Tag: India

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Review

Colonisation in the Global Frame

Book Review by Bhaskar Parichha

Title: Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India: A Saga of Monstrous British Barbarianism around the Globe

Author: Rakesh Dwivedi

Publisher: Rupa Publications

Rakesh Dwivedi’s Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India is an unflinching indictment of British imperialism and a forceful challenge to the long-standing narrative of colonialism as a “civilizing mission”. Written with the precision of a seasoned constitutional lawyer and the moral urgency of a historian disturbed by selective memory, the book seeks to dismantle the myths surrounding the British Empire while situating India’s freedom struggle within a wider global context of colonial violence.

At its core, the book argues that British rule in India was not an aberration of excesses but a carefully structured system of exploitation sustained by economic plunder, engineered famines, racial hierarchies, and institutionalised violence. Dwivedi rejects euphemisms such as “benevolent administration” or “rule of law,” insisting instead on naming colonialism for what it was: a barbaric enterprise masked by moral rhetoric. In doing so, he aligns himself with a growing body of postcolonial scholarship that seeks to recover suppressed histories of suffering and resistance.

One of the book’s notable strengths is its global frame. Dwivedi does not treat India in isolation but links the subcontinent’s experience to British imperial conduct in America, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. By drawing parallels between policies of extraction, demographic manipulation, and divide-and-rule strategies across continents, he underscores the systemic nature of empire. This comparative approach lends weight to his claim that colonial brutality was not incidental but intrinsic to imperial governance.

The chapters dealing with famines, wartime exploitation, and economic drain are particularly compelling. Using archival material, parliamentary debates, and secret British records, Dwivedi exposes how starvation and deprivation were often outcomes of deliberate policy choices rather than natural calamities. His discussion of India’s role during the World Wars—both as a resource base and as expendable manpower—adds a crucial geopolitical dimension to the freedom struggle, reminding readers that independence was shaped as much by global power shifts as by internal resistance.

Dwivedi’s legal background is evident in his methodical narrative. He builds his case like a prosecution brief—marshalling evidence, anticipating counter-arguments, and dismantling colonial apologetics with forensic rigor. This gives the book a distinctive voice, though at times the prosecutorial tone may feel relentless. Readers looking for narrative subtlety or emotional restraint may find the language uncompromising, even polemical. Yet this stylistic choice appears deliberate: the book is less concerned with balance than with moral clarity.

The treatment of Partition is another significant aspect. Dwivedi views it not merely as a tragic inevitability but as a consequence of imperial betrayal and strategic manipulation. His critique of British exit policies challenges sanitized accounts of decolonisation and raises uncomfortable questions about responsibility, culpability, and historical accountability.

That said, the book’s sweeping scope occasionally works against it. The ambition to cover centuries of imperial history across multiple regions can lead to dense passages that demand close attention. Some readers may also wish for greater engagement with alternative historiographical perspectives. However, these limitations do not diminish the book’s central achievement: forcing a re-examination of colonial history stripped of nostalgia and imperial self-congratulation.

Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India is not a neutral history—it is a corrective one. It speaks directly to contemporary debates about historical memory, reparations, and the politics of remembrance. In an age when empire is often romanticised in popular culture and public discourse, Dwivedi’s work serves as a necessary provocation.

This book will resonate most with readers interested in colonial studies, Indian history, geopolitics, and the ethics of empire. Whether one agrees with all of Dwivedi’s conclusions or not, his argument compels engagement. It stands as a powerful reminder that freedom was not gifted to India—it was wrested from an empire whose legacy must be confronted, not softened.

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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
Essay

The Last of the Barbers: How the Saloon Became the Salon (and Where the Gossip Went)

By Charudutta Panigrahi

If language were a haircut, “saloon” got a buzz cut and a blow-dry and came out as “salon.” That change in spelling is the visible tip of a larger style transformation: one rough, male-only ritual space has been trimmed, straightened, scented and repackaged into a gleaming, multi-service, mostly woman-centred retail experience. Along the way, the loud, fragrant, argument-heavy mini-parliaments of small-town India — the saloons — have been politely ushered into warranties, playlists and polite small talk.

Barbers in India are almost as old as conversation itself. The profession of the barber — the nai or hajam — is embedded in pre-colonial life: scalp massage (champi), shaves, tonsure at rites of passage, and quick fixes between chores. These services were usually delivered in open-fronted shops or under trees, with tools that were portable and livelihoods that were local.

The “saloon” as a distinctive, Western-flavoured, male gathering place began to consolidate during the 19th and early 20th centuries. Port cities and colonial cantonments — Bombay (Mumbai), Calcutta (Kolkata), Madras (Chennai) — saw the rise of dedicated shops selling not only shaves and haircuts but also imported tonics, straight razors and a distinctly public atmosphere shaped by newspaper reading, debate and gossip. Over time, that form blended with older local practices and spread inland. By the mid-20th century, the saloon — a recognisable, chair-lined, mirror-fronted social stage — existed in towns from Kashmir to Kanyakumari and from Gujarat’s chawls to Assam’s market roads.

