Tag: India

Categories
Musings

Just Passing Through

By Farouk Gulsara

During my early days of cycling, as I trained during the early hours before dawn, my greatest fear was not the darkness. Beyond fearing fear itself, the next thing that frightened me was the possibility of a head-to-head encounter with a pack of stray dogs that throng the country roads leading up to Genting Peres, the border between the districts of Hulu Langat in Selangor and Jelebu in Negeri Sembilan. 

The dogs are not from the wild. Some of these ‘man’s best friends’ served as guard dogs for the numerous orchards and homes of indigenous dwellers along the valley. A few packs of dogs must have been abandoned by their owners for various reasons. In Malaysia, a peculiar tradition during the Lunar New Year is to adopt animals based on the celestial animals associated with that year. Dogs, rabbits, and pet roosters are highly sought after until the excitement of the new year diminishes. Afterwards, people often look for ways to discard their pets. Where do you think they end up? Here, at the edge of civilisation. Fortunately, tigers and dragons, which are also animals in the Chinese calendar, cannot be kept as pets for obvious reasons. Imagine abandoning these creatures into the wild after the flavour of the month!

Over time, we occasionally hear of dogs attacking cyclists or cyclists falling off their bikes after being harassed by these canine creatures. The interesting thing about these wild animals is their need for vigilance. Creatures of the wild generally live by the rule of survival. They base their behaviour on constant vigilance. In a universe where ‘might is right’ and the law of the jungle dictates that the winner takes all, a misjudgment could be their last. Their default behaviour is to establish dominance in any given situation. If the opponent appears uncertain, frightened, or even runs away, the animals will try to assert dominance. Conversely, if they seem disinterested or exude confidence, the wild animals will likely just slither away. It is all about exerting dominance, marking territory, and size—these really matter. 

Imagine a child who, after being frightened by the appearance of a stray animal, immediately reacts with fear and runs away. This kind of submissiveness can be easily detected by predators. It is 101 in their survival toolkit. Next comes the attack. The more one bows, the more he will be smacked down. This is the law of the jungle before Earth became civilised, but is it relevant still?

We like to believe that civilisation ushers in less violence. A civil society is meant to resolve conflicts through negotiation and arbitration. The higher one climbs the ladder of education, the less one resorts to swords and machetes to prove one’s point. At least, that is the belief we have been taught. 

We were also told that we are not the sole owners of the planet. We share it with other beings, both human and non-human, to pass it on to the next generation in the pristine condition in which we received it. Every being deserves its place in the Sun.

Someone from my secondary school WhatsApp group recently sent a gruesome video of a toddler being mauled by a stray dog on a busy street. It is unfair to speculate about the events that led to the incident, but suffice it to say, rabies is quite rare in the community, and the dog was quickly captured and probably put down. 

The whole fiasco brought to mind the recent ruling of India’s Supreme Court on stray dogs[1]. After a six-year-old girl died from rabies following an attack by a stray dog in Delhi, society recognised the seriousness of the stray dog problem in India. There are about 15 million stray dogs in that country [2]. The Supreme Court decreed that all strays should be removed from the streets and be vaccinated, neutered, and placed in shelters permanently. 

What followed was a farcical display of comedy. Animal activists were furious, accusing others of cruelty for confining animals in cages. The highest courts reversed their decision and allowed the dogs to be returned as strays after sterilisation and immunisation, as if that would reduce dog attacks. Perhaps if the gonads are removed, they would be less aggressive. 

Many talk shows and YouTubers appeared in the media, debating the issue and trying to find common ground. Some activists may have lost perspective, forgetting that human lives are involved. They personify the stray animals, attributing more importance to them than to children, and prioritise animal rights and freedom. Some animal enthusiasts even link animal aggression to human behaviour. In my books, children and human lives may take precedence over animals. Some conspiracy theorists went so far as to say that PETA [3]and animal sympathisers are foreign agents to discredit India and maintain the Indian demand for rabies vaccines. 

The rising sales of pepper sprays only confirm that we should be more wary of fellow humans than other beings[4]. The increasing avenues for ladies (and men) to call for help in case of domestic or sexual assaults do not speak well of our ‘civil’ society. The ongoing stories about horrific crimes further serve as evidence of these crimes[5]. Leaders whom we elected democratically to protect us are determined to turn the world upside down, aligning with the military-industrial complex. They seek to wage war, not to promote peace. They play the fiddle while their capital goes aflame. They indulge in cakes when the common man has no bread.

We may convince ourselves that we, as a society, have become less violent. As a hunter-gatherer, our lifetime chance of a violent death was close to 15%[6]. In modern times, however, despite years of introspection, aggression still occurs. A growing concern is violence against oneself in the form of suicide, war and genocide against others due to differing ideologies, homicide for self-interest, and killing other animals for recreation. And we call ourselves cultured. Animals only kill for food, territory and mates for the continuity of the species. We do it for recreation during the hunting season, and for a psychopath, it gives him power, control, grandiosity and ecstasy with no remorse[7]. (6)

(P.S. Like how a mafia would walk into the neighbourhood and receive a cursory nod from the town folks, the pack of stray dogs and I have established a working relationship. They do their thing of barking and exerting authority, whilst I simply pass through unceremoniously. It is an understanding between a wandering dog and a cycling dog!)

Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

[1]  https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c5yejnze4p1o

[2] ). https://visionias.in/blog/current-affairs/stray-dogs-management-in-india-balancing-public-safety-with-animal-welfare#:~:

[3] People for Ethical Treatment of Animals

[4] https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/chennai/woman-partner-get-life-in-jail-for-killing-her-kids/articleshow/122888742.cms

[5]  https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-46269794

[6]  https://cliospsyche.org/articles/fuchsman-k-2014-the-complexities-of-being-civilized-clios-psyche-214-256-264

[7] https://leb.fbi.gov/articles/featured-articles/psychopathy-an-important-forensic-concept-for-the-21st-century#:

Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not that of Borderless Journal.

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Categories
Poetry

Two Poems by Stephen Druce

A CATASTROPHIC HABITAT


Nothing works in
my small flat -
it's a catastrophic
habitat,

the key to the flat
won't turn in the door,
the sign says three but
it's really number four,

the letterbox opening's
a millimetre wide -
the doorbell rings 
but only outside,

security was fitted
with the burglar proof -
so the thieves broke in
through the leaking roof,

a fire broke out and
the smoke alarm failed,
the wall fell down when
I pulled the curtain rail,

the power cuts are frequent 
so I'm often in the dark,
the cat can't meow and
the dog can't bark,

the stereo is broken and
the bathroom mirror cracked,
no signal on the wi-fi --
the extractor wont extract,

the microwave blew --
there's a hole in the bin,
the ceiling fell through and
the goldfish can't swim,

the fridge won't close and
the cupboards don't fit --
like my wrong-sized clothes
and the washing line split,

the rocking chair snapped
and I landed on my head,
I bounced into the bedroom
and I broke the waterbed,

the toaster burns the bread
when the settings on low --
the cork's stuck in the bottle
and the plants won't grow,

the vacuum cleaner won't suck --
the light bulbs have popped,
the superglue has never stuck
and all the clocks have stopped,

they undercut the window panes --
they all have two inch gaps,
the gas pipe burst -- I must be cursed --
the building just collapsed.


THEY'LL NEVER KNOW
THE WAY WE FEEL

They'll never know
the way we feel.

they'll know our names
and what we earn --
our capital gains --
our tax return,
and what we're worth --
our height and weight,
our place of birth --
the time and date,
our number flat --
our fixed abode,
our habitat --
our postal code,
our social links --
our network friends,
the way we think --
how much we spend,
our DNA --
the streets we go,
our resume --
the bills we owe,
our hidden scars --
our blood relation,
where we are --
our information,
star sign -- if
our passport's real --
but they'll never know
the way we feel.
From Public Domain

Stephen Philip Druce is based in Shrewsbury UK. He is published in the USA, India, the UK and Canada. He’s written for theatre plays in London and BBC 4 Extra. 

Contact: Instagram – @StephenPhilipDruce

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Categories
Poetry

Expletive by Jyotish Chalil Gopinath

EXPLETIVE

The word arrives in my inbox 
screaming,
steam rising from its sizzling,
alone,
answering
a simple question. 
May I send you a poem?
or simply
May I?

An all-caps no.

You do wield 
your expletives
well.

But I do too.
I reply —
Thank you.

Jyotish Chalil Gopinathan is a nephrologist residing in Kozhikode, India. His poems have been published in several online journals including Muse India, Borderless Journal, Poems India, Madras Courier, The Punch Magazine, Annals of Internal Medicine, Ethos Literary Journal, Plato’s Cave Online, and The Chakkar. In August 2025 Hawakal published his second collection of poems, Almanac of the Sickle Moon.

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Categories
Essay

The Bauls of Bengal

Aruna Chakravarti writes of the Bauls (wandering minstrels) of Bengal and the impact their syncretic thought, music and life had on Tagore

Bauls by Jamini Roy
Baul Singer by Jamini Roy
Paintings by Jamini Roy (1887-1972). From Public Domain

Religious movements such as Bhakti and Sufi have spanned time and territory and entered Bengal, in successive waves, creating a syncretic culture in which music and poetry are amalgamated. One of the forms in which these movements find creative expression is Baul Gaan —the singing of itinerant minstrels.

Universally recognised as foremost among the oralities of Bengal, the Baul Sampradai is a community for whom singing is synonymous with worship. The Baul expounds a philosophy of humanism which rejects religious orthodoxies and stresses human equality irrespective of caste, class, religion and gender. The Baul sets himself on a spiritual journey, lasting a lifetime, towards discovering his moner manush (man within the heart) thereby alienating the notion of seeking the Divine in external forms such as mosques, temples, images and sculptures. Since God is believed to reside within man, the human body is viewed as the site of the ultimate truth –that which encompasses the entire universe. This tenet of Baul philosophy is known as deha tatwabad—the belief that the soul being pure the body that houses it, together with all its functions, is pure and holy.

