India is perhaps the one country where the Jews have maintained their identity without ever being exposed to antisemitism at the hands of their host. Although representing a microscopic segment of the Indian population, the Bene Israel is one of the largest and oldest of the three major Jewish communities of India, the other two being the Cochin Jews of the Malabar Coast and the Baghdadi Jews of Bombay and Calcutta. The Bene Israels arrived at the Konkan coast, shipwrecked, and have lived in India for more than 2,000 years and claim descent from the ten lost tribes of Israel. After they had settled down permanently in the Konkan villages of Western Maharashtra, the Bene Israels were called ‘Shaniwar Telis’ or Saturday oil pressers – a relatively low-caste designation – by the local population because they refrained from working on Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath. Later, they also farmed their land, peddled produce, and took up petty jobs, with the majority working as clerks in government offices and private firms. With time, they adopted Hindu names similar to their Biblical names and took up Marathi surnames such as Rohekar, Penkar, Palkar, and Ashtamkar by adding the suffix ‘-kar’ to the villages and town they came from. They adopted Marathi, the local language, as their mother tongue, and to outsiders, became physically indistinguishable from the local population. But within the village society, the Bene Israels were clearly differentiated from others because they adhered to Judaism. Initially overtones of a caste system coloured the Bene Israelis but they changed with time. Intermarriages between other Jewish communities became common.
With the formation of the nation-state of Israel in 1948, the exodus of the Jews of India took place on a very large scale, and only a few hundred members were left in Gujarat. Initially the integration of the Bene Israels into Israeli society was not easy and many of them returned to India but re-emigrated to Israel later after 1964 when their religious status was finally accepted.
Miss Samuel: A Jewish Indian Saga is written by Sheela Rohekar, a Bene Israel Jew, who is probably the sole-living Jewish Hindi author, and she managed to recreate the distinct identity of her own community. Bearing across life histories of her ancestors, she seeks answers to those questions that troubled her in the novel. Originally written in Hindi, it is aptly translated into English for the first time by Madhu Singh, a professor of English teaching at the University of Lucknow. The novel is narrated by Miss Seema Samuel, an almost 70-year-old Bene Israel living at an old age home called Parisar on the outskirts of Pune, and it portrays her unsuccessful struggle to fit into a majoritarian Hindu society along with the plight of being an unmarried woman in India. She tells the story of her community, of their trials and tribulations, love and loss, and their longing for ‘Aliyah’ — the return to the Promised Land of Israel. Shifting from the Konkani shores to the bustling streets of Ahmedabad (called Amdavad in the local parlance), and finally to the tranquility of an old-age home, each generation of Seema’s family grapples with the tension between their Jewish faith and Indian identity, struggling with their fear of persecution on the one hand and a yearning for acceptance on the other.
In the novel, apart from giving a macrocosmic view of the Bene Israel community which makes its members victims of isolation and alienation from mainstream Indians, and depicting their ancient history and present status, Sheela Rohekar also very deftly presents the microcosmic view of the extended family of her community along with the problems of cross-cultural liaisons and the problems each individual member of her family faces. She states: “But some images embed themselves in the mind, not in the eyes, and chase you – all your life. The role of time in fusing images is not much but the trick of a fading memory. They light up in a flash!”
Since her narration spans six generations and moves deftly backwards and forwards in time, in some places it becomes difficult for the readers to keep track of who’s who in the narrative and occasionally one must go back to the family tree chart at the beginning to place the characters in their proper perspective.
Miss Seema tells the story of Isaji Eloji, who, having married a Hindu woman named Narayani, is believed to have ‘blackened’ the Jewish name. Two generations later, burdened by his grandfather’s transgression, David Reuben stops at nothing to keep his Jewish identity pure, even poisoning his daughter Lily for loving a non-Jewish man.
Again, years later, his son Samuel David (Miss Seema’s father) finds that his Jewish identity makes him an outsider in his own country; and his grandson, Bobby, faces persecution of the worst kind – when he is murdered by a mob in Ahmedabad. It is through reading the loose notes and a long essay that Bobby had left behind that Seema manages to tell us the background history of their community. With his collection of yellow, crumbling newspaper cuttings about the Jews, old coins, badges, awards, certificates, degrees, and moth-eaten black and white photographs that were around 150 years old, Bobby tried to illuminate the path taken by the fellow members of his community – the Bene Israel, the pardesi, the foreigners – whom the people of Amdavad did not know in the twentieth century and believed to be Maharashtrians or converted Christians. The story of how his brother, David, and his Hindu wife. Jyotsna Prajapati, managed to throw Seema out of their apartment in Gitanjali Society also reminds us about such machinations that prevail in our Indian society in general. Through the different tales, the narrator remains a constant, and her memories commingling the past with the present are deftly handled by the novelist.
Further, Miss Samuel becomes a key novel to understand not only for its Indian-Jewish identity but also its multicultural Indian identity and its challenges in the present time. The old age home, Parisar, is not at all a closed space and it opens to new forms of solidarity among elderly abandoned women who, though belonging to different faiths and identities, abandon their frustration with the twists of patriarchal society to discover the meaning of friendship, love and solidarity.
Seema writes: “The campus where I live is surrounded by hills. There is silence, always. I can see residents of my age, some even older, shuffle from one room to another. Constructed at a distance of two hours from Pune, all stories seem to end up here, in this building.” Parisar is thus a model of a tolerant society that not only accepts differences but even respects, maintains and transcends them at the same time. The translation is lucid, and the translator labels her endeavour as ‘interpretive performance’ and a journey beyond imaginary borders. A good read indeed.
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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.
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For 50 years now Ratnottama Sengupta has seen Haren Thakur adroitly create art from the humdrum of tribal life. And his stylised abstract of the dark-toned humans still makes her sit up and take note.
Haren Thakur with his painting. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
A dark, stick-like outline encompasses a human of the male species. A triangle, an oblong, a rectangle. A white patch in the midst of a sepia-green landscape. A drummer. A mother with a child holding aloft a balloon. Two women bathing in a primitive pond. A quizzical duck. A wriggling worm. Trees hills fish pigs cows fox… And, yes! A train zigzagging its way through a vast expanse of meadows. As we view the watercolours of Haren Thakur from Ranchi, you might think of the rice-white art of the Warli tribals characterised by geometric shapes that depict the rituals of everyday life. I might be inclined to revisit the painted layers on the 100,000-year laterite at the prehistoric rock shelters of Bhimbetka in the foothills of the Vindhyas in Madhya Pradesh. Another viewer might think of the ancient Sauras and the adornment of their walls in their adobe huts in Odisha. The artist himself might have recollections of the animated Santhal pats he saw being created during his student years in Tagore’s Santiniketan. However, none of Haren’s figures are simplistic. They are all stylised. And so adroitly that you are bound to sit up and take note of them no matter how many times you have come across the theme.
Art by Haren Thakur. Photos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
Form and content come seamlessly together in the paintings that Haren Thakur will exhibit in Delhi’s Habitat Centre from April 15. The artist who mastered Art at Santiniketan — home to Santhals, the native dwellers of Bengal and Odisha — then made his living in Jharkhand, which is home to 32 tribes… Indeed, from his very beginning, the beauty in the dark skin-tone of the men and women going about their chores was the most natural rhythm of life in the bazaars and streets of Bankura Bishnupur, where his family hailed from, or in Purulia, where his father made his home.
Beyond doubt, Rabindranath’s deep affection for the Santhals and the Bauls reinforced this love. Much like Gurudev, Haren finds poetry in their tilling of the earth. In their mono-toned songs and the repetitive steps of their dance. In the fulfilment they find in the primeval life and archetypal love. And when, following in the footsteps of the Universal Poet, Haren finds beauty in a grain of sand, the everyday life ceases to be an essay in deprivation and rises to the level of art.
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And his colour palette? That too came off the walls of his hostel in Santiniketan, from the frescoes and murals by Binode Behari Mukherjee. From the brick-toned ‘canvas’ that is the prehistoric rock painting of Bhimbetka. The pigment on Haren’s brush and tubes is never loud then, never grating. It is always muted, always mellow. And the impact is heightened by Haren’s utilisation of rice paper, and Chinese ink, on watercolour.
The Nepali rice paper became his signature in 1974. Prior to that he would work the rice paper in the tempera process that was ‘Master Moshai’ Nandalal Bose’s gharana, school – or Indian shaili, style. But in that process of painting layer by layer, the rice paper would lose its original character and serve merely as a background surface.
Then, in his fourth year, for a scholarship test of the Visva Bharati University, Haren experimented by soaking the rice paper in water. It became so pliant that he could spread it out like a piece of cloth. “And its texture!” It won him the scholarship — and immense appreciation from his teachers, Dinkar Kaushik and Somnath Hore. “They said, ‘Go ahead and explore this medium and this process further. It adds a dimension that has immense possibility.”
Art by Haren Thakur. Photos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
Fifty years have gone by since, but Haren has not given it up. Sometimes, when painting on canvas, he does apply acrylic directly on its surface. But at times, even here, he pastes rice paper on the canvas, primes it with watercolour, then inks in the forms. However he adds, “when I paint on rice paper mounted on board, I do not – cannot – use acrylic. It simply doesn’t have the capacity to be absorbed by the rice paper the way watercolour gets absorbed.” So, in such cases Haren uses transparent watercolour.
Clearly the chemistry between rice paper and watercolour is amazing. Unique.
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Circling back to the content: Haren’s understated pitch was reinforced by the Zen worldview of a teacher like Somnath Hore. The master minimalist’s use of the white, barely scratched by the red of a wound, spoke volumes — and it made Haren introspect. Once, while exhibiting the Wound series, Somnath Da had said, “I discovered such depth of emotion in the reticence of tones!” This soliloquy got deeply etched in Haren’s unconscious. And eventually it came to express itself in the rusty red of the iron oxide rich Birbhum soil; the roasted brown of Purulia’s rocky earth; the weathered green of the Bauls; the soothing blue of the open sky high above the woolly white of floating clouds.
Art by Haren Thakur. Photos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
Flattened figures. Non-realistic features. Do you see a hint of Husain – or perhaps Paul Klee – in the abstraction of the human world? I notice a reflection of the figures encountered on Egyptian papyrus. Or the African world. Haren, on his part, reiterates his original inclination: the attraction towards the lack of artifice in Adivasi life. How else would the tribals go about their daily humdrum with a baby knotted to their back? Or float in an open pool under the sun-kissed sky? To the city-bred mind, this would be unthinkable — until Haren captions it ‘Nature’s Bathtub’!
But, notwithstanding my references, the art traditions of the indigenous people over the world have never influenced Haren. “Their art tradition is so rooted in their environment – be it of Jharkhand or of any other.” Even their pigments, brush, and surface are integral to their life. But he certainly derives inspiration from the lifestyle of the original inhabitants, he affirms.
