Tag: Japan

Essay

A Place to Remember

By Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia

It all began in the cold, uncertain days of early January 2025. I was in Tokyo, at Odaiba Beach with one of my closest friends, the icy water soaking our feet. It was bitterly cold, the wind merciless, but our love for the ocean pulled us in. We agreed to dip our feet into the sea, just for a few fleeting seconds. The water stung like needles, yet nothing stopped us from laughing, from enjoying the moment, from playing in the waves like children.

New Year had passed only a few days earlier. We were exhausted from celebrations, worn down by sleepless nights, just as we had been throughout last December. Still, that day felt different. It was the first time my best friend and I had reunited together in the Land of the Rising Sun. Back in Madagascar ten years earlier, we used to dream endlessly about Japan, whispering plans and wishes into the air as if they might someday carry us across the sea. And now here we were together in the country we once imagined only from afar.

I call her ‘Tsu Nami’, not her real name but the one she chose for herself. Her true name means waves in English, yet everyone calls her by her alias. We had known each other for years, but I never asked why she chose that name. Sometimes she said it held both serenity and ruin, as if calm and chaos lived inside her simultaneously. I never truly understood it then.

We spoke for hours that day, about life in Japan, the challenges, the bright moments, the ups and downs of living far from home. We were alike in many ways: two souls far from family and homeland yet living in a country we dearly loved. Life alone in a foreign place is thrilling, but also painfully heavy. She confessed the struggles that had pulled her toward depression, and I encouraged her as much as I could, reminding her of her strength, telling her that not everything deserved her energy.

We filmed silly videos, screamed with laughter, and let the waves numb our feet. Deep in the heart of winter, frozen to the bone, she suddenly asked if I knew how to swim. I said maybe, maybe yes, maybe no. I used to swim as a child, but I no longer knew if I still could. I told her I dreamed of surfing someday. She smiled and said it would be incredible if we could surf together in summer. We come from a warm island paradise where surfing is possible, yet neither of us had ever tried it.

Time slipped through my fingers like sand, and I only realised when spring whispered its gentle arrival. Somewhere along the way, I crossed paths with someone extraordinary, a girl from India, whom I will call A. We would see each other occasionally around the campus, studying in the same university, though in different fields. We first met in the early autumn, when the air was neither hot nor cold during a cultural exchange event.

A. seemed cold and distant; when I politely asked for her SNS contact, she answered in a sharp tone. By nature, I am sociable yet quietly reserved, someone who loves meeting new people and treasures cultural exchange, but my introverted side pulls me back, holding me at a distance like an invisible thread. However, A. is the opposite of me. She is entirely extroverted. And yet, something about her fascinated me, an aura of maturity, strength, reliability. Slowly our conversations grew, and the more time I spent with her, the more I cherished her presence. I never would have imagined she would become one of my dearest friends.

A. was warm, kind, and endlessly sociable, the type of person who knows almost everyone in the neighborhood. She understood my introversion, but she never stopped inviting me into her world. She took me along to events, introduced me to people, pushed me gently outside my comfort zone. She wanted me to live, not merely breathe.

Soon winter was coming to an end, and our friends organised a farewell party for A, who had completed her studies and was returning to India. The atmosphere was warm and lively, with music, laughter, and bittersweet goodbyes. It was there that I met J, a friendly and curious soul from Sri Lanka. He became the first person who ever asked so many thoughtful questions about my country, so many that sometimes I did not know how to answer. As we talked, I learned he loved water sports, especially surfing. And when he whispered the word surf, something inside me ignited. I felt the warmth of summer already, I imagined myself riding waves for the first time.

That day, I told Tsu Nami to visit me during summer break, that I had found someone who could teach us how to surf. She was thrilled. Together, we counted the days impatiently. And then July arrived, our university classes ended, and at last we were free. We went to the beach with J.

J. had lived in Japan for years and knew every hidden corner of our prefecture from quiet paths to secret places untouched by crowds. We asked him where the most beautiful beach was. He laughed and said there was not a perfect one here, not the kind you see in postcards, but there were places where the waves were strong and alive, perfect for learning to surf. So, we followed him, nervous and excited, ready to feel the ocean breathe through us.

It was our first surfing lesson, both for me and for Tsu Nami. The evening sun melted the sky into gold, the air warm but soft. Because of a physical issue, I could not surf that day, so Tsu Nami began first. She could not even swim, yet she stepped forward with fearless determination. J. taught her patiently, movement by movement. And in a surprisingly short time, she stood on the board, shaky, unsteady, but still, standing. Minutes later, she balanced perfectly, rising like a wave itself. I recorded it all, my heart glowing with pride. Even though I could not surf that day, I found joy at the shoreline, soaking my feet, screaming with laughter, recording moments I wanted to keep forever.

A few weeks later, I returned with J, but this time without Tsu Nami. She had returned to Madagascar, and her absence echoed through the sound of the waves. I missed her deeply. Yet something inside me trembled with excitement, my turn had finally come.

J. guided me gently, step by step. After a few minutes, I managed to stand on the board, unstable, but still balancing. I fell countless times, swallowed by the waves, but each fall made me rise stronger. The ocean roared like encouragement, whispering: ‘Again. Don’t stop’. I felt alive, truly alive.

A few days later, we went back to the beach again. The sky stretched above us, and the sea sparkled under the sun. Sometimes the waves were too calm to surf, so we simply floated on our boards, talking and laughing.

J. reminded me of a kind uncle, joyful, supportive, and gentle. He told stories about his country that made me laugh until my stomach hurt. J even told me, laughing, that some Japanese people go surfing eveninwinter, when the water is freezing and the wind feels like knives. I stared at him in disbelief, wondering how anyone could survive that kind of cold. He just smiled and said, ‘That’s the real surfing spirit!’ I could not help but burst into laughter, imagining myself turning into an ice statue somewhere in the middle of the ocean.

The ocean has long felt like the place where I truly belong. Every vacation in my homeland, I choose destinations where the beach is close enough to hear the waves. The sea clears my head, softens the storms inside me, and gently repairs the pieces of my heart. Standing at the shoreline, I can breathe again. It is more than just water and waves; it is where I find restoration.

Whenever I walk along the coast or step onto a surfboard, something inside me wakes up, the weight in my chest lifts, and my thoughts begin to move freely. Ideas return, like the tide rolling in, and I remember why I want to write, create, and keep moving forward. There were days when depression felt like weather that would never clear, but the sea gave me solace. It held me together when I thought I was coming apart. Its steady murmur softened the noise in my head, and each wave seemed to lift a little of the heaviness I could not carry by myself.

I cherished every moment of that summer, every surfing lesson, every fall, every laugh. That summer became another precious memory in the Land of the Rising Sun. The beach gave me peace, and a place where my soul felt at home. Now December is here, winter tightens its grip, and the warmth of that summer feels like a distant echo. But the ocean remains, waiting. The beach will always be a place to remember.

Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia is from Madagascar and is currently studying in Japan as a trainee student. She enjoys reading, writing, listening to music, and traveling to explore new cultures.

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

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

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Tags India, Japan, Madagascar, Odaiba Beach, Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia, Sri Lanka, Tokyo

Memoir

Recycling New Jersey

By Karen Beatty

When I was five years old, my father transported our impoverished family from the banks of the Licking River in Eastern Kentucky to Bound Brook, New Jersey, just off a tributary of the Raritan River. My mother had not wanted to leave her beloved Kentucky or depart from her numerous kin there, but she did want to stay married. And my father wanted to find work and get away from anything connected to hollows, moonshine, and that old-time religion. Mother also hoped that she, and especially her four children (with a fifth on the way), would be better off. As it turned out, we children mostly were, while she likely wasn’t.

My father chose Bound Brook, New Jersey, because he planned to work in the trucking business managed by his older brother. In Bound Brook, my father moved us into a place described as “Garden Apartments,” but there weren’t any gardens. It was post WWII housing, mainly for immigrants and working class people who could not afford to buy homes. Since I had been transported from a shack in Appalachia, the two-bedroom apartment in New Jersey, even for parents with five kids, seemed palatial: A bathtub and flush toilet! Hardwood floors! A gas stove and oven! Sidewalks, and even a nearby building for doing laundry. Stupendous, indeed!

Bound Brook, New Jersey, was a town where most people worked in restaurants, retail, construction, trucking, and schools; plus, there were countless employees at a couple of highly polluting chemical plants located just above the west end of town. (Sometimes strange odors and actual particles released from American Cyanamid drifted into our schoolyards, homes and playing fields.) I considered townspeople who were low-level bankers and teachers wealthy. Of course we all knew a few kids whose parents were doctors, high-level bankers, or businessmen. Those were the really rich people who did not live in project-style apartments or in low-income housing in the sections of town populated by immigrant Poles, Italians and Irish, with perhaps a random exotic Cuban or Indian family. It was rare to see a Black person or hear Spanish in Bound Brook in the 1950s.