Concentrated mostly in Kushthia, Shilaidaha and Sajadpur in East Bengal (now Bangladesh) and Murshidabad and Birbhum in West Bengal, the Baul tradition, though drawing elements from Tantra, Shakta and Sahajiya[1], stems from two main sources — Muslim Sufi and Hindu Vaishnav. Hence the simultaneous presence of Hindu and Muslim bauls in the villages of Bengal and great composers from both streams—Lalon Fakir, Duddu Shah, Madan Baul, Gagan Harkara and Fakirchand. Rejecting religious codes such as Shariat and Shastras, caste differences, social conventions and taboos, which they see as barriers to a true union with God, they sing of harmony between man and man. “Temples and mosques obstruct my path,” the Baul sings, “and I can’t hear your voice when teachers and priests crowd around me.”

Refusing to conform to the conventions of religion and caste ridden Bengali society, Bauls (the word is sourced from the middle eastern bawal meaning mad or possessed) are wandering minstrels who sing and dance on their way to an inner vision. Essentially nomadic in nature walking, for them, is a way of life. “No baul should live under the same tree for more than three days” — the saying seems to stem from the Sufi doctrine of walking an endless path (manzil) in quest of the land where the Beloved (the Divine) might be glimpsed. Bauls live on alms which people give readily. In return the Baul sings strumming his ektara[2] with dancing movements. The songs are rich with symbolism, on the one hand, and full of ready wit and rustic humour on the other. The Baul rails against the hypocrisy of religion and caste and takes sharp digs at the clergy but totally without rancour.

Many of the composite forms found in an older culture of Bengal have become sadly obscured in the present scenario of identity politics. But the one that has not only survived but is gaining in recognition day by day, is the Baul tradition. This is, in no small measure, owing to the intervention and interest taken by Rabindranath Tagore. In his Religion of Man Rabindranath tells us that, being the son of the founder of the Adi Brahmo Samaj, he had followed a monotheistic ideal from childhood but, on gaining maturity, had sensed within himself a disconnect from the organised belief he had inherited. Gradually the feeling that he was using a mask to hide the fact that he had mentally severed his connection with the Brahmo Samaj began tormenting him. And while in this frame of mind, travelling through the family estates in rural Bengal, he heard a Baul sing. The singer was a postal runner by the name of Gagan Harkara and the song was “Ami kothai paabo tare/ amaar moner manush je re[3].”

“What struck me in this simple song,” Rabindranath goes on to say, “was a religious expression that was neither grossly concrete, full of crude details, nor metaphysical in its rarefied transcendentalism… Since then, I’ve often tried to meet these people and sought to understand them through their songs which are their only form of worship.” In his Preface to Haramoni[4], Rabindranath makes another reference to this song. Quoting some lines from the Upanishads—   Know him whom you need to know/ else suffer the pangs of death— he goes on to say, “What I heard from the mouth of a peasant in rustic language and a primary tune was the same. I heard, in his voice, the loss and bewilderment of a child separated from its mother. The Upanishads speak of the one who dwells deep within the heart antartama hridayatma[5]and the Baul sings of the moner manush. They seem to me to be one and the same and the thought fills me with wonder.”

A Portrait of Lalon Fakir sketched by Jyotindranath Tagore(1849-1925)

Lalon Fakir’s commune was located in the village of Chheurhia which fell within Rabindranath’s father’s estates. Though there is no authentic record of a meeting between the two, it is a fact that the poet was the first to recognise Lalon’s merit which had the quality of a rough diamond. His inspiration was powerful and spontaneous but, lacking in clarity of expression, lay buried in obscurity till Rabindranath brought it out into the open. Publishing some of the songs in some of the major journals of the time, Rabindranath took them to the doors of the educated elite. Not only that. They gained in popularity from the fact that he, himself, often used Baul thought and melody in his own work. “In some songs,” he tells us in his Manush er Dharma[6], “the primary tunes got mixed up with other raags – raaginis which prove that the Baul idiom entered my sub conscious fairly early in life. The man of my heart, moner manush, is the true Devata[7]. To the extent that I’m honest and true to my knowledge, action and thought — to that extent will I find the man of my heart. When there is distortion within, I lose sight of him. Man’s tendency is to look two ways — within and without. When we seek him without — in wealth, fame and self- gratification — we lose him within.”

But it wasn’t only in his compositions that Rabindranath disseminated Baul ideology. It went deeper than that. The primitive simplicity and freedom of Baul thought and living charmed him so completely that he started imbibing them in his own lifestyle. He grew his hair long, kept a flowing beard and wore loose robes. He created Baul like characters in his plays and dance dramas and enacted the roles himself. And, as he grew older, a restlessness; an inability to stay in one place took hold of him. Leaving the ancestral mansion of Jorasanko he relocated to Santiniketan but even there he could not stay in the same house for more than two months. In the last two and half decades of his life, a tremendous wanderlust seized him. He travelled extensively both within the country and without, earning for himself the sobriquet of ‘roving ambassador for India’.

Perhaps, the most powerful testimony of the evolution of Rabindranath from a princely scion of the Tagores of Jorasanko to the man he finally became is found in Abanindranath’s portrait of his uncle. It depicts an old man with flowing white locks and beard, wearing a loose robe and holding an ektara high above his head. The limbs are fluid in an ecstatic dance movement. It is a significant fact that the painting is titled Robi Baul.

