. Her nose was bleeding, her tears were not coming out, her lips were dry with fear, she was shivering that this could be her last day and she could do nothing to save herself. You’re alive today, Ilma. You lived through that time. The peak of fear.
But somehow, I was saved… and then I was screaming, crying… I wanted to disappear.
The next day I decided to do anything and everything to save myself, my life. I contacted many NGOs and left my home…and never looked back. How did it all happen? I am yet to make sense of it. One moment, I was trapped and hopeless, and the next moment, I was running for life.
Since then, I have been independently living on my own. I am currently studying, and at some point, I think that everything needs to be left alone – your past, even your pain.
But, yes, I remember when I was young, I thought that I would be helping poor people and I would do something through which I could be the person who would make others happy…
I decided to be a doctor and today it gives me hope and happiness which I cannot define in words. The very first time when I went to the gynaecology department and my duty was in the labour room. When I went there regularly for one month, I used to practice how to deliver a baby. After a few months, I learnt to do that on my own and when I helped one of my patients in delivering her baby, that was the best thing that ever happened to me in life…
The smiles on their faces were precious. Her mother-in-law gave me her blessings and all of them were just so happy.
So many times, I have tried to save the lives of people, pushing through to give them hope even if the situations are not in their favour.
Today when I go to the hospital and my patients, who are very ill and are in pain, give their blessings placing their trust in me, I realise what I’m living for.
YOU SHOULD KNOW --
You were in a toxic relationship, you know, you should know about red flags now. Why do you chase such people who don't value you, who don't care about the efforts you put into everything? You know she wants to be valued and respected by every individual she has in her life. Things are very different now, but those memories of you with your family, she misses that. Tell everyone in the past that she has moved on from things and no one can make her feel inferior. And at last, I just want to say that I am so proud of everything you’ve done. Because of you, she discovered that she is fierce, and strong, and full of fire, and that not even she could hold herself back because her passion burned brighter than her fears. Will meet you soon. Love and only love. ME. YOU. US.
I faced a lot of hardships in life – mentally, physically, verbally, and socially. Despite being triggered by those memories I chose to live… I chose to live freely, I chose to love myself, I chose to owe myself a life which I dreamt of from an early age.
I was scared, but I realised that I am my own power. On certain days, when self-doubts creep in, I tell myself that I am worth every great thing. All that I have done till now. I am capable of reaching my dreams even if they’re beyond the stars. It’s only a matter of time. You look back and thank yourself for not giving up and for treating yourself with respect and kindness.
Now I am manifesting my life, my dream and everything I have wanted. I am becoming the best version of myself, and I deserve good things. This moment is always precious to me, the most satisfying moment of my life.
And I think once you choose HOPE, everything is possible in life…
“Establishing itself as a premier women’s organisation in India from 1987, Shaktishalini has spread out and deals with all kinds of gender based violence. A shelter home, a helpline and more than that a stunning activist passion are the hallmarks of this organisation. “pandies and Shaktishalini – different in terms of the work they do but firmly aligned in terms of ideological beliefs and where they stand and speak from. It goes back to 1996 when members of the theatre group went to the Shaktishalini office to research on (Dayan Hatya) witch burning for a production and got the chance to learn from the iconic leaders of Shaktishalini, Apa Shahjahan and Satya Rani Chadha. And collaborative theatre and theatre therapy goes back there. It is a mutual learning space that has survived over 25 years. Collaborative and interactive, this space creates anti-patriarchal and anti-communal street and proscenium performances and provides engaging workshop theatre with survivors of domestic and societal patriarchal violence. Many times we have sat together till late night, in small or large groups debating what constitutes violence? Or what would be gender equality in practical, real terms? These and many such questions will be raised in the stories that follow.” — Sanjay Kumar↩︎
Where the mind is without fear … Where the world has not been broken up into fragments … Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way … Where the mind is led forward by thee Into ever-widening thought and action…
As we complete the fourth year of our virtual existence in the clouds and across borders, the world has undergone many changes around us, and it’s not only climate change (which is a huge challenge) but much more. We started around the time of the pandemic — in March 2020 — as human interactions moved from face-to-face non-virtual interactions to virtual communication. When the pandemic ended, we had thought humanity would enter a new age where new etiquettes redefining our social norms would make human existence as pandemic proof as possible. But before we could define new norms in the global context, takeovers and conflicts seem to have reft countries, regions and communities apart. Perhaps, this is a time when Borderless Journalcan give a voice to all those who want to continue living as part of a single species in this world — where we can rise above our differences to find commonalities that make us human and part of the larger stream of humanity, that has been visualised by visionaries like Tagore or John Lennon — widely different cultural milieus but looking for the same things — humankind living together in harmony and moving towards a world without violence, without hate, without rancour and steeped in goodwill and love.
