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Exploration of the Invisible: A Supernatural Saga

A brief discusion of Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible by Rajorshi Patrnabis, Hawakal Publishers, with an exclusive interview with the author on his supernatural leanings

Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible by Rajorshi Patrnabis could have been a regular book of intense ghost stories, with the oldest ‘presences’ dating back to the regime of Sher Shah Suri (1472 – 1545). ‘Presences’ are basically spirits — visible or barely visible — that cause disturbances in the energy field surrounding us, as per the book.

One of the most coherent of these ‘spirits’ was from 1920, confiding her story on Christmas eve — reminds one of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and Uncle Scrooge — only this spirit was a British woman from the Raj era, a spirit that lost her beloved who was from a Bengali royal family. Her strict father stepped in and stopped the marriage. No one knew what happened to the groom. And she continued to weep and wait while haunting the premises of the popular and populous Park Street where she was supposed to meet her beloved more than a hundred years ago… Then there’s a ghost that takes you back to his funeral pyre… drawing back the curtain between the two dimensions — one in which we exist and one in which they hover…

These, however, are not your regular ghost stories. There is a difference for Patranabis claims to have met these sad spirits in real life.

A Wiccan by choice, Patranabis has tried to draw back the curtains to reveal a dimension whose existence is elusive and avoidable for most of us at best and rejected by many. He claims to have a spiritual bent of mind which helps him experience these out-of-the-box scenarios, meet the dearly departed. He has done a number of books of poetry around his beliefs. He has even photographed these spirits!

Photographs of spirits by Rajorshi Patranabis

Though the images are blurry at the first viewing, you have to focus hard to see the ethereal outlines of shadows beyond the realm of the living, I guess.

Whereabouts of the Anonymous is a memoir that spans his interactions with, as the title says — ‘the anonymous’ — or the blurry ‘presences’ and explores the invisible for majority of the spirits are merely depicted as shadowy in his narrative as in his photographs except for a few whose images have not been taken.

Occasionally, the spirits can be malevolent as in the Bhangarh Fort, where a foul-smelling female spirit and some lost souls in the ancient jails wounded Patranabis physically and chased him out. Set in the Aravalli hills of Rajasthan. Bhangarh is the most haunted place in India. There is a story of a princess and her spurned lover associated with it. Evidently, a sage fell in love with the princess and made a special concoction which would make her fall in love with him. When she went to buy a perfume, the smitten lover tried to replace it with his love potion. The princess threw away the bottle of love potion. It fell on a rock, dislodging it. The rock rolled down to kill her admirer, who cursed her with his dying breath!

There is also the narrative about a whole village that accepts and lives in peace with the spirits of their dearly departed, even giving them rickshaw rides and offering them chairs!

Patrnanabis has brought his Wiccan outlook into the discourse. His language flows. The narrative is simple and easy to understand. The descriptions are so graphic that one can almost visualise the disembodied spirits and their interactions. The 150-page book is an enjoyable and easy read and a perfect companion for travel or an evening or two. But the author’s experiences and his interests stretch beyond what the pages can hold. In this interview, we discuss his beliefs and his experiences…and maybe, another book?

How old were you when you had your first supernatural sighting? Were you scared the first time?

When I look back, the first time that I had a feel of the ‘other dimension’ was perhaps at the age of 7 or 8. I remember going to my paternal home at Digboi during our winter vacations. I remember going to my parent’s bedroom at the first floor and my mother used had to send me to her room to fetch something. The room was across a terrace, and I remember running through the terrace from the staircase to the room. But every time, I could feel someone running with me through the terrace. But as and when I would enter the room, it was all perfect. I would run back again again to the stairs. When I would blurt this out to my parents, they would simply ignore me, but somehow, I was never completely convinced. It was much later, sometime around the year 2000 that my father confided with me of a real ‘presence’  there. He told me that there had been many an experience where people had felt the presence of something eerie there. But by then I had had some very deep experience of the supernatural existence.

Rajorshi Patranabis in Wiccan wear

When did you become a Wiccan and why?