Robi Baul (1916): Painting by Abanindranath Tagore (1871-1951). From Public Domain

[1] Different schools of philosophy and religion. The Sahajiya is a philosophy that embrace nature and the natural way of life.

[2] String instrument

[3] Translates from Bengali to: “Where will I find Him — He who dwells within my heart”

[4] The Haramoni (Lost Jewels) is 13-volume collection of Baul songs compiled by Mansooruddin to which Tagore wrote the preface for the first volume published in 1931

[5] Translates to ‘innermost part of the heart and soul’

[6] Collection of Lectures by Tagore in Bengali, published in 1932

[7] Translates to “God’

Aruna Chakravarti has been the principal of a prestigious women’s college of Delhi University for ten years. She is also a well-known academic, creative writer and translator. Her novels, Jorasanko, Daughters of Jorasanko, The Inheritors, Suralakshmi Villa and The Mendicant Prince have sold widely and received rave reviews. She has two collections of short stories and many translations, the latest being Rising from the Dust. She has also received awards such as the Vaitalik Award, Sahitya Akademi Award and Sarat Puraskar for her translations.

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Categories
Poetry

Sunset at the Beach

By Joseph K. Wells

A fresh slice 
of orange exploding 
at the brim.
I slurp up
every little drop,
without a break,
without a blink.
Overwhelmingly
quenched
yet still parched,
every thought
so distinct,
yet dissolved 
into one drink.
Every cell
so intoxicated,
yet so sobered,
exhilarated
yet so numb,
so incoherent,
yet as never before
have they been
so much in sync.

I drink up
the concoction
by this brilliant mixologist,
yet to us all unknown,
overflowing
the fragile walls
of this life
as for now to us known.

Joseph K. Wells is an American poet and healthcare executive, originally from India. Since 2016, his poems have found a home in over two dozen journals and lit mags internationally. A selection of his published works is available at https://paperonweb.wordpress.com/ .

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Categories
Review

Boats in a Storm: Migrant Narratives

Book Review by Bhaskar Parichha

Title: Boats in a Storm: Law, Migration, and Decolonization in South and Southeast Asia, 1942–1962

Author: Kalyani Ramnath

Publisher: Westland/Context

The legal frameworks established during the period from 1942 to 1962 in South and Southeast Asia played a crucial role in shaping migration patterns and influencing decolonisation processes. This era witnessed significant changes as countries in these regions sought to redefine their legal systems in the wake of colonial rule, which in turn affected the movement of people across borders.

Migration patterns were influenced by various factors, including the aftermath of World War II, the struggle for independence, and the establishment of new national identities. Additionally, the decolonisation processes during this time were marked by the emergence of new legal frameworks that aimed to address the complexities of post-colonial governance and the rights of migrants. Understanding the interplay between these legal frameworks, migration trends, and decolonisation efforts provides valuable insights into the socio-political landscape of South and Southeast Asia during this transformative period.

Boats in a Storm: Law, Migration, and Decolonization in South and Southeast Asia, 1942–1962  authored by Kalyani Ramnath is a thoroughly researched work. This book is  part of the series South Asia in Motion and was originally published by Stanford University. Ramnath serves as an Assistant Professor of History at the University of Georgia and has conducted extensive research on migration.

Says the blurb: “For more than a century before World War II, traders, merchants, financiers, and laborers steadily moved between places on the Indian Ocean, trading goods, supplying credit, and seeking work. This all changed with the war and as India, Burma, Ceylon, and Malaya wrested independence from the British empire.”

This captivating book is set against the backdrop of the tumultuous post-war period. It delves deeply into the legal struggles encountered by migrants who are determined to maintain their traditional ways of life and cultural practices. The narrative highlights their experiences with citizenship and the broader process of decolonisation. Even as new frameworks of citizenship emerged and the political landscapes of decolonisation created complexities that often obscured the migrations between South and Southeast Asia, these migrants consistently shared their cross-border histories during their engagements with the legal system.

These narratives, often obscured by both domestic and global political developments, contest the notion that stable national identities and loyalties emerged fully formed and free from the influences of migration histories after the fall of empires.

In her book, Kalyani Ramnath draws on archival materials from India, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, London, and Singapore to illustrate how former migrants faced legal challenges in their efforts to reinstate the prewar movement of credit, capital, and labour. The book is  set against the  backdrop of a climate marked by rising ethno-nationalism, which scapegoated migrants for taking away jobs from citizens and monopolising land.

Ramnath fundamentally illustrates in the book that the process of decolonisation was marked not just by the remnants of collapsed empires and the establishment of nation-states emerging from the debris of imperial breakdown. It also encompasses the often-ignored stories of wartime displacements, the unexpected consequences that arose from these events, and the lasting impacts they have had on societies.

This perspective highlights the complex and multifaceted process of decolonisation, demonstrating how it was shaped not only by significant political transformations but also by the personal narratives and experiences of individuals who faced the challenges of conflict and displacement.