In Kentucky, my mother was a vibrant woman who worked in the County Courthouse. Living in New Jersey, she devolved into a burdened housewife with no local kin and no capacity to access a new community or social life. When the sixth child was on the way, the apartment management informed my parents that they had to move out because they had too many kids. Our family was given two days to leave or pay an extra month’s rent, and regardless, we were being evicted. It happened that there was some new home construction on our west end, near a brook that occasionally overflowed its banks. I knew about the development because we local children frequented the site to steal plywood, tarpaper, and nails to construct lean-tos down the brook. We also nabbed construction cable, which the big kids affixed to tree limbs to make sturdy “Tarzan” swings for sailing from bank to bank across the brook.

At age eleven, I surreptitiously joined a group tour of the model home in the completed new development, where the available space and the fancy furniture smote me. I raced back to our apartment to tell my mother about the model house, and she sent my father over to take a look. Fortuitously, he ran across a salesperson that informed him that as a veteran of WWII, he qualified for mortgage and down payment assistance. Child number six arrived shortly after we moved into one of the newly constructed homes in the development. Then, deep into the following year, my Mother delivered my youngest brother, child number seven. Our new house afforded a shared bedroom for me and my two younger sisters, and an elongated attic room for the four boys.

Sadly, as the duration of her stay in New Jersey and the number of kids in our family increased, my Mother’s mental state diminished. She went from intimidation and apprehension about her life in Bound Brook to what could have been clinically diagnosed as agoraphobia and paranoia. In Kentucky she had been a proud and self-confident woman; in New Jersey she was increasingly unkempt, unhinged, and functionally disabled. I remember having to fake her signature on my report card and school permission slips because she was too distracted to sign or even look at paperwork; in fact, she opted out of most any activity not related to basic household management and cooking.

Without filtering her outbursts, my mother jabbered with religious fervor about her afflictions and her rage at our father who had brought her to New Jersey. She lamented that she would not live long enough to see us grow up. She sang sad and sometimes-scary gospel tunes like, “The Old Rugged Cross,” with lyrics about suffering and shame. She also warned us about rich “Republican snakes” that didn’t care about poor people, and dangerous immigrants with funny-sounding names who spoke strange languages (Polish, Italian). She denigrated both poor Black people and neighbouring Jewish people who didn’t love Jesus the way that she did. And she did love Jesus, and the church, even though she thought church people up North dressed too fancy, sang without spirit, and passed the collection plate with too many expectations. She loved us kids unconditionally, while often relying upon us for the basics of daily living. She was unhappy in her marriage and with living in New Jersey, but she was proud of her children, despite her disappointment when most of us went hippie and unchurched and, worse, two voted Republican.

Sports events and churches consolidated the people in the town of Bound Brook. Officials and functionaries would save your soul if you let them, and, if you were male, tone your body. My brothers were better than good enough at sports, which won them friends, attracted mentors, and enabled them to acquire college scholarships.

I was an excellent gymnast, runner, fielder, and could handle baseballs, basketballs and footballs as well as many boys. And I could maneuver a cable swing and play ping-pong better than most boys. At an inter-school Sports Field Day, I won all six of the proffered blue ribbons. Nonetheless, I didn’t get scholarships, rewards, or accolades. Instead I was mocked as a tomboy for wearing sports attire, and teased as a “skinny-bones” because I didn’t eat or grow much. After leaving rural Kentucky where I was used to drinking raw milk, the New Jersey pasteurised milk did not taste right, and my mother was reduced to serving canned vegetables and mystery meat from a supermarket. I hated the ground meat, hot dogs, and strange overcooked vegetables she served up. So I mostly didn’t eat. At a time when women were expected to be voluptuous and alluring, I was lean and agile. I hated New Jersey.

In fact, I never embraced living in NJ the way I “owned” my early years in Eastern Kentucky and my adult years in New York City. My best friend Janice said whenever she told people she was born in New Jersey, they laughed. She even wrote a song about that. I wasn’t born in New Jersey, but had enough of it imposed upon me to understand the song. Although there were plenty of kids to play with and make “fun trouble” with in the apartments and in our new housing development, I was bullied by big (literally) girls in the neighbourhood, and spurned at school by stylish girls from the better-heeled households. To survive, I became fleet of foot and quick of tongue, able to either run away from dicey situations or talk my way out of them. I fully realised I had to get out of Bound Brook, New Jersey.

In the interest of fairness, I must report that in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s Bound Brook had excellent schools and recreation facilities. Unfortunately, I had not attended any school in Kentucky, so, upon entering elementary school for the first time, I was both shy and academically lost. I also suffered from undiagnosed dyslexia, so I didn’t learn to read until almost 6th grade and never learned to write script, to the chagrin of teachers charged with improving me. Self-conscious about my “hillbilly” accent, I also did not talk at school, a definite deterrent to making friends and getting teacher approval.

I finally caught up by playing and sparring with the kids on the west end, many of whom had worse family situations than me and had the kind of personal and academic issues that were not going to resolve with time. (Being a west end kid certainly informed me that the required “Dick and Jane” school readers did not represent most families.) By the end of fifth grade I could read slowly, print neatly, and participate orally in classes. Best of all, I learned about the local library where I took refuge and read about places and events beyond what I was exposed to at home or in school. I was determined to find a way out of New Jersey.

By high school I was considered one of the smart students who was also a discipline problem. I understood socio-economic differences and realised (without knowing the specified words) that I was from a home with domestic abuse and child neglect. We kids were essentially on our own because our mother had checked out mentally and our father was irritable, sullen and mostly absent. (His absence was a good thing, considering his PTSD rage disorder from WWII.) Never really fitting in either at school or in the neighborhood, I engaged in bravado and resentment to camouflage my fears and vulnerability.

While most of us west end kids were petty thieves and street combatants, my weapon of choice became wit. I assailed bad teachers with derision, mockery, and scorn, refusing to cave to silly authoritarian directives and relentlessly challenging their biased views or misinformation. In short, I was learning about and exposing racism (then called “prejudice”) and political manipulation (still called “patriotism”).

The good and honest teachers admired my audacity and laughed at my antics, but the bad teachers were threatened and became vindictive. I teamed up with Grace, a classmate from the neighbourhood. She came from a single parent household (rare for Bound Brook in the early 1960’s), and lived in one of those so-called garden apartments with her mother. Suffice it to say, Grace and I created a lot of “smart trouble” at school. Soon we were not allowed to be in the same classroom. Worse, despite my qualifying grades, I was barred from the National Honor Society and kicked out of senior English. I had to report to the guidance office where I befriended the guidance counselor, who arranged for me to graduate despite my not completing the English requirement. This all probably happened because English was my best subject, and I was beginning to nurture my lifetime commitment to human rights and civil rights. I held New Jersey in contempt.

I desperately wanted to get out of Bound Brook and away from my home life, but I had no information, experience, or resources to facilitate those yearnings. I had never even traveled to another town by bus or train.

Toward the end of my senior year, I got work at the local recreation center, where I met a woman who was attending Montclair State College. (At the time, Montclair was the best of the New Jersey State colleges.) My older brother was putting himself through Rutgers State University, where female applicants were relegated to their Douglas College campus, close enough to Bound Brook to have required me to live at home and commute. At the last minute, I mailed an application to Montclair State and got a late acceptance with a State Scholarship that covered the $150 annual tuition, without which I could not have attended. Best of all, I was required to find housing near the college, away from home.

I had managed to escape Bound Brook but not New Jersey. I only had enough savings to live off-campus and attend college for one year, so I was prepared to drop out when President Lyndon Johnson saved me by signing the Economic Opportunity Act. Based on family income, I was part of the first wave of acceptances. Yes, to socialism and good government! I was grateful and shocked to receive money for housing, books and general spending.

Moving onto the 7th floor of a new dormitory with a stunning view of the New York City skyline, I rejoiced. Furthermore, because of Montclair State’s proximity to New York City, I was able to partake of a broad liberal education in the arts and sciences. I could actually envision departing New Jersey, so I vowed never to use Bound Brook as my mailing address again. (As it turned out, my instincts were correct: the two of our seven siblings who remained in Bound Brook eventually voted unabashedly for Donald J. Trump.)

