Categories
Poetry

A Beach Novel with a Difference…

In Conversation with Suzanne Kamata about Cinnamon Beach, published by Wyatt Mackenzie Publishing, and a brief introduction to her new novel.

Cinnamon beach by Suzanne Kamata seems to be ostensibly a normal romantic novel but there is an aspect that makes it unique. It glues all colours of humanity together. Almost all the families in her narrative are of mixed heritage or multiracial. She has stepped beyond the veneer of race and nationality to highlight that all humanity has the same needs— for love, acceptance and kindness, irrespective of colour and creed, a gentle reminder in a world that is moving towards polarisation in terms of constructs made by human laws.

Set against the backdrop of the Cinnamon Beach, the narrative shuttles through two countries that she has called home — Japan and USA. There are autobiographical elements woven into the narrative but perhaps, they halt in becoming lived experiences. The protagonist, upcoming writer, Olivia Hamada, an American married to a Japanese, has lost both her job and finds her marriage in doldrums when she visits her sister-in-law, Parisa. Parisa is a renowned fashion designer, daughter of an immigrant Indian and has lost her husband, Ted, Olivia’s elder brother. It is a poignant story with Olivia and her deaf daughter, Sophie, falling in love with a star, Devon, and his son, Dante respectively — both persons of colour. Devon’s ancestors were brought in from Africa. So how mixed are the races – Sophie is half Japanese-half American and Dante is part African-part American!

The narrative start simply and gains nuances as it progresses. There are comments and conversations that introduce twists and turns to explore attitudes and prejudices.

At a point Kamata tells us: “She’d heard, several years ago, of a revolt at a liberal college cafeteria in protest of its serving sushi. And there was that dust-up over a reality TV star using the name ‘kimono’ for her new line of shapewear. Perhaps she had been wrong to ever go to Japan in the first place. But she had done it and she had gone and written a collection of short stories heavily inspired by events in her real life, and now, here she was.” The bias against Japan that led to the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki are hinted at conversationally – world events that conspired more than eighty years ago. Why do such biases still exist today when we have moved forward so much technologically?

When Olivia asks Devon why he never liked to talk race or indulge in activism, he tells her, “It’s just that I would rather build bridges than burn them.”

And he explains further, “Sometimes taking a stand on issues creates more division.”

Religious observances seem to be unboxed too with Buddhist, Hindu and Christian customs intermingled. All festivals become a celebration of love and acceptance. Her world is idyllic when it comes to interactions between the lead characters. Living in a city like Singapore, that does not seem an impossibility as many are of mixed origins. 

One would hope that the whole world will eventually learn that all these differences are only the colours of the rainbow, as shown in Kamata’s novel. The novel ends on a note of hope — hope for a new beginning and for love and for a multiracial relationship.  

Kamata’s style is fluid. The situations and events are so much a part of the lived reality that you can almost feel and see the characters come to life. Anyone can enjoy the novel, whether as a light read or to find the nuances that explore the need for the redefinition of societal norms. With her smooth and untroubled storytelling, Kamata leaves it to the reader to decide what they want to find in her storytelling. Nothing is coerced or made incomprehensible.

With a number of novels, short stories and poetry collections under her belt, as an award-winning storyteller, Kamata guides us through her world skilfully leaving us with a feeling of having made new friends and gained deeper insight into myriad colours of humanity. In this interview, she talks about her writing, her novel and beyond.

Tell us when you started writing? And how?

I have been writing since I was a child. I loved reading, so perhaps it was natural that I would start to make up my own stories. I got a lot of encouragement from my teachers and parents, which inspired me to continue.

How many novels have you written in all? And which has been your favourite?

I have written seven, including young adult novels and one for middle grade readers. At the moment, Cinnamon Beach is my favourite, maybe because it’s shiny and new.

You do stories for children too and poetry. Tell us a bit about those.

I subscribed to a magazine called Ladybug for my children when they were young. I decided to try writing a story and submitting it to the magazine, and it was accepted. Other stories, inspired by my children, followed. For example, my son requested a baseball story. My middle grade novel, Pop Flies, Robo-pets and Other Disasters is the result of that.

What is your favourite genre to read and to write?

I prefer to read and write realistic fiction. The age level doesn’t really matter. I personally read everything from picture books to middle grade novels to adult novels.

How did Cinnamon Beach come about? How long did it take you to write the novel?

This was my pandemic book. I wrote most of it within a year, which is unusual for me. It usually takes me about four years to finish something. But I had a lot of free time during the pandemic, when I was alone in my office, and I wrote. I was kind of obsessed with what was happening in the United States, where things were much, much worse than where I live in Japan. I actually made a visit to the US at the height of COVID-19 because my father broke his hip. So, my thoughts were turned toward South Carolina, where my parents and sister-in-law live. Also, I had been thinking about writing a multicultural beach novel for some time. I enjoy reading novels set at the beach, but they usually feature only white people. My family is very diverse, so when we go to the beach together there is a very interesting mix of cultures. I wanted the book to reflect that.

 What kind of research went into it?

As I mention above, I did visit South Carolina during the pandemic. I also talked about it with my sister-in-law, who is Indian American. She gave me some ideas and commented on the final draft. Other than that, I went for a lot of walks on a nearby beach here in Japan.

In Cinnamon Beach, you have woven in autobiographical elements. Tell us how much of it is from your lived experiences.

A lot of it starts with something true and then leaps into “what if”? I did lose my brother, but not during the pandemic. He died in 2019, and I attended his funeral, but what if he had died a year later, when travel restrictions were in place? Also, I did have a work experience similar to Olivia’s. I brought my story to a newspaper, but I found a new job before the story was published, and I asked that it not appear in print after all. But what if I had allowed it to be published? My daughter is deaf and she uses an app to communicate with non-Japanese users. As far as I know, she doesn’t have a secret boyfriend, but what if she did?

You have written of nepotism in a Japanese University. Is that based on your experiences, facts or is it fiction?

Olivia’s experiences at a Japanese university are based on mine. People often get jobs through connections in Japan.

Having been married to a Japanese for a number of decades, what are the cultural differences? How do you bridge them? Is that woven into your narrative?

There are so many! There are a lot of little ones, such as my husband’s expectation for homemade soup with every meal (which I find troublesome to prepare), and my expectation for some sort of celebration on my birthday (which is rarely met). And there are many greater differences. For example, I feel that people don’t take gender harassment as seriously in Japan as they do in my native country, or that they are unaware of what it means. Also, Americans are very forthcoming about mental health issues, whereas it seems more secret and shameful to talk about them in Japan. I don’t know that my husband and I have necessarily bridged our cultural differences, but I have accepted that we think differently about many things. Olivia is divorced, so she and her Japanese husband did not bridge them very well.

Are mixed marriages more common in Japan or America? Please elaborate.

Mixed marriages are much more common in the United States than in Japan. Marriages between Japanese men and Western women are quite rare. According to Diane Nagatomo’s Identity, Gender, and Teaching English in Japan, in 2013, less than 2 percent of the 21,488 marriages registered in Japan between a Japanese and foreign national were between Japanese men and American women. I doubt that those numbers have changed much.

Do such families — with Western, Japanese, Indian and black, exist outside your fiction? Please elaborate.

Certainly. The ethnic mix of the family in Cinnamon Beach is based on that of my own family. As another example, Nikki Haley, the former governor of South Carolina, is an Indian American married to a white man. Their daughter married a black man. Many children of my Western friends who are married to Japanese have partners who are of other cultures (neither Japanese, nor Western). I think Third Culture Kids tend to be very open to people from other cultures.

 What books, stories, music impact your writing and how?

In the case of Cinnamon Beach, having read beach novels by authors such as Elin Hilderbrand, Dorothea Benton Frank, Mary Alice Monroe, Patti Callahan Henry, Kristy Woodson Harvey and Sunny Hostin made me want to write my own beach novel. I don’t know that music influences my writing, because I write in silence, but it was fun to come up with a playlist of songs that related to the book.