An excellent book to read!
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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, 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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Categories
Review

Thorns in My Quilt

Book Review by Rakhi Dalal

Title: Thorns in My Quilt: Letters from a Daughter to her Father

Author: Mohua Chinappa

Publisher: Rupa Publications

Mohua Chinappa’s Thorns in My Quilt: Letters from a Daughter to Her Father is a quiet and visceral exploration of memory, grief, and the often-fraught space between love and silence. Drafted in the form of a collection of letters to her late father, the book is less about resolution than about reckoning – more an attempt to articulate what remained unsaid while he was alive. Chinappa, through this profoundly personal lens, not only offers a portrait of a relationship but also a reflection on absence, yearning, and the emotional inheritance that we all carry forward sometimes.

Mohua Chinappa is an author, a columnist, a renowned podcaster in India, a TEDx speaker, a former journalist and a corporate communications specialist. Her other initiative—NARI: The Homemakers Community—provides a platform for homemakers to voice their everyday challenges.

The letters in this book, seamlessly weave together fragments of childhood and adulthood, moving fluidly between time and place. One moment, Manu the daughter, beckons the warmth of her early years in Shillong — vanilla flavoured butter cookies and the hush of rain-soaked afternoons, then the shelter of a harsingar[1] tree in their government house in Delhi, while in the next, she confronts the frailty of her marriage, the weight of her Baba’s illness, or the sting of words that sometimes remained unsaid. The form of writing echoes the workings of memory. Not linear, but recursive, continually turning back to moments that remain unresolved. Each letter seems like an appliqué sewn into the fabric of remembrance, creating a quilt with seams held together by both tenderness and pain.

At the centre of the book is the paradoxical figure of her Baba, portrayed with candour as a man who is loving yet aloof, erudite yet impractical and admired yet sometimes resented. Manu longs for his approval but also grapples with the ways his criticism and aloofness diminishes her. The letters vacillate from affection to accusation and from gratitude to grievance. In the acceptance of these contradictions, there seems a resistance to recall the memory of a father in an idealised tone. Instead, Chinappa manages to present a figure whose complexity remains inseparable from her own. The portrait revealed, thus, appears all the more moving.

The narrative also reverberates with a strong theme of displacement. The family’s history of migration, the shifts between Shillong, Delhi, and Bengaluru, create a sense of being both rooted and uprooted at once. Places do not act merely as backdrops but are living repositories of memory, holding within them the sweetness of belonging and the ache of estrangement. This sense of dislocation extends inward in the narrative. Chinappa captures not only her alienation from her father but also the broader struggle of carving an identity in a world shaped by expectation and silence.

The language of the narrative is lucid, and doesn’t tip into ornamentation. Everyday details—trees, rain, food, household objects—become charged with metaphorical weight, carrying emotional resonance far beyond their surface. The letters are suffused with sensory detail, grounding the reader in the textures of lived experience while also opening space for reflection. The writing exercises restraint. Even at its most poignant, it doesn’t spill into melodrama.

The emotional honesty of the book is equally striking. Manu does not shy away from confessing anger or disappointment; nor does she smooth over her father’s failings in the name of filial devotion. She admits to her vulnerabilities—the yearning for acceptance, the bitterness of abandonment, the pain of reinvention when life’s foundations collapse. These allow the readers to relate with the story. Though the particulars may differ, but the longing for parental approval, the hurt of unspoken words, and the struggle to reconcile love with resentment are universal.

However, some constraints in the narrative cannot be overlooked. The epistolary form, while effective in evoking intimacy, also narrows the perspective. Baba appears only through Manu’s voice, his presence mediated entirely by her memories and emotions. At some places, the narrative shifts abruptly, from addressing second person (father) to third which makes the reading a bit disconcerting. At times, the absence of other perspectives leaves the figure of father more shadow than substance, defined by what he was to her rather than who he was in himself. The letters also occasionally return to the same emotional terrain, circling around familiar grievances and sorrows. While this mirrors the looping nature of grief, the repetition creates a sense of exhaustion.

These reservations, however, do not diminish the book’s overall appeal. Its power lies not in neatness but in its willingness to dwell in ambiguity. It does not offer easy closure, nor does it attempt to tidy grief into a narrative of redemption. Instead, it embraces complexity, acknowledging that love is rarely unblemished, that absence can wound as much as presence, and that the act of writing itself can become a form of survival.

Thorns in My Quilt resonates because it is both deeply particular and quietly universal. While grounded in Chinappa’s personal history, it speaks to the wider human experience of fractured relationships, cultural displacement, and the longing to be heard. In cataloguing both the thorns and the blossoms of her bond with her Baba, Chinappa creates a testament that is as much about resilience as it is about grief.

[1] harsingar: Night Jasmine

Rakhi Dalal is an educator by profession. When not working, she can usually be found reading books or writing about reading them. She writes at https://rakhidalal.blogspot.com/ .

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Categories
Review

‘…Water is achromatic and otherwise called life…’

Book Review by Pradip Mondal

Title: Selected Poems

Author: Kiriti Sengupta

Publisher: Transcendent Zero Press (Texas)

Sir Philip Sidney, in his An Apology for Poetry, argues that the primary purpose of poetry is to “teach” and “delight”. Kiriti’s Sengupta’s Selected Poems serves both purposes though the poems do not preach at any point but leave the readers mulling over the ideas with the play of words. The book contains more than 125 poems, selected by Dustin Pickering, a writer and the founding editor of Transcedent Zero Press. The content covers an eclectic range of subjects—from personal musings to ecology, memory to myths and more — mostly republications from his earlier collections and some from journals.