Still, my transition out of New Jersey was a long and winding road. I returned to the State (though not to live in Bound Brook) a couple of times for temporary work or educational opportunities, and I never abandoned my New Jersey family or friends. My escape route led me to explore living in Berkeley, California; Bangkok, Thailand; Hiroshima, Japan; Honolulu, Hawaii, and, finally, to settle permanently in Greenwich Village in New York City. My daughter was raised as a proudly triumphant New Yorker.

It was, therefore, not exactly serendipitous that in my early 70s I returned to the place of my former captivity: the state of New Jersey. My choosing a late-life summer residence in the Garden State just kind of happened. My sister and I had been looking in Cape Cod, Massachusetts for places to rent or buy near the ocean, bay or sound. At the time, I was living alone in New York City and Karla lived in Massachusetts. I wanted a get-away place; she was seeking a year-round home. After a couple of thwarted attempts and some financial reality testing, we conceded we could not afford Cape Cod.

Back in New York, we investigated numerous beach towns, with similar financial results. Then, in the New York Times, I read that Asbury Park, on the north coast of the New Jersey shore, was undergoing massively successful development. With more trepidation than excitement, Karla and I hopped on New Jersey Transit to check out the Asbury Park options. We were in the habit of referring to our old home State as “New F*cking Jersey” and reassured each other that “Down the Shore” is not the same thing as NFJ!

From my youth and during the early days of my marriage, New Jersey towns along the ocean were not unfamiliar to me. In the 1980’s, my husband and I had joined resources with our New York City friends to rent summerhouses in towns close to the ocean. We were emulating our previous summer rentals in the Hamptons, except none of it was like the Hamptons or Amagansett. It was New Jersey.

The Garden State has the shore, not snooty beach towns. You go “down the shore,” not to the beach. The Jersey shore is much cheaper than the Hamptons, but also has far less cache. Thankfully, most of the Jersey Shore is also not like the TV series of that name, at least in the experience of my friends, who were college professors, psychotherapists, artists, or in media-related professions.

In the late 1980’s the shore rentals in New Jersey were affordable, the commute was a dream, and the ocean was fabulous, even if the food and entertainment were not top notch. Of course this was the early days of Bruce Springsteen, so we knew about the Stone Pony, but the town and boardwalk areas of Asbury Park were a wreck. We also knew that next to Asbury Park was an odd little town called Ocean Grove, which was developed and managed by the Methodist Church Camp Meeting Association. The church people did not allow driving on Sunday or the sale of liquor at any time. Entry to the beach was blocked until noon on Sunday mornings. (You were supposed to be in church at that time.) At best, we New Yorkers, many Jewish and all borderline atheists, thought this Ocean Grove place was endearingly bizarre.

We stuck to upscale towns like Spring Lake for our summer rentals. By 1992, when I was 47 years old, we ended our group rentals in New Jersey and eventually most of the friends and their marriages dissipated.

It was not until 2016, when I was 71-years-old, that my sister Karla and I sadly discovered, on a sweltering summer day, that the newly renovated Asbury Park was also not affordable. Dismayed, we crossed an inviting footbridge in Asbury that led to the Ocean Grove side of the Wesley Lake estuary. Meandering around the quiet, spiritually immersed town, we noted the striking contrast to bustling Asbury Park.

Needing a cool down, we spotted an air-conditioned realtor’s office and inquired, without enthusiasm, about properties near the ocean. The prices were considerably cheaper than Asbury and the town was charming, but could we contend with the controlling Methodists? (Certainly our Mother would have approved!) The realtor patiently showed us a couple of listings on the market, but none were very appealing.

As an afterthought, probably because she was kind, it was a slow day, and we were likeable, the agent mentioned that next door to her home was a large Victorian house that had been converted to condos a couple of decades ago. The gaudy blue structure was facing the ocean and included a small 2-bedroom apartment, which had been languishing vacant and unsold for about ten years. We asked to see it, and despite the heat, the realtor agreed to climb over thirty steps in the giant house to show us an unpolished, but fully furnished, top floor unit. A series of convoluted real estate and legal processes that dragged out for a year (plus simple naive luck) enabled us to purchase this condo in the turret (meaning attic) of a magnificent old house, with ocean views throughout. Yes, it was located in Ocean Grove, NEW JERSEY!

Nowadays, I very much enjoy spending my summers down the shore, gazing at the sea from our New Jersey condo and happily catching waves in the buoyant salty water. (Fortunately, my sister lives there year-round to help maintain it.) It is indeed ironic that lacking finances, but having good fortune, delivered me “down the shore” for the summers of my elderhood. Have I come to terms with NFJ? Recently, I had lunch with a nephew visiting me in New York City. When he nonchalantly asked if I ever considered living year-round down the Jersey shore, I let out a resounding, “NOOO!”

Karen Beatty’s work appears in over 30 publications, including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Books Ireland, Non Binary Review, and Mud Season Review. Her novel, Dodging Prayers and Bullets, was published in 2023.

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

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

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

Celebrating Humanity

Can Old Acquaintances be Forgot…

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 30, 2025
No Comments on Can Old Acquaintances be Forgot…

Our January 2025 Cover: Art by Sohana Manzoor

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

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

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

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

Translated Poetry

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

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

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

Identity by Munir Momin, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

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

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

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

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

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

Fiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Non Fiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tags Afsar Mohammad, Ahamad Rayees, Ajit Cour, American, Amy Sawitta Lafevre, Anuradha Kumar, Arshi, Aruna Chakravarti, Ashok Suri, Balochi, Bangkok, Bangladesh, Bauls, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, Bipin Nayak, Borderless Journal, C Christine Fair, C.J.Anderson-Wu, Chetan Dutta Poduri, Chihuahuas, Cyclones in Odisha – Landfall Wreckage and Resilience, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Dhaka, Dolly Narang, Duotrope, Erin Jamieson, Fakrul Alam, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, Fiona Sinclair, Gazala Khan, George Freek, Gigi Baldavino Gosnell, Harry Ricketts, Hatchette, Heath Brougher, Hindutsani, Holland., Ihlwha Choi, India, Isa Kamari, Jaladhar Sen, Jane Austen, Japan, Jenny Middleton, Jibanananda Das, Karnataka, Kashmir, Keith Lyons, Kiriti Sengupta, Kolkata, Korean, Kruger National Park, Lizzie Packer, London, Lourdes M Supriya, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Madagaskar, Meenakshi Malhotra, Meredith Stephens, Mitali Chakravarty, Momina Raza, Mongolia, Munir Momin, Nandu, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Nasir rahim, Nazrul, Niaz Zaman, Nziku Ann, Obon, Odbayar Dorj, Odia, Odiya, Onkar Sharma, Pandies, Paritosh Sen, Paul Mirabile, Phillipines, Pijus Ash, Punjabi, Radha Chakravarty, Rakhi Dalal, Ramakanta Rath, Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia, Rashida Murphy, Ratnottama Sengupta, Red Oleanders, Rhys Hughes, Roktokorobi, Ron Pickett, Roquiah Sakhawat Hossein, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Sanjay Kumar, Satyajit Ray, Snehaprava Das, Snigdha Agrawal, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, South Australia, Sri Radha, Stuart MacFarlane, Sukanta Bhattacharya, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, Taiwan, Tanvir, The Lost Mantras, The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, UK., US, Vela Noble, Wanderers Adventurers Missionaries: Early Americans in India, White Terror

Contents

Borderless, December 2025

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 15, 2025
No Comments on Borderless, December 2025

Editorial

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

Translations

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

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

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

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

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

Conversation

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

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

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

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

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

Musings/ Slices from Life

Your call is important to us?

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

Honeymoon Homecoming

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

Cracking Exams

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

The Rule of Maximum Tolerance?