Having said that, I love music and I have known people in bands. The music world is fascinating to me, and I have created musician or music-adjacent characters in other books as well. The character Devon was inspired by the Black American  Country and Western singer Darius Rucker. I knew him a bit in college, because he and his then-band sometimes practiced in the house next to mine. 

What are your future plans? What other books can we look forward to from you soon?

Next up in a short story collection, River of Dolls and Other Stories, which will be published in November by Penguin Random House SEA. And I also have an essay collection (mostly travel narratives) in the works. Will keep you posted!

Thank you for giving us a lovely novel and your time.

(The online interview has been conducted through emails and the review written by Mitali Chakravarty.)

Click here to read an excerpt from Cinnamon Beach

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Contents

Borderless, June 2024

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

Fly High…Like Birds in the Sky… Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s Nur Jahan, the Mughal empress, has been translated from Bengali to English by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Eight Short Poems by Munir Momin have been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

An Age-old Struggle by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.

Okale or Out of Sync by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Michael Burch, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Kumar Sawan, LaVern Spencer McCarthy, Shamik Banerjee, Prithvijeet Sinha, Gregg Norman, Rinku Dutta, Alex S. Johnson, Anushka Chaudhury, Wayne Russell, Nusrat Jahan Esa, Ahmad Rayees, Ivan Ling, Swetarani Tripathy, R.L.Peterson, Ayesha Binte Islam, Rhys Hughes

Musings/ Slices from Life

In the Grip of Violence

Ratnottama Sengupta muses on acts of terror and translates a Bengali poem by Tarik Sujat which had come as a reaction to an act of terror. Click here to read.

Meeting the Artists

Kiriti Sengupta talks of his encounter with Jatin Das, a legendary artist from Bengal. Click here to read.

A Musical Soiree

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

A Cover Letter

Uday Deshwal muses on writing a cover letter for employment. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Berth of a Politician, Devraj Singh Kalsi muses on an encounter with a politician. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In A Day with Dinosaurs, Suzanne Kamata visits the ancient dino bones found in Fukui Prefecture. Click here to read.

Essays

From Place to Place

Renee Melchert Thorpe recounts her mother’s migration story, hopping multiple countries, starting with colonial Calcutta and Darjeeling. Click here to read.

My Love Affair with (Printed) Books

Ravi Shankar writes of his passion for print media. Click here to read.

A Story Carved in Wood, Snow and Stone  

Urmi Chakravorty travels with her camera and narrative to a scenic village in the Indo China border. Click here to read.

Stories

Spunky Dory and the Wheel of Fortune

Ronald V. Micci takes the readers on a fantastical adventure. Click here to read.

Rani Pink

Swatee Miittal sheds light on societal attitudes. Click here to read.

The Ghosts of Hogshead

Paul Mirabile wanders into the realm of the supernatural dating back to the Potato Famine of Ireland in the 1800s. Click here to read.

Conversations

In conversation with eminent Singaporean poet and academic, Kirpal Singh, about how his family migrated to Malaya and subsequently Singapore more than 120 years ago. Click here to read.

In conversation with Jessica Muddit, author of Once Around the Sun: From Cambodia to Tibet, and a review of her book. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Suzanne Kamata’s Cinnamon Beach. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Ryan Quinn Flanagann’s These Many Cold Winters of the Heart. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Maya Nagari: Bombay-Mumbai A City in Stories, edited by Shanta Gokhale and Jerry Pinto. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy reviews Trailokyanath Mukhopadhyay’s Tales of Early Magic Realism in Bengali, translated by Sucheta Dasgupta. Click here to read.

Rakhi Dalal reviews Damodar Mauzo’s Boy, Unloved, translated from Konkani by Jerry Pinto. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews The Dilemma of an Indian Liberal by Gurcharan Das. Click here to read.

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Categories
Editorial

Fly High… Like Birds in the Sky…

He sees a barrier where soldiers stand
with rifles drawn, encroachers kept at bay.
A migrant child who holds his mother's hand


— LaVern Spencer McCarthy, Are We There Yet?

There was a time when humans walked the Earth crossing unnamed landmasses to find homes in newer terrains. They migrated without restrictions.  Over a period of time, kingdoms evolved, and travellers like Marco Polo talked of needing permissions to cross borders in certain parts of the world. The need for a permit to travel was first mentioned in the Bible, around 450BCE. A safe conduct permit appeared in England in 1414CE. Around the twentieth century, passports and visas came into full force. And yet, humanity had existed hundreds of thousand years ago… Some put the date at 300,000!

While climate contingencies, wars and violence are geared to add to migrants called ‘refugees’, there is always that bit of humanity which regards them as a burden. They forget that at some point, their ancestors too would have migrated from where they evolved. In South Africa, close to Johannesburg is Maropeng with its ‘Cradle of Humanity’, an intense network of caves where our ancestors paved the way to our evolution. The guide welcomes visitors by saying — “Welcome home!” It fills one’s heart to see the acceptance that drips through the whole experience.  Does this mean our ancestors all stepped out of Africa many eons ago and that we all belonged originally to the same land?

And yet there are many restrictions that have come upon us creating boxes which do not allow intermingling easily, even if we travel. Overriding these barriers is a discussion with Jessica Mudditt about Once Around the Sun: From Cambodia to Tibet, her book about her backpacking through Asia. Documenting a migration more than a hundred years ago from Jullundur to Malaya, when borders were different and more mobile, we have a conversation with eminent scholar and writer from Singapore, Kirpal Singh. Telling the story of another eminent migrant, a Persian who became a queen in the Mughal Court is a lyric by Nazrul, Nur Jahan, translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from Bangla. Ihlwha Choi has self-translated his own poem from Korean, a poem bridging divides with love. Fazal Baloch has brought to us some exquisite Balochi poems by Munir Momin. Tagore’s poem, Okale or Out of Sync, has been translated from Bengali to reflect the strange uniqueness of each human action which despite departing from the norm, continue to be part of the flow.

Among our untranslated poetry is housed LaVern Spencer McCarthy’s voice on the plight of migrants of the current times. Michael Burch gives us poems for Dylan Thomas. We have a plethora of issues covered in poetry ranging from love to women’s issues, even an affectionate description of his father by Shamik Banerjee. Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Kumar Sawan, Prithvijeet Sinha, Gregg Norman, Anushka Chaudhary, Wayne Russell, Ahmad Rayees, Ivan Ling, Ayesha Binte Islam and many more add verve with their varied themes. Rhys Hughes has shared a poem on a funny sign he photographed himself.

We have a tongue in cheek piece from Devraj Singh Kalsi on traveling in a train with a politician. Uday Deshwal writes with a soupçon of humour as he talks of applying for jobs. Snigdha Agrawal brings to us flavours of Bengal from her past while Ratnottama Sengupta muses on the ongoing wars and violence as acts of terror in the same region and looks back at such an incident in the past which resulted in a powerful Bengali poem by Tarik Sujat. Kiriti Sengupta has written of a well-known artist, Jatin Das, a strange encounter where the artist asks them to empty fully even a glass of water! Ravi Shankar weaves in his love for books into our non-fiction section. Recounting her mother’s migration story which leads us to perceive the whole world as home is a narrative by Renee Melchert Thorpe. Urmi Chakravorty takes us to the last Indian village on the borders of Tibet. Taking us to a Dinosaur Museum in Japan is our migrant columnist, Suzanne Kamata. Her latest multicultural novel, Cinnamon Beach, has found its way to our book excerpts as has Flanagan’s poetry collection, These Many Cold Winters of the Heart.