Talking of positive values does not make sense in a world that seems to be veering towards darkness… Many say that humankind is intrinsically given to feelings of anger, hate, division, lust, shame and violence. But then we are just as much inclined towards happiness, fun, love, being respectful and peaceful. Otherwise, would we be writing about these? These are inherited values that have also come down to us from our forefathers and some have been evolving towards embalming or healing with resilience, with kindness and with an open mind.
If you wake up before sunrise, you will notice the sky is really an unredeemable dark. Then, it turns a soft grey till the vibrant colours of the sun paint the horizon and beyond, dousing with not just lively shades but also with a variety of sounds announcing the start of a new day. The darkest hours give way to light. Light is as much a truth as darkness. Both exist. They come in phases in the natural world, and we cannot choose but live with the choices that have been pre-made for us. But there are things we can choose — we can choose to love or hate. We can choose resilience or weakness. We can choose our friends. We can choose our thoughts, our ideas. In Borderless, we have a forum which invites you to choose to be part of a world that has the courage to dream, to imagine. We hope to ignite the torch to carry on this conversation which is probably as old as humanity. We look forward to finding new voices that are willing to move in quest of an impractical world, a utopia, a vision — from which perhaps will emerge systems that will give way to a better future for our progeny.
In the last four years, we are happy to say we have hosted writers from more than forty different nationalities and our readers stretch across almost the whole map of the world. We had our first anthology published less than one and a half years ago, focussing more on writing from established pens. Discussions are afoot to bring out more anthologies in hardcopy with more variety of writers.
In our fourth anniversary issue, we not only host translations by Professor Fakrul Alam of Nazrul, by Somdatta Mandal of Tagore’s father, Debendranath Tagore, but also our first Mandarin translation of a twelfth century Southern Song Dynasty poet, Ye Shao-weng, by Rex Tan, a journalist and writer from Malaysia. From other parts of Asia, Dr Haneef Sharif’s Balochi writing has been rendered into English by Fazal Baloch and Ihlwha Choi has transcreated his own poetry from Korean to English. Tagore’s Phalgun or Spring, describing the current season in Bengal, adds to the variety in our translated oeuvre.
Devraj Singh Kalsi has explored darker shades of humour in his conversation with God while Suzanne Kamata has ushered in the Japanese spring ritual of gazing at cherry blossoms in her column with photographs and narrative. Keith Lyons takes us to the beautiful Fiordlands of New Zealand, Ravi Shankar to Malaysia and Mohul Bhowmick trapezes from place to place in Sri Lanka. Farouk Gulsara has discussed the elusiveness of utopia — an interesting perspective given that we look upto ideals like these in Borderless. I would urge more of you to join this conversation and tell us what you think. We did have Wendy Jones Nakashini start a discussion along these lines in an earlier issue.
I would want to thank our dedicated team from the bottom of my heart. Without them, we could not have brought out two issues within three weeks for we were late with our February issue. A huge thanks to them for their writing and to Sohana Manzoor for her art too. Thanks to our wonderful reviewers who have been with us for a number of years, to all our mentors and contributors without who this journal could not exist. Huge thanks to all our fabulous loyal readers. Devoid of their patronage these words would dangle meaninglessly and unread. Thank you all.