So ancient barbering traditions fed into a colonial-era intensification of the barbershop as public forum; by the 1950s–70s, the saloon as we remember it was firmly a part of India’s social furniture. The precise start date is a quilt of custom and commerce rather than a single founding ceremony — and that is part of the saloon’s charm.

Walk into a saloon in Nagpur, Nellore, Shillong or Surat and you’ll notice an uncanny resemblance. The reasons are simple and human:

  • Low price point: Saloons survive on quick volumes and walk-ins. That encourages many chairs, fast turnover, and layouts that invite waiting men to talk rather than sit quietly.
  • Ritual services: Shave, cut, champi. These are short encounters that thread customers through the same communal space repeatedly — ideal for gossip to collect and ferment.
  • Social role: The barber doubles as ear, counsellor, news-disseminator and crossword referee. That role is culturally consistent across regions: a saloon’s psychic geography is the same whether the tea is masala or lemon.

The result is that a saloon in Kutch and a saloon in Kerala will differ in language, politics and local jokes — but both will produce that same satisfying racket of opinion, repartee and advice. They are India’s unofficial, peripatetic fora for public life.

Enter the salon: padded seats, curated playlists, appointment-booking and a menu so long it reads like a restaurant wine list (colour, rebonding, keratin, facials, pedicures, threading, and sometimes a minor festival of LED lights). A couple of business realities did most of the heavy lifting:

  • Women’s services earn more and recur more often. Regular facials, hair treatments and beauty routines translate into steadier, higher bills. The money follows the customer, and the space follows the money.
  • Franchising and professional training created standardized staff who follow brand scripts — which tighten conversation and reduce the barber-confessor vibe.
  • Unisex salons consolidated footfall, but that consolidation shrank male-only territory. Men who once had a semi-public living room now sit in chic, quieter spaces that discourage loud, extended debate.

The practical upshot: the saloon’s boisterous mini-parliaments were replaced by stylists with laminated menus, muted background music and an etiquette that favours privacy over political salvoes.

What we miss (and what we gained)

We miss the moralisers, the wisecracks, the boisterous consultancy of unpaid experts who knew which councillor was friendly with which shopkeeper and which wedding was scandalous; the loud education in rhetoric and local affairs; the bench-seat apprenticeship in how to perform masculinity in public.

We gain in expanded choices for women, more professional hygiene and techniques, new livelihoods for trained stylists (especially women), and spaces where people can pursue personalised care without the social cost that used to attend public rituals.

It’s not a zero-sum game — but it does reorder who feels proprietorial about public grooming spaces. The new economics say: she who pays more — and pays more often — gets the say.

Not all saloons are extinct. In smaller towns they still hum. In cities, they’ve evolved into hybrid forms:

  • Old-school saloons persist where price sensitivity and cultural habit remain strong: walk-ins, communal benches, loud conversation and a barber who’ll recommend both a haircut and the correct candidate for local office.
  • Nostalgic barbershops in urban pockets lean into the past with “vintage” decor, whiskey-bar vibes and sports on TV — except now they charge a premium and call the barber a “grooming specialist.”
  • Some entrepreneurs stage “men’s nights” or open-mic gossip hours in neighbourhood shops, trying to recapture the civic pulse while keeping the modern business model.

If you want the old saloon spark, look for places without appointment apps, with too many phones in sight but none in use, and with a tea flask on the counter.

What’s lost isn’t only a loud, male-only gossip pit; it’s a training ground for public argument and a place where local memory was kept live and messy. The saloon taught people how to spar without a referee; the salon teaches how to look good while being politely neutral. If you mourn for the saloon’s barbed banter, you can grieve — but also take action: host a “Salon for Men” in your local café, revive a community noticeboard at the barber, or convince your neighbourhood salon to schedule a weekly “open-chair” hour for community talk (and maybe offer tea).

And until then, if you miss the salty, pungent chorus of small-town democracy, go to any saloon that still has a kettle on the stove and a barber who knows the mayor’s schedule by heart. Sit down, get a shave, and watch a mini-parliament assemble around you. You’ll leave clean-faced, better informed, and maybe a little animated — exactly how democracy used to feel.

From Public Domain

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Charudutta Panigrahi is a writer. He can be contacted at Charudutta403@gmail.com.

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Poetry

Be Good to me on Sunday

By Stephen Druce

From Public Domain 
BE GOOD TO ME ON SUNDAY


I don't need your devotion --
your attention -- or to listen,
connect with my emotions --
or to tell me I'm forgiven,

I don't need your affection
or to feel your tender touch,
I don't need your protection --
your support -- to be my crutch,

I don't need adoration --
all your compliments and thanking,
your true appreciation --
all your patience -- understanding,

I don't need all the accolades --
your gratitude -- respect,
your sympathy -- your serenades --
your charming intellect,

I don't need all your lavish gifts
and all your good advice,
don't save me in a snowdrift -
I don't need your sacrifice,

I don't need your agreement 
or to see my point of view,
just be good to me on Sunday --
and be good to me on Monday too.

Stephen Philip Druce is a poet and surrealist from Shrewsbury in the UK. He is published in the USA, Hungary, India, Canada, Ireland, the UK and South Africa. Stephen has also written for London theatre plays and BBC Radio 4 extra.