In reviews, Somdatta Mandal has written about an anthology, Maya Nagari: Bombay-Mumbai A City in Stories edited by Shanta Gokhale and Jerry Pinto. Rakhi Dalal has discussed a translation from Konkani by Jerry Pinto of award-winning writer Damodar Mauzo’s Boy, Unloved. Basudhara Roy has reviewed Trailokyanath Mukhopadhyay’s Tales of Early Magic Realism in Bengali, translated by Sucheta Dasgupta. Bhaskar Parichha has introduced us to The Dilemma of an Indian Liberal by Gurcharan Das, a book that is truly relevant in the current times in context of the whole world for what he states is a truth:In the current polarised climate, the liberal perspective is often marginalised or dismissed as being indecisive or weak.” And it is the truth for the whole world now.

Our short stories reflect the colours of the world. A fantasy set in America but crossing borders of time and place by Ronald V. Micci, a story critiquing social norms that hurt by Swatee Miittal and Paul Mirabile’s ghost story shuttling from the Irish potato famine (1845-52) to the present day – all address different themes across borders, reflecting the vibrancy of thoughts and cultures. That we all exist in the same place and have the commonality of ideas and felt emotions is reflected in each of these narratives.

We have more which adds to the lustre of the content. So, do pause by our content’s page and enjoy the reads!

I would like to thank all our team without who this journal would be incomplete, especially, Sohana Manzoor, for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our contributors who bring vibrancy to our pages and our wonderful readers, without who the journal would remain just part of an electronic cloud… We welcome you all to enjoy our June issue.

Wish you happiness and good weather!

Thank you all.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the content’s page for the June 2024 Issue.

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Categories
Notes from Japan

A Day with Dinosaurs

Photographs and Narrative by Suzanne Kamata

My day job is “associate professor,” so I sometimes attend academic conferences. When I learned of an upcoming conference on language teaching in Fukui Prefecture, which I had never been to, I was eager to sign up. Sure, I wanted to hear all the cutting-edge theories about teaching English to language learners – how to motivate my students to write haiku, how to use AI, and so on – but my primary reason was to see the dinosaur bones.

Although at one time it seems that dinosaurs pretty much roamed the whole world, fossils of dinosaur bones weren’t discovered in Japan until 1989. Those bones were found in Katsuyama City, Fukui Prefecture. Since then, even more bones have been discovered, and a museum ̶ Fukui Prefectural Dinosaur Museum ̶ opened in 2000. As part of the pre-conference activities, the host university had arranged for a trip to the museum. A free shuttle but would depart at 11:30am.

I consulted an app on my smartphone and determined that it would take me about five hours to reach Fukui Station from my home in Tokushima Prefecture on the island of Shikoku. I would have to take a bus, a train, another train, and the high-speed bullet train. After a recent trip to Tokyo, I had learned how to use an electronic transit card, which was basically an app on my phone. This app could be used to breeze through ticket gates at train stations, as well as on buses and subways.

I got up at 5:30am on the day of the museum tour. My husband dropped me off at the bus station. I got on the bus and got off in Osaka. Then I took a train to Kyoto, which was mobbed with travelers. Although I thought I could get on the next train, the so-called Thunderbird, with my app, I discovered that I needed to have a reservation. I suppose I could have made one on my smartphone while standing in line, but I was confused. I left the platform and queued up to buy a reserved ticket from the vending machine, which disrupted my tight schedule and meant I would not be able to make it to Fukui in time for the free shuttle bus.

The Thunderbird goes straight from Kyoto to Fukui with few stops in between. The scenery is mostly composed of rice fields and squat mountains. The monotonous view was calming. About an hour later, the train pulled into Tsuruga where I had to switch to the brand-new Hokuriku Shinkansen for the last seventeen minutes of my journey. In my rush to finish my business at the vending machine in Kyoto, I had inadvertently booked a seat in the most luxurious car. I was the only one there.

I texted a friend who was also attending the conference. She had already arrived. I told her that I would be late, and that I wouldn’t be able to ride the bus with her. This was Japan, where everything was always on time! However, the organisers were Americans, and they were willing to wait for me. Hooray!

As soon as I got to Fukui Station, with its moving animatronic raptor keeping guard out front, I hopped into a taxi and finally arrived at the university, where the bus was indeed waiting. I sprinted onboard, apologised to my fellow passengers, and thanked the organiser profusely.

The museum was impressive, as advertised. Replicas of dinosaurs discovered in such far-flung locales as Morocco and Mongolia were on display. There were, of course, also exhibits of the five dinosaurs and one bird species discovered in Fukui, including the long-necked stubby-legged Fukuititan, the herbivorous Fukuisaurus, and the Fukuiraptor. Although the museum offers an excavation experience where visitors can pretend to dig and discover fossils, my friend and I just walked around looking at all of the cool rocks and bones.

Having gone through my son’s dinosaur obsession when he was young, I could remember some of the dinosaur’s names – the Ankylosaurus with its bumpy back, the Stegosaurus, and Pterodactyl. When we were ready to take a break, my friend and I made our way to the cafeteria for dino-themed snacks.

While many famous destinations in Japan are struggling with over-tourism, Fukui, while slightly off the beaten track, has a pleasantly relaxing vibe. Things may change with the new bullet train, but for now, I recommend it as a fascinating horde-free place to visit.

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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Categories
Musings

In the Grip of Violence

Ratnottama Sengupta muses on the ongoing wars and violence as acts of terror and gazes back to an incident in the past which resulted in a powerful Bengali poem by Tarik Sujat that she has translated here

The world is in the grip of violence, Rabindranath Tagore wrote on March 5, 1927, sitting in the abode of peace – Santiniketan. Full 97 years later, the world is still in the grip of violence?

It’s Gaza today. Ukraine yesterday. Afghanistan some days ago. Sri Lanka not so long ago. Sometimes it is Bosnia. At other times, it’s Vietnam. Lands far flung and near adorn themselves with blood-red mark of hatred. Religion. Self-seeking dictators. Communism. Global lust for power. No matter what is at stake, the pawn is an innocent life. Always. A woman. An elder. An unborn child…

Tagore wrote Hingshay unmatto prithibi [1]– “The world is in the grip of violence as a prayer to the Almighty. The delirium is leading to conflicts, cruel and ceaseless… Crooked is the world today, tangled its philosophy. No bond is sacred.” And the anguish of such a state of affairs? It led even the Eternal Bard of Bengal to pray for a new birth of ‘Him of Boundless Life.’ “Save them,” Tagore had prayed to the Serene, “raise your eternal voice of hope” so that “Love’s lotus, with its inexhaustible store of nectar” may open its petals in His light. In His immeasurable mercy. To wipe away all dark stains from the heart of the continents.

In vain he prayed.

“Forgive them!” Jesus said, for “They know not what they do!” And what did the soldiers do? They gambled for his clothes by throwing dice! (Luke 23:34)

Forgive them? “Have you forgiven those who vitiated the atmosphere and snuffed out light for innocent lives?” Tagore asked the Almighty, in ‘Proshno (Question)‘. Have you forgiven those who deal hate in the secret hours of night? Have you embraced with love those who murder the helpless in broad daylight under the cover of ideology? Don’t you wince when a pregnant Bilkis[2] is gang-raped? Why do you shed silent tears when elected rulers choke people’s voice with furtive use of power?

And like his Prayer, Tagore’s ‘Question’ too has remained unanswered. And dumb sit the messiahs when men with mistaken notion of mission kill, maim, mutilate hostages who become mere numbers in newspaper headlines – until a new dateline wipes it off our collective memory.  Thus, once again, the world was shaken by brutalities carried out in the name of God, in Dhaka’s elite neighbourhood, Gulshan.

On July 1, 2016, before the Cinderella hour struck, five militants entered the Holey Artisan Bakery with bombs, machetes, pistols, and opened fire on men and women, from Italy, Japan, India, Bangladesh. Sunrise. Sunset.. Sunrise… unsuccessfully the police tried to secure the hostages. An elite force of the Bangla Army had to raid to put an end to what BBC News described as “the deadliest Islamist attack in Bangladesh”. Meanwhile? The toll had risen to 29 lives, totaling 17 foreigners, three locals, two policemen, five gunmen, and two bakery staff who were trying to earn their daily bread!