The answer to this ‘why’ is a wee bit dicey. I am myself not sure of this. It was just a flow that I couldn’t control. Mind you, I had already gone through some extremely remarkable experiences and my stint at the hill top temple and my encounter with that 97 year old person who taught me numerology was way before I joined Wicca. I would call myself pretty insane in those phases of my life. By the time Wicca happened, I had calmed down considerably and joining my teacher was nothing less than an accident. It so happened that my friend, Subhodip, and I were walking down the Southern Avenue in Kolkata when we spotted another school friend ( a senior Wiccan) standing at the door of an otherwise inconsequential book store. He waved at us and asked us to join in, as it was an open session by my teacher. We joined. Subhodip was skeptical, while I followed it up with an email and I was called for an interview with Ma’am. The journey started. I had mentioned about my experience in ‘Whereabouts…’ This was early 2013.

Did becoming a Wiccan help you align to the supernatural better?

Infact, my Wiccan knowledge taught me the nuances of alignment with the forces of nature. Why just the supernatural? The vibrations that the earth emanates, the animal kingdom throws out, to feel and spot across dimensions etc. The most important thing is perhaps the use of sound like the chatter of a rainfall, the melodies of a singing bowl or even drum beats (like in Voodoo) as means of invocation, that, was passed on to me. More than anything, the pleasures of immersing oneself in ancient knowledges can be very ‘intoxicating’. Our school concentrates most on the Egyptian origins. If you ask me now, I worship Goddess Isis as my altar Goddess along with the 64 yoginis. Yes, Wicca has helped align myself to me, if I say this philosophically.

You have called yourself ‘spiritual’ and also spoken of ‘seers’? Can you explain these two terms?

I wouldn’t get into the linguistic trap of English. But a Wiccan would say spiritual comes from ‘spirit’. A very basic tenet of Wicca is to align your body, mind, soul and spirit. As and when the becomes one with nature does your mind uplift itself to being a soul. A soul that gets through the rigours of lust becomes a spirit. We are in the habit of using the word spirituality very lightly, but a true Wiccan would say that a pure spirit sits on the pinnacle of the pyramid. There are many references in our Sanatan scriptures too about such spirits and the recourse they take to leave the body, as and when they cross over.

A seer is a saint who has won over the realms of the physical nuances. He/she is automatically clairvoyant as all their faculties have attained the higher plains in the atmosphere. Please don’t mistake a seer for only a saint. A scientist or a litterateur who had immersed themselves in the claustrophobic depths of knowledge can be a seer too. Many such examples can be sighted to prove this.

How did/does your family respond to your being a Wiccan or interacting with spirits?

My family doesn’t always subscribe to what I do, but in all honesty they had never been a hindrance to my learnings. There are Wiccan ceremonies that I celebrate or spells that I do from time to time for the well being of people, they had all along been very supportive. They stand as a pillar beside me.

When and why did you turn to writing?

I started writing at a very young age. My first poem, if I can recall was at the age of 13. But as time went on, everything slowed down. My next phase was from 2015 and my first published book was in 2018. By this phase I was well and truly into Wicca.

You have used Japanese techniques in poetry to describe your journey as a Wiccan and to interact with spirits. Why? Do these align better to help you describe your experiences?

Well, I wouldn’t say I use Japanese poetry forms to interact with any spirit. Though I must accept that I’ve had communications with the other dimension which were very poetic at times. In my book, Gossips of our Surrogate story, I had used quite a bit from my Wiccan Book of Shadows and even you had accepted that they were poems alright, good or bad, notwithstanding. But I would also like to harp on the inherent pertinence of this question. Gogyokha or Gogyoshi are short form poetry in just 5 lines and my forays into the other dimension had just had similar experiences — short, crisp and at most times life altering. In my Gogyoshi collection, Checklist Anomaly, all the poems are either true happenings or near life occurings. My writing (poetry) as a whole, until now, had been with deep metaphysical love. Perhaps my thought process is challenged. But Japanese forms had been a huge compliment to this particularly weird handicap of mine.

What made you think of doing this book — your memoir of supernatural interactions so to speak?