“I have always admired their direct application, the spontaneity of their form,” Haren further explains. “But I am influenced rather by the uncomplicated lives they lead. Since I was in Santiniketan I have admired the way they connect with nature in everything they do. Their intimacy with animals is incredible – they seem to be in dialogue with the animals they domesticate! This became a part of my visual world, especially when I came to live in Ranchi. The same reality imbues the lives of the natives – Oraon, Munda, Ho, Sabar, Bedia, Lohar… They rest under the tree unconcerned about how the ‘civilised’ world looks at them. They speak with the hills, with clouds in the sky, with cattle and kids, trees and waters, rivers and streams!”
Art by Haren Thakur. Photos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
This they do with no inhibition. Because this routine is a reality they have inherited from their ancients. “That is why I believe there is nothing more ‘Contemporary’ than this,” Haren asserts. This innate natural life, and the Santiniketan grooming, combined to forge his vocabulary, his visual language.
So, in the exhibits, you encounter an abundance of water bodies. Pools and ponds. Rivers and waterfalls. Lotus and lily. Big fish. Many small fish in its tummy. Ducks and kingfishers. Hyacinth and hayfield. All this is a natural part of the countryside that has made Haren theirs.
Interestingly there is also this play with size. In one of the frames an elephant walks down the road – and at every footfall he is greeted by a number of… ants?! Look closely and you will decipher that they are dogs!
Haren is giving you a worm’s eye view. And, in addition to the proportion, he is picturing the Hindi proverb Haathi chaley bazar, kutta bhaukey hazaar/ when an elephant walks to the market, a thousand dogs will bark! Political comment? You said it!
Stay tuned to the song of the Adivasi earth, Haren.
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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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I am in Haridwar. Haridwar is a holy town where people wash sins in the Ganges. I watch the waves touch my feet, then tumble over the cobblestones, take the curve and veer off. I watch the horizon dissolve, vanish into the darkness of the night. These kind acts of nature are reminders of the years I still have. There is absolute uniformity in the sound from conch-shells. The blower has no control over the notes of appeasement. The blower is dressed like a sage. I cannot vouch if he is one. I hear the cow-bells shake off satisfaction, I envy the bovines heading home for a regular meal from the wife of the herdsman. The cows have before them a whole night of masticating after the day-long grazing is done. The river or horizons or even the cows and their sweet moos are mere physical things. An angel comes in my dream and proclaims that we are products of time. Though men often wish not to ponder over this labyrinth of metaphysics -- Nothing is truer than death, death is real, it is the only truth -- The angel doesn’t explain in so many words, simply leaves the footpath of left over life ahead. I sit on a stone to study the footprints left by the muster of crows, What made them descend to the ground although they have wings? What did they forage? Oh angel, you are evanescent as are my dreams. Do not go away. I long for you. I have no power to criticise or doubt. I will even drink for your presence -- though I stopped drinking long ago. There, let us join! Young monks prepare for the aarti* of mother Ganges! The lights from the aarti act as beacons for the dingy boats of sins, Are there labs to check the density of sins or instruments to measure the river’s purity? A horde of pelicans fill the wintry sky with rosy feathers and fade out Giving the sky back it’s blue. Nothing is permanent -- everything seems good, everything – And that’s why I’d feel secure when I close my eyes later in the night.
*Offerings accompanying prayers
Religious offerings on Ganges. From Public Domian
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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Ratnottama Sengupta tracks the journey of Leslie Carvalho over a quarter century
Leslie CarvalhoPhotos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
It seems like only the other day. The International Film Festival of India, IFFI, 1998 was on. Along with a colleague, I was seated on the steps outside Siri Fort I auditorium connected to a long corridor going to Siri 2. Someone introduced Leslie Carvalho. “Aha! The young filmmaker from Mangalore?” I responded. “There’s a write up on you in The Times of India today. It says there’s a lot of expectation from The Outhouse.”
The “delightfully sweet” film had lived up to the expectation of the critics. It was bestowed the Aravindan Puraskaram, presented by the Kerala Chalachitra Film Society to commemorate the iconic Malayalam director, and the first Gollapudi Srinivas award, another national level award to recognise filmmakers marking their debut in Indian cinema. So I was not surprised to meet him next as a co-member of the jury for the National Film Awards 2000.
The Tennis coach who is also a German language teacher with a passion for painting has now published his first novel, Smoke on the Backwaters. It centres on Rosa, a twenty-year-old from Mangalore, who is forced to flee overnight because of the storm of gossip, fear and shame unleashed by a single incident in her life. Her unexpected journey across continents becomes a path of healing. Seven years later, armed with education and maturity, she returns home, determined to pursue her purpose in life. But how much had the town she left altered from its old ways?
RS: Leslie, before we talk Backwaters, can we briefly revisit The Outhouse? From where did you derive its content? And what was your compulsion for choosing that subject?
Provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
LC: The Outhouse was a simple, linear narrative about moving on in life despite the odds. A young mother’s need to gain economic independence to supplement the family income; the help she received from her financially independent sister; a kind hearted Bengali landlady’s generosity which causes stress and violence in the Anglo-Indian couple’s day to day life, and how it affects the two children growing up.
RS: Why did you choose this subject as your debut vehicle? If you were to travel in a time machine, would you choose a ‘mainstream’ subject?
LC: I chose this subject as my debut vehicle as I had seen quite a bit of violence in the Anglo- Indian community in the Lingarajapuram area of Bangalore I grew up in.
I was itching to make a movie after my six-month course at the New York Film Academy. As I was working on a very tight budget, I just stuck to what was taught — to keep it simple, straightforward and just tell a story using the various tools of cinema — in short, to make it cinematic.
If I were to go back in time, I don’t think I would have chosen a ‘mainstream subject’. I derived immense satisfaction along with the cast and crew as we felt we were working on something we were passionate about. We all felt drawn towards the characters, the story and the theme of the film.
RS: How did you get interested in cinema? And what were the problems you faced while filming The Outhouse – in terms of funding, casting, shooting location, distribution?
LC: I grew up watching Tamil, Kannada, Hindi, a couple of Konkani and lots of Hollywood films. My mother tailored clothes at home, and she taught a whole lot of women stitching. They were fans of Tamil cinema, especially of Sivaji Ganesan, MGR, and the heroes of Kannada cinema, Dr. Rajkumar and Vishnuvardhan. She also enjoyed the Hindi films of Rajesh Khanna, Dharmendra, Hema Malini, Amitabh Bachchan, Sanjeev Kumar, Jaya Bhaduri and Rekha — that is the popular cinema.
And my father, being an Army person, took us to see English films, like The Ten Commandments, The Bible, Hatari, To Sir, With Love[1]. Also, St. Germain’s School where I studied, screened English films every Friday afternoon in the Hall, from spools off a projector that made a jarring sound. It was an amazing experience — black and white Charlie Chaplin, Laurel & Hardy films and also Patton with all the bad words. Later, when in college, we would bunk classes to watch most of the popular Hindi and English movies.
At the New York Film Academy, I was exposed to an entire range of the world’s best in cinema. Satyajit Ray, Akira Kurosawa, Ingmar Bergman, Antonioni, John Ford, William Wyler, Fellini, Jean Renoir… And I watched a whole lot of films on the American Movie Chain (AMC). There I discovered all of Spencer Tracy’s films and fell in love with his sense of timing and under playing. It was also a time when I discovered Guru Dutt and marveled at his brand of filmmaking from Pyaasa, Kaagaz Ke Phool, Chaudhvin Ka Chand, Sahib Biwi Aur Ghulam to Aar Paar and Mr & Mrs 55[2].
It is hard to believe I began the shoot for The Outhouse on September 18, 1996, and completed it in 14 days – on October 1. After we went through the rushes, we required two more shots to link the gaps. Since I was on a shoestring budget of a few lakh rupees, I had rehearsals with the cast for close to three months. I doff my hat to them in gratitude as 90% of the film was canned on first takes. I could not afford retakes, and I worked with a brilliant cameraman, S Ramachandra, who was very supportive and encouraging. He shot most of B V Karanth, Girish Karnad, and Girish Kasaravalli films as well as the popular tele-serial Malgudi Days[3]. A number of first-time directors like myself, had benefitted immensely by his generosity and patience.
Since it was an independent film, whatever little finance I had, I sunk into the film. And then it took me a year to complete post-production for lack of finance.
I was particular about the casting. I wanted the Anglo-Indian look, feel, mannerisms, costume, interiors to be authentic. I met each cast member and spoke to them at length about the vision I had for my film. Almost all of them were from the Bangalore English Theatre, and all of them were cooperative. Moreover, Cooke Town is a quaint little place with many English bungalows and outhouses. After some struggle, I found one on Milton Street which suited my story perfectly.
After The Outhouse was selected for the Indian Panorama in IFFI ’98 and received the two national awards, I just walked into Plaza Theatre on MG Road in Bangalore and met the owner, Mr Ananthanarayan. He had heard about the film and asked me to meet the distributor, Nitin Shah of Hansa Pictures in Gandhi Nagar, the biggest distributor of English films. He put it on for a noon show for three weeks while Fire was on for the matinee and evening shows. The distributor then put it in Mangalore and Udupi for a week. And when I received the Gollapudi Srinivas National Award in Chennai, Aparna Sen was one of the honoured guests. She saw a small portion of the film and said that she would speak to Mr Ansu Sur to screen it at Nandan in Kolkata — founded by Satyajit Ray to help screen small independent films. A theatre owner in Kolkata recommended a person who took the film to the North East. It was also screened in parts of Kerala.
Coincidentally, this April 30th, The Outhouse will be screened in the leafy neighbourhood of Cooke Town next to the outhouse where the film was shot.
Still from The Outhouse, provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
RS: In the last 50 years we have seen films by directors like Aparna Sen, Ajay Kar, Anjan Dutt. Even before these, Ray had touched upon Anglo Indians in Mahanagar. These are all films made in Kolkata. Is it because this is the erstwhile capital of the Raj?
LC: Many of the films on Anglo-Indians were based in Calcutta. It was the influence of the British Raj and its culture that was so much a part of their long history of ruling there. Of course their influence was in other parts of the country as well like Madras, Hyderabad, Bangalore, Whitefield and Kolar Gold Fields, the railway colonies all over the country, the hill stations, and many other cities which has pockets of Anglo-Indians.
RS: I remember one Hindi film, Julie that had an Anglo-Indian protagonist. How has the community been projected in popular culture? Was it lopsided or biased?
LC: Throughout our film history Anglo-Indians have played bit roles here and there. Some significant roles came their way in Bhowani Junction, the teleserial Queenie, 36 Chowrighee Lane, Bow Barracks Forever, Bada Din, Cotton Mary, The Outhouse, Saptapadi, Mahanagar, Julie, and Calcutta I’m Sorry[4].
Some of the characterisations have been quite biased; some not well fleshed out; some in passing fleeting moments of drunkenness, prostitution. The song and dance sequences have not helped the community, sadly.
RS:What led you to writing? The screenplay for The Outhouse?
LC: I wrote the screenplay of The Outhouse on plain A4 sheets of paper, on both sides. This is not done but I did it to save on cost. I gave the screenplay to my cinematographer S. Ramachandra, and in his generosity he understood my purpose. I went by what was taught at the New York Film Academy. Of course, I had to combine all the elements to make it whole. The idea of the screenplay came to me while I was at the film school in 1995.