Since Gulshan is home to many embassies and high commissions in the capital of the secular nation, the news stirred up the world in no time. And prayers poured in – over cellphones, on Facebook, television and newspapers too.  Prayers of wives for their husbands. Prayers of mothers for their sons. Prayers of a niece for her aunt. Prayers of American friends for their Indian batch mate. But once again, prayers went unanswered…

Among those who did not survive to tell the story was Simona Monti of Italy who worked in textiles. Then 33 years of age, Simona was soon to go to her home an hour away from Rome, to deliver the child she had nursed in her womb for five months. But Michelangelo too did not live to breathe in the world vitiated by hatred. When the news reached her brother, he prayed his Simona’s bloodshed would make this “a more just and brotherly world.”

His prayer, too, remains unanswered.

But poets and other men of conscience did not remain silent. Within days of the incident Tarik Sujat wrote Janmer aagei aami mrityu ke korechhi alingan  (Even before my birth I embraced death, July 6, 2016). No diatribe in his words, but the muted cry of an unborn being jolts us. That cry left me with a tear in one eye and fire in the other…

On my very first reading I was touched, I was moved, I fell silent. The pensive mood of the embryonic life turned me reflective. Anger, rage, fury was not the answer to hostility, loathing, abhorrence, I realised. So will you, as you go through the poem that was handed out in Magliano Sabino when Simona’s hometown prayed for her eternal rest.

I Embraced Death Before Birth 

Even before my birth I embraced death.
I have no nation, no speech,
No stock of my own.
No distinction between Holy-Unholy,
Sin and Virtue, Sacred or Cursed.
Having seen the ghastly face of life
I've swallowed my last drop of tear...
My first breath did not pollute
The environs of your earth.
My last breath was the first gift
Of this planet to me!

Maa!
You were my only playhouse,
My school, and my coffin.
I had yet to open my eyes -
And still I saw
The sharp nails of executioner
Ripping apart my naval cord.
My ears were yet to hear sound,
Still I could catch bells
That summon lads to schools...
The obscure sound echoed
Through churches, temples,
And minarets of masjids
Until, slowly, it fell silent...

My first bed was my last.
My mother's womb was
My only home
In the unseen world.
On that nook too, darkness descended.
Floating down the river of blood
I groped for my umbilical cord
To keep me afloat...
My tiny fingers, my soft palm
Could find nothing to clutch.

In that Dance of Death
My unseeing eyes witnessed
Koran, Bible, Gita, Tripitak
Bobbing in receding blood.
In the achromatic gloom
Of my chamber
I got no chance to learn
A single mark of piety!

Still...
I embraced death before I was born.
My mother's womb is my
Grave, my coffin, my pyre.
The world of humans
Is enveloped in fire -
A few droplets of my meagre body
Does not quench its thirst!

(Translated from Tarik Sujat’s Bengali poem by Ratnottama Sengupta)

Why has this portrayal of a tormented soul found voice in French, German, Swedish, Italian, English…? Why has it been translated into 17 languages? In the answer blowing in the wind lies hope for mankind. For, the answer is: Not every man is created in the image of Lucifer.  That is why, when Giulia Benedetti learnt that she will never again see her aunt Nadia Benedetti, that “she will not talk, will not comment on fashion, will not sing together again…” she wrote on Facebook: “Do not forget. Do not lose her memory. Do not let crazy people massacre. Do not let them win…”

And I immerse my voice in the Bard’s to say: “Let life come to the souls that are dead…” And I pray, bring harmony, bring rhythm, bring melody in our lives, O Serene! Wipe away every dark cloud from the world yet to dawn!

[1] The world is crazed with greed

[2] Bilkis Bano was gangraped in 2002 https://thewire.in/rights/in-her-own-words-what-bilkis-bano-went-through-in-2002

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

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Excerpt

Cinnamon Beach

Title: Cinnamon Beach

Author: Suzanne Kamata

Publisher: Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing

Olivia

Olivia had cruised along I-26 from the capital to the coast of South Carolina more times than she could count, but this time was different. Back in the day, she had ridden shotgun in a girlfriend’s convertible, with a passel of other co-eds in the back, on their way to spring break and beer and boys at the beach. Or, another time, it had been in her yellow VW Beetle, on the way to see the do-gooder surfer guy she thought she couldn’t live without, the one who spent the summer at Myrtle Beach and took her to that place where they tossed their clam shells onto a sawdust-covered floor. Then there was that excursion to Hilton Head Island with Masahiro, before they got married, the one where he freaked out when he saw an alligator sunbathing on the golf course green.

Later, she’d driven to Charleston for an academic conference where she’d presented her paper on Aiken-born writer Gamel Woolsey. And then there had been that trip to promote her own short story collection – her first ever book tour! When their kids were small, they’d met up at the Isle of Palms with her brother Ted and his wife Parisa and their daughter and two sets of grandparents — the good old days. Olivia felt an arrow pierce her heart. This time, it was just Olivia and her two teenagers in a rental car. A minivan. She wasn’t used to driving such a big car. In Japan, she drove what they called a toaster-shaped Kei car, which was small enough to navigate the narrow roads in their neighborhood.

         “Why don’t you drive faster?” Yuto asked from the back seat. He’d been more or less silent for the first hour of the trip, busy filming roadside novelties with his smartphone, which he’d later post on Instagram or Snapchat or TikTok or whatever – she couldn’t keep up.

         “Why?” Oliva asked, irritated. She looked into her rearview mirror, and saw his head, topped by a baseball cap, hovering over his phone. He’d bought a SIM card before leaving Tokushima. For all she knew, he was chatting with his friends back home.

         “Because everybody’s passing you,” he said.

         As if to prove his point, a massive semi whooshed past them, followed by three more cars, all made in Japan. She glanced at the speedometer and confirmed that she was, indeed, driving the speed limit.

Olivia had read somewhere that early in the pandemic, the highways were so tantalizingly devoid of traffic that many drivers could not resist pressing down on the gas pedal. The highway patrol had raked in the bucks from the speeding tickets they’d issued, back when just about every other business was gasping for breath. But Olivia was used to driving slowly. Also, to be honest, she wasn’t in a hurry to get where they were going. To be completely honest, she was struggling with the desire to turn the car around and go back to Columbia.

         She looked in the rearview mirror again to check on Sophie. As expected, she was engrossed in her manga, oblivious to the scraps of blown-out tires and English-language billboards on the side of the road urging her to repent. Her hearing aids were in her lap.

“Anyone need to stop?” she asked. “Looks like there’s a service station up ahead.”

She thought she heard a murmur of agreement, and she wanted to use the restroom anyway, and take a moment before hurtling on into this dreaded not-a-vacation, so she eased onto the next exit ramp.

Once the car was parked, she leaned over the back seat and tapped Sophie’s knee. She signed “bathroom?” – one hand making a “W. C’ like an OK sign with an open O. Olivia was sure that it was an obscene gesture in some European country – Italy, maybe – just as the Japanese sign for “older brother” meant “fuck you” in America.

Sophie nodded and pushed the thick manga off of her lap. They went in together, Olivia waiting outside the bathroom while her daughter went in first. When she came out, Olivia handed her a couple of crumpled dollar bills. “Buy a snack or a drink,” she signed.

Inside the bathroom, she stood in front of the mirror, far enough back to take in at least half of herself. Her shalwar kameez with the Parisa! label stitched in back was not as wrinkled as she’d expected. This one, in a Palmetto print with a nod to the South Carolina state tree, had a touch of polyester. She was wearing it as kind of conciliatory gesture toward her sister-in-law, the eponymous Parisa!