An award-winning poet, publisher, editor, translator and critic, Sengupta believes himself twice-born as he states in his poem of the same name — ‘Twice Born’, written specially for this collection.  He has embraced the calling of a poet, forsaking the lucrative profession of a doctor. It’s not that he doesn’t vacillate: “The ink has dried on the paper; the pot can’t be refilled with scribbles. Do I now surrender my pen?” But poetry is his vocation; it would sound ludicrous if someone could ask a noted poet, “What if you weren’t a poet?”(“Intrinsic’)

There is a sense of flow in the poems despite his stylistic terseness. Water permeates his poetry. The poet believes: “…water is achromatic and otherwise called life.” As the poet is a deep observer of nature and its surroundings, he observes that water carries out its own duty: “Water has no call, no décor either; it floats the bone and/ the ash free.” In ‘Evening in Varanasi’, the poet assigns the water of the Ganges with exceptional qualities: “The water here is not/a fire extinguisher. /Flames rise through the water.” He connects the water to the Sun: “O Sun, I remember/I’ve bathed your feet/with the water of the Ganges”. ‘River of Tears and Mother’ airs the deep concern about the recalcitrance of those who ignore ecological issues: “Ganga has her stories to tell;/wish she had someone to listen to her.”

Ecological strains seep through Sengupta’s poems. In ‘The Pillars of Soil’, he draws a fine connection between human beings and trees through the image of the roots. The poet invokes a supreme spirit: “the world would need another maestro/who could sing for the seasoned flesh—/those who walked the earth—/whose roots ran deep into the ground”. In ‘Hibiscus’, he evocatively draws a curious connection between the colour of hibiscus flower and human blood: “…I’ll bloom/like a hibiscus:/the blush will endorse/my bloodline.” The epigraph of the poem, translated by Sengupta from a poem by the noted ‘rebellious’ Bengali poet, Sukanta Bhattacharya, re-enforces his stance.  

Concern for extreme air pollution in cities yields sardonic poetry: “Nature made the nasal frame fragile. /How do they breathe the vain air?” He also highlights pollution caused by plastics: “The earth has grown plastic. Water takes eons to seep”.

Some of Sengupta’s poems convey a sense of domesticity. “Clarity”deals with gastronomy as the poet succinctly invites the reader to succor ghee with all their five senses. In this piece, the poet reminisces about the aroma of ghee that his mother used to prepare. The poet here compares his mother’s organic ghee with his organic memory: “So organic is my memory—/the granular residue lifted us to heaven. /Ah! Pious Ghee, and incorrigible.”

In poems such as ‘Experience Personified’, the poet records his experience of the commonplace things: “Tiny droplets envelop my feet/and permeate the toes. /I don’t call it a feeling, I will name it/my experience”. It reminds a me of lines by Tagore: “But I haven’t beholden/what lies two steps away from my home/on a blade of paddy grain, a dazzling drop of dew”. Sengupta also doesn’t shy away from the recent happenings in India. In ‘The Untold Saga’, the poet recalls the abominable “Nirbhaya episode” and rues that, unlike Durga, Nirbhaya could not create an epic due to her untimely death.

The poet turns metaphysical – almost like John Donne[1]— when he asserts, “I now look beyond the flesh, bone and keratin, /I’ve been told/the finer body dwells undressed.” Though most of the poems are contemplative, the book offers some light-hearted ones too: “To my complete bewilderment, if the ghost appears, I’ve decided to offer it a chair first, and then I’ll plead, ‘Take a seat and relax! Let us share our stories.’” In ‘Gravity’, the poet offers a lighter note for the turbulence caused in the aircraft due to the inclement weather. He gives solace to his terrified son: “Relax, Bumps help us/ realize the earth.” In a haiku, punning on the word ‘wisdom’, the poet realises that it’s a test of a surgeon’s wisdom to pluck out a wisdom tooth (biologically called ‘the third molar’) of a patient.

Sengupta’s Selected Poems is a fabulous collection. These poems are like chosen seeds that contain intrinsic vigour to sprout through the age-old concrete floor, giving a message of hope in the face of all odds. Sengupta’s penetrating observations, coupled with his poetic prowess, can be vividly experienced by delving into the rich treasures hidden in between the covers.

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[1] John Donne (1572-1631), Metaphysical poet

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Pradip Mondal teaches at L. B. S. Govt. P. G. College Halduchaur, Nainital (India). He has been published in journals like Suburban Witchcraft (Serbia), Muse India (India), and Indi@logs (Spain).

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Categories
Poetry

…The Last Blossoms Of Warm Sunlight…

Title: A Verdant Heart

Author: Prithvijeet Sinha

Publisher: Bookleaf Publishing

AN EVENING
(In the Countryside)

The dusk
has run away
from dark orphanages. 

Families of 'saal'
cover the forest
with abundance 
just like the river's 
bouyant currents 
guide the Grand Boat
ahead.

The last blossoms 
of warm sunlight 
emerge from among 
those trees 
and now 
circumambulate
the farmlands.