To be very honest, all these experiences that I had shared in Whereabouts of the Anonymous would have stayed with me through out this physical life had it not been for a dear brother and publisher, Bitan Chakraborty. It was on his persistent insistence that I decided to put my ‘stories’ on paper. But that was again a very difficult thing. I really had to scoop things from the nook and crannies of my memory to make for a reasonably good compilation. Even Bitan had certain experiences with me or otherwise ( like his camera giving up on a particular shot etc.) and was most interested on such a memoir seeing the light of the day. I have dedicated this book to Bitan. I had to, it was his brainchild and as a Wiccan would say, the Universe made me write it.

You seem to seek out departed spirits or ghosts. Why?  Are you not scared?

I find this word ‘ghosts’ very disrespectful. Departed spirits, well, if you ask me no spirits depart. Remember, the law of conservation of energy — the total energy remains constant, it can neither be created nor be destroyed. The energies ( whether spirits or not) have this affinity to get in touch with other souls who can feel them and with a little effort can hear them. The ectoplasmatic fusions that happen inside the cosmos are mostly not registered by ‘so called science minded sceptics’. There are gadgets to measure such vibes. And afraid? No. You would only be afraid if you stay in denial of the other dimension. If I say that the other dimension is omnipresent, no matter what, you won’t be afraid of it. Remember you are afraid of darkness because you don’t see through it, but as soon as you put on a light, it becomes a part of you. Precisely the unknown is magic or mysticism and the known is science.

Do you only sight spirits or auras around people? Are you into Noetics as a subject?

Auras form  the atmosphere, it really doesn’t matter whether you have a body or not. There are ascetics who would ask you not to touch anyone’s feet while paying obeisance. The say, the aura or the protonic energy of a person is as long as that person’s height. They say you put your head on the ground, possibly, to absorb a concoction of the Earth’ s magnetism coupled with the aura of that person. By the bliss of this Universe, I do feel a few energies that are devoid of a body. Noetics or the consciousness levels automatically become part of these. But I am personally not into Noetic sciences or research. But ancient knowledges under the umbrella of Wicca does take you through the subconscious to superconscious levels of the mind with twinings of the nature, supernature and the supernatural. There are very thin lines segregating them.

In you memoir, you keep asking people to leave a glass of water to satiate the spirit. Do you see yourself as a person who appeases ghosts? Do you help people – how do they reach out to you if they feel a ‘presence’?

What does a glass of water do? Think of a situation where you stand in front of everyone, yet you’re being ignored by everyone. You would not realise that you’re actually not visible to them. Just think of the insecurity that you would have to realise that persons whom love so dearly are slowly getting ahead with life and that  you have become a fading memory. That glass of water just reinstates the faith that he/she still matters to you.As time goes, like all energies, they would also dissipate. But with pleasantness in them.

I don’t appease anyone. As my teacher says, it’s all about alignment. If I may say so, the Universe makes me do certain things that a psychiatric practitioner would do to people with mental illness. These are very small techniques that I had learnt over the years to put a restless soul to a restful state. As far as the last part of your question is concerned, I don’t do anything for any consideration. I have a promise to keep. If the cosmos so wills that I would be of help to someone, I would definitely land up from nowhere.

Do you plan to do something with this ‘gift’ you have? Can you see spirits where others cannot? Will you be doing more books about your supernatural experiences?

Well, after the book went for print, I realised that I could have included many more of the experiences that I had gone through. So, another book is very much in the offing. And as far as doing something with this ‘gift’ is concerned, I am completely in sync with you that this is a ‘gift’ that the cosmos had bestowed upon me and when you have such an invaluable gift, you keep them. You generally don’t use them. Seeing spirits? I feel them and I see them only when the spirit wants to show them off (like the school Master of Bhanjerpukur – one of my most remarkable experiences).

 (This review and online interview by email is by Mitali Chakravarty)

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Notes from Japan

The Cat Stationmaster of Kishi

Narrative and photographs by Suzanne Kamata

My daughter Lilia and I were in Wakayama Station, on our way to see the cat station master in the small town of Kishi. Because Lilia uses a wheelchair, we had to ask for assistance getting on and off the train.