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Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Pravasini Mahakuda’s Odia Poems

Five poems by Pravasini Mahakuda have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Pravasini Mahakuda
YOUR POETRY 

You do not get liberated by arguments. 
Liberation isn’t on your mind,
Neither is it in your fortitude or your courage,
Nor in the tricky manoeuvring of your steps.
Liberation is in the challenges
Your soul ceaselessly confronts.
Salvation is in each line of the poem you write.
Do you know or do you not?
That even after you quit this beautiful earth,
Your poetry will live.
Readers of poetry will continue to be. 
Your poetry will live forever because
You hold a timeless lover inside you,
And because of your love,
Which is liberation itself.
Your poetry will thrive as a green permanence,
Even on a blazing summer noon.
You and your poetry are one,  
And have never existed apart.
 You yourself are poetry --  
Only poetry, and nothing else.
Because like you, Poetry, too, is a woman>
And you, like poetry itself
Are the eternal Truth.   

 THE REST OF THEM 

Let the rest of them 
Write about revolutions 
And resistances,
About rights and responsibilities.
I write about life.
I write about love,
And things that happen around me.
I write about the changing seasons,
About the prices of goods,     
Of the soreness hidden in the heart.
I write about the hopes and fears that
The heart incessantly wavers between,
Of an unseen wound that never stops to hurt.
I write about the eye that cannot see
The tears trickle down the other one,
Or the drenched pillow and the sari-end.
I write about a hand 
That does not care to share 
The ache in the other one.
I write about the song the dead river 
That flowed once between us had sung.
Let others write about 
What they won and lost.
I will write about the pain emanating from 
An aspired for void.
Let others write about spite and disdain, 
I will sing of life and love.
 
SHRAVANA* 

For which Shravana must the woman
Write a poem now?
What kind of a poem of Shravana  
Must she write to sprinkle life
Into the desert dying inside her
To cheer herself up?
Do you think it is easy to write poetry?
You do not know perhaps,
Only a drop of rain comes down
Against millions of palmfuls of tears.
In that lone drop of rain,
 Rings a primeval tune
That perhaps lay buried under
A century old rock.
You had never been in that song 
In any phase of life,
Not as friend, a husband or a neighbour
Neither as a reader, nor a critic.
The agony is because 
You were never a part of that song.
The Shravana is because 
You were never a part of that song.
And the rain is because of that,
And the poem too!  
It’s half-hour past eight. 
On this evening of a Shravana Sunday
The Shravana pours generously.
Do you believe a woman somewhere   
Still sits waiting for you on this evening,
Watching her own silent tears
Mingle in the Shravana rains outside?

*Month of July-August in the Indian calendar, normally monsoons in India.

GODDESS 

She is not a goddess --
The one you invoked while 
Immersing, 
Or immersed while
Invoking.
She is a woman.  
Perhaps you have not cared to see
The tears in the eyes of that goddess.
During those performances,
You have time and again played games
With her body and her tears.
Every night,
On the freshly made beds 
And in freshly written verses too.
You always know that the 
Finale of the game
Will be under your control 
And by your choice.
Because you have ensured the result
Would be in your favour,
You have taken the game for granted. 
    
        
SAREE 

The pain and pangs I have lived through 
Are as many 
As the threads woven 
In my saree. 
The end of the saree fails to hold
the profusion of 
All honour and dishonour,
All joys and sorrows,
Interest and indifference, 
The ache of losing things 
I had won,
The ecstasy of loving 
And the agony of no response.
As I set out on a journey,
The sorrow-flowers bloom in a row
Along the border of the saree,
Spring into life. 
As innocent symbols of that agony, 
A scene floats past my mind in a flash
Where I find the whole of my being
Standing by the loom.
I marvel at the intimate emotion
Of a beautiful loving mind
Employed at the act of weaving
Such a saree of choice.
The threads in this saree 
I am clad in are as many as 
The sorrows and sufferings, 
Joys and elations that roll
Inside me like the gentle undulations of 
The middle notes of a song.

Pravasini Mahakuda is a distinguished Odia poet and translator with 18 original books and 8 books in translation from Hindi to Odia. She has received the Odisha Sahitya Akademi award, Jhankar Award and Junior and  Senior Fellowships from the Ministry of Culture, Govt. of India. Her international engagements include participation in poetry festivals in Germany presenting her work in Berlin, Munich, Hamburg, Leipzig and Frankfurt. She regularly contributes poems in national magazines and attends seminars and poetry festivals across India. 

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Categories
Aeons of Art

Art is Alive

By Ratnottama Sengupta

The Gregorian calendar was still showing 1998.

I was in Oxford on a Charles Wallace fellowship to study John Ruskin’s influence on M K Gandhi and R N Tagore. Like any other student I lived in a hostel, walked up to the Ruskin School of Art and Ashmolean Museum, to the High Street and the flea market, to the Bodleian Library, and – of course – the book stores that continue to make that ancient city of academic excellence such a delight for a person like me who started crawling in the midst of books.

What caught my fancy on the book-lined shelves in the hometown of a ‘legal deposit’ library? The screenplays of Quentin Tarantino. Countless books on Elizabeth 1 – perhaps because Shekhar Kapur’s Elizabeth had just released worldwide. And the volumes on art. The gorgeous reproductions halved the tedium of walking miles of museums and galleries. And the history of art rekindled my love for paintings from our collective past.