Wish you a wonderful spring as Borderless Journal starts out on the fifth year of its virtual existence! We hope you will be part of our journey throughout…
Enjoy the reads in this special anniversary issue with more content than highlighted here, and each piece is a wonderful addition to our oeuvre!
Narrative by Debendranath Tagore, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal
Note from the Translator
Debendranath, Father of Rabindranath Tagore
Born to Dwarkanath Tagore in Shelaidah, Debendranath Tagore (15 May 1817 – 19 January 1905) was a Hindu philosopher and religious reformer. One of the founders of the Brahmo religion in 1848, his journey in the role of ‘Maharshi’, the great ascetic, was an attempt to spread the Brahmo faith and he travelled extensively to various places, especially in different parts of the Himalayas like Mussourie, Shimla, Kashmir, and Dalhousie. He even constructed a house in Bakrota called ‘The Snow Dawn’ where he used to reside for months. Although Debendranath was deeply spiritual, he managed to continue to maintain his worldly affairs — he did not renounce his material possessions, as some Hindu traditions prescribed, but instead continued to enjoy them in a spirit of detachment. His considerable material property included estates spread over several districts in Bengal. Debendranath was a master of the Upanishads and played no small role in the education and cultivation of the faculties of his sons.
In his memoir, Jeevan Smriti [Memories of Life], Rabindranath also narrates in detail about his trip with his father in the Himalayas when he was just eleven years old. Debendranth founded the Tattwabodhini Patrika (1843) as a mouthpiece of the Brahmo Samaj and apart from his autobiography, wrote several other prose pieces which also reveal his wanderlust.
Among the two entries included here, we have ‘Moulmein Bhraman’ which is an interesting travel piece narrating his sojourn in Burma in September/October 1850. In the Chaitra 1817 Saka issue of Tattwabodhini Patrika, a travelogue ‘Mori Bhraman’ narrating Debendranath’s trip to Mori was published. Interestingly, as a prologue to this piece Sri Chintamani Chattopadhyay tells us that he was so enamoured after listening to Debendranath’s oral narration of the trip undertaken 28 years earlier, that he decided to transcribe it for the satisfaction of the readers.
Moulmein Bhraman (Travel to Moulmein)
After a year, the splendour of autumn revealed once again and the desire to travel blossomed in my mind. I could not make up my mind where to go for a trip this time. I thought I would make a trip on the river and so went to the bank of the Ganges to look for a suitable boat. I saw that several khalasis — dockyard workers – of a huge steamer were busy at their work. It seemed that this steamer would soon set sail.
“When would this steamer go to Allahabad?” I asked them.
In reply they said, “Within two or three days this will venture into the sea.”
On hearing that this steamer would go to the sea, I thought that this was the easiest way my desire for a sea journey could be fulfilled. I went to the captain instantly and rented a cabin and in due time boarded that steamer to begin my sea journey.
I had never seen the blue colour of the sea water before. I kept on watching the beautiful sights by day and night amid the continuous bright blue waves and remained immersed in the glory of the eternal spirit. After entering the sea and swaying with the waves for one night, the ship dropped anchor at three o’clock the next afternoon. In front of us, I saw a stretch of white sand and something that looked like human habitation. So, I took a boat and went to see it. As I was wandering about the place, I saw a few Bengali men from Chittagong with charms around their necks coming towards me. I asked them, “How come you are here? What do you do?”
“We do business here. We have procured the idol of Goddess Durga in this month of Ashwin[1],” they replied.
I was really surprised to hear that they celebrate Durga puja here in Khaekfu town of Burma. Durga puja was celebrated even here!
From there, I came back to the ship and started towards Moulmein. When the ship left the sea and entered the Moulmein River, I remembered the scene of leaving Gangasagar Island and going into the Ganges River. But this river did not offer any such good scenery. The water was muddy and full of crocodiles; no one bathed in it. The ship came and dropped anchor at Moulmein. Here a Madrasi resident called Mudeliar came and greeted me[2]. He came on his own and introduced himself. He was a high-level government official and a true gentleman. He took me to his house, and I remained a guest there and accepted his hospitality for the few days I stayed at Moulmein. I stayed very comfortably in his house.