“What time are you coming back?” a Japan Railways employee asked. They would have to prepare for our return later in the day.

“We want to come back on the Tamaden,” I said, referring to a train with a cat theme. I had taken a photo of the train schedule, and I opened my phone to check the time. It was now about twelve-thirty. Although there were trains every thirty minutes – the Animal Train, the Plum Train, the Cha Train – the Tama Train (aka Tamaden) only ran from Kishi twice a day. The next would be at 2:38, which wouldn’t give us much time to see everything. We didn’t want to rush. The final one would be at five fifteen.

“Five fifteen,” I said.

The man gave me a dubious look. “There isn’t very much to do in Kishi,” he said. “There’s nothing there. Are you sure you want to stay that long?”

What about the café? The museum? The shrine? The cat? We had come all this way, and we would only be there for a couple of hours. If we ran out of things to do, we could go for a walk. It was a lovely day, after all.

“You want to ride on the Tama Train, don’t you?” I asked Lilia.

“Yes,” she replied.

“What if we change our minds and want to come back early?” I asked the JR attendant.

He told me that would be difficult.

“Okay, then. Five fifteen.”

After showing our tickets, we were given Wakayama Electric Railway Kishigawa Line postcards. On the platform, there was a rubber stamp featuring a cartoonish Tama, with Wakayama Castle, and citrus fruits in the background. Little blank books meant for collecting stamps from various places were sold in gift shops. We didn’t have such books, so we stamped our postcards. A clock with cat ears – one black, one brown, like a calico – hung overhead.

I deduced that the train on the tracks, decorated with colored hearts, illustrations of dogs and cats, and the letters JSPCA, was the Animal Train. Other than the banners featuring cats clutching flowers and a white dog holding a bone, the inside of the car was ordinary. Like most Japanese trains, it was clean, with plush benches along each side, and an orange ticket dispenser at the entrance and exit.

Lilia marveled at how empty the train was. Now that she lived in Osaka, she had become a city girl, used to being squished between passengers on her morning and evening commutes. I was pretty sure that most of the people getting on board were tourists on their way to see Tama.

During the thirty-minute ride, the train swayed on the tracks, past rice paddies, and orange orchards.

“Maybe in the future they will make it easier for people in wheelchairs to visit,” I said.

Lilia frowned and made the sign for money. Yes, it might cost a lot to add an elevator in the station, but was it really too much to ask?

At the end of our journey, which was also the end of the line, a young man wearing white gloves laid out the ramp. Again, we conferred about what time we would go back. He gave me a paper schedule, folded into the size of a credit card, and showed me the phone number at the bottom.

“If you change your mind about what time you want to go back, just call this number,” he said.

“Thank you.” I looked around. We were indeed in the middle of nowhere. Yes, there were many houses, but I could already tell that the station itself was quite small, and, as the attendants in Wakayama had said, there weren’t any shops and restaurants around. But there were quite a few people, many from abroad. I saw a young woman in a pink hijab, and a group of Chinese tourists.

We paused before the shrine to the original cat station master, Tama, on the platform, then went down a ramp, and to the front of the station. By now, we were hungry. But first, the cat.

On this day, Yontama, a calico like her predecessor, was in a little room behind glass at the side of the station. She was napping on the wooden floor, next to a soft, plush mat. Many people were taking photos of her, but no one was bothering her. She wasn’t wearing the hat or suit of a stationmaster or doing anything special. She looked – and I say this with love – like an ordinary cat.

To the left of the window stood a fortune dispenser. Lilia dropped a hundred-yen coin into the box and extracted a rolled-up piece of paper. She unfurled it and showed it to me: “Very happy!”

“Great!” I gestured to the café behind us. “Now let’s go eat.”

We entered the Tama Café, which also seemed to function as the museum. The original cat station master’s hat, decorated with a strawberry emblem, a lace-trimmed blue velvet cloak worn by Tama, and various framed documents were displayed in a glass-fronted cabinet.