A few years back, Parisa had come up with the idea of marketing the traditional tunic and pants combo of Southeast Asian women to ladies who lunch in the South. Instead of stitching them up into the usual jewel-toned silks and cottons of her parents’ India, she chose Liberty of London florals, playful prints, and alternative materials, such as paper. The “pajama pant suits” had taken off locally, and then nationally, after a few significant influencers had posted photos of themselves dressed in Parisa! on their social media. The outfits were classic, flattering to just about every body type, and they were super comfortable. Now, Parisa’s fan base included female politicians, writers, and talk show hosts. Parisa! had become a household name.

Olivia smoothed down the front of her tunic with the palms of her hands, then swiped at the smudges of mascara under her eyes with a pinky. There was a dent between her eyebrows. If only she had been injected with Botox! If only she were ten years younger! She sighed, turned away from the mirror, finished her business and went back to the car.

Yuto and Sophie were already in the back seat, buckled up and ready to go. Sophie had popped open a can of Diet Coke.

“What’d you get?” Olivia asked.

Yuto held up a bag of fried pork rinds. “Want some?”

“Uh, no thanks.” Sure, Olivia had lived in the South, but she’d never become quite that Southern.

Parisa

Parisa had just finished making the last bed when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. She spent a few extra seconds smoothing the coverlet, stalling, before moving to look out the window.

         Normally, when the family gathered at the beach house, they would go to the linen closet themselves, get the sheets, and make their own beds. They had their favorites. The kids liked the ones with faded cartoon characters, which reminded them of being innocent and carefree, of those days before the anxiety of zits and dating and final exams. Olivia went for the sheets with the highest thread count, which were probably nicer than the ones on her bed in Japan. Parisa didn’t think they could afford such sheets, even if her husband was a professional golfer. It had been a while since he had won any tournaments, and she seemed to remember that he’d lost one of his endorsements. And in Japan, didn’t they sleep on mats or something? Parisa had seen Olivia petting the bed after she’d finished making it, as if she enjoyed the silky smoothness. But this time, Parisa made the beds for them. It wasn’t a normal time. Parisa wondered if life would ever feel normal again.

         As if sensing her mood, Chester padded into the room and nudged her with his snout. The golden retriever shed something awful in the warmer months, and he left a patch of fur on her maroon USC T-shirt. She plucked at the dog hair, her fingers grazing the Gamecocks emblem. She’d worn the shirt on purpose to remind her of how they had all met, she and Ted and Olivia.

         They’d all been students at the University of South Carolina in Columbia. She and Olivia had been in the same class, but they had not met until Ted introduced them. Ted had been a year ahead. They had worked together at a swanky restaurant, one where the staff had been trained in table settings and wine pairings. In between bussing tables, Ted had told Parisa about the bistro that he planned to open himself someday, and she’d told him about her dream of becoming a fashion designer. Once they’d started to get serious, she’d brought him home to meet her parents, who had immigrated from New Delhi back in the 1960s – and her older brothers, who’d been born in Greer, South Carolina, just as she had, but who had been raised to be good Indian boys.

         She remembered how her parents had met them at the door, and how, after stepping inside, Ted had gotten down on his hands and knees and touched their feet in greeting. Apparently, he had seen someone do this in a movie or something. Parisa had been both embarrassed for him, and deeply moved by his effort. She had remained standing, twisting her hands together. Her mother, who had dressed in a peacock-blue sari for the occasion, had taken it all in stride, as her due. Her father had chuckled and ordered him to his feet.

         They’d led him into the living room where her brothers, Arun and Anil, sat waiting in armchairs. The Indian-style swing, which hung from the ceiling, and which Arun usually preferred, was empty. When they got up to shake his hand, Parisa was momentarily worried that Ted would try out a “namaste” on them, but he didn’t. He shook their hands, as he would those of any American, and when invited, sat down on the sofa. And then they’d all grilled him mercilessly. Where was he born? What did his parents do? What was he studying? What did he aspire to do in the future? Where did he want to live after graduation? And so on.

         The Hispanic housekeeper had brought out a silver tray of chai and Indian sweets – laddoos and barfi – which Ted had dutifully consumed. He had raved about them, not realizing that Parisa’s mother had bought them at the Asian market. She spent as little time in the kitchen as possible.

         Once they were back in the car, about to drive back to campus, Ted took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Wow,” he said. “That was grueling.”

         She’d worried that it had all been too much for him, but a week or so later, he’d taken her to meet his parents, who’d moved down to South Carolina from Michigan. They had been kind and welcoming, a bit more subdued than her own parents. Ted’s mother had served meatloaf with mashed potatoes, and peach pie for dessert. Although they had asked one or two questions about her parents’ backgrounds and jobs, they hadn’t pried.

It had taken a bit longer for Ted to introduce her to his sister.

      “She’s kind of…different,” he’d said, more than once. “I worry about her sometimes.” A cloud seemed to form over him every time her name came up. He’d frown and lower his voice as he itemized his concerns: She didn’t have any sort of career plan for after graduation. She liked to write poetry, and she sometimes consulted tarot cards. Also, her taste in men left a lot to be desired. She tended to go out with guys who had earrings and wore eyeliner. Often, they played in bands. One had been arrested for drug possession. Luckily, these romances never lasted long.

         “When am I going to meet your her?” Parisa had asked more than once, even as she harbored her own reservations. What if Olivia didn’t like her? What if she didn’t like Olivia? What would that mean for their future together?

         “Yeah, soon,” Ted always said, but the occasion never seemed to arrive.

         One Friday evening, when they were both off of work, he invited her over to his apartment for dinner for the first time. He was planning a feast, he told her. She wondered if this was it, if he would propose.

         Parisa dressed up in a black linen sundress. Her shapely legs were a toasty brown, so she didn’t bother with hose. She showed up on Ted’s doorstep with a bottle of wine. He was wearing an apron over his blue button-down Oxford shirt and khakis, which was cute. He leaned in and kissed her, and she caught a whiff of Polo. With one hand, he took the wine, murmuring appreciatively, and with the other at her back, ushered her into the living room/dining area.

         The apartment, which he shared with two other guys, was neat and tidy, so unlike a typical college guy’s domain. Healthy green plants flourished in the corners of the room, and an aquarium gurgled pleasantly. The guppies and black mollies always swam in clear water, so it was obvious that someone – Ted – regularly changed it. There were no stray socks or empty beer cans or empty pizza boxes anywhere in sight. No old newspapers, no cockroaches scuttling about. The air was redolent with sizzling steaks and butter-fried garlic. A colorful salad in a teak bowl already sat at the center of the table, which was covered in damask. Candles stood sentinel on either side of the bowl, ready to be lit. Cloth napkins tucked into pewter rings were settled beside each earthenware plate.

         “Are you hungry?” he asked, a hopeful lilt in his voice.

         “Famished.” Seeing how much effort he had put into the evening, she’d already decided that she would praise the food no matter what. She would eat every morsel. But she could already tell that it would be delicious.

         He uncorked and poured the wine. She sat down at the table and spread her napkin over her lap. He brought out the perfectly seared steaks, the stuffed mushrooms, and steamed broccoli. Once everything was just so, he took his place across from her. They toasted and clinked their wine glasses together, took sips.

         “Yum!” she said, lifting her fork. She had just taken her first bite when the phone rang.

         A flicker of annoyance passed over Ted’s face. He ignored the call at first, but then the answering machine beeped, and they heard a tremulous voice. “Ted? Are you there? I need your help.”

         He sighed gustily, and pushed back from the table. “Sorry, it’s my sister. Better see what she wants.”

         Parisa continued eating, chewing quietly so that she could listen to Ted’s half of the conversation.

         “What? How did that happen? No, never mind, don’t tell me. Where are you? Okay, sit tight. Stay in the store, where there are people around. I’ll be there soon.”

         He hung up the phone, squared his shoulders, and turned back to the table. “I’m so sorry. My sister ran out of gas in a bad part of town. I have to go help her.”

         Parisa surveyed the table. She knew that Ted had spent a lot of money and time on this dinner, and if they left the table now, it would be wasted. That’s when she understood how much Ted truly cared about his sister, what a good, kind brother he was. What a good, kind, caring man.