But what I didn’t take kindly to was the neglect of – if not bias against — art from my homeland. There were books on Greek, Chinese, Japanese , African, Egyptian, Mayan, Roman art, on Russian Icons and Stained Glass windows, on French Impressionists and German Expressionists, Cubists and Moderns… But Indian art? For crying out loud, where was Ajanta-Ellora? The glass paintings and Miniatures? Pichwai and Patachitra, Nathdwara and Kalighat Pat, Warli and Madhubani, Santiniketan and Baroda?

That’s when I told myself, “Put the journey of Indian paintings between covers.” For, which other country has a continuity that I can boast, of a tradition that has continued unchequered for three thousand years and more?

Once I was back home, my friend Reeta Dutta Gupta approached me to edit an Encyclopedia of Culture for the India Series she was nursing. And Dr Jain of Ratna Sagar entrusted me to author a Notebook that would recount for school-going children the story of Indian art from Bhimbetka to the present millennia. What luck!

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Be it the hunters and the hunted of Bhimbetka, the rock art now on the UNESCO list of World Heritage, or Kolam and Alpana and Rangoli, the decorative designs of Kerala and Bengal and Maharashtra. Be it the Buddha of Ajanta Frescoes or the ploughmen and blacksmith of the Haripura Congress panels painted by the Bengal master Nandalal Bose, be it the illuminations in the Jain manuscripts or the Mughal manners immortalised by the kalams: art in India has grown out of everyday life. These art expressions have been an integral part of the people’s existence, regardless of the style or the period in which they were painted. Yes, down centuries Indian art has withstood change of regiments, religions, philosophy, social content, historical setbacks. And, aesthetic excellence has found an outlet in forms and lines, strokes and colours, whether these were obtained by crushing gems or pounded rice.

This has helped India enjoy a continuity that is rare even in the developed societies. From the sketches of Bhimbetka to those of the tribal artists of Warli, from the murals of ancient India to the art of contemporary masters, from the miniaturised figures to the Tantric patterns – art in India has reinvented itself again and again. And each time it has emerged with renewed vigour and vitality. Because, every age has related to art in an intimate way. By painting on the wall. Decorating the floor. Placing it on the altar. Or simply by keeping an account of the times.

Bhimbetka Cave paintings from prehistory
A fresco from the Ajanta caves,  2nd century BCE to 6th century CE
Art from Indian past. From Public Domain

As A Ramachandran – then professor of art at Jamia Millia Islamia in Delhi – had said to me, “Even when our ancient language that was deemed the language of the gods, fell into oblivion, art transcended centuries because it was communicating through a universal language – the visual language of colours and hues.” The lines defined the form, and also created a unitary area for the use of colour, he had further explained. “No matter what the subject, comprehension was never a problem for the Indian – until he was confronted by the art that was imposed by the colonialists.”

The Western overemphasis on realism played havoc, with the native sensibility that allowed for imagination and stylization, Nair Sir had pointed out. That sensibility had no problem accepting a ten-armed goddess, Dasabhuja Durga, or Dasanan, the ten-headed Ravan. “Lifestyle changes too have led to the dilution of Indian aesthetics that once enveloped our workaday lives. The only living art today is the visual art traditions in the villages, but that too might not last as villagers now want to ‘rise’ to the level of the urbans!” he had lamented.

In such a situation, art becomes doubly significant in the life of a child. When she or he is exposed to it, the child can not only access the history and the continuity of a culture but also nurture it with love that can ensure it lives in the days to come… With this in mind, I will write to focus on the high points of Indian art.

Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of  The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and writes books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award. 

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Categories
Celebrating Humanity

Can Old Acquaintances be Forgot…

Our January 2025 Cover: Art by Sohana Manzoor

It has been a strange year for all of us. Amidst the chaos, bloodshed and climate disasters, Borderless Journal seems to be finding a footing in an orphaned world, connecting with writers who transcend borders and readers who delight in a universe knit with the variety and vibrancy of humanity. Like colours of a rainbow, the differences harmonise into an aubade, dawning a world with the most endearing of human traits, hope.

A short round up of this year starts with another new area of focus — a section with writings on environment and climate. Also, we are delighted to add we now host writers from more than forty countries. In October, we were surprised to see Borderless Journal listed on Duotrope and we have had a number of republications with acknowledgement — the last request was signed off this week for a republication of Ihlwha Choi’s poem in an anthology by Hatchette US. We have had many republications with due acknowledgment in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and UK too among other places. Our team has been active too not just with words and art but also with more publications from Borderless. Rhys Hughes, who had a play performed to a full house in Wales recently, brought out a whole book of his photo-poems from Borderless. Bhaskar Parichha has started an initiative towards another new anthology from our content — Odia poets translated by Snehaprava Das. We are privileged to have all of you — contributors and readers — on board. And now, we invite you to savour some of our fare published in Borderless from January 2025 to December 2025. These are pieces that embody the spirit of a world beyond borders… 

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Arshi, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snehaprava Das, Ron Pickett, Nziku Ann, Onkar Sharma, Harry Ricketts, Ashok Suri, Heath Brougher, Momina Raza, George Freek, Snigdha Agrawal, Stuart Macfarlane, Gazala Khan , Lizzie Packer, Rakhi Dalal, Jenny Middleton, Afsar Mohammad, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Rhys Hughes

Translated Poetry

The Lost Mantras, Malay poems written and translated by Isa Kamari

The Dragonfly, a Korean poem written and translated by Ihlwha Choi

Ramakanta Rath’s Sri Radha, translated from Odiya by the late poet himself.