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

How Two Worlds Intersect

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

Musings of a Copywriter

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

Notes from Japan

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

Essays

250 Years of Jane Austen: A Tribute

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

Anadi: A Continuum in Art

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

Sangam Literature: Timeless Chronicles of an Ancient Civilisation

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

Bhaskar’s Corner

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

Stories

Evergreen

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

The Crying Man

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

How Madhu was Cured of Laziness

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

Book Excerpts

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

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

Book Reviews

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

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

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

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Tags AI, Andreas Giesbert, Ann Whitehouse, Annwesa Abhipsa Pani, Anuradha Kumar, Ariel Slick, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, Bibhuti Patnaik, Bina Biswas, Bombay, Cal Freeman, Christmas, Conversation, Daniel Gene Barlekamp, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Diane Webster, Eric Chopra, Fakrul Alam, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, Gautham Pradeep, Gazala Khan, Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments, Harry Ricketts, India, Indira Das, Isa Kamari, Jane Austen, Japan, Jatri, John Grey, John Swain, Jun A. Alindogan, Keith Lyons, Laila Brahmbhatt, Last Song Before Home, Leonie's Leap, Love and Crime in the Time of Plague: A Bombay Mystery, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, Malay, Malaysian, Marc Rosenberg, Marzia, Meenakshi Malhotra, Meredith Stephens, Mitali Chakravarty, Mohul Bhowmick, Mumbai, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Nasir Rahim Sohrabi, Nazrul, Nziku Ann, Odia, Rakhi Dalal, Ramzi Albert Rihani, Ranu Uniyal, Ratnottama Sengupta, Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan, Rhys Hughes, Ryan Quinn Falangan, Saba Zahoor, Sangam Literature, Satrughna Pandab, Shikoku, Smitha Vishwanath, Snehaprava Das, Sohana Manzoor, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, The Devil Take the Blues: A Southern Gothic Novel, This Could be a Love Poem for You, Tulip Chowdhury

Editorial

‘I wondered should I go or should I stay…’

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 15, 2025
No Comments on ‘I wondered should I go or should I stay…’

I flow and fly
with the wind further
still; through time
and newborn worlds…

--‘Limits’ by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

In winters, birds migrate. They face no barriers. The sun also shines across fences without any hindrance. Long ago, the late Nirendranath Chakraborty (1924-2018) wrote about a boy, Amalkanti, who wanted to be sunshine. The real world held him back and he became a worker in a dark printing press. Dreams sometimes can come to nought for humanity has enough walls to keep out those who they feel do not ‘belong’ to their way of life or thought. Some even war, kill and violate to secure an exclusive existence. Despite the perpetuation of these fences, people are now forced to emigrate not only to find shelter from the violences of wars but also to find a refuge from climate disasters. These people — the refuge seekers— are referred to as refugees [1]. And yet, there are a few who find it in themselves to waft to new worlds, create with their ideas and redefine norms… for no reason except that they feel a sense of belonging to a culture to which they were not born. These people are often referred to as migrants.

At the close of this year, Keith Lyons brings us one such persona who has found a firm footing in New Zealand. Setting new trends and inspiring others is a writer called Harry Ricketts [2]. He has even shared a poem from his latest collection, Bonfires on the Ice. Ricketts’ poem moves from the personal to the universal as does the poetry of another migrant, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, aspiring to a new, more accepting world. While Tulip Chowdhury — who also moved across oceans — prays for peace in a war torn, weather-worn world:

I plant new seeds of dreams
for a peaceful world of tomorrow.

--‘Hopes and Dreams’ by Tulip Chowdhury

We have more poems this month that while showcasing the vibrancy of thoughts bind with the commonality of felt emotions on a variety of issues from Laila Brahmbhatt, John Grey, Saba Zahoor, Diane Webster, Gautham Pradeep, Daniel Gene Barlekamp, Annwesa Abhipsa Pani, Cal Freeman, Smitha Vishwanath, John Swain, Nziku Ann and Anne Whitehouse. Ramzi Albert Rihani makes us sit up by inverting norms while Ryan Quinn Flangan with his distinctive style raises larger questions on the need for attitudinal changes while talking of car parks. Rhys Hughes sprinkles ‘Hughesque’ humour into poetry with traffic jams as he does with his funny spooky narrative around Christmas.

Fiction in this issue reverberates across the world with Marc Rosenberg bringing us a poignant telling centred around childhood, innocence and abuse. Sayan Sarkar gives a witty, captivating, climate-friendly narrative centred around trees. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao weaves a fable set in Southern India.

A story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi from the dusty landscapes of Balochistan has found its way into our translations too with Fazal Baloch rendering it into English from Balochi. Isa Kamari translates his own Malay poems which echo themes of his powerful novels, A Song of the Wind (2007) and Tweet(2017), both centred around the making of Singapore. Snehaprava Das introduces Odia poems by Satrughna Pandab in English. While Professor Fakrul Alam renders one of Nazrul’s best-loved songs from Bengali to English, Tagore’s translated poem Jatri (Passenger) welcomes prospectives onboard a boat —almost an anti-thesis of his earlier poem ‘Sonar Tori’ (The Golden Boat) where the ferry woman rows off robbing her client.

In reviews, we also have a poetry collection, This Could Be a Love Poem for You by Ranu Uniyal discussed by Gazala Khan. Bhaskar Parichha introduces a book that dwells on aging and mental health issues, Indira Das’s Last Song before Home, translated from Bengali by Bina Biswas. Rakhi Dalal has reviewed Anuradha Kumar’s Love and Crime in the Time of Plague:A Bombay Mystery, a historical mystery novel set in the Bombay of yore, a sequel to her earlier The Kidnapping of Mark Twain. Andreas Giesbert has woven in supernatural lore into this section by introducing Ariel Slick’s The Devil Take the Blues: A Southern Gothic Novel. In our excerpts too, we have ghostly lore with an extract from Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments by Eric Chopra. The other excerpt is from Marzia Pasini’s Leonie’s Leap, a YA novel showcasing resilience.

We have plenty of non-fiction this time starting with a tribute to Jane Austen (1775-1817) by Meenakshi Malhotra. Austen turns 250 this year and continues relevant with remakes in not only films but also reimagined with books around her novels — especially Pride and Prejudice (which has even a zombie version). Bhaskar Parichha pays a tribute to writer Bibhuti Patnaik. Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan explores ancient Sangam Literature from Tamil Nadu and Ratnottama Sengupta revisits an art exhibition that draws bridges across time… an exploration she herself curated.

Suzanne Kamata takes us on a train journey through historical Japan and Meredith Stephens finds joy in visiting friends and living in a two-hundred-year-old house from the Edo period[3]. Mohul Bhowmick introduces a syncretic and cosmopolitan Bombay (now Mumbai). Gower Bhat gives his opinion on examination systems in Kashmir, which echoes issues faced across the world while Jun A. Alindogan raises concerns over Filipino norms.

Farouk Gulsara — with his dry humour — critiques the growing dependence on artificial intelligence (or the lack of it). Devraj Singh Kalsi again shares a spooky adventure in a funny vein.

We have a spray of colours from across almost all the continents in our pages this time. A bumper issue again — for which all of the contributors have our heartfelt thanks. Huge thanks to our fabulous team who pitch in to make a vibrant issue for all of us. A special thanks to Sohana Manzoor for the fabulous artwork. And as our readers continue to grow in numbers by leap and bounds, I would want to thank you all for visiting our content! Introduce your friends too if you like what you find and do remember to pause by this issue’s contents page.

Wish all of you happy reading through the holiday season!

Best wishes,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE DECEMBER 2025 ISSUE.

[1] UNHCR Refugees

[2] Harry Ricketts born and educated in England moved to New Zealand.

[3] Edo period in Japan (1603-1868)

READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Tags A Song of the Wind, Aamalkanti, Andreas Giesbert, Ann Whitehouse, Annwesa Abhipsa Pani, Anuradha Kumar, Ariel Slick, Balochi, Balochistan, Bhaskar Pariccha, Bhaskar Parichcha, Bibhuti Patnaik, Bina Biswas, Bombay, Bonfires on the Ice, borderlessjournal.com, Brickfields, Cal Freeman, Christmas, Daniel Gene Barlekamp, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Diane Webster, Edo period, England, English, Ericc Chopra, Fakrul Alam, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, Filipino, Gautham Pradeep, Gazala Khan, Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments, Gower Bhat, Harry Ricketts, Indira Das, Jane Austen, Japan, Jatri, John Grey, John Swain, Jun A. Alindogan, Kashmir, Keith Lyons, Laila Brahmbhatt, Last Song Before Home, Leonie's Leap, Love and Crime in the Time of Plague: A Bombay Mystery, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, Malaysia, Marzia Pasini, Meredith Stephens, Migrants, Mitali Chakravarty, Mohul Bhowmick, Mumbai, Nasir Rahim Sohrabi, Nazrul, New Zealand, Nirendranath Chakraborty, Nziku Ann, Odia, Pride and Prejudice, Rakhi Dalal, Ramzi Albert Rihani, Ranu Uniyal, Ratnottama Sengupta, Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan, Refugees, Rhys Hughes, Ryan Quinn Falangan, Saba Zahoor, Sangam Literature, Satrughna Pandab, Singapore, Smitha Vishwanath, Snehaprava Das, Sohana Manzoor, Sonar Tori, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, The Devil Take the Blues: A Southern Gothic Novel, The Kidnapping of Mark Twain, This Could be a Love Poem for You, Tulip Chowdhury, Tweet, UNHCR

Notes from Japan

One Thousand Year Story in the Middle of Shikoku

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 15, 2025
No Comments on One Thousand Year Story in the Middle of Shikoku

Photographs and Narrative by Suzanne Kamata

I’d wanted to go on the Shikoku Mannaka Sennen Monogatari (One Thousand Year Story in the Middle of Shikoku) train trip ever since I saw it advertised on a poster in the window of Tokushima Station. When I investigated, however, I discovered one couldn’t begin the journey in Tokushima, where I live. Although it starts (or ends, depending on which way you’re coming from; it’s a one-way trip) deep in the mountains of Tokushima, I would have to change trains a few times before boarding the special sightseeing train. It would take hours to get there. A better way would be to board in Tadotsu, which is in the neighboring prefecture Kagawa. I could drive there in a little over an hour, take the fancy train to Oboke, and return by express train.