***

Oh
medicine-takers!

Come here!
The winds are not fidgety here.
Greet them unhesitantly. 

***

Gather around here.

The tasteful smell 
of curries coming 
from the maternal homestead 
has turned this evening 
into a dominion 
of delectable flavours. 

Tell sleep 
to resist. 

On your feathery shirt
hung on the clothesline,
something intangible occurs. 
Watch
how the moonlight 
sews its torn parts. 

Those particles 
filled with voluminous light
will now dispatch 
a night's worth of beauty 
for the days to come.

YAARA*

As the alumni sneer,
we revisit
the green
mausoleum 
for the second time
today.

A pup
on our trail,
giving curls 
of sound
and rearing
his curiosity 
at the edge of our
hips. 
He has no
problem with
making new friends. 

He isn't born of scandal 
or frenzy. 
Which is why 
he sits like a monk
and watches us 
place 
a ring of 
flowers
on the mausoleum's
palms. 

   ***

Somebody loved 
the one
who came
with the sun. 

Someone too 
put flowers 
in the name
of a beloved
here. 

Someone 
once 
let another
little pup
from this bygone land
trail them
because he
understood 
the meaning of love. 

Today,
it's what we 
understand. 

The little pup
sits at the mausoleum's gate
and
shakes his tail. 
We call him
Yaara. 

Our day 
starts here. 

*Yaara means friend in colloquial Hindi

I'VE GIVEN PEACE A CHANCE 

The vast interiors of 
my beloved cat's eyes,
yellow and green
the soundwaves of her
love song
and the primary softness
of her body
 beget
time,
stilled to a superior 
attachment to the little hours 
where she adjusts 
her gaze
with an unaccustomed 
earth. 

The chances of her surviving this world 
are greater
on an everyday basis. 
The holdovers 
of rage and diffidence 
are like indistinct clouds 
that pass in the sky
before her wide eyes.

I had never known 
such stillness 
in my life. 
I had never known 
the comfort
and balance 
of a creature 
who lets
indivisible days
and the lazy 
minutes after two o'clock 
become like marmalade 
spread out in an 
open jar,
liable to be tasted
and profoundly savoured. 

***

I've given peace a chance
without accusing myself
of being distanced from her. 
She now guides me to sleep,
placing her paws on my chest 
and breathing with me.

Because of her,
an unaccustomed earth 
has finally begun to 
share its mysteries 
of comfort, rest 
and acceptance 
 with me.

BRANCHES 

The branches were taut as an arrow
 or directly ploughing the air with arms shaped like pitchforks.
They could never envision 
the violence of our world. 

In a farm next to this foliage
tailored by someone with superb skills, 
bearing a village's heartland and the phonetics of air,
were a farmer and his cows.
They were singing, without 
words,
the last notes
of an agrarian song.

***

No animals rustled.
But three teenage lads 
took care at this time
of the evening.
They asked me my name.

One of them
gave me a good smile.
He was the countryside's
rising sun.
He said the river 
was just an ordinary string of water now.

The call for prayer came 
when he put his arms
around his friends' shoulders. 

Shoulder to shoulder 
they walked 
but the river didn't end.
Similarly,
that evening of amity 
and fulfillment 
didn't end for them.
All evenings 
are theirs 
for this devotion 
to each other.

The branches sway.
Moths dance 
unabashedly around them
and little mosquitoes hum like theremins.
Long may this countryside live
with them
and the three lads.

About the Book: A Verdant Heart is a collection of soul-songs that captures Nature in its full diversity of expressions and experiences, tilting its omnipotence on diurnal human lives. It is a labour of love and a poignant reflection on the poetic lens that allows mortal beings the freedom to observe and commit to creativity.

About the Author: Prithvijeet Sinha, a resident of the cultural epicenter that is Lucknow, India. His prolific published credits encompass poetry, musings on the city, cinema, anthologies, journals with national and international repertoires as well as a blog ( https://anawadhboyspanorama.wordpress.com/). His life-force resides in writing, in the art of self-expression.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Categories
Editorial

Storms that Rage

Storm in purple by Arina Tcherem. From Public Domain

If we take a look at our civilisation, there are multiple kinds of storms that threaten to annihilate our way of life and our own existence as we know it. The Earth and the human world face twin threats presented by climate change and wars. While on screen, we watch Gaza and Ukraine being sharded out of life by human-made conflicts over constructs made by our own ‘civilisations’, we also see many of the cities and humankind ravaged by floods, fires, rising sea levels and global warming. Along with that come divides created by economics and technology. Many of these themes reverberate in this month’s issue.

From South Australia, Meredith Stephens writes of marine life dying due to algal growth caused by rising water temperatures in the oceans — impact of global warming. She has even seen a dead dolphin and a variety of fishes swept up on the beach, victims of the toxins that make the ocean unfriendly for current marine life. One wonders how much we will be impacted by such changes! And then there is technology and the chatbot taking over normal human interactions as described by Farouk Gulsara. Is that good for us? If we perhaps stop letting technology take over lives as Gulsara and Jun A. Alindogan have contended, it might help us interact to find indigenous solutions, which could impact the larger framework of our planet. Alindogan has also pointed out the technological divide in Philippines, where some areas get intermittent or no electricity. And that is a truth worldwide — lack of basic resources and this technological divide.