Identity by Munir Momin, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

Found in Translation: Bipin Nayak’s Poetry, translated from Odiya by Snehaprava Das.

For Sanjay Kumar: To Sir — with Love by Tanvir , written for the late founder of pandies’ theatre, and translated from Hindustani by Lourdes M Surpiya.

Therefore: A Poem by Sukanta Bhattacharya, translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta.

Poetry of Jibanananda Das, translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam.

Tagore’s Pochishe Boisakh Cholechhe (The twenty fifth of Boisakh draws close…) translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. 

Fiction

An excerpt from Tagore’s long play, Roktokorobi or Red Oleanders, has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Ajit Cour’s short story, Nandu, has been translated from Punjabi by C Christine Fair. Click here to read.

A Lump Stuck in the Throat, a short story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Night in Karnataka: Rhys Hughes shares his play. Click here to read.

The Wise Words of the Sun: Naramsetti Umamaheswararao relates a fable involving elements of nature. Click here to read.

Looking for Evans: Rashida Murphy writes a light-hearted story about a faux pas. Click here to read.

Exorcising Mother: Fiona Sinclair narrates a story bordering on spooky. Click here to read.

The Fog of Forgotten Gardens: Erin Jamieson writes from a caregivers perspective. Click here to read.

Jai Ho Chai: Snigdha Agrawal narrates a funny narrative about sadhus and AI. Click here to read.

The Sixth Man: C. J. Anderson-Wu tells a story around disappearances during Taiwan’s White Terror. Click here to read.

Sleeper on the Bench: Paul Mirabile sets his strange story in London. Click here to read.

I Am Not My Mother: Gigi Baldovino Gosnell gives a story of child abuse set in Philippines where the victim towers with resilience. Click here to read.

Persona: Sohana Manzoor wanders into a glamorous world of expats. Click here to read.

In American Wife, Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.

Sandy Cannot Write: Devraj Singh Kalsi takes us into the world of advertising and glamour. Click here to read.

Non Fiction

Classifications in Society by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.

The Day of Annihilation, an essay on climate change by Kazi Nazrul Islam, translated from Bengali by Radha Chakravarty. Click here to read.

The Bauls of Bengal: Aruna Chakravarti writes of wandering minstrels called bauls and the impact they had on Tagore. Click here to read.

The Literary Club of 18th Century London: Professor Fakrul Alam writes on literary club traditions of Dhaka, Kolkata and an old one from London. Click here to read.

Roquiah Sakhawat Hossein: How Significant Is She Today?: Niaz Zaman reflects on the relevance of one of the earliest feminists in Bengal. Click here to read.

Anadi: A Continuum in Art: Ratnottama Sengupta writes of an exhibition curated by her. Click here to read.

Reminiscences from a Gallery: The Other Ray: Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen. Click here to read.

250 Years of Jane Austen: A Tribute: Meenakshi Malhotra pays a tribute to the writer. Click here to read.

Menaced by a Marine Heatwave: Meredith Stephens writes of how global warming is impacting marine life in South Australia. Click here to read.

Linen at Midnight: Pijus Ash relates a real-life spooky encounter in Holland. Click here to read.

Two Lives – A Writer and A Businessman: Chetan Datta Poduri explores two lives from the past and what remains of their heritage. Click here to read

‘Verify You Are Human’: Farouk Gulsara ponders over the ‘intelligence’ of AI and humans. Click here to read.

Where Should We Go After the Last Frontiers?: Ahamad Rayees writes from a village in Kashmir which homed refugees and still faced bombing. Click here to read.

The Jetty Chihuahuas: Vela Noble takes us for a stroll to the seaside at Adelaide. Click here to read.

The Word I Could Never Say: Odbayar Dorj muses on her own life in Mongolia and Japan. Click here to read.

On Safari in South Africa by Suzanne Kamata takes us to a photographic and narrative treat of the Kruger National Park. Click here to read.

The Day the Earth Quaked: Amy Sawitta Lefevre gives an eyewitness account of the March 28th earthquake from Bangkok. Clickhere to read.

From Madagascar to Japan: An Adventure or a Dream: Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia writes of her journey from Africa to Japan with a personal touch. Clickhere to read.

How Two Worlds Intersect: Mohul Bhowmick muses on the diversity and syncretism in Bombay or Mumbai. Click here to read.

Can Odia Literature Connect Traditional Narratives with Contemporary Ones: Bhaskar Parichha discusses the said issue. Click here to read.

A discussion on managing cyclones, managing the aftermath and resilience with Bhaksar Parichha, author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage, and Resilience. Click here to read.