RS: What was the trigger for writing Smoke in the Backwaters?
LC: As an artist, filmmaker, and writer, I have tried to combine all the elements of story-telling – fact and fiction — keeping in mind the flow of ideas, pace and momentum to engage and interest my audience and readers.
I remember beginning to write the novel two decades ago when my mother — who studied in Kannada medium — said, “I hope you will write it in simple English so I can read it too.”
And I wanted it to be reader friendly with regard to the font size, the brightness of the paper, the spacing, the clarity and the size of the book. I was lucky my publisher ‘Anglo-Ink’ was supportive and combined well to find that centre.
Provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
RS: How are you marketing the book? Through Litfests? Bookstore readings? Airport bookstalls? A H Wheelers?
LC: Since Anglo-Ink is a small-time publisher, we’ve had a dream launch in my hometown Bangalore at the Catholic Club. My book seller is Bookworm on Church Street in the heart of Bangalore and for people in Cooke Town it is in The Lightroom’ library.
We are looking at launches in various cities as well, through book readings, LitFests, Airport book stalls, AH Wheelers, readings at schools and colleges.
Since a major portion of the novel is set in Germany, we are looking at translating it into German. I hope to get it translated in a few Indian languages as well.
RS:Since the sunset decade of 1900s, Anglo Indians have been migrating to Australia and Canada. What triggered this migration? Economics or politics?
LC: The migration of Anglo-Indians was inevitable. It was bound to happen for reasons more than one, be it political, economic or social. First under the ‘Whites Only’ policy, many fair skinned Anglo-Indians migrated — the brown and dark skinned were left behind. Slowly they opened up and even they left. Some felt they would adapt better to a western culture, and have adopted their new country as their homeland.
RS:You were a big support for me when my son joined NLSUI in 2000. Again, when I curated Anadi, the exhibition of paintings by Contemporary and indigenous artists from MP and Chhattisgarh. Bangalore has since become an international megalopolis. How has life changed for the locals?
LC: Bangalore has changed dramatically and drastically. The change was bound to happen because of its growing prominence of an International City. The IT industry brought jobs, slowly other industries, started picking up from real estate, fashion, digital technology and social media platforms, start-ups, academics, sports, games, recreational and tourism.
The moderate climate was a huge bonus that attracted people from all over. Bangalore has always been cordial, encouraging and accommodative of people from all over through their mild manners, hospitality and gentleness.
Today Bangalore is unrecognisable. Still, some pockets retain that old world charm of neat, clean and green Bengaluru from the old Pensioners Paradise of Bangalore.
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[1]The Ten Commandments (1956), The Bible (1966), Hatari (1962), To Sir, with Love (1967)
[2]Pyaasa (Thirsty, 1957), Kaagaz Ke Phool (Paper flowers, 1959), Chaudhvin Ka Chand (The Full Moon, 1960), Sahib Biwi Aur Ghulam (The Master, the Wife and the Slave, 1962), Aar Paar (This shore or that, 1954), Mr &Mrs 55 (1955).
[4]Bhowani Junction (1956), TV miniseries Queenie (1987), 36 Chowrighee Lane (1981), Bow Barracks Forever (2004), Bada Din (1998), Cotton Mary (1999), Saptapadi (Seven Steps, 1981), Mahanagar (The Big City, 1963), Julie (1975), and Calcutta I’m Sorry (2019)
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 write 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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
TWO HUNDRED YEARS ago mountains were regarded as useless and terrible masses of inert matter where dragons had their lairs and the spirits of the damned lay in wait to claim the unwary. But as man emerged from the superstitions and materialisms of the Middle Ages he began to realise that mountains were beautiful and their summits worthy of attainment. The nineteenth century saw the conquest of the Alps. Unknown difficulties and dangers had to be faced by the pioneers of mountaineering. Disasters occurred, lives were lost, and mountaineering thrown into disrepute. The mountaineer was not dismayed. He knew that beauty was his for the seeking; he rejoiced in a newfound comradeship and in the acquirement and exercise of a new craft.
The great alpine summits fell one by one; traditions were established; a technique was evolved; a literature was born. The ripples of alpine mountaineering radiated outwards, bearing with them mountaineers to other ranges: the Caucasus, the Rockies, the Andes, the New Zealand Alps. On their highest peaks the skill acquired in the Alps was sufficient to ensure success. But there remained one great range that defied invasion of its strongholds – the Himalaya. There, the technique acquired in the Alps was not sufficient. Height alone was a physical deterrent, and coupled to height was steepness and danger. Expeditions had to be organised to reach even the foot of the great peaks; time and money had to be found. Yet, despite these disadvantages, Himalayan mountaineering and exploration progressed steadily. Pioneers such as the Schlagintweit Brothers, Sir Joseph Hooker, The Duke of the Abruzzi, Mr W.W. Graham, Lord Conway, Sir Francis Younghusband, Mr D.W. Freshfield, Doctor T.G. Longstaff, Doctor A.M. Kellas, General Bruce, Mr C.F. Meade, Doctor and Mrs Bullock Workman, Messrs. Rubenson and Monrad Aas, and many other pre-war pioneers opened up a region unsurpassed for its beauty and grandeur, and by their experiences pointed the way to the highest summits.
Many people refer to the Himalaya as though their limitations in scenery and climate were similar to those of the Alps. The tourist who gazes upon Kangchenjunga, 28,226 feet, from Darjeeling returns home saying that he has seen the Himalaya. So he has, but how much of two thousand miles of mountains stretching from the Pamirs to the borders of Indo-China, and beyond these limits, in terms of mountains? A lifetime might be spent wandering about the Himalaya, yet the knowledge acquired would embrace but an infinitesimal portion of that vast labyrinth of peaks, valleys and plateaux scrawled across the map of Asia.
In climate alone there is an extraordinary variety. From hot steamy tropical valleys, filled with luxuriant vegetation, it is but a few horizontal miles to zero temperatures and the highest snows in the world. Between these two extremes is an immense range of climate, the common despot of which is a fierce sun. Added to the complexities of climate due to height alone is the added complexity of seasonal weather fluctuations, due directly or indirectly to the influence of the monsoons and weather conditions emanating from the plateaux of Central Asia.
Racial characteristics are as diversified as the climate. From the people of Hunza and Chitral to the Sherpas and Bhotias of Northern Nepal, the almost extinct Lepchas of Sikkim and the wild races of Bhutan, the Himalaya can show many different types, for they form a natural frontier between India and Tibet, and a pudding-bowl wherein is stirred a mixture of Mongolian and Indian blood.
Politically, only a comparatively small portion of the Himalaya is accessible to the mountaineer and explorer. Democracy is unknown in Tibet and Nepal, and both these countries have closed their frontiers to Europeans and resolutely set themselves against infiltration of European thought and ideas. Some of the finest peaks of the Himalaya lie within the borders of Nepal, including the southern side of Everest, 29,140 feet, Dhaulagiri, 26,795 feet, Gosainthan (Shisha Pangma), 26,305 feet, and many other great peaks. In addition there are other districts where the mountaineer is not always welcomed, owing to political and other objections. The three most interesting districts accessible to mountaineers and explorers are the Karakorams, the Kumaun and Garhwal Himalaya and the Sikkim Himalaya, including the eastern side of Kangchenjunga, and it is in these three districts that the most notable mountaineering expeditions have been carried out, with the exception of Everest (now barred politically) and the northern side of Nanga Parba (forbidden territory to expeditions at present). Each of these districts is magnificent in its own way. In the Karakoram there is no glacier to rival in grandeur the Baltoro, and no peaks surpassing in ferocity the terrific ice- armoured spires dominated by K2 (Mount Godwin Austin), 28,187 feet. From the Kumaun Himalaya rises Nanda Devi, 25,645 feet; the highest peak entirely within the confines of the British Empire, a mountain so difficult to approach that no one has yet succeeded in treading the glaciers at the foot of it, whilst Kamet, 25,447 feet, dominates the ranges of Northern Garhwal. In Sikkim, Kangchenjunga boasts the most wonderful snow and ice scenery in the Himalaya, owing to its exposure to the moisture-laden airs of the monsoon. It has defeated three determined attempts to climb it, in 1929, 1930 and 1931 by mountaineers well versed in the technique of high-altitude mountaineering. The highest point reached was 26,000 feet, by the gallant Bavarian expedition in 1931 and that only after incredible difficulty.*
Geologically, the Himalaya are a young mountain range, due to an uplift of the ancient seabed covering Central Asia. This uplift took place so slowly that rivers such as the Indus and the Brahmaputra, which have their sources to the north of the Himalaya, have been able to carve their way through the range as it rose. This is the only explanation that can account for the deep valleys cutting through from Tibet to India.
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(Extracted from The Great Himalayan Ascents by Frank S. Smythe. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025.)
About the Book
Frank S. Smythe (1900-1949) was one of the greatest mountaineers of the twentieth century, and a celebrated memoirist and adventure writer. This collection brings together three accounts of Smythe’s most thrilling ascents in the Himalayas—The Kangchenjunga Adventure, Kamet Conquered and Camp Six.
The Kangchenjunga Adventure narrates in detail the 1930 expedition to climb the third-highest mountain in the world: how Smythe, as part of an international team of mountaineers, attempts to reach the summit of Kangchenjunga, before a deadly avalanche—which kills one of the Sherpas— forces them to change course and scale the Jonsong Peak instead. In Kamet Conquered, Smythe makes a successful bid at ascending Mount Kamet in 1931, which was at that time still unscaled. On their way back, Smythe and his team chance upon the spectacular and colourful Bhyundar Valley, which they christen the ‘Valley of Flowers’, and which is now a National Park. Camp Six recounts a gripping adventure on the world’s highest mountain—the 1933 Everest Expedition, in which Smythe, climbing alone, ascends to a point higher than any human had reached before. Made without ropes or oxygen to support him, and in terrible snow conditions, the climb is regarded as one of the greatest endeavours in the history of mountaineering.
This majestic omnibus edition offers a fascinating window into early mountain climbing and Himalayan exploration. It is also a rare treat for every lover of fine, entertaining writing.
About the Author
Frank Sydney Smythe was a British mountaineer, botanist and adventurer. Smythe, who began his mountaineering career in the Alps, joined the international Kangchenjunga expedition of 1930 which ended in failure. In 1936, he led the expedition which successfully ascended Mount Kamet, then the highest peak ever to have been climbed. Subsequently, in the 1930s, Smythe was thrice part of teams which attempted to climb Mount Everest. An accomplished photographer and a prolific writer, Smythe wrote twenty-seven books in all, the best known among which are The Kangchenjunga Adventure, Kamet Conquered and Adventures of a Mountaineer. Smythe died in 1949.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Borderless Journal started on March, 14, 2020. When the mayhem of the pandemic had just set in, we started as a daily with half-a-dozen posts. Having built a small core of writings by July, 2020, we swung to become a monthly. And we still continue to waft and grow…
Art by Sohana Manzoor
We like to imagine ourselves as floating on clouds and therefore of the whole universe. Our team members are from multiple geographies and we request not to be tied down to a single, confined, bordered land. We would welcome aliens if they submitted to us from another galaxy…
On our Fifth Anniversary, we have collected celebratory greetings from writers and readers stretched across the world who share their experience of the journal with you and offer suggestions for the future. We conclude with words from some of the team, including my own observations on being part of this journey.