I ordered two Hot Cat Sets for us — fish sausages on hot dog buns, strawberry sodas, and cookie wafers printed with Tama’s image. We topped that off with green tea floats, with a scoop of green tea ice cream with almond ears and chocolate chip eyes.

After we had finished our meal, we visited the gift shop next door. From there, we could see Yontama from a different angle. She was awake but still lolling about. I bought little Yontama towels, which are always used in Japan for blotting your hands dry after washing them in public places. Then I paid for a fortune of my own. “Very happy,” it said. I wondered if all of the fortunes in the box were exactly the same.

Across the street was a tourist information center. Despite the JR employees’ skepticism, the people of Kinokawa City had taken the time to consider ways to occupy and engage the many visitors who would come to see the cats. Brochures in many languages were arranged in a rack. I plucked a few and discovered that a beautiful park dating back to the medieval period was within walking distance. The region also produced a lot of fruit, such as strawberries, figs, and oranges.

“Shall we go for a walk?” I asked Lilia.

She nodded. Using a map app on my phone, we set out for Hiraike Park Land. Part of the walk was uphill. Although Lilia’s wheelchair was electric-assisted, she still had to turn the wheels. Her arms started to get tired, so I helped her out for some of the way. We passed fields of cabbages, rice paddies, and groves of lemons, oranges, and figs. Unattended farm stands offered clear plastic bags of freshly picked persimmons and citrus fruits at bargain prices, much cheaper that those sold at the supermarket back home.

We finally arrived at the park. We stopped to observe the ducks and herons, the placid blue pond. According to the map, some ancient burial mounds, made distinctive by their key-holed shape, were nearby. I thought that we might be in danger of exhausting the wheelchair’s battery, however, so we didn’t go in search of them.

On the way back to the station, I stopped at one of the farm stands, put a couple of coins in the money box, and bought a bag of oranges. I would take it back as a souvenir for my husband and me to enjoy.

At one point, Lilia stopped, threw back her head and looked at the sky. “Ao,” she said in Japanese, drawing her fingers across her cheek in the sign for “blue.” She signed that there were no clouds. Indeed, it was a perfect autumn day.

When we were almost to the station, Lilia spotted a general store. She wanted to go inside, so we did. The lone woman behind the counter did not greet us, as is customary in Japan. I wondered if she was put off at the sight of a couple of foreigners. Of course, my daughter is half-Japanese, and has spent her entire life in Japan, but when she is with me, people assume that she is from abroad.

At the front of the store, school uniforms were displayed on mannequins Further inside, various goods were haphazardly arranged – a rack of flannel shirts, a shelf of liquor bottles, snacks for kids dropping in after school. It looked like the aftermath of a rummage sale. When Lilia started down a narrow aisle in her wheelchair, the woman drew in her breath. I could sense her fretting behind us, but she didn’t say anything. What must it be like for these country people to deal with the many foreigners traipsing through their small town? I was reminded of how people in Tokushima, where I live now, used to literally tremble when they saw my foreign face and thought that they might have to speak English.

Lilia decided to buy a packet of shrimp chips. The woman took her money, thanked her, and we got out of her hair.

Back at the station, we returned to the gift shop. Although Yontama was on the clock until four, and it was past four thirty, she was still relaxing in her little room. She probably didn’t mind. No one was tapping on the glass or otherwise harassing her. She had a good view of tourists buying cat themed T-shirts, cookies, and keychains. Lilia bought an ema, a small wooden plaque on which she would write a wish, and appeal to the cat deity, Tama Daimyojin.

We went onto the platform, and I tied Lilia’s ema onto a wooden board, along with wooden plaques inscribed by people from all over the world: “Wishing happiness and peace to animals all around the world.” “May all the strays and rescues get a good and loving home.” “May Pomelo, Walnut, and I live a long healthy life together.”

Dusk was already falling. The platform began to fill with other visitors, who apparently had the same desire to ride the Tama Train as we did. A young Chinese woman with flowing bleached-blonde hair in Lolita-meets-Little-Bo-Peep fashion – bonnet, and a tiered plaid dress with frills, eyelet, and ribbons — posed while her friends took photos. I wanted to take her picture, too, and post it on my Instagram account. She probably wouldn’t have minded, because she seemed to be some kind of influencer, but my daughter frowned and shook her head when I indicated my intentions.