A discussion of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal, with an online interview with the translator. Click here to read.

A conversation with the author in Anuradha Kumar’s Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India . Click here to read.

Keith Lyons in conversation with Harry Ricketts, mentor, poet, essayist and more. Click here to read.

Categories
Contents

Borderless, December 2025

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

‘I wondered should I go or should I stay…’ …Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s Shoore O Baneer Mala Diye (With a Garland of Tunes and Lyrics) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Four of his own Malay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.

Five poems by Satrughna Pandab have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das. Click here to read.

A Lump Stuck in the Throat, a short story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Tagore’s Jatri (Passenger) has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Conversation

Keith Lyons in conversation with Harry Ricketts, mentor, poet, essayist and more. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Harry Ricketts, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Laila Brahmbhatt, John Grey, Saba Zahoor, Diane Webster, Gautham Pradeep, Daniel Gene Barlekamp, Annwesa Abhipsa Pani, Cal Freeman, Smitha Vishwanath,John Swain, Nziku Ann, Anne Whitehouse, Tulip Chowdhury, Ryan Quinn Flangan, Ramzi Albert Rihani, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Said the Spook, Rhys Hughes gives a strange tale around Christmas. Click here to read.

Musings/ Slices from Life

Your call is important to us?

Farouk Gulsara writes of how AI has replaced human interactions in customer service. Click here to read.

Honeymoon Homecoming

Meredith Stephens visits her old haunts in Japan. Click here to read.

Cracking Exams

Gower Bhat discusses the advent of coaching schools in Kashmir for competitive exams for University exams, which seem to be replacing real schools. Click here to read.

The Rule of Maximum Tolerance?

Jun A. Alindogan writes of Filipino norms. Click here to read.

How Two Worlds Intersect

Mohul Bhowmick muses on the diversity and syncretism in Bombay or Mumbai. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In The Monitoring Spirit, Devraj Singh Kalsi writes of spooky encounters. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In One Thousand Year Story in the Middle of Shikoku, Suzanne Kamata takes us on a train ride through Japan. Click here to read.

Essays

250 Years of Jane Austen: A Tribute

Meenakshi Malhotra pays a tribute to the writer. Click here to read.

Anadi: A Continuum in Art

Ratnottama Sengupta writes of an exhibition curated by her. Click here to read.

Sangam Literature: Timeless Chronicles of an Ancient Civilisation

Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan explores the rich literary heritage of Tamil Nadu. Click here to read.

Bhaskar’s Corner

In The Riverine Journey of Bibhuti Patnaik, Bhaskar Parichha pays a tribute to the octegenarian writer. Click here to read.

Stories

Evergreen

Sayan Sarkar gives a climate friendly and fun narrative. Click here to read.

The Crying Man

Marc Rosenberg weaves a narrative around childhood. Click here to read.

How Madhu was Cured of Laziness

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a fable set in Southern India. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

Excerpt from Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments by Eric Chopra. Click here to read.

Excerpt from Leonie’e Leap by Marzia Pasini. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Rakhi Dalal reviews Anuradha Kumar’s Love and Crime in the Time of Plague. Click here to read.

Andreas Giesbert reviews Ariel Slick’s The Devil Take the Blues: A Southern Gothic Novel. Click here to read.

Gazala Khan reviews Ranu Uniyal’s This Could Be a Love Poem for You. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Indira Das’s Last Song before Home, translated from Bengali by Bina Biswas. Click here to read.

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Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Musings

How Two Worlds Intersect

By Mohul Bhowmick

Sunset at Colaba, Bombay, which is currently referred to as Mumbai. From Public Domain

To think that Bombay is attainable is the first mistake of the rookie. And though this city attracts and repels in equal measure, it is the former that makes me want to linger all the more. And linger I do, over a cup (or was it two?) of piping hot Irani chai and bun maska at the Persian Cafe in Cuffe Parade. The rain starts just as soon as I step out of the metro station and make for the safer confines of the cafe, reminding me of home in more ways than one. It is only in Bombay that I am reminded that the culture of the Zoroastrians flourishes somewhere outside of Hyderabad as well.

Colaba lures me, but Kala Ghoda’s immense detachment from its suburban-esque walkways seems more pensive. With Mahatma Gandhi Road sweeping past the Fort and Dr Dadabhai Naoroji Road intersecting it at Flora Fountain, Bombay’s charm offensive lies bare. It is only much later, after I step into Kitaab Khana, the Bombay equivalent of Madras’ Higginbotham’s and Calcutta’s Oxford, that I strongly feel the Raj’s tentacles of reunion. On the other side of the road, the college named after Lord Mountstuart Elphinstone, who twice gave up the chance to be appointed governor-general of India, preferring to finish his two-volume work, History of India (1841) instead, is a reminder of the good that existed among our colonial masters.

*

But the second mistake that the rookie can make is by affirming that all of Bombay lies within the island of Colaba. While it did, in the days of the Raj, it no longer holds the sanctity of tradition as much as it does for the affluent who have no idea of when the last local leaves from Churchgate to Borivali. Versova, much a fishing village as Bandra had once been, is as far away from Colaba as Islamabad is from Vancouver, and Jogeshwari is a mere landing ground for the aristocrats of the north, for whom Thane is where the merely envious congregate and share stories over pav bhaji. A hint of Marathi wafts over the air, sprinkled generally with salt from the sea, and the Bambaiya of Parel and the Hindi of the island city are forgotten.