         “Do you mind if I go with you?” She could finally meet the mysterious Olivia.

         He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Not at all.”

         Ted grabbed a jerry can which he just happened to have on hand. She remembered that he had been a boy scout, and that their mantra was “be prepared.” They drove out to the edge of town, where Parisa had once gone with a sorority sister to deliver Meals-on-Wheels. Parisa wondered briefly if Olivia had gone out there to buy drugs, then quickly quashed the thought. There were many reasons why she might have ventured into the area. Maybe she had gotten lost.

         Ted’s jaw was tensed on the mostly silent ride. Finally, they pulled into a convenience store parking lot. The windows were covered with grills. Almost as soon as Ted had killed the engine, the door opened and a waifish young woman with black hair, done in a bob, pale skin, and fire engine red lips came rushing out. In the harsh light, Parisa could see that her eyes were surrounded in kohl. She looked like a goth Snow White. She was wearing a black leather jacket over a tight leopard print dress, and her legs were covered in fishnet hose. With her black Doc Martens, she seemed as different from Parisa’s sorority sisters, with their curling-ironed blonde hair and Lily Pulitzer pants, as a girl could get.

         The rear car door opened, and Olivia slid in, dragging the back of her hand under her nose. Parisa then saw that it was not kohl surrounding her eyes, but smeared mascara. Clearly, she had been crying.

         “Are you okay?” Ted asked. “Did someone hurt you?”

         “Only my heart,” she said with a sniffle.

         Ted looked over at Parisa and rolled his eyes. “Boyfriend,” he mouthed.

         “Hi,” Parisa said, leaning over the seat. “I’m Parisa.”

         “Ted’s girlfriend,” Olivia said. “Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you. Good things. Nice to finally meet you.” She smiled, and Parisa smiled back. She knew right away that they would be friends.

About the Book:

Cinnamon Beach is a multicultural tragicomedy, told from three female perspectives, in which an American writer living in Japan returns to South Carolina to scatter the ashes of her brother while trying to maintain the “perfect-family” facade she created from afar and support her Indian American sister-in-law who wants a future which might upset everyone. Sparks fly at an impromptu book-signing when the author reconnects with her college friend, now a famous African American country music star, and her daughter who is deaf finds ways to communicate with a secret first-love. The book will be published worldwide by Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing on August 6, 2024. It is now available for preorder.

About the Author:

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan, and later moved to South Carolina where she graduated from the University of South Carolina. She is the author of the award-winning short story collection, The Beautiful One Has Come and four previous novels – Losing Kei (Leapfrog Press, 2008), which has been translated into Russian; Gadget Girl: The Art of Being Invisible (GemmaMedia, 2013) winner of multiple awards including the APALA Honor Award and the Paris Book Festival Grand Prize; Screaming Divas(Simon & Schuster, 2014) which was named to the ALA Rainbow List; and The Baseball Widow (Wyatt-MacKenzie,2021), IPPY Gold Winner and 2022 NYC Big Book Award Winner. She has also received awards from the Sustainable Arts Foundation, the Independent Publisher’s Association, SCBWI, and Half the World Global Literati Awards. Additionally, she has edited three well-received anthologies, and her essays have appeared in Real Simple, Brain, Child, literarymama.com and many others. She has an MFA from the University of British Columbia, and teaches English at Naruto University of Education in Japan. She lives in Tokushima Prefecture with her husband and cats.

Categories
Essay

From Place to Place

By Renee Melchert Thorpe

Formative years can imply simply a growing body or the development of a complex outlook on life.   My mother, born Mary Ann Hostetler in Pontiac, Illinois, lived her formative years in colonial India.   Here is what I know about two formative migrations that made her who she was.  She was a quick study, a keen photographer, and resourceful traveler, but she also had an uncanny sensitivity to the need of people to feel welcome anyplace.

She had a deeply fond memory of arriving with her family in West Bengal when she was a mere 2 years old.  On the dock of Calcutta, waiting to greet the Hostetlers, was another Mennonite missionary, a man who would escort the family to the mission compound.  Dispatched aloft by her mother, little Mary Ann absolutely “sailed into his arms”, feeling sincere love and comfort from this steady and attentive new man.  He would sometimes take her for walks in the farms and villages, letting her reach out safely.  There was nothing to fear in this new place, and she was allowed to build her confidence.

Crates and luggage would have been handled by porters, a first lesson in India’s system of echelons, privileges and defenses, which even Anabaptists would adopt. India would embrace Mary Ann with her cacophony and vibrancy.  There was always the conservative life at home and in the classroom, but she could escape into the chowrasta[1], eat street food, and read the discarded letters such food was wrapped in.

From the age of 5, she boarded at a dreary school in the extraordinary altitude of Darjeeling, wintered in the rural outskirts of Calcutta, spoke street dialect like an urchin, and learned to draw from memory a Mercator map of the world showing the borders of all the British colonies.  During school break back in her parents’ mission compound, she and her brother might pass time picking fat ticks from the tender hide of a little bullock her parents kept, but her favourite activity in those warm days was to climb an old mango tree which stood just out of range of her mother’s call and read a book.  Any book.  She was never without one.

She and her family made two returns to the US, the first in 1936 for a Mission Board furlough, and again in 1944, when she had graduated from high school and the war, closing in first on the Straits Settlements, and soon after striking the Calcutta docks, was too close for comfort. 

For that 1936 furlough, the family stayed a few days in Calcutta’s Salvation Army hotel while her mother shopped for items to bring back with them to the States.  Her list would have included a tablecloth and sheeting, cotton yardage, British wool, perhaps a few sandalwood items. These things would not have been exotic souvenirs but rather, practical items for their year ahead enduring America’s Great Depression.  They were, after all, the family of a pastor, disinclined to appear exceptional or proud.

Through their Salvation Army hotel window, my mother gazed down at the Fairlawn Hotel next door, where well-heeled families relaxed with tea service on white rattan furniture, children scattered gleefully on the vast greensward, late afternoon birdsong above, and a distant Victrola warbling from inside the forbidden edifice.  She longed to experience such pleasures, and decades later, she did finally stay a few nights at the Fairlawn in 1992, with me, as I had chosen the hotel without knowing its gnawing maneuvers deep in my mother’s soul.

Checking in, we met the flamboyant and zaftig British redhead in charge of the place, my mother’s very age, daughter of the owner from those last days of the Raj.  That woman could scream gutter Bengali at the top of her lungs, and the next moment turn to my mother and politely ask about some little thing important only to little girls from a faraway garden city.  I watched as these two disparate women embraced and laughed together.    

The day she and her own mother arrived in the Los Angeles port of San Pedro, she was astonished to disembark and hear sweaty stevedores yelling and chattering in English.  This told her more about America and what was purportedly its classless society, than any adult’s own description could have.  She thrilled at this discovery.  She was unconcerned about fitting in with new school mates, got along well with them, even though they whispered amongst themselves about “her brogue.”

She never told me anything about her trip back to India, a year later.  But she would have sailed again, stuffed into Second Class.  I imagine her trying to lose her parents, availing herself of the ship’s library.  But I don’t know.

She graduated from Mount Hermon School as the “Best Girl,” although if you visit there, you can discover that the clueless new headmaster from her graduation year neglected to have the big silver trophy emblazoned with her name for the class of 1944.  Her brother’s is there with the year 1943 on the school’s “Best Boy” cup.  But he simply forgot to put in the engraving order when it was Mary Ann Hostetler’s honor.  My mother harbored few resentments, but this was a sore point, as she had worked very hard at academics.

I have never seen Bombay Harbour, where she finally left India as a young woman, but this is what she has told me.  It was wartime, 1944, but she was full of hope and thrilled to be out of that grim and cold school in the clouds.   