Aruna Chakravarti
Heartiest congratulations to Borderless on the occasion of its fifth anniversary! Borderless, an international journal, has the distinction of carrying contributions from many eminent writers from around the world. From its initiation in 2020, it has moved from strength to strength under the sensitive and skillful steering of its team. Today it is considered one of the finest journals of its kind. I feel privileged to have been associated with Borderless from its very inception and have contributed substantially to it. I wish to thank the team for including my work in their distinguished journal. May Borderless move meaningfully towards the future and rise to greater and greater heights! I wish it every success.
Professor Fakrul Alam
Five years ago, when Borderless set out on its literary voyage, who would have imagined the length and breadth of its imaginative crossings in this span of time? The evidence, however, is digitally there for any reader who has seen at least some of its issues. Creative writing spanning all genres, vivid illustrations, instant links giving resolute readers the option to track a contributor’s creative voyaging—here is boundless space always opening up for those seeking writing of considerable variety as well as originality. The best part here is that unlike name-brand journals, which will entice readers with limited access and then restrict their spaces unless you subscribe to them, all of Borderless is still accessible for us even though it has attracted a wide readership in five years. I certainly hope it will stay that way.
And what lies ahead for Borderless? Surely, more opportunities for the creative to articulate their deepest thoughts and feelings in virtual and seemingly infinite space, and innumerable avenues for readers to access easily. And let us hope, in the years to come Borderless will extend itself to newer frontiers of writing and will continue to keep giving space to new as well as emerging writers from our parts of the world.
May the team of Borderless, continue to live up to their claim that “there are no boundaries to human imagination and thought!”
Radha Chakravarty
Since its inception, Borderless Journal has remained true to its name, offering a vital literary space for writers, artists and scholars from around the world to engage in creative dialogue about their shared vision of a world without borders. Congratulations Borderless, and may your dream of global harmony continue to inspire.
Somdatta Mandal
According to the famous Chicana academic and theorist Gloria Anzaldua, the Borderlands are physically present wherever two or more cultures edge each other, where peopIe of different races occupy the same territory, where under, lower, middle and upper classes touch, where the space between two individuals shrinks with intimacy. Hatred, anger and exploitation are the prominent features of this landscape. There, at the juncture of cultures, languages cross-pollinate and are revitalized; they die and are born. Borders are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish us from them. A border is a dividing line, a narrow strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in a constant state of transition. The prohibited and forbidden are its inhabitants.
About five years ago, when a new online journal aptly called Borderless Journal was launched, these ideas which we had been teaching for so long were simply no longer applicable. Doing away with differences, with limits, it became a suitable platform where disparate cultures met, where people from all disciplines could express their views through different genres, be it poetry, translation, reviews, scholarly articles, creative writing and so on. Many new writers from different parts of the world became regular contributors to this unique experimentation with ‘borderlessness’ and its immense possibilities are very apt in this present global context where social media has already changed many earlier notions of scholarship, journalism, and creativity.
Jared Carter
In its first five years Borderless has become an important witness for international peace and understanding. It has encouraged submissions from writers in English based in many different countries, and has offered significant works translated from a wide range of national literatures. Its pages have featured writers based in India, Pakistan, China, Taiwan, Japan, South Korea, Australia, the UK, and the US. In the future, given the current level of world turmoil, Borderless might well consider looking more closely toward Africa and the Middle East. As the magazine continues to promote writing focused on international peace and freedom, new horizons beckon.
Teresa Rehman
The best part of this journal is that it is seamless and knows no margins or fringes. It is truly global as it has cut across geographical borders and has sculpted a novel literary genre called the ‘borderless’. It has climbed the mountains of Nepal, composed songs on the Brahmaputra in Assam, explored the hidden kingdom of Bhutan, walked on the streets of Dhaka, explored the wreckage of cyclones in Odisha, been on a cycling adventure from Malaysia to Kashmir, explored a scenic village in the Indo-China border, taken readers on a journey of making a Japanese-Malayalam dictionary, gave a first-hand account of the war in Bosnia-Herzegovina and described the syncretic culture of Bengal through its folk music and oral traditions. I hope it continues telling the untold and unchartered stories across mountains, oceans and forests.
Kirpal Singh
In a world increasingly tending towards misunderstandings across borders, this wholesome journal provides a healthy space both for diverse as well as unifying visions of our humanity. As we celebrate five distinguished years of Borderless Journal, we also look forward to another five years of such to ensure the underlying vision remains viable and visible as well as authentic and accurate.
My heartfelt Congratulations to all associated with this delightful and impressive enterprise!
Asad Latif
The proliferation of ethnic geographies of identity — Muslim/Arab, Hindu/Indian, Christian/Western, and so on — represents a threat to anything that might be called universal history. The separation and parcelling out of identities, as if they are pre-ordained, goes against the very idea (proclaimed by Edward Said) that, just as men and women create their own history, they can recreate it. Borders within the mind reflect borders outside it. Both borders resist the recreation of history. While physical borders are necessary, mental borders are not. This journal does an admirable job in erasing borders of the mind. Long may it continue to do so.
Anuradha Kumar
I have been one of Borderless’ many readers ever since its first issue appeared five years ago. Like many others, I look forward with great anticipation to every issue, complete with stories, , reviews, poems, translations, complemented with interesting artwork.
Borderless has truly lived up to its name. Within its portal, people, regardless of borders, but bound by common love for literature, and the world’s heritage, come together. I would wish for Borderless to scale even greater heights in the future. As a reader, I would very much like to read more writers from the ‘Global South’, especially in translation. Africa, Asia and Australasia are host to diverse languages, many in danger of getting lost. Perhaps Borderless could take a lead in showcasing writers from these languages to the world. That would be such an invaluable service to readers, and the world too.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
To me, Borderless Journal is a completely free and open space. Topics and styles are never limiting, and the various writers explore everything from personal travelogues to the limp of a helpful druggist. Writers from all corners of the globe contribute, offering a plethora of unique voices from countless circumstances and walks of life. Because of this openness, Borderless Journal can, and likely will continue to grow and expand in many directions simultaneously. Curating and including many new voices along the way. Happy 5th Birthday to a truly original and wonderfully eclectic journal!
George Freek
I feel the Borderless Journal fills a special spot in the publishing world. Unlike many journals, which profess to be open-minded and have no preference for any particular style of poetry, Borderless actually strives to be eclectic. Naturally, it has its own tastes, and yet truly tries to represent the broad spectrum which is contemporary poetry. I have no advice as to where it should go. I can only say keep up the good work, and stooping to a cliche, if it’s not broken, why try to fix it?
Farouk Gulsara
They say time flies when one is having fun. It sure does when a publication we love regularly churns out its issues, month after month, for five years now.
In the post-truth world, where everybody wants to exert their exclusivity and try to find ways to be different from the person standing next to them, Borderless gives a breath of fresh air. At a time when neighboring countries are telling the world they do not share a common history, Borderless tries to show their shared heritage. We may have different mothers and fathers but are all but “ONE”!
We show the same fear found in the thunderous sounds of a growling tiger. We spill the exact hue of blood with the same pain when our skin is breached. Yet we say, “My pain is more intense than yours, and my blood is more precious.” Somehow, we find solace in playing victimhood. We have lost that mindfulness. One should appreciate freedom just as much as we realise it is fragile. Terrorism and fighting for freedom could just be opposing sides of the same coin.
There is no such thing as a just war or the mother of all wars to end all wars as it has been sold to us. One form of aggression is the beginning of many never-ending clashes. Collateral damage cannot be justified. There can be no excuse to destroy generations of human discoveries and turn back the clock to the Stone Age.
All our hands are tainted with guilt. Nevertheless, each day is another new day to make that change. We can all sing to the tune of the official 2014 World Cup song, ‘Ola Ola,’ which means ‘We are One.’ This is like how we all get together for a whole month to immerse ourselves in the world’s favourite sport. We could also reminisce about when the world got together to feed starving kids in Africa via ‘Band-Aid’ and ‘We Are the World’. Borderless is paving the way. Happy Anniversary!
Ihlwha Choi
I sincerely congratulate Borderless Journal on its 5th anniversary. I am always delighted and grateful for the precious opportunity to publish my poetry in English through this journal. I would like to extend my special thanks for this.
Through this journal, I can read a variety of literary works—including poetry, essays, and prose—from writers around the world. As someone for whom English is a foreign language, it has also been a valuable resource for improving my English skills. I especially enjoy the frequent features on Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry, which I read with great joy. Tagore is one of my favourite poets.
I have had the privilege of visiting Santiniketan three times to trace his legacy and honor his contributions to literature and education. However, one aspect I find a little disappointing is that, despite having published over 30 poems, I have yet to receive any feedback from readers or fellow writers. It would be wonderful to have such an opportunity for engagement.
Additionally, last October, a Korean woman received the Nobel Prize in Literature—the first time an author from South Korea has been awarded this honor by the Swedish Academy. She is not only an outstanding novelist but also a poet. I searched for articles about her in Borderless Journal but was unable to find any. Of course, I understand that this is not strictly a literary newspaper, but I would have been delighted to see a feature on her.
I also feel honoured that one of my poems was included in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World. I hope such anthologies will continue to be published. In fact, I wonder if it would be possible to compile and publish collections featuring several poems from contributing poets. If these were made available on Amazon, it would be a fulfilling experience for poets to reach a broader audience.
Moving forward, I hope Borderless Journal will continue to reach readers worldwide, beyond Asia, and contribute to fostering love and peace. Thank you.
Prithvijeet Sinha
The journey of authorship, self-expression and cultural exchange that I personally associate with Borderless Journal’s always diverse archives has remained a touchstone ever since this doorway opened itself to the world in 2020. Going against the ramshackle moods of the 2020s as an era defined by scepticism and distances, The journal has upheld a principled literary worldview close to the its pages and made sure that voices of every hue gets representation. It’s also an enterprise that consistently delivers in terms of goodwill and innocence, two rare traits which are in plenteous supply in the poems, travelogues, essays and musings presented here.
The journey with Borderless has united this writer with many fascinating, strikingly original auteurs, buoyed by a love for words and expression. It is only destined for greatness ahead. Happy Birthday Borderless! Here’s to 50 more epochs.
From Our Team
Bhaskar Parichha
As Borderless Journal celebrates its fifth anniversary, it is inspiring to see its evolution into a distinguished platform for discourse and exploration. Over the years, it has carved a unique niche in contemporary journalism, consistently delivering enlightening and engaging content. The journal features a variety of sections, including in-depth articles, insightful essays, and thought-provoking interviews, reflecting a commitment to quality and fostering dialogue on pressing global issues. The diverse contributions enrich readers’ understanding of complex topics, with a particular focus on climate change, which is especially relevant today. By prioritising this critical issue, Borderless informs and encourages engagement with urgent realities. Having been involved since its inception, I am continually impressed by the journal’s passion and adaptability in a changing media landscape. As we celebrate this milestone, I wish Borderless continued success as a beacon of knowledge and thoughtful discourse, inspiring readers and contributors alike.