The streets in the city of Moulmein were wide and clean. The shops that lined both sides of the street selling different kinds of things were all manned by women. I bought a box, and some very fine silk clothes from them. Going around the marketplace I went to the fish market at one time. I saw big fish for sale displayed on huge tables.
“What are these big fish called?”
They replied, “Crocodiles.” So, the Burmese ate crocodiles; they spoke verbally about ahimsa and the Buddhist religion, but their stomachs were filled with crocodiles!
One evening when I was wandering on the wide streets of Moulmein, I saw a man walking towards me. When he came close, I understood that he was a Bengali. I was quite surprised to see a Bengali there. From where did this Bengali arrive across the ocean? It seemed there were no places where Bengalis did not go. I asked him, “From where have you come?”
“I was in trouble and so came here,” he replied.
Instantly I understood his trouble[3]. I asked him further, “How many years of trouble?”
“Seven years,” he replied again.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing much. I just duplicated some papers of a company. Now my term is over, but I cannot go home because I do not have the money.”
I offered to give him the passage money. But how will he go home? He had set up a business, had got married, and was living quite comfortably. Would he ever go back to our country to show his shameful black face there?
Mudeliar told me that there was a mountain cave here which people went to visit[4]. If I wished he would accompany me there. I agreed. On the first moon night[5], he brought a long boat during the high tide. There was a wooden cabin in the centre of that boat. That night, Mudeliar, I, the captain of the ship and seven or eight other people boarded the boat and it left at two o’clock at night. We sat up for the whole night in that boat. The foreigners kept on singing English songs and requested me to sing Bengali songs. So, I kept on singing Brahma-sangeet occasionally. No one understood anything. They did not like them and went on laughing. We travelled for about twenty-seven miles that night and reached our destination at four o’clock in the morning.
Our boat reached the shore. Everything was still dark. On the shore I saw a cottage full of trees and creepers from which light was coming out. I got curious and ventured alone to that unknown place in the darkness. On reaching there I found it was a tiny cottage. Inside several bald-headed priests in yellow ochre robes were placing candles in different parts of the room. I was quite surprised to see people resembling the priests of Kashi[6] here. How did they come here? Later I came to know that they were the leaders of the Buddhist monks and known as Phungis. I hid myself and observed them playing with the lamps but suddenly one of them saw me and took me inside. They gave me a mat to sit on and water to wash my feet. I had come to their house, so this was their way of entertaining guests. According to the Buddhists, serving guests was a sacred act.
I returned to the boat at early dawn. The sun rose. Mudeliar and the other invited guests came and joined us. This made us fifty in number. Mudeliar fed all of us there. He had arranged for several elephants; about two or four people got on each elephant and proceeded towards the dense jungle. There were small hills all around and in between was that dense forest. There was no other way of travelling here except on elephant back. We reached the entrance of the cave in the mountain around three o’clock in the afternoon.
We descended from the back of the elephants and started to walk in the jungle where the undergrowth was waist high. The entrance to the cave was small; we had to crawl in. After crawling in a little we could stand up straight. It was very slippery inside and we kept on slipping and falling. So, we started walking very cautiously. It was pitch dark inside. Though it was three in the afternoon it seemed like three at night. I was scared that if we lost our way in the tunnel, we would not be able to come out. We would then have to wander inside the cave for the whole day. So, wherever I went, I kept an eye on the faint light at the entrance of the cave. All the fifty of us spread ourselves in various parts of the cave and everyone had sulfur powder in their hands. Then each person put a little sulfur powder in the little holes in the cave next to where he was standing.