On the affluent side of such divides are moving to a new planet, discussions on immortality — Amortals[1] by Harari’s definition, life and death by euthanasia. Ratnottama Sengupta brings to us a discussion on death by choice — a privilege of the wealthy who pay to die painlessly. The discussion on whether people can afford to live or die by choice lies on the side of the divide where basic needs are not an issue, where homes have not been destroyed by bombs and where starvation is a myth, where climate change is not wrecking villages with cloudbursts.  In Kashmir, we can find a world where many issues exist and violences are a way of life. In the midst of such darkness, a bit of kindness and more human interactions as described by Gower Bhat in ‘The Man from Pulwama’ goes some way in alleviating suffering. Perhaps, we can take a page of the life of such a man. In the middle of all the raging storms, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in a bit of humour or rather irony with his strange piece on his penchant for syrups, a little island removed from conflicts which seem to rage through this edition though it does raise concerns that affect our well-being.

The focus of our essays pause on women writers too. Meenakshi Malhotra ponders on Manottama (1868), the first woman-authored novel in Bengali translated by Somdatta Mandal whereas Bhaskar Parichha writes on the first feminist Odia poet, Bidyut Prabha Devi.

Parichha has also reviewed a book by another contemporary Odia woman author, Snehaprava Das. The collection of short stories is called Keep it Secret. Madhuri Kankipati has discussed O Jungio’s The Kite of Farewells: Stories from Nagaland and Somdatta Mandal has written about Chhimi Tenduf-La’s A Hiding to Nothing, a novel by a global Tibetan living in Sri Lanka with the narrative between various countries. We have an interview with a global nomad too, Neeman Sobhan, who finds words help her override borders. In her musing on Ostia Antica, a historic seaside outside Rome, Sobhan mentions how the town was abandoned because of the onset of anopheles mosquitos. Will our cities also get impacted in similar ways because of the onset of global ravages induced by climate change? This musing can be found as a book excerpt from Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome, her book on her life as a global nomad. The other book excerpt is by a well-known writer who has also lived far from where he was born, MA Aldrich. His book, From Rasa to Lhasa: The Sacred Center of the Mandala is said to be “A sweeping, magnificent biography—which combines historical research, travel-writing and discussion of religion and everyday culture—Old Lhasa is the most comprehensive account of the fabled city ever written in English.”

With that, we come to our fiction section. This time we truly have stories from around the globe with Suzanne Kamata sending a story set in the Bon festival that’s being celebrated in Japan this week for her column. From there, we move to Taiwan with C. J. Anderson-Wu’s narrative reflecting disappearances during the White Terror (1947-1987), a frightening period for people stretched across almost four decades.  Gigi Gosnell writes of the horrific abuse faced by a young Filipino girl as the mother works as a domestic helper in Dubai. Paul Mirabile gives us a cross-cultural narrative about a British who opts to become a dervish. While Hema R touches on women’s issues from within India, Sahitya Akademi Award Winner, Naramsetti Umamaheshwararao, writes a story about children.

We have a powerful Punjabi story by Ajit Cour translated by C.Christine Fair. Our translations host two contemporary poets who have rendered their own poems to English: Angshuman Kar, from Bengali and Ihlwha Choi, from Korean. Snehaprava Das has brought to us poetry from Odia by Aparna Mohanty. Fazal Baloch has translated ‘The Scarecrow’, a powerful Balochi poem by Anwar Sahib Khan. While Tagore’s Shaishabshandha (Childhood’s Dusk) has been rendered to English, Nazrul’s song questing for hope across ages has been brought to us by Professor Fakrul Alam.

Professor Alam has surprised us with his own poem too this time. In August’s poetry selection, Ron Pickett again addresses issues around climate change as does Meetu Mishra about rising temperatures. We have variety and colour brought in by George Freek, Heath Brougher, Laila Brahmbhatt, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snigdha Agrawal, William Miller, Ashok Suri, Scott Thomas Outlar, Dustin P Brown, and Ryan Quinn Flanagan. Rajorshi Patranabis weaves Wiccan lore of light and dark, death and life into his delicately poised poetry. Rhys Hughes has also dwelt on life and death in this issue. He has shared poems on Wales, where he grew up— beautiful gentle lines.

 In spring warm rain will crack
the seeds of life: tangled
roots will grow free again. 

('Tinkinswood Burial Chamber' by Rhys Hughes)

With such hope growing out of a neolithic burial chamber, maybe there is hope for life to survive despite all the bleakness we see around us. Maybe, with a touch of magic and a sprinkle of realism – our sense of hope, faith and our ability to adapt to changes, we will survive for yet another millennia.

We wind up our content for the August issue with the eternal bait for our species — hope. Huge thanks to the fantastic team at Borderless and to all our wonderful writers. Truly grateful to Sohana Manzoor for her artwork and many thanks to all our wonderful readers for their time…

We wish you all a wonderful reading experience!

Gratefully,

Mitali Chakravarty.

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow (2015) by Yuval Noah Harari

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Click  here to access the contents for the August 2025 Issue

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