Devraj Singh Kalsi
Borderless Journal has a sharp focus on good writing in multiple genres and offers readable prose. The platform is inclusive and does not carry any slant, offering space to divergent opinions and celebrating free expression. By choosing not to restrict to any kind of ism, the literary platform has built a strong foundation in just five years since inception. New, emerging voices – driven by the passion to write fearlessly – find it the ideal home. In a world where writing often gets commercialised and compromised, Borderless Journal is gaining strength, credibility, and wide readership. It is making a global impact by giving shape to the dreams of legendary poets who believed the world is one.
Rakhi Dalal
My heartiest congratulations to Borderless and the entire team on the fifth Anniversary of its inception. The journal which began with the idea of letting writing and ideas transcend borders, has notably been acting as a bridge to make this world a more interconnected place. It offers a space to share human experiences across cultures, to create a sense of connection and hence compassion, which people of this world, now more distraught than ever, are sorely in need of. I am delighted to have been a part of this journey. My best wishes. May it continue to sail through time, navigating languages, literature and rising above barriers!
Keith Lyons
Is it really five years since Borderless Journal started? It seems hard to believe.
My index finger scrolls through Messenger chats with the editor — till they end in 2022. On the website, I find 123 results under my name. Still no luck. Eventually, in my ‘Sent’ box I find my first submission, emailed with high hopes (and low expectations) in March 2020. ‘Countdown to Lockdown’ was about my early 2020 journey from India through Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Australia to New Zealand as COVID-19 spread.
Just like that long, insightful trip, my involvement with Borderless Journal has been a journey. Three unique characteristics stand out for me.
The first is its openness and inclusiveness. It features writers from all over the globe, with various contributions across a wide range of topics, treatments and formats.
The second feature of the journal is its phenomenal growth, both in readers and writers, and in its reach. Borderless really does ‘walk the talk’ on breaking down barriers. It is no longer just a humble literary journal — it is so much bigger than that.
The third unique aspect of Borderless is the devotion endowed in nurturing the journal and its contributors. I love the way each and every issue is conceived, curated, and crafted together, making tangible the aspiration ‘of uniting diverse voices and cultures, and finding commonality in the process.’
So where can we go from here? One constant in this world is change. I’d like to think that having survived a global pandemic, economic recession, and troubling times, that the core values of Borderless Journal will continue to see it grow and evolve. For never has there been a greater need to hear the voices of others to discover that we are all deeply connected.
Rhys Hughes
I have two different sets of feelings about Borderless Journal. I think the journal does an excellent job of showcasing work from many different countries and cultures. I want to say it’s an oasis of pleasing words and images in a troubled sea of chaos, but that would be mixing my metaphors improperly. Not a troubled sea of chaos but a desert of seemingly shifting values. And here is the oasis, Borderless Journal, where one can find secure ideals of liberty, tolerance, peace and internationalism. I appreciate this very much. As for my other set of feelings, I am always happy to be published in the journal, and in fact I probably would have given up writing poetry two years ago if it wasn’t for the encouragement provided to me by regular publication in the journal. I have written many poems especially for Borderless. They wouldn’t exist if Borderless didn’t exist. Therefore I am grateful on a personal level, as a writer as well as a reader.
Where can Borderless Journal go from here? This is a much harder question to answer. I feel that traditional reading culture is fading away year after year. Poets write poetry but few people buy poetry books. They can read poems at Borderless for free and that is a great advantage. I would like to see more short stories, maybe including elements of fantasy and speculative fiction. But I have no strategic vision for the future of the journal. However, one project I would like to try one day is some sort of collaborative work, maybe a big poem with lots of contributors following specific rules. It’s an idea anyway!
Meenakshi Malhotra
Borderless started with a vision of transcending the shadow lines and has over time, evolved into a platform where good writing from many parts of the world finds a space , where as “imagination bodies forth/ The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen/Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing/A local habitation and a name.”
It has been a privilege to be a part of Borderless’s journey over the last few years. It was a journey based on an idea and a vision. That dream of creating solidarity, of transcending and soaring over borders and boundaries, is evident in almost every page and article in the journal.
Mitali Chakravarty
Looking at all these responses, thinking on what everyone has said, I am left feeling overwhelmed.
Borderless started as a whimsical figment of the imagination… an attempt to bring together humanity with the commonality of felt emotions, to redefine literary norms which had assumed a darker hue in the post Bloomsbury, post existentialist world. The journal tried to invoke humour to brings smiles, joys to create a sense of camaraderie propelling people out of depression towards a more inclusive world, where laughter brings resilience and courage. It hoped to weave an awareness that all humans have the same needs, dreams and feelings despite the multiple borders drawn by history, geographies, academia and many other systems imagined by humans strewn over time.
Going forward, I would like to take up what Harari suggests in Homo Deus — that ideas need to generate a change in the actions of humankind to make an impact. Borderless should hope to be one of the crucibles containing ideas to impact the move towards a more wholesome world, perhaps by redefining some of the current accepted norms. Some might find such an idea absurd, but without the guts to act on impractical dreams, visions and ideas, we might have gone extinct in a post-dino Earth.
I thank the fabulous team, the wonderful writers and readers whose participation in the journal, or in engaging with it, enhances the hope of ringing in a new world for the future of our progeny.
Ratnottama Sengupta writes she does not junk all the old Calendars and Diaries…
The dawn of every New Year brings with it the need for a new calendar and a couple of new diaries. So, wholesale markets in every major city on the map flourishes with these items in every shape and size. In the years of my growing up, a government organisation calendar, with only the dates and simply no illustration, was routine. Forget 12 images for as many months, even half that number was a rarity. This, even though in the previous decades Raja Ravi Varma’s [1] evocation of Saraswati, Shakuntala, Nala Damayanti or Lady with a Lemon, were coveted adornment for the walls. In certain instances, these images were individually dressed up with sequins and pearls too! Oleographs and mechanical reproductions had, by this time, won past hand paintings that once covered the mud-plastered walls with stories of Ram-Sita Vivaha[2], among others.
Calendars by Raja Ravi Varma (1848-1906). Photos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
Since the turn of this century, which saw dealings in art skyrocket, galleries have made it a custom to bring out calendars on either a theme that’s tackled by a number of artists, or on works by one chosen artist. Simultaneously artists themselves became proactive in bringing out calendars sporting images of their own work. These are not driven so much with the need to publicise their creativity as to lend a personal touch to the annual give and take of ‘Season’s Greetings’.
I particularly cherish the textile scrolls published annually as calendar by my friend Subrata Bhowmik, one of India’s leading graphic designers. This ‘Design Guru’ has eighteen awards from the President for accomplishments in textiles, publications, advertisement, photography and craft communication. He was motivated to do these calendars in order to share what he learnt in Switzerland as also from his experience in the Calico Museum of Ahmedabad. And they spread a deep understanding of the contextual framework of design in the real world. I still cherish one such tapestry designed with Ajanta style beauties, though the year rang out seven years ago.
My friend Jayasree Burman’s desk calendar with detailed images of Laxmi Saraswati or Durga have, likewise, remained in my collection years past their expiry dates. Sohini Dhar used to regularly commemorate the memory of husband Ramlal Dhar with images of his landscape that shared pages with her own Bara Maasa, miniature style narration of the seasons. Ajay De’s limited-edition calendar published by Art and Soul gallery this January is in line with this custom.
Photos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
The passion in Ajay’s charcoal paintings of bulls and the stamina of his stallions bring to mind the energy of Assam’s wild boars that Shyam Kanu Borthakur familiarised; the vitality of the horses Sunil Das studied in Kolkata’s stables; the vigour of Husain’s much auctioned equines; even the animation of Paris-based Shahabuddin’s abstractions. However, the amazing vibrancy of Ajay’s treatment of a black and white palette acquires a touch of magic, with a red dot here or a wash of yellow there. And when he places the charging bull against a wall dripping the salsa red of blood, I recall the vivacity of a ‘Bull Fight’ that I had a chance to witness in Southern France a quarter century ago – before its forceful evocation in Pedro Almodovar’s Talk To Her (2002).
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Prabal Chand Boral, as his name suggests, boasts kinship with Raichand Boral, a pioneer of Indian film music in 1940s. Not surprising that Prabal oftentimes breaks into songs on the terrace of his Kolkata home. Every Durga Puja finds him dancing with earthen dhunuchi[3]. And his diurnal routine finds him painting. Sketching. Outlining. Portraits. Flowers. Supernatural creatures. Illusive figures. Capricious forms. He creates videos to involve attentive viewers. And every year, out of his own pocket he brings out a wall calendar for private collection. “An artist craves to express himself in so many ways,” he told me last year when his calendar had sported six portraits in his signature style.
Thakurmar Jhuli (1907). From Public DomainDakshina Ranjan Mitra Majumdar’s illustration. Provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
This year Prabal pays an ode to Thakurmar Jhuli (Grandma’s Satchel). Written in 1907 – year 1314 of Bengali calendar — by Dakshina Ranjan Mitra Majumdar this landmark in Bengal’s pre-Independence literature compiles stories that have been orally handed down from one generation to another in the villages and backwaters of undivided Bengal. This was in the manner of the Brothers Grimm who wrote and modified Germanic and Scandinavian tales that have been translated, like Hans Christian Andersen, into every language spoken in the world. In the process they embedded in the collective consciousness of the West lessons of virtue and resilience in the face of adversity.
Much like them Dakshina Ranjan had gone around mechanically recording the tales of Lalkamal Neelkamal, Buddhu Bhutum, Dalim Kumar and Byangoma Byangomi. When first published, Nobel Laureate Rabindranath had written the foreword because he felt that publication of these legends was a need of the hour in order to counter the sense that only the European rulers had fairies, elves and ogres, imaginary beings with magical powers, to entertain and educate their young. Educate? Yes, because the dark and scary beings, even when they did not metamorphose like the Frog Prince, were metaphors for a state where the victim, though less powerful, always overcame the tormentor. Not only children and young adults but grown-ups too liked the stories that broke down the boundaries of time and culture. They encouraged and even emboldened the readers to look for wonder in their own lives.
Prabal had long cherished the desire to reinterpret the illustrations by Dakshina Ranjan himself. He has brought this to fruition with a touch of his own imagination. The result might not be a fairy tale – read, decorative – but none can deny the originality of this calendar.
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I have personally felt happy to write for a diary – rather, a notebook – that has been published by Nostalgia Colours, a Kolkata based gallery that holds an annual exhibition in other metros of India. A number of the 17 exhibited artists are no longer with us in existential terms. K G Subrmanian, Paritosh Sen, Suhas Roy, Sunil Das, Robin Mondal, Prakash Karmakar — they do not eat-drink-chat with us across the dining table as they once did. Or as Anjolie Ela Menon, Jogen Chowdhury, Ganesh Haloi, Subrata Gangopadhyay and Prabhakar Kolte still do. But their watercolours and gouaches, contes and temperas continue to bring us as much pleasure as when these majors of art signed off their canvases. Only our viewing now is tinged with a certain sadness at the thought that they will no longer add new dimensions to Indian contemporary art scene with their thoughts, their arguments and their palette.