After everyone’s place was defined, the captain lit his share of the sulfur powder. Instantly each one of us lit matches and ignited our portion. Now the cave was lit simultaneously at fifty different places like fireworks, and we could see the inside clearly. What a huge cave it was! On looking up to the ceiling our vision could not gauge its height. We saw the different natural formations that had been caused by rainwater seepage inside and were really surprised.
Later, we came out and had a picnic in the forest and then came back to Moulmein. On our way back we heard different musical instruments being played together. Locating that sound, we went forward and saw a few Burmese people dancing with all kinds of gestures of their bodies. Our captain and the foreigners also joined them and started to dance in a similar manner. They found great pleasure. A Burmese lady was standing at the entrance of her house. She watched the mimicry of the foreigners and went and whispered something in the men’s ears. They stopped their singing and dancing immediately, and all of them suddenly left the scene and disappeared somewhere. The captain went on entreating them to resume their dance, but they did not listen. It was amazing to see how much hold the Burmese women had over their men.
We came back to Moulmein. I went to meet a high-level Burmese official at his house. He received me very politely. There was a huge room and in its four corners sat four young women stitching something.
One of the girls instantly came and handed me a round box full of betel leaves. On opening it I found it to contain different condiments. This was the local Buddhist custom of receiving guests. He then gifted me some excellent saplings resembling the Ashok flower. I had brought them home and planted them in my garden, but they did not survive despite great care. The fruit of this tree is very popular with the Burmese. If someone had sixteen rupees then he would spend the entire amount to buy that fruit. We disliked their favourite fruit because of its smell[8].
Mori Bhraman (Travel to Murree)
On the 10th of Pous, 1789 Saka[9], I abandoned all work and ventured in full earnest to go for a tour in the west. I did not decide where I would go. Just as a confined river feels overjoyed when released, I too left home with equal enthusiasm. Two servants accompanied me. One was a Punjabi Sikh called Gour Singh, the other was Kashi Singh, an Odiya Kshatri. At that time the train went only up to Delhi.
Upon arriving at Delhi, I found out that there was no other way to go except by mail coach. So, I booked a seat on it. My destination was Punjab. The horses of the coach in which I travelled up to a place near Sutlej were not steady. Because of them the coach swayed on both sides. I feared that it might topple, and it did tilt on one side and fell down on the ground.
I got out of the coach through its panel and shouted at the driver in the topmost voice – “You made me fall down, the body is hurt in many places and the nose is bleeding.” The driver had assumed that I had already died under the pressure of the carriage. Feeling assured after hearing my voice he replied, “Baancha to – at least you are alive.” My servant brought some water from a nearby well. I washed my nose. It was almost evening by then. Seeing a rest house nearby, I spent the night there.
Early next morning, I boarded the mail carriage again. It crossed the huge bridge upon the river Sutlej. Upon looking down I saw that the water had a tremendous current. I had never seen such a large bridge before. The wind was blowing fiercely. The strange sound of the waves hitting one another created great pleasure in my mind.
After that I reached an inn near the Beas River. Having our lunch there, I boarded the coach again at four in the afternoon. It was almost evening; we hadn’t progressed far when all of a sudden, a heavy storm rose. The road was just along the river. Sand started blowing to form clouds and cover the surroundings. Nothing was visible in front of us. Sand filled our nostrils and the coach could hardly move. I couldn’t decide where to go and take shelter. We found a settlement a little further ahead. Seeing a two-storied house I got off the coach and spent the night there. The storm continued unabated till three o’clock at night. As soon as it stopped, I boarded the coach again.
In this manner, travelling from one inn to another, I ultimately reached Amritsar. Earlier when I had gone to Shimla, I had spent a few days with great pleasure in Amritsar in an old, dilapidated house located next to a narrow sewer line. Immediately upon reaching Amritsar, I went looking for that beloved house.
I came next to the sewage line but saw that the house did not exist anymore. There wasn’t even a sign of it anywhere. This was an example that nothing was permanent in our lives.