I decided to take a ride on the spur of the moment. The train was pretty much booked for the rest of the season, at least on the days when I didn’t have other plans, like my job. I did find one last seat on a train in mid-November. It might have been more fun to go with someone else, but I didn’t have time to coordinate with friends. I immediately booked the seat, reserving my lunch as well.

The morning of my train trip was chilly, but sunny. I donned a thin tunic and a long cardigan, wondering if it would be cold in the mountains. Maybe I should bring my down jacket? I rolled up a windbreaker and stuffed it into my backpack. I entered my destination – Tadotsu Station – into my phone’s navigation app, selected a podcast for the drive, and set off.

Tadotsu turned out to be a sleepy little town, which makes sense. These are the kinds of places that need something special to attract visitors and their money. If the whole purpose of these sightseeing trains is to rejuvenate dying towns, then Tadotsu seemed like a good choice. I could see that some construction was in progress, perhaps to accommodate the hordes of new visitors brought by the train. Porta potties temporarily served as bathrooms.

In front of the station, an intriguing sculpture attracted my attention. To me, it looked like a tall armless man wearing a hat, backed by a sickle. There was an emblem like a coat of arms where the neck of the man would be. At the base of the sculpture was a plaque with the words: “Thankful for my own life. Thankful for having you in it.”

Later, I discovered that it was meant to commemorate Doshin So, nee Michiomi Nakano, a former military intelligence agent who spent many years in China. After returning to Japan, he was stationed in Tadotsu, where he established a cram school to teach Buddhist philosophy and martial arts.

In 1947, he founded Shorinji Kenpo, a Japanese martial art with a holistic system. The training methods are divided into self-defense training, mental training, and health training. According to his philosophy, spirit and body are as one, and they must be trained together as such. His teachings emanated from this small town of about 20,000 people to the rest of the world. The emblem, as it turned out, was the symbol for Shorinji Kenpo.

I took a photo of the monument and proceeded to the train platform, where I was met with heavy equipment surrounded by a chain link fence. A sign apologised for this inconvenience, and explained that construction was underway to make the station barrier-free.

I was twenty minutes early, but my fellow passengers – Japanese, as far as I could tell – were already milling about, taking selfies and photos of each other in advance of their train trip. The group was mostly female, middle-aged, and older. Many people were wearing masks.

A cinematic melody heralded the approach of the train, accompanied by another rush for selfies and photos. The three cars, all different colors, were named after spring, summer, and fall. What happened to winter? A small doormat with the train’s motif, which resembled a stylized tree, was positioned on the platform at the entrance to the train. I boarded the green “spring” car, Haru Akari, and found my seat, a fuzzy green upholstered chair at a table against the wall, facing the window. The two seats next to me were unoccupied.

Most people wore casual clothes. I rarely saw folks from Tokushima get dressed up, unless it was for a wedding, say, or a graduation ceremony. One woman at the four-top on the other side of me was striking in a sumptuous Chinese-style jacket and gold barrettes. I wondered for a moment if she might be some kind of celebrity. I tried not to stare.

I examined the orange cloth placemat, again with the tree motif. Already my mouth was watering. Disposable chopsticks and a wet napkin were aligned at the bottom, while a spoon rested on a rectangle of granite. Paper napkins, toothpicks, and creamers were tucked into a small basket made of vines. Brochures detailing the train’s route, souvenirs for purchase, and additional menu items were laid out.

You could use your phone to scan a QR code and order keychains, sweet potato cakes, or a yusan-bako, a traditional lunch box which originated in Tokushima. This one was made of Japanese cypress adorned with Kagawa lacquerware. It had three drawers for various delicacies, which fit into a box with a handle, perfect for toting to a picnic in a meadow somewhere. You could also buy a CD with the train’s theme song.

I had already ordered my lunch, but I glanced at the menu anyway. Fish cutlets, another specialty of Tokushima were available, along with bamboo shoots, and ice cream made with sake lees. The sweet potato crumble, with a dollop of whipped cream, was also tempting, but I summoned my willpower.

One of the uniformed attendants pointed out the wooden box under my car for storing my backpack and purse. I got those items out of the way. She also handed me a coupon for soup and water to be redeemed at our first stop. And then finally, the train began to move. A whistle blew. Japan Railway employees and others lined up with flags and round paper fans and began waving at us. We all waved back.

After that enthusiastic send-off, the train began to trundle along the tracks, picking up speed as we zipped past backyards of houses, apartment buildings with laundry hanging on balconies, convenience stores, crows alighting on power lines, an empty playground. We passed rice paddies, some surrounding family gravestones; a construction site with bright blue, green, and yellow earth moving machines.

As we neared Kotohira Station, our first stop, a young woman chirped that Kotohira’s brass band had been declared second best in the country. She reminded us to redeem our coupons in the welcome center. After the train had stopped, I followed everyone into a small room adjacent to the station where we lined up at a counter. I handed over my little piece of paper and received a bottle of water and a small China cup of kabocha ¹potage. I perched on the padded bench to drink it, while gazing around at the proud display of photos of the award-winning high school band. A white-gloved attendant came around with a tray to collect my empty cup, and I got back on the train.

A young Chinese family – a couple and their plump baby – were now occupying the seats beside me. The train moved on. The view outside my window was now more expansive – terraced fields, occasional houses with tiled roofs and walled gardens, tufts of pampas grass, a patch of pink and magenta cosmos.

The voice announced that we were nearing Sanuki Saida Station, which boasts a 700-year-old tabunoki tree, said to be a “power spot.” Apparently if you stand under the tree, you can absorb some of its spirit and energy. The tree has also been designated a Kagawa Prefectural Protected Tree. The train came to a stop again, but this time we didn’t get off. Instead, we all whipped out our smartphones to take photos of the person dressed in a polar bear costume shooting soap bubbles from a bubble gun. The baby was delighted.

Once we were again underway, the attendant distributed large square bento boxes with gold-rimmed lids. I opened mine to find an array of chilled meat dishes – the first course. I unsheathed my disposable chopsticks and broke them apart. “Itadakimasu!²”

Out the window, farmland had given way to gnarly brush. `Although the foliage wasn’t quite at its peak, swatches of scarlet and gold popped against the greenery. I wondered about the wildlife in the mountains. I knew that there were monkeys, boars, and deer. The latter two appeared on menus deep in the interior of Shikoku. You could get a burger made with game meat, or “peony hot pot,” in which thin slices of pink boar meat curled up like flower petals after being cooked in miso broth.

Next to me, the young parents passed their good-natured baby back and forth. When I caught his eye, I smiled at him, and he showed his dimples, smiling back. I remembered how, when I had first come to Japan, whenever I had tried to engage with a stranger’s baby on the train, the baby’s face had crumpled up in terror. Apparently, big-nosed foreigners were scary even for infants. At least back then. It was nice to be able to engage with a small child without causing tears.

We made a brief stop at Tsubojiri Station, a small, unmanned station accessible only by switchback, surrounded by trees. “You can get off the train and smoke,” the voice announced. We all scampered off the train, but I didn’t see anyone light up a cigarette. Instead, passengers posed in front of the station’s sign and the weathered wooden building.

Back on the train, the next course was served – buttered rice and pork, arranged on a gold-rimmed China plate. The narration continued. “Please look to the right. You will be able to see Mount Hashikura. You can take a ropeway to Hashikura Temple, which was established by the famous Buddhist monk Kukai, also known as Kobo Daishi.”

Kobo Daishi is known as the father of Shikoku’s 88-Temple Pilgrimage. Hashikura Temple is not one of the 88, but is considered to be an associated temple. According to the Tourism Shikoku website, the name “Hashikuraji” contains the character for “hashi,” or chopsticks, “an everyday unifying ubiquitous tool of daily life for all Japanese. In 828 [CE], Konpira Daigongen revealed himself to the priest Kukai and promised to save all who use chopsticks, a pledge of salvation for all.”