This precisely is what heightens the joy of an undated notebook richly decorated with aesthetic reproductions of not six or twelve but 52 works of art.
A thing of beauty, be it a calendar, a diary or a notebook, is joy forever. Raja Ravi Varma (1848-1906) can vouch for that.
.
[1] Raja Ravi Varma, an artist from the nineteenth century who mingled Indian and European styles
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 write 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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Young lamas, or monks, appearing for their annual examinations in the monsatry of Simtokha Dzong, Thimphu.
Bhutan, 2024
The sun sets far too quickly for my liking in Phuentsoling. There is little to no entertainment to speak of that is worth its name. The town, by and large, presents itself in its entirety and goes to bed by the time my friend, S, and I crisscross our way to our hotel uphill. It does not help that we enter Bhutanese soil on its National Day, celebrated to mark the coronation of their first king Ugyen Wangchuk in 1907, and find most places of public convenience closed.
The stark contrast that the Indian border town of Jaigaon offers to its Bhutanese counterpart Phuentsoling is remarkable. The lack of men — and their wherewithal — on crossing the north-eastern frontier is welcome, as is the steep upkeep that the Himalayan kingdom pushes upon its citizens.
*
The Phuentsoling-Thimphu highway has improved by leaps and bounds since Queen Mother Ashi Dorji Wangmo Wangchuck made her initial foray into the hills of Kalimpong from the village of Nobgang in the 70s. I try my best to spot a mule — or its track — but am left disappointed by the presence of a modern-day state-of-the-art business college in Gedu[1] instead.
The lower reaches of the Himalayas that surround us to the east act as forbidding barriers into the hidden crevices of the hidden kingdom we are attempting to climb in a motor vehicle, the likes of which were first seen in this country in the 1980s. The light — of which I had been so painfully deprived in Phuentsoling — seeps in with zeal I have seldom seen in the plains of the Deccan, and the lifeblood that flows inside me is roused enough to taste the incandescent flavours of kewa datsi[2]with red rice. And before I know it, a lifelong love affair has begun with this enticing dish.
*
We are welcomed into Bhutan proper only after arriving in Thimphu the next day, or so it seems. The capital city of this virgin kingdom has evolved significantly from Pico Iyer’s assumptions in 1989 that all of it could be explored over the course of an afternoon. That the Druk Hotel in which the legendary essayist stayed remains steadfast beyond the clocktower that shows no change of hands is a testament to the art of stillness that the Bhutanese so pride themselves upon; at 11 AM on a weekday at a laundromat not far from the main street hangs a signboard proclaiming, ‘closed for lunch.’ Iyer is not too far off the mark even thirty-five years later.
That the people smile easily takes me by surprise; I have seldom known a populace so unburdened by the weight of living that they have overtaken all their consternations and settled finally upon the art of being. Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuk, Bhutan’s present king, finds himself immortalised in pictures across every restaurant, hotel and store across the country.
The fervour seems, to me, all the more in Thimphu, where the local masses try to outdo their neighbours in anticipation of the gentle 44-year-old stepping out of the Tashicho Dzong grounds (his palace) to inspect these pictures and possibly reward their owners for their loyalty. I suspect this ardour stems as much from devotion to their ‘living God’ as to the fear of missing out or merely keeping up with the Joneses — or Wangchucks. Some modern predicaments seem to have crept into Druk after all.
It is not without these frailties that one’s mornings in Thimphu are strewed. Gather and scatter, as the bard Vikram Seth[3] was wont to have mentioned, applies less to the hounding of the dogs mid-street all night than to the karaoke bars that pride themselves on staying open when the rest of the world sleeps.
Had Nehru not arrived in Paro from Nathu La in 1958 on the back of a yak, this journey would have seemed almost romantic to that of the least fatalistic of Indian prime ministers. It is not known whether the venerable freedom fighter from Allahabad shared any of his midnight oil burning advice with the Bhutanese during his state visit; it appears for certain that the karaoke bars sprung up like mushrooms much later and took his guiding directions to heart.
*
If it is not the baying of the foolhardy dogs, it is the crowing of the late-night suppliers at the fifty shops selling similar products on the Thimphu main street that keeps me — and my journalistic tendencies — awake. Onitsuka Tiger [4]rubs shoulders with Adidas Samba[5] with a glee that one forsakes in favour of the warmth that a bowl of tofu thukpa[6]offers; before long, a handsome policeman in his impeccable uniform including a heartening jacket and betel-stained teeth joins me for a cup of tea. He has just finished his duty of acting as the traffic signal in a city that has no traffic signals.
With the precision best described as that of mimicking an archer — of whose credulity there is a lot in Bhutan — my newfound friend diverts the few cars that choose to make the hike into Thimphu’s central business district on this cold night. He tells me about how gently the tea goes with the thukpa I have with me, all while seated on the plank of a wooden crate left behind by the Adidas doppelgangers.
A plate of momos — beef for him, and cabbage for me — soon arrives from Kinley Tsering, a lady who sells home-cooked food at night after tending to her household all day to augment the family income. In a horror mixed with incomprehension of protocol, my friend in livery whips out his wallet to pay; I am stunned by an act I have never seen uniform-clad men do in the past. The temperature plunges to minus six degrees Celsius as I walk back with the numbing, tear-inducing breeze on my face. I feel exhilarated.
*
The Paro airport is considered to be one of the most dangerous places in the world to land in.
Paro[7], imperious, meek and all-abiding, comes too soon and whisks away any perceptible delight that one feels at having escaped the wrath that Thimphu denotes upon those who cannot see. The dzong, located several miles outside of town, is the only real attraction besides the museum on the way down; modern tourists — and locals besides — tend to find enjoyment in climbing up the steep hillocks to gain a view of a Druk Airplane taking flight from what is considered to be among the most dangerous airports in the world. Back on the main strip that connects this valley to Chuyul in the north, dinner consists of dried ema (Bhutanese chilli), vegetables and rice, with accompaniments of dumplings.
The Taktsang Lakhang[8] stands upright on the shoulder of a cliff the next day; I am perplexed as to how I could be so close as to see the finer details of its inner sanctum in my mind yet far enough to appreciate the impossible angle at which it is perched. The monastery, which had dominated so many of my dreams about Bhutan in the past, is often referred to as the ‘Tiger’s Nest’ by the West. It takes its name from a spot allegedly visited by the Indian guru, Padmasambhava[9], on the back of a mythical flying tiger in the eighth century to flay a demoness who was tormenting the locals of the area.
The Taktsang LakhangSunset at Taktsang Lakhang
The climb is demanding, but the panoramic views of the valley to the east make it seem less so. The ardour of the fellow pilgrim is contagious enough for me to push past the mental barriers I have erected for myself without even trying, and before I know it, we are at the halfway point where the government has been kind enough to let an eatery ply its trade. The Local Train’s Vaaqif[10] accompanies us as Taktsang appears all the more closer, and all the more dangerous.
The ascent, dusty and translucent though it is due to the lack of rain for several months, troubles me with its penchant for nonchalance. I loathe to fall into the reverie that takes me over every minute while glimpsing at a branch of the hundred-year-old rhododendron that has stood firm while men have grappled past their anxieties. I awaken soon enough with the realisation that my worries and physical ailments may seem impotent to the staunch Buddhist who makes the six-kilometre hike to the monastery by prostrating himself full-length, getting up and repeating the feat till he gets to the top a week after he has begun.
The top is still way off from where one reaches the monastery proper. Perched dangerously on the edge of this cliff, the monastery virtually hangs into oblivion attracting gusts of wind, who somehow choose not to play to the gallery. Yet, it has survived for centuries, and if faith were one’s sole determinator, it shall survive for several more. The inside has temples dedicated to Padmasambhava in his various forms: astounded, wrathful and compassionate.
Propitiating the gods — and as an extension, their other halves, the demons — is commonplace in Bhutan, and the same holds for ParoTaktsang. While the inordinate thangkas[11] and artefacts collected over the years provide the inner sanctum sanctorum of the monastery with its sheen, it is the historical hostility that the local deities have displayed towards demons that make it eerily attractive. Indeed, folk tales observe that several local, protective deities were demons won over by the Buddhist dharma when Padmasambhava arrived on the back of his mythical tiger.
And so it is that I find myself in the dark, indistinct crevices of the cliff on which the monastery proper is located but beneath which is the original Tiger’s Nest which the Bhutanese claim to have a pug mark of Padmasambhava’s beast. The descent into the darkness, almost as if plunging into the unknown, requires one to be on his back and flatten himself along the rocks to reach the acute angle where the pug mark is located.
A lonely candle blows in this unventilated corner of the cliff, and only a sliver of light to the east remains to remind me of the vast world outside, that which I have forsaken to witness this tiny fraction of hope at Taktsang. This hope flutters unabated, almost as if without any beginning or end, and for a moment, I am suspended in the brilliant sunshine overlooking a valley fit for the heroic landscapes I so fervently pursue. Might this be the only time when I forsake my attachment to life in search of a glorious future, real or imagined?
There is no end to the ruminations that I have while being assailed by the light that peeps in almost as if it is too shy to ask for permission. The way out may be more difficult than the way in — as in life — but how do I respond to the call I have heard inside, the one that compels me to sing the songs of my fathers in the temples of my gods?
The thought strikes with a speed I had not known I possessed until I see the boulder above me swerve in its position in a quarter of a millisecond; with an equal lack of precision and comfort, I come out of the cave, for all the world a dishevelled a youth with an abrasive attitude towards the world, but in my own estimation, a changed man. I did not need new eyes, but merely a new way of seeing.
*
The magnificent Punakha dzong is surrounded by the river Mo Chhu.
The dzong[12] of Punakha is a magnificent object of interest to lovers of history and architecture alike; straddled on an oasis that one must reach after crossing the timid-looking Mo Chhu River, it looms large into the thoughtful sunshine all the while immersed in a meditative calm that only its altitude has any makings of. Like all dzongs in Bhutan, the one in Punakha too is much more impressive from the outside. Tall, gaunt and imperial in its outlook, it acts more as a presence of the godly authority that the king and abbot enjoy in Bhutanese society, the former only matched in his regal bearing by the latter.
Even more impressive, if the word is right, is the suspension bridge that takes one across the river Po Chhu (the male consort of Mo Chhu) behind the dzong. There is little to look at but the other end as one sways with the wind — and the breeze is far too strong for my liking even at three in the afternoon here — while praying to the Gods, both Indian and Bhutanese, that the bridge does not give way and deposit me into the freezing waters of the river about three vertical kilometres below. The 160-metres bridge span seems more than a mile to me; awake finally at the reality of life slipping away from my grasp in the blink of an eye, I experience the innards of a fear that I thought I had buried deep inside myself.