I came back from there in a depressed mood. I rented a small single storied hut next to the road. As a traveller on the road, I stayed there amid the dust in that small room quite stoically but with great excitement. I cannot express in words how much I enjoyed living in such seclusion. The room wasn’t much taller than the road. Unknown travellers would stop by and speak to me in a manner as if we had been acquainted before. I was also happy to interact with them. One of them was a devotee of Hafiz and I too became an admirer. He did not want to leave me and became an earnest friend of mine.
Days went by in this manner. One day a Brahmo gentleman called Shibchandra babu came from the Brahmo Samaj at Lahore. He said that he had been sent by the Brahmos there once they heard that I was here, and I had to go to Lahore. Seeing his eagerness I started for Lahore. Babu Nabinchandra Roy had arranged for my accommodation beforehand in a house located next to a wide road at Anarkali. Once I reached there, the Brahmos came and surrounded me with devotion. During my stay in Lahore, I even had to deliver a lecture in Hindi.
From there the Brahmos arranged for my stay inside a garden. Surrounded by lime trees, the dwelling house was in the middle. With only two servants accompanying me, who was going to cook for me? I developed diarrhoea after eating the hard rotis that were served. Soon, I was also attacked by malaria. The Brahmos informed a Muslim doctor, and he came and saw me. I did not take the medicines prescribed by him. My own medicine was powdered Myrobalan and I took that. The next day there was a lot of emission of blood. I became weak; wanting fresh air I went up to the first floor. There I felt the tremendous heat of the sun and my head started reeling. The very next moment I fainted. Upon hearing this news, two Brahmos came and started feeding me sugar cane and I regained my consciousness after their nursing.
The body was in a miserable condition. The next day I sat wondering where I could go in such a state and that too without a cook. How could I return home in the heat of summer? As I was feeling tense thinking about it and could not decide what to do, my heart suddenly said, “Go to Murree.”
Thinking this to be a god-sent instruction I started preparing to go to Murree. The local Brahmos came to meet me at around two in the afternoon. My body was still very weak, and I didn’t have the energy to even talk much. They asked me what I wanted to do now, and I told them that I had decided to go to Murree and would begin my journey that day itself. After they left, Nabin babu and a few other Brahmos came.
I told them, “I want to go to Murree today so please arrange for a coach.”
They sent Gour Singh and arranged a mail carriage for me. Nabin babu asked me what I would eat on the way. He then gave me two bottles of pomegranate juice. After the coach arrived, I had the two big trunks loaded on its roof and got inside with the two bottles of juice as sustenance. Two servants sat on the roof of the coach. Despite my objection, the Brahmos dismantled the horses and started pulling the coach by themselves. I had to persuade them to stop. The coachmen attached the horses again and started moving.
After travelling a little I realised that the coach was swaying too much, and it was also not strong enough. The Sikh Gour Singh who was sitting on top was very strong, and there were two heavy trunks; if the roof collapsed on my head, there would be nothing I could do. I started feeling scared. Travelling in this manner, I reached a dak bungalow. It was a great relief and I felt that my life was saved. After eating there, I boarded the coach again. Gradually I came to the Jhelum. Gour Singh’s house was located there. He stopped the coach and was pleased to call his relatives and introduce me to them.
In this manner I arrived at Rawalpindi, which was situated in the Murree valley. From this point the road went up and down. Many broken wheels lay scattered here and there as proof of this dangerous road. I became scared on seeing them and kept wondering what would happen to me if the wheels of this unstable coach also broke. But by God’s grace, we overcame all these various hurdles and safely reached another dak bungalow[10]. As soon as I arrived there, the local Bengali gentlemen came to meet me. The pain in my body and the strain of travel made it difficult for me to speak. A gentleman called Dwarik babu started taking special care of me. He went here and there looking for a house, and at last went and requested a Parsi gentleman to allow me to stay in his garden.
I stayed in that garden and a Punjabi doctor came to see me. I told him that milk was my only food, but I could not digest that milk very well. I asked him for some medicines that would help me to digest that milk and was slightly relieved with what he gave me. I had become very weak. At night when I went to bed, I felt that I would not be able to get up the next day.