According to an announcement, we would soon have a good view of the Yoshino River, the majestic “wild” river which runs west to east across Shikoku. Its rushing waters carved out the Oboke Gorge over millennia. This river flows 121 miles, past Tokushima City, and the house where I live, and into the Kii Channel. At one time, it flooded repeatedly. The “Tora-no-Mizu” (“Tiger’s Water”) flood of 1886 (Year of the Tiger), one of the worst floods in Japanese history, led to the deaths of an estimated 30,000 people. Now, however, strong levees keep the waters in check, though heavy rains can still shut down the roads nearest the river. These days, the Yoshino River is more known as a place where visitors can enjoy various forms of recreation including swimming, fishing, and white-water rafting.

As I gazed out at the glassy emerald waters, which reflected the rocky banks, the voice announced that we were approaching Awa-Ikeda. High school baseball, I thought. Sure enough, the voice told us that we would soon have a view of baseball players practicing at Ikeda High School’s diamond, and that they had once won the National High School Baseball Tournament at Koshien.

The train chugged on. We passed another station, Awa Kawaguchi, where another person in a polar bear suit filled the air with soap bubbles. A sign on the platform declared that this was a town where tanuki (an indigenous animal that is often called raccoon-dog, and is a notorious trickster in Japanese folklore) and people live together.

After traversing another tunnel, coffee was served with a petite madeleine. Outside the window, I could see the water rushing through the gorge, frothing over rocks. We were almost at the end of our thousand-year journey. It had lasted a little over two hours.

The train pulled into Oboke Station, in the town of Miyoshi, and we got off. We were greeted by a man wearing a woven peaked hat and happi coat, banging on a drum affixed with characters from the animated series Anpanman. Although my fellow travelers had been mostly Japanese, quite a few European and American tourists were milling around the station, perhaps waiting for transportation.

At the time I first visited, over thirty years ago, I recall no restaurants or hotels, but now there was a large roadside station with souvenir shops, food vendors, and a Yokai House. There was even yokai³-themed food. Some traditional houses have been refurbished as high-end inns.

I took a short walk around the area and then attempted to buy a return ticket on an express train. Although the station was now geared for tourists with English signage and souvenir shops, it was still old-fashioned in many ways. I realised it wasn’t equipped to deal with phone apps or credit cards. I hadn’t brought a lot of cash, but I had just enough to buy a ticket back to my starting point.

A variety of winter squash ↩︎
I humbly receive (feel grateful for the food) ↩︎
A spirit having supernatural powers ↩︎

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

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

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

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Slices from Life

Honeymoon Homecoming

By Meredith Stephens

“Please show me your international driver’s licence.”

“Certainly!”

Alex produced the licence.

“This is out of date! I’m sorry but we can’t hand over the car.”

“No! It’s current! It’s valid for five years.”

We scrutinized the licence. The start date was prominently displayed, but not the expiration date. As we squinted to decipher the fine print on page three, we discovered that it had expired three years ago. Alex had thought it would be valid for five years, but it was only valid for one. We attributed it to his light-heartedly referred to “OCD Deficit Disorder”. And that is how a one-week road trip suddenly became a public transport and taxi trip.

This was my first visit back to Japan after having left at the beginning of the pandemic. Alex and I had been deliberating where to spend our honeymoon, and we agreed that the island of Shikoku in western Japan where I had spent over twenty years would be our first choice.

Onigiri. Photo courtesy:
**Mariko Hisamatsu**

There were so many things to look forward to. The first thing I did, before even leaving Kansai Airport, was rush into the convenience store and buy an onigiri flavoured with an umeboshi pickled plum. An onigiri is a triangle of rice, with a choice of flavours in the centre such as fish, seaweed, or the aforementioned umeboshi. It is wrapped in a crisp sheet of seaweed. Before eating it you gently pull away a thin layer of wrapping which protects the outer seaweed from absorbing the moisture of the rice. As you bite into it you can enjoy the three distinct textures and flavours – the piquant centre, the contrasting bland rice, and the crisp outer layer of seaweed. Next, I purchased a mugwort daifuku. This is a Japanese sweet, consisting of a layer of pounded mugwort-flavoured rice around a centre of sweet azuki bean paste. All of this was washed down with a bottle of green tea.

From the above account, it might sound like I was returning to Japan to indulge in simple culinary delights from a convenience store, and maybe this is a possibility I am unwilling to admit to myself. Of course, the main purpose was to reconnect with old friends, the second to reconnect with old pleasures, such as the aforementioned onigiri and daifuku, and the third, to stay in a traditional Japanese house.

After having been refused permission to drive our hire car, we headed back towards the terminal and searched for the railway station. We caught trains out to the UNESCO heritage listed site of Koyasan to enjoy the autumn leaves, and then seven trains and two buses later, to Wakayama station. Finally, we caught a taxi to our accommodation, which turned out to be a house that was over two hundred years ago, dating from the end of the Edo Period.

Jiomaru-an Edo period house. Photo Courrtesy: Alan Noble

The door slid open to reveal an earthen floor. We walked down the hall to the kitchen, left our shoes in the sunken area, and donned the provided slippers. The kitchen opened onto two traditional tatami rooms, with fusuma sliding cupboards, and latticed paper shoji screens leading onto the garden. Beyond the shoji was a narrow hall known as an engawa, with a small wooden table and chair where you could enjoy sipping a drink while looking out over the garden. This was the kind of room I had been longing for during my five years away from Japan.

But we hadn’t had dinner yet and I was longing to ride to a local supermarket to purchase a ready meal.

‘“Do you have any bicycles?” I asked the host.

“Certainly. We have mountain bikes too!”

“You don’t want to go cycling in the dark?” queried Alex. “Not after a long-distance flight, seven trains, two buses, and a taxi ride? Surely not!”

I insisted, and Alex gave up persuading me otherwise. Rather than a mountain bike I chose the mamachari, a vintage bike replete with a shopping basket attached to the front handlebars.

We cycled to the supermarket, as I had done almost daily during my twenty years of living in Shikoku. There we bought sushi and sashimi ready meals, and cycled home, scanning to avoid roadside ditches with sheer drops and no guard rails. Once safely home, we indulged in the much longed for sushi and sashimi, enjoyed the traditional deep Japanese bath, spread out the futons on the tatami, and luxuriated in a deep sleep.

The next morning, we woke to a gentle light streaming through the latticed paper shoji screens. We cycled to Wakayama castle, Alex on the mountain bike and me on the mamachari. We strolled around the traditional garden before entering the castle and then completed it with a visit to the adjacent tearoom, where we enjoyed green tea and a sweet bean paste confectionery.

The following day, we bid farewell to our Edo Period home, and our kind host drove us to the ferry terminal. As soon as I saw the sign in Japanese for Tokushima, I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks. This had been my home in Japan for fifteen of my twenty years in Shikoku, until the day I departed for a routine visit to Australia, just before the international borders were closed due to COVID. Little did I know that the pandemic would prevent me from returning to Japan. I boarded the ferry as I had so many other times after returning from various work trips, but this time I was visiting on my honeymoon. The two-hour crossing readied me for the arrival in my old stomping ground and was heralded by the sentimental music played to signal a homecoming. Alex and I exited the ferry to be met by my old friend and writing mentor, Suzanne. Overcome with emotion, I covered my face with my hands to spare her the sight of my crumpled features and then gave her a hug. Then I went back to covering my swollen eyes and gave her another hug.

Platter of Sushi at Sally’s home. Photo courtesy: Alan Noble

Suzanne drove us to the home of the son of another old friend, Sally, who had kindly offered us a couple of nights’ accommodation. That evening a subset of old friends dropped in to see us and eat sushi. I braced myself for the entry of each friend into the house, trying to compose my features, after an unanticipated five-year interval. My eyes, however, betrayed me. I caught the expressions of those who returned by gaze, and they could sense my relief and excitement of meeting them again. Over five years people’s appearances were a little different. Those who had long hair now wore it shorter. Those with shorter hair had grown it. Those who were curvaceous were now svelte, and those who were svelte were now curvaceous. A child had now become a lanky teenager. I’m sure I must have looked different to them too. What had not changed was people’s smiles, conversation and sense of humour. People who I would normally see a few times over a month were now all present in the same room in the space of a few hours.

A few days later, we took the bus across Shikoku to Matsuyama, where another happy reunion took place of eight friends from six different countries. I was freshly aware of the joys of the expat life, where you can make friends from a greater range of countries, and a greater range of ages, than you would at home.

Ranma Carvings in a traditional room. Photo Courtesy: Alan Noble

I had been craving another stay in a traditional house, and we savoured a room with ranma carvings suspended from the ceiling, letting in light and air flow from the adjacent room. We sat at the kotatsu low heated table on the tatami, and slept on futon, in a room featuring shoji paper screens facing outside and fusuma cupboards where futons were stored. Features which had once seemed so ordinary were now infused with nostalgia.