For the entire time that I cross the bridge — and return — for there is nothing to see on the other side but an eatery that sells delightful ice cream, this fear flares in a bid to reignite my passions for a world I had once deeply cared for and strongly felt like changing. For all the lack of consideration that I display, either in terms of material or intangible riches, there is little that stays on par with this kind of fear, the one that reminds me at every step that I am virtually playing with my fate, and that everything I have with me, most perceptibly my heartbeat, could drown in a second if the heavens so choose. A strong gust of wind and I can finally sense what Matthiessen[13] meant when he wrote:
‘This is a fine chance to let go, to win my life by losing it…’
I am driven back to life when a local teenager rides across the heavily swaying bridge and into the sun — with the mildly flowering dandelions emitting a heady scent ideal for such gallant terrains, on his bicycle — too young to care about life’s intricacies, yet old enough to realise that everything one wants is on the other side of fear.
It is in such heroic landscapes that I change my stance towards the heavens; where I drink the water from the stream gurgling past the Po Chhu and gulp in the air that promises a revival of a dream seen long ago. Such dreams deserve their rightful places in a world shorn of temerity in a way that human emotions can seldom fathom. And yet the dandelions, by now competing with the rhododendrons that shall have to wait till spring, promise a tomorrow that may not get swayed by this incredible afternoon breeze.
*
When I wake up a month later in the arid plains of the Deccan, unsure if such dreams are still worth chasing — or life still worth living — I remember that the dandelions would soon be in bloom in the hidden kingdom I so arduously seek within myself.
The gently flowing Paro Chhu river makes one lie down beside it and do nothing.
[13] Peter Mattheissen (1927-2014) novelist, naturalist and CIA Agent
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.
Morning walks, or rather ambles, tiptoeing towards the rest of the day. One’s day gathers pace seemingly hour by hour after one wakes up, like a typical Bhairavi[1] performance in Indian classical music, starting slow and accelerating in tempo till the end. The world seems so tranquil in the morning; the Dhaka air smells so relatively fresh (how fresh depends of course on where you are!) at that time. I think indolently most days now (even before the alarm rings!), why not walk at an easy pace and even lazily at first, at least for a while, before picking up speed afterward?
It was not always thus with me; time was when I used to greet the morning impetuously. Like Donne in ‘The Sun Rising’[2], albeit sans a lover next to me, I would, once upon a time, feel like chiding the sun— “busy old fool, why disturb my sleep so? Why not light up some other world and break someone’s sleep in continents far, far away?” My mother, stirred by the call to prayer she always heard in her conscience (for those were days without alarms), would try to wake us up. Or she would scold and cajole us till my siblings and I would eventually arise, rubbing our eyes and getting up from bed for another schoolwork-filled day in practiced disbelief and simulated foot-dragging.
Mother would tell us of fabled early risers. “Take Rabi Thakur[3],” she would say, “never missed a sunrise!” Or formulaically, “Morning shows the day!” My father would do his bit: “Early to bed,” he would recite ritually, “and early to rise/ would make a man healthy, wealthy and wise!” But the man who made me take up morning walks seriously and regularly was my physician. Gravely, he said, while writing blood pressure pills for me when I was well past 50, “You must walk regularly too—half an hour every morning at least!” Setting out for my “prescribed” morning walks initially, I would think, “How boring! How slowly does the body warm up this way!” For someone who had played contact sports requiring a lot of running around/movement (basketball, football, cricket and tennis) for decades, walking was decidedly dull when I began to do the needful in my 50s. One missed the excitement and emotions generated when like-minded boys of all ages competed with each other intensely in games. But like everything else in life pursued regularly, walking soon became a habit for me. In no time it became an activity I began to like and even looked forward to. After all, morning walks, I soon found out, have their unique attractions.
Fuller Road Morning Walks
I was lucky that I first began to do my constitutionals on Fuller Road and the Mall part of the Dhaka University campus. The walks my doctor had prescribed soon began to feel pleasurable in the still lovely parts of the DU campus. How could I not like the early morning sights and sounds in that green and quiet world then? In spring and early summer flowering krishnachura, radhachura or jarul trees presented a visual feast even as mango blossoms and other flowers scented the air; the solitary cuckoo bird, at its most insistent in the early hours, too, was unforgettable. In the rainy season, everything looked lush green while the fragrance of kodom or kamini flowers suffused the air; in autumn, delicate sheuli blooms embellished mornings imperceptibly for us walkers.
Krishnachura treeRadhachura treeFrom Public Domain
February morning walks were made colourful by “early bird” couples all dressed up for the occasion of Bashanta Utshob[4] or Valentine’s Day dates. Ekushey February[5] and December 14[6]— Martyred Intellectuals Day—mornings, in contrast, were mournful occasions when walkers appeared touched by the solemnity of events they were heading towards. Eid days saw only scanty early morning traffic, but soon after seven in the morning, kurta-clad people could be seen rushing to the central mosque of the campus. But most days, Fuller Road mornings seemed to us walkers in sync with a relaxed, unhurried mode of existence.
Other scenes caught my attention during morning walks for often unusual reasons. The wild dogs of night would disappear in full light, but one would occasionally come across pack members intimidating one another or chasing solitary, skinny squirrels or stray cats who would fight back in their own fierce or wily ways. A not uncommon and sobering scene was that of a rickshawallah parked on the street, precariously perched on his seat, attempting to steal some sleep anyhow before heading for his next back-breaking assignment. Certain times of the year, the neighbourhood madman would attract one’s attention with his manic display. And not infrequently and sickeningly, one would encounter a bedraggled drug addict every now and then. Looking doped and possessed, his eyes turned away from prying gazes, he was inclined to slink away.
I, for my part, got addicted quickly to my early morning campus walks. There was the heady feeling of the fresh air charging up my veins; it was pleasurable too to walk with people with whom I could share the twists and turns of university politics and vent my indignation at the way campus politicking was vitiating the atmosphere day by day. And after 45 minutes of brisk walking and a quick shower, I had a healthy appetite and a mind relaxed for the day’s work.
Dhanmondi Morning Walks
In 2017, I moved to Dhanmondi to begin life in the city outside the DU campus after 20 or so years in it. One reason this seemed a fit place for retired life was the walkways edging the lakes, built thoughtfully for walkers, traversing Dhanmondi and winding their way through parks and open spaces. I felt in my mind in choosing a new flat, that this would be an ideal place for morning walks for people like me so dependent on constitutionals. I was not really disappointed by what I experienced in my Dhanmondi morning walks initially. We were surrounded by greenery. The water in most parts of the lake was reasonably clean and quite greenish blue; scattered bits of reflected sunlight here and there made the water even more attractive during the morning hours. If I was able to get up really early, I could watch the glowing sun ascend above Kalabagan from the road 32 bridge. One lucky day, I was even able to capture the crimson-daubed rising sun reflected in the placid lake water.
Unlike the Fuller Road-Mall areas of DU, the Dhanmondi lake walkways and the park areas fill up in no time at all with morning walkers. It was good to see people doing calisthenics in groups daily, or playing badminton (in winter and early spring). Occasionally, I came across a man or a woman on the mobile, rapt in intimate conversation, no doubt with a significant other with whom talking is essential even that early. All alone in my walks now, I, on the other hand, found early morning walks a good time to think about things or think through things—solitude is sometimes the best company! Ideas for papers I was writing or projects I hoped to undertake seemed to become clearer by the bend in my walks. And soon I discovered Dhaka FM radios that performed from 6 to 7 am with little or no commercial or smart-talking DJs intervening for long stretches and with music that synced with my Bhairavi mood.
But there are aspects of Dhanmondi life that make morning walks here much less relaxing than the Fuller Road ones—despite the lakeside ambiance and the abundance of greenery. The park becomes so crowded within half an hour or so of sunrise that a common experience is people jostle one another on the walkways after a while. The lake water is quite polluted in places; a common sight is the garbage littered in the lakeside or plastic bags floating on tucked away parts of the lake or even near bridges. Almost immediately after seven, never-ending honking and noxious fumes emitted by cars swarming to the main and neighbourhood roads to drop children to the innumerable schools of Dhanmondi can mar morning moods easily. Irritating, too, can be professional beggars placed strategically on walkways and on intersections. For instance, shortly after I start my walk every day from road 27, I encounter the conscience-clouding gaze of a beggar woman clad in a black burqa, peering at the passer-by purposefully, reminding one of the figures playing death in western medieval morality plays. And then there are the vendors lined up to sell food or this or that inside as well as outside the park. Truly, Dhanmondi is now an area where the line between the residential and commercial is close to disappearing. In many ways, Dhanmondi morning walks are nowhere near the ones I would set out for on almost always serene Fuller Road.
And yet I find much to like in my morning walks even now. Dhaka still appears a nice place to live at that time of the day. The morning breeze, if and when flowing, revives me. One morning recently, when I was walking by the lakeside where the palash flowers blazed against the greenery and the greenish blue lake water, I heard on my mobile FM radio lyrics of a song that said it all for me then: “Emon manob jibon ki hobe/Eto shundor prithibe te ki ar asha hobe?” (Will there be another life like this one/ Will I come back to another world as beautiful as this one?”)
[5] Mother tongue day. On 21/2/1952, the Bangladeshi movement started against the imposition of Urdu
[6] December 14 was observed as a Martyrs’ Day to commemorate the large number of Bangladeshi intellectuals killed during the Bangladesh Liberation War.
Based on Paul Gauguin’s life is a book by Somerset Maugham[1] called Moon and the Sixpence[2], a novel about a stockbroker who abandons his profession to become an artist. Gauguin[3] was a stockbroker turned artist, and Maugham was trained a physician but opted to write books and became a famed novelist. While earning a living as solely a writer has become increasingly difficult through the world unless you make it very big like JK Rowling[4], and therefore, most writers opt for being part time writers while holding full time jobs, we do have a few strange aberrations. One of them is Dr Kiriti Sengupta, who turned to publishing and poetry abandoning his profession — that of a dentist.
Kiriti Sengupta: Photo Courtesy: Bitan Chakraborty
He ran away from his home and started writing in a small, rented accommodation in 2011-2012. And now he writes, works as a director in one of India’s top upcoming publishing concerns, Hawakal, and rolls out poetry. Sengupta describes his former profession with, an underlined sense of irony, and perhaps with tongue-in-cheek humour:
I prefer patients who are edentulous. I dread a tooth will wrangle my expertise, and I’ll fail to make an impression. (Rituals, 2019)
Wisdom the third molar adds to the surgeon’s expertise (Oneness, 2024)
He writes about water and the environment:
Water has many colors, smudging pebbles along its path
(‘Spectrum’, Water has Many Colours, 2022)
Feed the earth water she flows in abundance. Allow the planet to breathe: the air is her consort. (‘Hibiscus’, Water has Many Colours, 2022)
He writes for and about women:
How many mujras dwell in a kotha ?
How many neonates hew to a bordello?
Like her admirers God is silent. In her sinews hides a hint of soil from the yard of courtesans.