When Dwarik babu came the following day, I told him that I wanted to go to Murree. He told me that there were still no shops and markets at Murree, and I would find it difficult to stay there. But I went on pestering him. So having no other way he arranged for two basket carriages called dulis that would take me to Murree. I went in one duli and my luggage was put in the other one, while the servants went walking. I reached Murree after three days and a lot of hardship.
It was situated at a height of 7,500 feet. The bearers asked me where I wanted to go, and I told them to take me to the place where the sahibs usually landed. They took me to a huge house which was totally deserted and not a single human being was around.
I told them, “Why did you bring me here? Take me to a bungalow where people are staying.”
So, they took me to another bungalow. But the people there told me that it was a club house and not a place for travellers to stay. So, I could not put up there. I told the bearers to take me back to that same uninhabited house where they had taken me at first. They got annoyed and went back there and said that they would not go anywhere else. They placed my duli under a tree in front of that house. Looking up I saw the sky overcast with clouds. Here in the hills, it doesn’t take long for clouds to gather and rain. I was worried and wondered where to go now. I asked the bearers to take me inside and they carried the duli up to the verandah. I got down and inspected the house. There was no one anywhere. I selected a room and again asked the bearers to bring all by bedding from the carriage and spread it out near the wall so that I could sit up and take some rest. They did that and the very next moment quickly disappeared with their dulis.
A little later it started raining. The servants had not reached till then. Through the windowpanes, I could see that a heavy storm was raging outside. The leafless branches of all the big trees were fiercely swaying and big hailstones started hitting the windowpanes as if they would break them, but nothing happened. I kept on thinking that if I arrived here a little late then I would surely have died inside the duli in this severe hailstorm.
After a while the two servants came shivering. With the cold, the rain, and the hailstorm, they were in very bad shape. After wringing their clothes, they came near me. I told Gour Singh to look for a bearer or the caretaker of this hotel and bring him to me.
So he went and got the chowkidar. I asked him to fetch the furniture for the room, but he said he couldn’t do that till he received orders from the master. I threatened him that if he did not bring the furniture out under my orders and if his owner got to know about it, then he would be instantly dismissed from his job. The man got scared and then brought out a charpoi. I spread out my bedding on that cot and lay down. That night Gour Singh brought me a roti and some water. I could neither eat that hard roti nor drink the ice-cold water of Murree. So, I spent the night without any food. In the morning, I sent Gour Singh to fetch some milk and kept on counting the hours until his return.
It was eight o’clock and still there was no sign of Gour Singh. Those eight hours seemed like eight days. At last, he came back at 9 am with some buffalo milk. Upon drinking it, I found it to be diluted with water and tasteless. I could not digest that milk, and nothing remained in my stomach. The milk just passed out as it was. I covered myself with layers of blankets and shawls and went to sleep in the charpoi in that tremendously cold weather.
While I was lying down, I saw a shivering sahib entering my room. I realised how extremely cold it was outside when I found his teeth were chattering. He lit a fire in the next room and because of that I felt a bit comfortable.
The next day Gour Singh brought such diluted buffalo milk once again. I drank it but again the milk went out of my body as it is. Having starved for three nights I felt almost half-dead on the third night. I laid down quite comfortably on the charpoi with all the warm clothes layered upon my body and did not feel any pain. I felt as if someone like my mother was sitting near my head. I was breathing and along with that breath I saw my friend, Sajuja, also looking at me. Breathing in and out in that manner I spent the whole night doing easy yoga and cannot describe how happy I felt.
Soon the night was over, and it was morning. Once again Gour Singh brought that kind of diluted buffalo milk. I drank it. How strange! I digested the milk that day. Since pure milk was unavailable here, I told Gour Singh that it would be nice if he went looking for a cow. So, he went to Rawalpindi and bought a small cow for thirty rupees. He said that she gave ten seers of milk per day. Now milk has become my staple diet.