Mary Ann and her family boarded a passenger liner repurposed to carry a large number of troops.  A little sister had been born in India, making the family five, now billeted in what was once a First Class cabin, as were other American families leaving India.  Of course, no monogrammed towels or French milled soaps awaited them, but she relished the luxury of portholes and her own bunk.

The ship left Victoria Dock in April of 1944, mere days before the catastrophic accident of the munitions-laden SS Fort Stikine accidental fire and explosion, which destroyed every vessel in the harbor.  Wartime secrecy held successfully for decades, and my mother never learned of the near miss until many years after the war was over. 

All kinds of security measures were taken, even though the atmosphere on the crowded ship was convivial and relaxed. No flags flew.  And they sailed a zigzag course as a precaution against torpedoes.  They were in a convoy with two other soldier and civilian transports, but never saw the other ships except when in harbour.  One of those harbours was Melbourne, where boarded dozens of Australian war brides, and every last one of those young women, my mother said, had a screaming infant.  Those women shared second class cabins.  Two mother/baby pairs had bunks and one pair slept on their cabin floor.

Everyone aboard seemed to be flirting with the soldiers and welcoming distraction.  My mother and her new girlfriends, and even a few of the young Australian mothers, were nurturing chaste romances and enjoying their youth.  It was so much fun, and so stress-free, that my mother looked down at her wrist one day, where there had flourished for many months a large filiform wart, resembling some sort of fleshy agave plant; it had vanished. 

They went through the Panama Canal, a surprise for everyone aboard as well as for their stateside families.  All had been told by the war department that the convoy would land in San Francisco.  Instead, they went to Boston.  Plans were upset, lives were disrupted, and thousands of families who had made their way to California were now faced with crossing the wide country to meet their loved ones.  Typical instance, my mother said, of the war and the US government inflicting the population with whimsy, wasted efforts, or red tape in the name of national security.

To glimpse at last the American flag flying in Boston harbour gave my mother an indescribable feeling of safety and delight.  Worries carefully buried were truly gone.  The war would end in a little over a year’s time.  She had the rest of her life ahead of her.  

The USA was a safe harbour for a few years of university before she was off again, this time to Japan.  Decades later, with an empty nest, she and my father chose Italy.   Migrations were just part of living, and wherever she went, if she met another person displaced by whatever reason, she had a new best friend.  I knew them, too.  The Finnish dry cleaner, the Salvadorian woman who answered the phone at the Honda repair shop, or the Japanese lady who ran an art supply store: these people came from away, and so had she.

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[1] An intersection of four roads.

Renee Melchert Thorpe has fiction and nonfiction work has appeared in several Asian journals and magazines.

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

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

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

Categories
Editorial

Though I Sang in my Chains like the Sea…

      Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

Perhaps when Dylan Thomas wrote these lines, he did not know how relevant they would sound in context of the world as it is with so many young dying in wars, more than seven decades after he passed on. No poet does. Neither did he. As the world observes Dylan Thomas Day today — the day his play, Under the Milkwood, was read on stage in New York a few months before he died in 1953 — we have a part humorous poem as tribute to the poet and his play by Stuart McFarlane and a tribute from our own Welsh poet, Rhys Hughes, describing a fey incident around Thomas in prose leading up to a poem.

May seems to be a month when we celebrate birthdays of many writers, Tagore, Nazrul and Ruskin Bond. Tagore’s birthday was in the early part of May in 1861 and we celebrated with a special edition on him. Bond, who turns a grand ninety this year, continues to dazzle his readers with fantastic writings from the hills, narratives which reflect the joie de vivre of existence, of compassion and of love for humanity and most importantly his own world view. His books have the rare quality of being infused with an incredible sense of humour and his unique ability to make fun of himself and laugh with all of us. 

Nazrul, on the other hand, dreamt, hoped and wrote for an ideal world in the last century. The commonality among all these writers, seemingly so diverse in their outlooks and styles, is the affection they express for humanity. Celebrating the writings of Nazrul, we have one of his fiery speeches translated from Bengali by Radha Chakravarty and a review of her Selected Essays: Kazi Nazrul Islam by Somdatta Mandal. An essay from Niaz Zaman dwells on the feminist side of Nazrul while bringing in Begum Roquiah. Zaman has also shared translations of his poetry. Professor Fakrul Alam, who had earlier translated Nazrul’s iconic ‘Bidrohi or Rebel‘, has given us a beautiful rendition of his song ‘Projapoti or Butterfly’ in English.  Also in translation, is a poem by Tagore on the process of writing poetry. Balochi poetry by Manzur Bismil on human nature has been rendered into English by Fazal Baloch and yet another poem from Korean to English by Ilwha Choi.

Reflecting on the concept of a paradise is poetry from Michael Burch. Issues like climate, women, humanity, mourning, aging and more have been addressed in poetry by Shamik Banerjee, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Milan Mondal, Kirpal Singh, Craig Kirchner, George Freek, Michael Lee Johnson and many more. Hughes brings in a dollop of humour with his response to a signpost in verse. Irony is woven into our non-fiction section by Devraj Singh Kalsi’s musing on writers and assailants. Ravi Shankar explores his passion for computers in a light vein. Snigdha Agrawal gives us a poignant story about a young child from the less privileged classes in India. Suzanne Kamata writes to tell us about the environment friendly Green Day in Japan.

Ratnottama Sengupta this month converses with a dancer who tries to build bridges with the tinkling of her bells, Sohini Roychowdhury. Gita Viswanthan travels to Khiva in Uzbekistan, historically located on the Silk Route, with words and camera.  An essay on Akbar Barakzai by Hazran Rahim Dad and another looking into literature around maladies by Satyarth Pandita add zest to our non-fiction section. Though these seem to be a heterogeneous collection of themes, they are all tied together with the underlying idea of creating links to build towards a better future.

Our stories travel from Malaysia to France and India. Farouk Gulsara sets his in futuristic Malaysia, again exploring the theme of utopia as did his earlier musing. Paul Mirabile creates a story where a child tries to create his own idyllic paradise while Kalsi writes of fiction centring around a property tussle. The book reviews feature a couple of non-fiction. Other than Kazi Nazrul Islam’s essays, Bhaskar Parichha reviews Will Cockrell’s Everest, Inc. The Renegades and Rogues Who Built an Industry at the Top of the World. Ajanta Paul discusses Bitan Chakraborty’s The Blight and Seven Short Stories, translated from Bengali by Malati Mukherjee. Malashri Lal has written on Lakshmi Kannan’s Nadistuti: Poems, poems dedicated to Jayanta Mahapatra who the poet reflects lives on with his verses. And that is so true, considering this issue is full of poets who continue in our lives eternally because of their words. That is why perhaps, we recreate their lives as has Aruna Chakravarti in Jorasanko.

In focus this time is a writer whose prose is almost akin to poetry, Rajat Chaudhuri. A proponent of solarpunk, his novel, Spellcasters, takes us to fictitious cities modelled on Delhi and Kolkata. In his interview, Chaudhuri tells us: “The path to utopia is not necessarily through dystopia. We can start hoping and acting today before things get really bad. Which is the locus of the whole solarpunk movement with which I am closely associated as an editor and creator…”

On that note, I would like to end with a couple of lines from Nazrul, who reiterates how the old gives way to new in Proloyullash (The Frenzy of Destruction, translated by Alam): “Why fear destruction? / It’s the gateway to creation!” Will destruction be the turning point for creation of a new world? And should the destruction be of human constructs that hurt humanity (like wars and weapons) or of humanity and the planet Earth? As the solarpunk movement emphasises, we need to act to move towards a better world. And how would one act? Perhaps, by getting in touch with the best in themselves and using it to act for the betterment of humankind? These are all points to ponder… if you have any ideas that need a forum on such themes, do share with us.

We have more content which has not been woven into this piece for the sheer variety of themes they encompass. Do pause by our content’s page and browse on all our pieces.