*Mujras are courtesan’s song and dance performances *Kothas are brothels (‘When God is a Woman’, Rituals, 2019)
And yet critiques stances with a twisted questions:
You define women as Durga or Kali. Are you a believer? Are you being kind? You could have convinced them to fight the evil. Instead, when you imply the goddess, do you illustrate sisterhood with many limbs? Would you like men to act as Shiva—the destroyer?
(‘Primordial Learning’, Oneness, 2024)
Underlying all of Sengupta’s poetry, is a strong sense of irony which like a veil drapes words with double entendres. While the poems are layered, he dwells on human frailties too… like procrastination with a soupçon of sarcastic humour as in ‘From Being Late in Calcutta’ (Rituals):
As soon as you mark me I’ll talk about events that guide me to the records you maintain.
I’d say crowded buses invite passengers from unscheduled halts. I’d emphasize the number of speed-breakers on road, and their poor performance in preventing accidents.
I’d tell you trains run late. Signals are laggy between stations. I won’t forget to mention how a sudden protest makes the train stand still for hours.
I’d discuss about the day I reported late, owing to instantaneous suspension of underground train services as a man killed himself on the railway lane.
I’d ask you to remember why I came late the other day.
If you can recall, I had indigestion despite eating at home. I blamed farmers for sprinkling pesticides on crops. I pointed at my salary that failed to buy organic veggies.
And then, I’d invariably argue about maintenance and population.
I’d appreciate China, one-child policy, and their claim on how the government prevented four hundred million births. And how India thrives on the revenues earned from selling nicotine and condoms.
I’ll explore other issues the next time I reach late.
He pours out lines on stars, film stars and politicians. Sengupta responds to life with poetry, often terse, brief… sometimes with a wry sense of humour. But in the brevity, lies a depth of mystery, which you can mull and cogitate over endlessly. A flickering of spiritual beliefs and a seriousness of intent despite the apparent lightness of words create a conversation within the poems. In this exclusive, an award-winning author of more than fourteen books, Kiriti Sengupta takes us on whirlwind tour of his life, his ideas and his work.
When and how did you start writing poetry? Why did you switch professions — from a dentist to a poet-publisher? What compulsion made you turn from a lucrative to an uncertain profession? Were you sure you’d succeed? Please share your story with us.
First of all, thank you for inviting me to Borderless for a heart-to-heart, Mitali. I greatly appreciate your dedication to literature, especially quality work. Coming to your first question (a bundle of questions, actually), I don’t remember when I first wrote a poem. Coming from a dentistry background, I never imagined that I would write poems. Until then, I was well acquainted with journalistic articles, critical responses, cultural essays, and, of course, scientific papers. Poetry was out of the question. I believe in karma. Maybe I was destined to write poetry. It wasn’t a deliberate choice. It wasn’t a spontaneous stance either.
I was passing through an obnoxious personal crisis that compelled me to reconsider my career in dentistry. I was comfortably placed in a government institution, enjoying a considerably thick monthly salary. In early 2012, I decided to leave my job and spend some time with myself. However, as you can understand, it was risky, as I was the only breadwinner in my family, which consisted of my wife and son. I had no career options to pursue.
I was new to social media back then. I had the opportunity to become involved with a virtual group, Indies In Action (IIA), run by Stephen L. Wilson. They were raising funds for the victims of the devastating earthquake in Oklahoma. I contributed a few poems to the literary anthology Twist of Fate(ToF), which Steve edited. It was hugely successful, and all proceeds went to the May Tornadoes Relief Fund, managed by United Way. For the promotion of the book, I interviewed a few eminent contributors, such as Bill Lantry, Terry Lucas, Colin Dardis, Marshall G Kent Sr., Allison Bruning, Maggie Rascal, Don Martin, Linda Bonney Olin, Maria Edwards (the then President of the American Authors’ Association), Ency Bearis, among others. Honestly, they all helped me become familiar with the world of poetry.
In 2013, my first book, The Unheard I, was published. It was released simultaneously in India by Dhansere Prakashan and in the United States by Inner Child Press Limited. It was non-fiction, although it contained two chapters dedicated to poetry. In his commentary, Stuart Aken remarked, “It is a scholarly [collection] that will appeal to those with an interest in poetry, particularly spiritual poetry expressed as literature, as well as [to] those who have a leaning toward or a significant interest in Indian myth and religion.”
Even then, I had no plans to pursue writing (or publishing, for that matter) as my career. Gradually, I evolved, and here I stand today. Do I call myself successful? I’m not sure whether I have turned into a consummate writer. Since I write poetry in a niche market worldwide, it is challenging to become a “successful” poet and earn enough royalties to sustain my family. As a publisher, oh yes, Hawakal has emerged as a leading traditional press that has published several writers and poets and enjoys its presence in New Delhi, Kolkata and Nokomis (Florida).
How long have you been in the literary framework? Was it a tough journey moving from dentistry to writing? How did your family respond?
My first essay was published in 1995 in the college magazine. I remember it was written for students suffering from anxiety and family expectations. While studying dentistry at North Bengal Dental College, I joined the All-India Freelance Journalists Association (AFJA, Chennai). My senior colleague, Dr. Falguni Maji and I were commissioned by Uttarbanga Sambad to write an article on the pottery art in Matigara (Siliguri). I was a regular contributor to “The Third Law” in The Telegraph (India). Later, I regularly wrote health-related articles for Ganashakti.
As I said before, I was initiated into poetry quite late. It was a challenging move as I had no formal training, but I was immensely blessed to have a few mentors who honed my skills and taught me the basics of writing poetry.
My family suffered badly from my career-shift. They had to compromise on their living standards. The initial years of becoming a full-time writer were dreadful, to say the least. From only one wholesome meal a day to just a pack of instant noodles for the day — I have personally experienced it all. I ensured that my family didn’t starve, nor did my son lose his schooling. However, their ceaseless support enabled me to survive as a writer and publisher.
How many books have you authored/translated and how many poetry collections, and within how many years? Do you see yourself more as a poet or as a publisher/editor?
I have written fourteen books of prose and poetry, and as a translator, I have two full-length collections of poems. I have also edited nine literary anthologies, including Shimmer Spring, an all-colour, hardback coffee-table book published during the pandemic, which addresses our perceptions of light.
Honestly, I see myself as a patron of Indian arts, literature and fine arts (painting, sculpture, etc.). I’m an admirer of Indian textiles, too! I love buying drapes, be it a saree, a shawl, or a dhoti, in rich fabrics. Bitan and I have plans to start a men’s brand of drapes. We are working on it.
You claim you are a slow writer, and you isolate yourself in a ‘studio’. Tell us about your poetic process. How do you write? What inspires you to write? Are you influenced by any writers/musicians, or artists?
You know, Mitali, we have two studios in India: one in Kolkata and the other in Delhi. These ateliers are essentially stations where we work on the submissions from authors — we read, select, edit, and design the books we publish. We invite authors and readers to have a one-on-one. Readers also drop by to buy a book or two they want. You see, these studios are not meant for our writing. I say “our” because Hawakal is the collective enterprise of Bitan Chakraborty (the founder director) and me. While Bitan oversees the Bengali department, I supervise the English-language division of Hawakal.
It’s difficult to describe how I write. Anything that stirs my imagination or fancy, whether a line from a song, an incident, or a tragedy, often inspires me to pen my thoughts. I am fond of ekphrastic poems and frequently visit art exhibitions to catch a thread or two. However, it takes days or weeks to write a poem, although most of my poems are short or very short. I believe in condensing my thoughts, which is a time-consuming affair.
Your first collection of poems, Healing Waters Floating Lamps (2015), was largely spiritual, while your latest, Oneness (2024), covers multiple aspects of life that may not be purely spiritual. Some of the poems in your later works are also ironic or verge on humour. A gap of nine years and multiple publications reside between the two books. Has there been a change or a progression in your poetry through your journey? Do you feel your poetry has changed?
Healing Waters marks my debut full-length collection of poems. Prior to this, I released 4 books, including My Glass of Wine (2013), which featured autobiographical poetry. My journey as a poet has led to a noticeable evolution. Scholars are more suited to examine these transformations. Some observe that my language and craft have become significantly more refined. They argue that my recent works display a level of sophistication. Conversely, others suggest that my earlier poems felt more spontaneous and grounded. Embracing evolution is crucial; without it, my growth as a writer would stagnate.
You translate from Bengali. Tell us who all you have translated. Have the translations impacted your own poetry. Do you feel translations should be literal or more focussed on capturing the essence of the language?
As I said before, I translated two volumes of Bengali poetry into English: Sumita Nandy’s Desirous Water and Bibhas Roy Chowdhury’s Poem Continuous—Reincarnated Expressions. I am delighted that these books have received rave reviews in India and overseas. Moreover, Hawakal recently released the 10th-anniversary edition of Poem Continuous, which has garnered critical appreciation.
Other than these books, I have translated a few contemporary Bengali poets as well: Ranadeb Dasgupta, Gourob Chakraborty, Rajeswari Sarangi, to name but a few. I can confidently tell you that translating Bengali poems has hardly influenced my work.
Whether translations of poems should be literal or more focussed on capturing the essence of the original is debatable. However, it is even more critical to ensure that the translated piece qualifies as poetry in the first place. If the piece does not read like a poem, regardless of the sincerity of the translator, the labour of translating the original work goes into vain. Every language comes with its own nuances. So, the translator should possess an excellent understanding of both the source and target languages.
Hawakal is regarded as one of the most important publishing houses for poetry in India. When and how did you join Hawakal as the director of the English section? How did you meet Bitan? Could you tell us about the journey?
Thank you for your kind comments on Hawakal, Mitali. Bitan Chakraborty established Hawakal in 2008 in Kolkata. He published numerous Bengali poets until I joined him in 2015. A common friend Kishore Ghosh introduced Bitan to me. Ghosh, a Bengali poet of some renown and a journalist, urged Bitan to publish a collection of literary criticism based on my work and that of Sharmila Ray. The book was titled Rhapsodies and Musings: poets in the mirrors of other eyes and authored by Ketaki Datta and Tania Chakravertty. So, we started our collaboration. Eventually, Bitan induced me to become one of the Directors of Hawakal.
Where do you see Hawakal travels as a publishing concern? What is the scenario like? Do you only bring out writers of Indian origin, or are you open to writers from other backgrounds? What does Hawakal look for in writers to publish with you?
For the past few years, Hawakal has been more focussed on fiction and non-fiction manuscripts. There is no dearth of poetry submissions, though. However, it’s challenging to find an authentic voice. We have published American poets like Dustin Pickering, t. kilgore splake, Marshall G. Kent Sr., Gary Manz, and others. Ethnicity isn’t a limiting factor for someone who wants to get published by Hawakal.
We really want to establish a steady foothold in the United States. Our tiny outlet in Nokomis is currently managed by Dr. Robertson James Short II. It has to grow big. Hawakal seeks original work, and we yearn for quality submissions.
Do you have any suggestions for young writers?
Aspiring writers or poets should read more and be well-versed with the works of contemporary authors. It is important to get published in journals, and accepting rejections from the editors is equally beneficial. Getting published should be a slow process. As the saying goes, there is no shortcut through the forest of life…
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