After drinking that milk my body became a little stronger. I had been staying in Bekereya Hotel from the beginning but now I decided that it was not feasible to continue staying there any longer. So, I went to look for a rented house. I went up the hill in that extremely weak condition and found an empty house. But it was so cold there that I did not find it suitable. A little lower from that point I found another house and liked it. I rented it for nine hundred rupees and started staying there. The next day the postal peon brought me a letter from my nephew Gnanendranath. I opened it with excitement, and he had included a Brahma-sangeet which read thus:
Gao rey tahar naam Rochito jaar visvadhaam. Dayar jaar nahi biram Jharey abitito dhaarey.
[Sing His name/He who has created this world/Whose blessings endless/Falls continuously on earth]
I had already received His blessings to get back my life from the verge of death; the same blessings that were referred to in this song made me feel excited and my heart leaped with joy. This sort of a letter, and at such a time! How strange! How strange!
In this new house I managed to get a cook. He prepared green moong dal for me, and I liked its taste. It was sufficient for my lunch. After a long time, I felt satiated after an afternoon meal. As my health started improving, I gradually began to increase the quantity of my milk consumption. Early in the morning after the upasana was over, they brought the cow in front of me, and I would immediately send a bowl for the cow to be milked before my eyes. The bowl of milk was brought to me; I drank it and sent the bowl back. The cow would then be milked again, and I would once again drink from the bowl. This procedure was repeated several times and after drinking four or five bowls of milk, I would go for a walk in the mountains. Walking in the fresh cool breeze and under the direct rays of the morning sun, I wandered here and there and then came home. Instantly I would have tea, chocolate, and milk. During lunch I would drink milk again, and in the evening, and before going to bed. In this manner, I would drink about ten seers of milk each day and whatever was left over was made into butter to be consumed with rotis the next morning.
Within seven days, I regained my strength and, feeling exuberated started travelling in the mountains. I started singing songs praising the grace of our creator and there was no end to those songs. For a long time, I had been cherishing dreams of visiting Kashmir and it seemed that our creator would now fulfill it. So, I started enquiring about how to go to Kashmir. By the beginning of May, Murree became full of people and the place took a new look with the red uniform of the British soldiers and the fanciful clothes of the other British men and women. Deserting its shabby look, even nature filled up the place with varieties of flowers. After staying in Murree for three months, I heartily began my journey to Kashmir on the 4th of September.
[ Excerpted from Wanderlust: Travels of the Tagore Family. Translated and Edited by Somdatta Mandal. Kolkata: Visva-Bharati, 2014]
[2] Sri Murugesam Mudeliar was the then Commissariat contractor of the military outpost at Moulmein.
[3] The fact was that the man had been banished here. Usually, political prisoners were interned in Moulmein prior to 1848. But after 1848 Port Blair in the Andaman Islands was made the new place for banishment and imprisonment. This narrative is dated 1850.
[4] The local name of this famous cave was Kha-yon-gu, and Farm Cave in English. It was situated in the northeast part of Moulmein town and was approachable through the Ataran River.
Before the bombings, I was not aware That homes, like humans, could get orphaned too. Built by a wealthy merchant's wealthy heir, I've held this ground since 1992.
I've witnessed nicety, hope during pain, Devoutness, goodwill, and pragmatic views In those five souls I roofed, who once sustained Me with dense quicksets, sconces, and bright hues.
They say love's sown with hopes of its return, But I had failed to be a loyal friend That ill-starred night, when swiftly, turn by turn, Those cruel projectiles brought my family's end.
The lattices (my forearms) crumpled first, And then the heavy gambrel roof (my head) Fell on my sleeping members as the burst Of asphalt shingles claimed them on their beds.
But greater is my guilt from treachery; For now, I'm slave to foes, who triumph, shout On my own land, spit at our dignity. Oh, how I strongly wish to drive them out!
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents and works for a local firm. His poems have appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and Westward Quarterly, among others, and some of his poems are forthcoming in Willow Review and Ekstasis, to name a few.
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