With warm thanks to our wonderful team at Borderless — especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous art — I would like to express gratitude to all our contributors, without who we could not create this journal. We would also like to thank our readers for making it worth our while to write — for all of our words look to be read, savoured and mulled, and maybe, some will evolve into treasured wines.

Thank you all.

Mitali Chakravarty

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Click here to access the content’s page for the May, 2024 Issue

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Notes from Japan

A Golden Memory of Green Day in Japan

By Suzanne Kamata

At the end of April and the beginning of May, several Japanese holidays fall close together. This special time of year is called Golden Week. Often, a few work/school days fall between the holidays, however many people take advantage of the break and travel. I have a hard time remembering which days are which holidays, however I do remember that one of them is Midori-no-hi, or Green Day (which falls on the Showa Emperor’s birthday, May 4).

Not long after I graduated from college, I came to Japan to work as an assistant English teacher. I was assigned to a high school in Naruto, a city in Shikoku, southeast of Osaka, noted for its tasty seaweed and huge, natural whirlpools.

The principal of the high school was very friendly and often invited me to drink tea and chat with him, so I was none too surprised when he called me to his office one April afternoon. This, however, wouldn’t turn out to be a typical encounter.

The principal began to tell me about the annual Midori-no-hi (Green Day) ceremony. Each year, it’s held in a different prefecture, and that year it was Tokushima’s turn. The Emperor and Empress are always in attendance. Only a select group of people would be invited to attend the proceedings, the principal told me, and I had been chosen to participate.

How could I refuse? I imagined meeting the Emperor and Empress and telling them about my hometown in America. Maybe we’d sip green tea together from the locally-crafted pottery cups.

A full rehearsal was scheduled a couple of weeks in advance of the actual event. I boarded a bus at 5 a.m. along with a group of high school band members who would be performing during the ceremony.

As we approached the park settled in the mountains of Tokushima, I noticed that the formerly rough road had been paved. The roadside was lined with marigolds which had been freshly planted in anticipation of the imperial couple’s visit.

At the park, we all practiced our separate parts. Mine would be quite simple. Two other young women — a Brazilian of Japanese descent and an Australian who’d just arrived in the country — and I would be escorted to a spot in front of the Emperor and Empress. We would then bow, accept a sapling from the governor, and plant it in the ground with the help of boy scouts.

As the Emperor would be there and the entire ceremony would be broadcast on national television, everything had to be perfect. We practiced bowing many times with our backs straight and our hands primly layered.

Finally, Midori-no-hi arrived. The day was cloudy and occasional rain drops spotted my silk dress. Everyone hoped that the weather would not ruin the proceedings.

Marching bands, an orchestra, and a choir made up of students from various local high schools and colleges filled the morning with music. Instead of the sun, we had the bright brass of trombones, trumpets and cymbals.

Modern dancers in green leotards enacted the growth of trees. Later, expatriate children from Canada, France, Peru and other countries announced “I love green” in their native languages. This was followed by the release of hundreds of red, blue and yellow balloons into the grey sky. A hillside of aging local dignitaries were on hand to view the pageantry.

About mid-way through the ceremony, the Emperor and Empress arrived. They followed the red carpet laid out to the specially-constructed wooden dais, the Empress a few steps behind her husband as protocol demanded, to “Pomp and Circumstance”. The rustle of Japanese flags waved enthusiastically in the air threatened to drown out the orchestra.

After many solemn addresses and much bowing, the Emperor and Empress stepped down to “plant” trees. His Highness pushed some dirt around the base of a cedar sapling with a wooden hoe. His pink-suited consort did the same while balancing on high heels. The placement of the trees was only for show. Later, everything would be transplanted to a more suitable location.

At last, it was my turn. The other young women and I were led to the grass stage to the accompaniment of a harpist. I accepted my tree and buried its roots in the ground. The tree was a sudachi, which bears small green citrus fruit and is the official tree of Tokushima Prefecture.

The music and majesty of the occasion made me feel like I was doing something important on Earth. I was adding to the verdure of the world, enabling Nature. I felt a sense of awe.

When all of us were finished planting, we bowed in unison to the Emperor and Empress, then filed off the field. Afterwards, there was a mass-gardening session as all of the attendants on the hillside began planting prepared saplings.

I didn’t get to meet the royal couple after all. Although they passed by within a few meters of where I was standing, there were no handshakes, no pleasantries, not even any eye contact.

What I did get was a big bag of souvenirs — a cap, a small wooden folding chair, commemorative stamps, a flag, sudachi juice, and a book of photos so that I could always remember that misty day, that baby tree.

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.

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Contents

Borderless April, 2024

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

April Showers… Click here to read.

Translations

Baraf Pora (Snowfall) by Rabindranath Tagore, gives a glimpse of his first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.

Himalaya Jatra ( A trip to Himalayas) by Tagore, has been translated from his Jibon Smriti (1911, Reminiscenses) by Somdatta Mandal from Bengali. Click here to read.

Bhumika (Introduction) by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta. Click here to read.

The Fire-grinding Quern by Manzur Bismil has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

The Tobacco Lover by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.

Pochishe Boisakh (25th of Baisakh) by Tagore(1922), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Pandies Corner

Songs of Freedom: Dear Me… is an autobiographical narrative by Ilma Khan, translated from Hindustani by Janees. These narrations highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and pandies’. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Michael Burch, Kirpal Singh, Scott Thomas Outlar, Nusrat Jahan Esa, George Freek, Snigdha Agrawal, Phil Wood, Pramod Rastogi, Stuart McFarlane, Ahmad Al-Khatat, Shamik Banerjee, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Lisa Sultani, Jenny Middleton, Kumar Bhatt, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In The Desk, Rhys Hughes writes of his writerly needs with a speck of humour. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

Heatwave & Tagore

Ratnottama Sengupta relates songs of Tagore to the recent heatwave scorching Kolkata. Click here to read.

The Older I get, the More Youthful Feels Tagore

Asad Latif gives a paean in prose to the evergreen lyrics of Tagore. Click here to read.

No Film? No Problem

Ravi Shankar takes us through a journey of cameras and photography, starting with black and white films. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Witches and Crafts: A Spook’s Tale, Devraj Singh Kalsi finds a ghostly witch in his library. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Of Peace and Cheese, Suzanne Kamata gives us a tongue in cheek glimpse of photo-modelling mores. Click here to read.

Essays

Discovering Rabindranath and My Own Self

Professor Fakrul Alam muses on the impact of Tagore in his life. Click here to read.

The Lyric Temper

Jared Carter explores the creative soul of poets through varied times and cultures. Click here to read.

Bengaliness and Recent Trends in Indian English Poetry: Some Random Thoughts

Somdatta Mandal browses over multiple Bengali poets who write in English. Click here to read.

Stories

Hope is the Waking Dream of a Man

Shevlin Sebastian gives a vignette of life of an artist in Mumbai. Click here to read.

Viceregal Lodge

Lakshmi Kannan explores patriarchal mindsets. Click here to read.

The Thirteen-Year Old Pyromaniac

Paul Mirabile gives a gripping tale about a young pyromaniac. Click here to read.

Conversation

Ratnottama Sengupta in conversation about Kitareba, a contemporary dance performance on immigrants, with Sudarshan Chakravorty, a choreographer, and founder of the Sapphire Dance Company. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Jessica Mudditt’s Once Around the Sun – From Cambodia to Tibet. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Bhaskar Parichha’s Biju Patnaik: The Rainmaker of Opposition Politics. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Meenakshi Malhotra reviews Mahasweta Devi: Writer, Activist, Visionary, edited by Radha Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy reviews Out of Sri Lanka: Tamil, Sinhala and English Poetry from Sri Lanka and its Diasporas, edited by Vidyan Ravinthiran, Seni Seneviratne, Shash Trevett. Click here to read.

Swagata Chatterjee reviews Sanjukta Dasgupta’s Ekalavya Speaks. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Bhang Journeys: Stories, Histories, Trips and Travels by Akshaya Bahibala. Click here to read.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International