Family obligations called us back to Australia after only one week of our Japanese honeymoon. A taxi was followed by a bus which took us on the long trek back across Shikoku, driving through impossibly long tunnels, crossing elegant bridges, with views of the sea and mountains. Once we crossed the final bridge onto the largest main island of Honshu, the landscape was transformed into high rise apartments, and dense traffic. We alighted from the bus at Kobe’s Sannomiya Station.

There we asked directions to the airport limousine bus and made a final purchase of onigiri. My favourite umeboshi pickled plum one was not on sale, so I had to make do with a tuna mayonnaise one and a pickled seaweed one. We ran to the bus stop, purchased tickets, and skipped into the bus holding our luggage. There was no time to store the luggage in the hold. Once the bus pulled into the traffic, we knew we could relax after our long and complicated journey. I gently pulled away the wrapping separating the layers of the tuna mayonnaise onigiri and savoured the contrasting flavours and textures. Our fleeting trip to Japan was punctuated by savouring onigiri on both arrival and departure. We bade farewell to this land of delectable tastes, exquisite arts, historic houses, hair-raising bicycle rides, and precious friends.

Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Tags Australia, Edo period, Honshu, Japan, Japanese, Kansai Airport, Kobe, Koyasan, Matsuyama, Merdith Stehens, Shikoku, South Australia, Suzanne Kamata, Tokushima, UNESCO, UNESCO heritage listed site

celebrations

Festivals of Humanity

Festivals are affirmations of joy and love that bind humanity with their sense of hope even in a world torn by violence and climate change. As the end of the year approaches, we invite you to savour flavours of festivals past and, a few, yet to come, before the cycle starts again in the new year. The colours of celebrations are vibrant and varied as shades of nature or the skies.

We have new years spread out over the year, starting with January, moving on to the Chinese New Year around February, the Bengali new year in April to festivals of environment, light, darkness as in Wiccan beliefs, Tagore’s birth, more conventional ones like Deepavali, Eid, Durga Puja and Christmas. People celebrate in different ways and for different reasons. What we have also gathered is not only the joie de vivre but also the sadness people feel when celebrations are muted whether due to the pandemic, wars or for social reasons. In some cases, we indulge in excesses with funny results! And there are of course festivals of humanity … as celebrated by the bauls — the singing mendicants of Bengal — who only recognise the religion of love, compassion and kindness.

Enjoy our fare!

Poetry

Aaji Shubhodine Pitaar Bhabone or On This Auspicious Day, a Brahmo Hymn by Tagore. Click here to read the translation by Mitali Chakravarty.

Potpouri by Isa Kamari familiarises us with Malay-Singaporean traditions that are observed during festivals. Click here to read.

Eid Poems by Afsar Mohammad. Click here to read.

Ramakanta Rath’s Sri Radha celebrating the love of Radha and Krishna have been translated from Odiya by the late poet himself, have been excerpted from his full length translation. Click here to read.

Bijoya Doushumi, a poem on the last day of Durga Puja, by the famous poet, Michael Madhusudan Dutt, has been translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta. Click here to read.

Groundhog Day by John Grey. Click here to read.

Christmas Cheer by Malachi Edwin Vethamani. Click here to read.

Christmas Poems by Rhys Hughes. Click here to read.

Poem on Christ by Rabindranath Tagore: Verses excerpted from ‘The Child‘, a poem originally written in English by the poet. Click here to read.

Purano Sei Diner Kotha or ‘Can old days ever be forgot?’ by Tagore, based on Robert Burn’s lyrics, Auld Lang Syne. Click here to read the translation by Mitali Chakravarty.

Prose

A Clean Start: Suzanne Kamata tells us how the Japanese usher in a new year. Click here to read.

Shanghai in Jakarta: Eshana Sarah Singh takes us to Chinese New Year celebrations in Djakarta. Click here to read.

Cherry Blossom Forecast: Suzanne Kamata brings the Japanese ritual of cherry blossom viewing to our pages with her camera and words. Click here to read.

Pohela Boisakh: A Cultural Fiesta: Sohana Manzoor shares the Bengali New Year celebrations in Bangladesh with interesting history and traditions that mingle beyond the borders. Click here to read.

The New Year’s Boon: Devraj Singh gives a glimpse into the projection of a new normal created by God. Click here to read.

A Musical Soiree: Snigdha Agrawal recalls how their family celebrated Tagore’s birth anniversary. Click here to read.

Not Everyone is Invited to a Child’s Haircut Ceremony: Odbayar Dorje muses on Mongolian traditions. Clickhere to read.

A Golden Memory of Green Day in Japan: Suzanne Kamata tells us of a festival where she planted a tree in the presence of the Japanese royalty. Click here to read.

An Alien on the Altar! Snigdha Agrawal writes of how a dog and lizard add zest to Janmashtami (Krishna’s birthday) festivities with a dollop of humour. Click here to read

Memories of Durga Puja : Fakrul Alam recalls the festivities of Durga Puja in Dhaka during his childhood. Click here to read.

From Bombay to Kolkata — the Dhaaks of Durga : Ratnottama Sengupta explores a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage Festival. Click here to read.

KL Twin Towers near Kolkata?: Devraj Singh Kalsi visits the colours of a marquee hosting the Durga Puja season with its spirit of inclusivity. Click here to read.

The Oral Traditions of Bengal: Story and Song: Aruna Chakravarti describes the syncretic culture of Bengal through its folk music and oral traditions. Click here to read.

From Diana to ‘Dayaan’: Rajorshi Patronobis talks of Wiccan lore. Click here to read.

Dim Memories of the Festival of Lights: Farouk Gulsara takes a nostalgic trip to Deepavali celebrations in Malaysia. Click here to read.

When Nectar Turns Poisonous!: Farouk Gulsara looks at social norms around festive eating. Click here to read.

Hold the roast turkey please Santa: Celebrating the festive season off-season with Keith Lyons from New Zealand, where summer solstice and Christmas fall around the same time. Click here to read.

Indian Christmas: Essays, Memoirs, Hymns, an anthology edited by Jerry Pinto and Madhulika Liddle, has been reviewed by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.

I Went to Kerala: Rhys Hughes treads a humorous path bringing to us a mixed narrative of Christmas on bicycles . Click here to read.

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

Contents

Borderless, November 2025

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date November 14, 2025
No Comments on Borderless, November 2025

Editorial

Spring in Winter?… Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s Musafir, Mochh re Aankhi Jol (O wayfarer, wipe your tears) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

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

Five short poems by Munir Momin have been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Five poems by Rohini K.Mukherjee have been translated from Odia by Snehprava Das. Click here to read.

S.Ramakrishnan’s story, Steps of Conscience, has been translated from Tamil by B.Chandramouli. Click here to read.

Tagore’s poem, Sheeth or Winter, has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Usha Kishore, Joseph C. Ogbonna, Debadrita Paul, John Valentine, Saranyan BV, Ron Pickett, Shivani Shrivastav, George Freek, Snehaprava Das, William Doreski, Mohit Saini, Rex Tan, John Grey, Raiyan Rashky, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Nomads of the Bone, Rhys Hughes shares an epic poem. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

When Nectar Turns Poisonous!

Farouk Gulsara looks at social norms around festive eating. Click here to read.

On a Dark Autumnal Evening

Ahmad Rayees muses on Kashmir and its inhabitants. Click here to read.

The Final Voyage

Meredith Stephens writes of her experience of a disaster while docking their boat along the Australian coastline. Click here to read.

Embracing the Earth and Sky…

Prithvijeet Sinha takes us to the tomb of Saadat Ali Khan in Lucknow. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In A Fruit Seller in My Life, Devraj Singh Kalsi explores the marketing skills of his fruit seller a pinch of humour. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Return to Naoshima, Suzanne Kamata takes us to an island museum. Click here to read.

Essays

The Trouble with Cioran

Satyarth Pandita introduces us to Emil Cioran, a twentieth century philosopher. Click here to read.

Once a Student — Once a Teacher

Odbayar Dorj writes of celebrating the start of the new school year in Mongolia and of their festivals around teaching and learning. Click here to read.

Bhaskar’s Corner

In ‘Language… is a mirror of our moral imagination’, Bhaskar Parichha pays a tribute to Prof. Sarbeswar Das. Click here to read.

Stories

Visions

Fabiana Elisa Martínez takes us to Argentina. Click here to read.

My Grandmother’s Guests

Priyanjana Pramanik shares a humorous sketch of a nonagenarian. Click here to read.

After the Gherkin

Deborah Blenkhorn relates a tongue-in-cheek story about a supposed crime. Click here to read.