For what does a gentleman bred in the now-reclaimed Old Woman’s Island, fondly called Little Colaba, know of the fighting on the streets of Dadar? The Gateway of India, looming far beyond the ordinary, takes no part in the skyline of this Bombay, where political representatives of all hues and colours sell dreams just as kaleidoscopic as their ever-changing loyalties. Areas where no cars enter are not strictly unheard of in the Bombay of the north, and as Suketu Mehta so lovingly painted in Maximum City, it is a conurbation not afraid of its past, and one that is constantly stuck in an identity crisis. For there are more millionaires in Bombay than in any other city in the country, and they are only matched by the number of people who go to bed hungry. The Marine Drive becomes an elongated resting place for the unfortunate, the destitute or the merely curious once the lights on the Queen’s Necklace get turned on. I would have seen it had I known where to look.

*

To reclaim the days of the Raj, there are few places more apt to while away an evening than Colaba. There are certainly no places as germane as the cafes Mondegar and Leopold, which happily serve continental fare to their patrons after all these years without a trace of embarrassment at the culinary debaucheries they joyfully commit. Old men, with fedoras last seen in fashion in 1930 (before World War II took away the joys of wearing headgear, apart from sola topis, in a country where the sun has been awarded citizenship), and with shirts tucked into waistbands up to their lower chest, order bottles of grizzled beer with a side of mashed potatoes. Cholesterol and high blood sugar are forgotten when relieving one’s youth, especially with Spanish women gawking at the absurdity of it all in the flea market on the causeway outside. With the stroke of a pen, these men bring to life the jazz clubs of the early 1950s, recollecting the trumpeter Chris Perry at Alfred’s. And then they remember Lorna Cordeiro, of whom they speak as if she were a loved one.

The scarcity of vada pav in the vicinity of Kala Ghoda scares me until I remember that even autorickshaws are banned from this part of town. Much like a man seeking water from the desert atrophies of the Middle East, I lunge into a seller close to the Victoria Terminus. When he asks for a mere INR 30 for two vada pavs, I am shamed into submission, looking towards my shoes — coloured an extravagant yellow — and murmur notes of dissent that even my ears cannot pick up. A jet-black Mercedes-Benz skids past the puddle of water that has gathered around Flora Fountain, dousing me with dredges of obstinacy. There are two worlds that we live in, and Bombay may have achieved its supremacy over both yesterday.

Bun Maska can be found in Iranian cafes in Mumbai
Pav Bhaji, a popular street food of Mumbai
From Public Domain

Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, poet, sports journalist, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published four collections of poems and one travelogue so far. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Excerpt

Leonie’s Leap

Title: Leonie’s Leap

Author: Marzia Pasini

Publisher: Atmosphere Press

“Son,” Hridaya whispered again, this time with an edge that made him quiver. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I don’t,” Leonie answered, still shaken by his visions.

“Then I’ll tell you: this is your last incarnation. Your chance to break free from the cycles of separation and denial that have kept you bound. Do you know what this means?”

“I don’t,” he admitted.

Hridaya took a moment to adjust his robe, then gripped Leonie’s forearm, his voice low. “It means your ancient soul chose to return to this plane one last time for the purpose of liberation. Divine destiny is with you, but you still have the will to reject it. If you turn away, the universe will keep sending the lessons you need to learn. Ignore them, and they’ll get harsher. Do you understand?”

Leonie shrugged in resignation. “What does it matter what I’ve come here to learn?” he murmured, his gaze falling to the ground. “I’m all alone, anyway.”

“Nonsense,” Hridaya countered, his grip on Leonie’s palm firming.

“You are no orphan, but a beloved child of the universe. Though you may feel displaced, your soul is anchored to the womb of the world; your hands inter-twined with the pulse of creation. It is only in the folly of ignorance that we choose to desert ourselves, becoming orphans to our very own souls.

“Look,” he said, squinting his blind eyes as if sensing Leonie’s pain, “I know life doesn’t always add up the way we want it to, but that doesn’t mean we should stop counting our blessings. You see, there is no good or bad luck, really, only wisdom to be gained from our unmendable human condition.

“Our personal stories shape us, but they do not limit or define us. In the end, who we truly are escapes all form and definition. It doesn’t matter, then, what star you were born under or which side of the river you drank from— obstacles will arise either way. You must not get discouraged, son. We are here to pave the way for each other, learning to see clearer so we can love better.

The fortuneteller paused, as though listening for a distant whisper only he could hear. Then, with his head tilted toward the sky, he continued: “At any point, we can give our life a hundred different names or simply call it grace. It all depends on how well we learn to see through things. Sometimes the greatest trials turn out to be our highest blessings. Other times, we are left with indelible wounds, marks that cannot be erased or repaired. But if we carry our hurt with grace, the scars stitched onto our skin become luminous constellations guiding our way home.