Pause for the Soul

Sreenath Nagireddy writes of migrant displacement and adjustment. Click here to read.

The Real Enemy

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a story set in a village in Andhra Pradesh. Click here to read.

Feature

A conversation with Amina Rahman, owner of Bookworm Bookshop, Dhaka, about her journey from the corporate world to the making of her bookstore with a focus on community building. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from from Love and Crime in the Time of Plague: A Bombay Mystery by Anuradha Kumar. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Wayne F Burke’s Theodore Dreiser – The Giant. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews M.A.Aldrich’s Old Lhasa: A Biography. Click here to read.

Satya Narayan Misra reviews Amal Allana’s Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive. Click here to read.

Anita Balakrishnan reviews Silver Years: Senior Contemporary Indian Women’s Poetry edited by Sanjukta Dasgupta, Malashri Lal and Anita Nahal. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Diya Gupta’s India in the Second World War: An Emotional History. Click here to read.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Tags : Prof. Sarbeswar Das, Ahmad Rayees, Amal Allana, Amina Rahman, Andhra Pradesh, Anita Balakrishnan, Anita Nahal, Anuradha Kumar, Argentina, Australian, B.Chandramouli, Balochi, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, Bookworm, Debadrita Paul, Deborah Blenkhorn, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Dhaka, Diya Gupta, Ebrahim Alkazi: Holding Time Captive, Emil Cioran, Fabiana Elisa Martínez, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, George Freek, India in the Second World War: An Emotional History, Isa Kamari, Japan, John Valentine, Joseph C.Ogbonna, Kashmir, Love and Crime in the Time of Plague: A Bombay Mystery, Lucknow, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, M.A. Aldrich, Malashri Lal, Malay, Meredith Stephens, Mitali Chakravarty, Mohit Saini, Mongolia, Munir Momin, Musafir Mochh re Aankhi Jol, Naoshima, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Nazrul, Odbayar Dorj, Old Lhasa: A Biography, Prithvijeet Sinha, Priyanjana Pramanik, Raiyan Rashky, Rex Tan, Rhys Hughes, Rohini K.Mukherjee, Ron Pickett, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, S.Ramakrishnan, Sadaat Ali Khan, Sanjukta Dasgupta, Saranyan BV, Satya Narayan Misra, Satyarth Pandita, Shivani Shrivastav, Silver Years: Senior Contemporary Indian Women’s Poetry, Snehaprava Das, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, Sreenath Nagireddy, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, Tamil, Theodore Dreiser – The Giant, Usha Kishore, Wayne F Burke, William Doreski

Essay

Once a Student — Once a Teacher

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date November 14, 2025
No Comments on Once a Student — Once a Teacher

Odbayar Dorj writes of celebrating the start of the new school year on September 1^st in Mongolia and of their festivals around teaching and learning…

Mongolians are a people who celebrate festivals wholeheartedly and work with the same kind of enthusiasm. Among our many traditions, one of the most beautiful and meaningful to me is the way we welcome each new school year. In Mongolia, September 1st is not just the beginning of classes—it is a joyful national celebration for teachers and students. On this day, schools across the country hold ceremonies to mark the opening of the academic year. Students eagerly wait for this day, dressed in clean uniforms, their faces full of excitement. Traditionally, the new school year officially begins with a special lesson taught by the President of Mongolia, often about Mongolian script or history, which symbolises the importance of education and cultural heritage.

My own memories of this day are filled with music, excitement, and warmth. Unlike in many countries, Mongolian schools do not separate students into different buildings for primary, lower secondary, and upper secondary levels. Instead, everyone studies in the same school building, simply moving from classroom to classroom as they grow older. This creates a strong sense of community—older students and younger students share the same space, the same celebrations, and the same traditions. The ceremony usually begins with a speech from the school principal, followed by short performances by younger students. Songs about schools and teachers are sung, and the gentle melodies of the morin khuur—the traditional horsehead fiddle—fill the air. We sing, dance, and perform music to welcome the new academic year. Sometimes, I wonder how many other nations celebrate the start of school with such joy and artistry.

A man holding *a morin khuur*, whose music has been named as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO. From Public Domain

One of the most touching parts of the ceremony is the first bell ringing. This moment marks the official opening of the school year. First graders who are starting school for the very first time are given the honor of ringing a small handbell, while teachers line up their classes and lead them ceremoniously into the building. To ring the bell is considered a great honor, both for the child and their family. I will never forget the day my daughter entered first grade. She was chosen, together with a little boy, to represent all first graders and ring the bell. It was a chilly September morning, as it usually is in Mongolia. With one hand tucked into her uniform pocket to keep warm, she raised her other hand high to match the boy’s height and rang the bell. She was one of the smallest children in her class, but in that moment she seemed so brave and proud. That image remains clear in my mind even now—such memories stay with us forever.

For Mongolians, bells carry deep meaning. We even call our graduation ceremonies “Bell Ceremonies”. These are held for students finishing 5th grade (primary), 9th grade (lower secondary), and 12th grade (upper secondary). For 12th graders, the final bell has special significance: it is the last time they will hear the school bell as students before moving on to university or the adult world. That sound marks both an ending and a new beginning.

For teachers, September 1st is a day of joy. It is the moment we reunite with our students after the long summer break and see how much they’ve grown and changed in just three months. For students, it’s the thrill of seeing their classmates again. The entire month of September is a period of readjustment to school life, and it is followed in early October by Teacher’s Day, one of the few days in the year when teachers can celebrate their profession. Another beloved tradition in Mongolia is “Student Day.” On this day, graduating students—or, if the class is small, students from other classes too—take on the role of teachers for one day, while teachers become students. It’s a playful and meaningful role reversal that leaves deep impressions on both sides.

I still remember my first Student Day vividly. I was in 9th grade when my Mongolian language and literature teacher selected me to become a teacher for the day. It was the first time a lower secondary student had been chosen. I was nervous, especially standing alongside the older students from upper secondary school. I spent the entire night preparing, determined not to let my teacher down. On that day, I taught a 9^th grade literature class. I was frightened at first, but the time passed in a flash, leaving me exhilarated.

The following years, I was chosen again—first as a biology teacher in 10^th grade, then as a Russian language teacher in 11^th grade. I participated as a student-teacher for three consecutive years. I especially remember the biology lesson; that day, I felt a special joy and excitement, a spark that would later lead me to choose teaching as my profession.

Years later, after graduating from university, I returned to school as a real teacher. During my first year at a public school, Student Day came again—this time, from the teacher’s side. My 12^th

grade students drew lots to choose teachers, and a sweet girl named Khulan was selected to teach English in my place. She told me with a smile, “Teacher, you probably don’t have a student uniform anymore, so you can borrow mine tomorrow and join our class as a 12^th grader.” The next day, the 12^th graders handed us invitations, asking us to come to their class as students. Attached to each invitation was a class schedule for the day. When I put on the school uniform again, it truly felt as if I had traveled back in time to my childhood.

As a student, I used to think, “I can’t wait to grow up and start working. I’m tired of wearing this uniform.” But as a teacher, wearing it again brought back a wave of nostalgia. Returning to the classroom as a student for one day became one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life. On Student Day, everyone—teachers, administrators, and staff—puts on uniforms and attends classes together as “students.” The day is filled with laughter and playful mischief. Some pretend to be naughty students: interrupting class, asking silly questions, teasing each other. We laugh and call each other “bad students”.

At the end of the day, both the student-teachers and teacher-students gather to share their thoughts. This is always a moving moment. Older students often talk about how difficult it is to teach large classes and apologise for times when they had been troublesome. They express a newfound respect for their teachers, having experienced the challenges themselves. For us teachers, hearing this is incredibly rewarding. If there were a train that could take us back to our childhood, I think everyone would want to ride it. For teachers, Student Day is exactly that—a once-a-year chance to return to childhood.

For the past three years, I have spent September 1st, Student Day, and Teacher’s Day far away from Mongolia. At first, when I saw my friends’ photos and posts on social media, I felt a quiet envy. But at the same time, remembering these traditions filled me with warmth, pride, and a deep love for my profession. Throughout my life, I have met many wonderful teachers. Thanks to them, I have continued to learn and grow, always inspired by their example. These traditions, these bells, these memories—they are not just part of my past. They are part of who I am, both as a former student and as a teacher.

No matter where I am in the world, once a student, once a teacher—those identities live within me, carrying the echoes of September bells wherever I go.

Odbayar Dorj is an international student from Mongolia currently studying in Japan. Her writing reflects on cultural identity, personal memory, and the power of connection across borders and generations.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Tags Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, Japan, Mongolia, Mongolian, Odbayar Dorj, UNESCO