“Now happiness is the common road. But freedom? Here the road forks. The path of freedom is not the way of the masses, nor the aspiration of the tribe. Many of us meddle with freedom, but freedom has little to do with getting things our way, possessing what we desire, or feeling good about this or that.

“Before we’re born, freedom is woven into the fabric of our souls. As children, we understand this instinctively, but as we grow, this knowingness fades, leaving us nostalgic or in denial. Only a rare, disgruntled minority set off on a quest to reclaim what’s been lost. Some journey far, sometimes to the farthest edges of the earth. Don’t get me wrong. At times, the search is required. Yet what really matters is never the distance we travel, but how deep we are willing to dive to illuminate the shadows.”

“Son,” the fortuneteller leaned in, his voice dropping to a secretive whisper. “You’ll hear many promising you something better or more. It seems to me everyone hopes to hoard magic, but the pot of gold doesn’t just sit at the end of the rainbow. Treasures pepper the trail. Each day, the path unfolds, ever unwritten. Now tell me, what does your heart long to know more than anything so it may be made free again?”

Silence pervaded the forest once more. A gentle breeze brushed against Leonie’s face as he gazed out at the water, then back at the man. “The truth about my mother,” he uttered. “That is what I’d like to know most.”

Hridaya sighed deeply. “The truth, son, will set you free, but to do so, it must break open your heart first. Are you sure this is what you want to know more than anything?”

A tremor rippled through Leonie’s heart. He knew that the truth, whatever it was, would hit like a punch to his chest.

***

Dearheart, perhaps you, too, have felt the sudden whack of truth—a force you have avoided, fearing it could shatter the world as you know it. Be honest: how often have you told a white lie to help someone save face or feel better? How many times has something inside you desperately wanted to live out the truth, and at the same time hoped it would never be revealed?

There’s no escaping it: the truth is seldom subtle. It’s a hurricane, exposing what you’ve kept covered. If we let the truth be destructive, it will wreak havoc. Yet honesty doesn’t have to be crushing; it can be as gentle as blushing. Gentle honesty is wise and discerning. It doesn’t weaken relationships; it deepens them. Speaking the truth is never about being rude, harsh, or unfiltered—it’s about upholding integrity in the centre of your heart. After all, honesty is a prickly rose. It must be handled with care, carried with grace, and delivered with unbending kindness. Even if it’s tough, lean into the hard conversations softly and speak your heart boldly. Stand for the truth—whatever the cost. Anything less is fickle, unreliable, and untrustworthy.

Dearheart, have you ever wondered about that tingle keeping you awake at night? Where does the fiery inspiration spark from? Why does your soul beckon you in? Consciousness is ever awake, whether you are asleep, stumbling, or taking the leap. It patiently waits for you to unlock the mysteries of your spirit and embrace the liberating journey that awaits.

About the Book

Leonie’s Leap tells of the adventures of a fifteen-year-old orphaned acrobat who escapes his dreary life to join the circus as a trapeze artist. Just as the daring acrobat takes the bold plunge into the unknown, your inner exploration reveals the hidden wonders within.

Your capacity to return to this wild inner landscape is the answer to your deepest longing, the home where every prayer settles. It doesn’t matter where you come from or what path you have chosen—every bit of YOU knows it: you were born to live vibrantly from your depths. The world needs you to dwell in your wildly liberated heart. It breathes through your sacred dreams. Your wings. Your feet.

Are you ready to leap?

About the Author

Marzia Pasini is a writer and life coach devoted to heart consciousness and the sacred return to self. With a background in Philosophy and a Master’s in Comparative Politics from the London School of Economics, she began her career in international development, working with the United Nations and the Office of Her Majesty Queen Rania of Jordan. Two life-altering health crises sparked a profound inner shift, inspiring her to help others reconnect with their inner freedom and truth. She has also authored a children’s book Satya and the Sun, which follows a young girl on a magical journey through her fear of the dark—offering an empowering reflection on change, trust, and the unknown.

Originally from Italy, Marzia has lived in six countries and now makes her home in India with her husband and two children.

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Homeward Bound

By Gautham Pradeep

A WALK BACK HOME 

I often find myself amidst the crumbling cliffside, 
mumbling words to myself. 
Within the mouth of the weeping river, 
I must disperse the ashes of an awakening. 
Through the darker brush, 
colour would soak the dry paper. 
In the corner of an eroding house,
I lack the search I'm entrusted. 
The mist I've felt this morn,
now buries me in a shawl of memories. 

The tiny tendril holding onto the iron railing, 
unwinds in the solitude it enjoys. 
It swirls in the nightly gale, 
swaying in its shallow reflection. 

A feeling surges in me, 
as the poison in a pitcher leaf. 
It urges the nightly stillness to visit the lonely house, 
its amber curtain still intact. 
The long lane, in front of me, 
is waning under the new moon. 
It was once the pen,
I had written my childhood with. 
The ink had flowed evenly, 
such as the poison in my drink. 
And now it must end abruptly, 
the tiny man in his bottle of wine. 
The twilight sky drinks the last few rays of the sun, 
while I sink in my purple drink.

Gautham Pradeep was born in Kerala, India. He is now pursuing an MBBS degree. He tries to explore the existential dilemmas of the his generation. His poems have been published widely.

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International