As the train finally approached, everyone tried to get the best spot on the platform for the best shot. The front of the train was painted with a cat’s face. The windows served as eyes, and just below were a nose and whiskers. Cat’s ears were affixed to the top of the car. Pawprints and a cartoon version of Tama in various poses illustrated the sides. Inside, passengers could sit on colorful Tama-themed sofas.

Our friend from earlier showed up with a ramp, and helped us get onto the car with a space for wheelchair users. Lilia was delighted to find a bookshelf stocked with cat-related manga in the car. I handed her a stack of them to read over the duration of the train ride.

Although many of those onboard were obviously tourists, like the young Chinese women continuing their photo shoot, I realised that this train was also used by the residents of the towns on the Kitagawa Line. Observing a man in a business suit who appeared to be among them, I wondered what it was like for him to share his commute with eccentric travelers. I suppose it would be entertaining. At any rate, I couldn’t help but be impressed by this small town’s ability to create a new identity for itself and capitalize on it.

We returned to Wakayama Station tired but satisfied at having completed our mission. When I reached home, my cats were there to meet me, yowling and needy.

.

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
Aeons of Art

Art is Alive

By Ratnottama Sengupta

The Gregorian calendar was still showing 1998.

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Categories
Notes from Japan

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.

Intriguing sculpture
Shikoku Mannaka Sennen Monogatari

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.

A polar bear suit filled the air with soap bubbles
A man wearing a woven peaked hat

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.

  1. A variety of winter squash ↩︎
  2. I humbly receive (feel grateful for the food) ↩︎
  3. 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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
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
Inside the house. Photo Courtesy: The Host

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

Categories
Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

Nomads of the Bone

A Poem Of Unsuccessful Excess

Art by Paul Nash (1889-1946)
Ogden Nash is the finest.
The snobs who dismiss his work
are knobs and jerks
whose heads should be examined
and given an F minus.
Of his talent they have not a tenth.
I mean, flipping heck!
Lacking depth is his strength.

And
now for some
HAIRY QUESTIONS… 
Werewolf?
Whywolf? Howwolf?
Whenwolf? Whatwolf? Whowolf?

Questions like those never can
be answered
because the facts are tactless 
and the fangs
will leave you gutless on nights
of a full moon.
The lycanthropic topic is one
best avoided
and thus I will always avoid it.

I made myself a sandwich.
I made it for my health.
I am a self-made man
despite my lack of wealth.

I made myself a promise
I would be a bitter gourd 
cut into fancy segments
by an even fancier sword.

Unlike okra I’m not slimy.
If you ever dare to try me
I’m a vegetable Cockney,
I must say, “gourd blimey.”

Is that all?
No, it certainly isn’t.

Lady Rickshaw claims
we are all ghost ships
on the streets of cities,
drifting here and there.

That’s modern civilisation
for you: please join the queue
for the time machine.

But in more barbaric times
in chillier climes…

Our cavemen noses
glow in the cold.
They never grow 
when we are old
but snowmen’s noses
linger for longer
and their nostrils
resemble craters.

The comet made from ice,
interstellar, vast,
oblivious, very fast,
will strike that fellah dead
when it hits his head.

And now
let’s take a trip to
ANCIENT GREECE

A gorgon’s internal organs 
must be clever forgeries.
She turns heroes to stone,
in pairs or if they’re alone,
and when destiny calls
and Greece finally falls
those statues will be taken
to Rome, their new home.

But the gorgon’s heart
will never beat a rhythm
you can dance to.
It won’t thump like
a man-bull’s hoof-shaped
shoes, that’s true.
No swirling sonic brews
amuse our motley crews.

I’ve had better days 
lost in this maze:
one time I almost 
found my way out,
said the Minotaur…

Fenugreek Mythology 
featuring Hercules 
and Coriander leaves,
Turmeric and Ulysses,
Centaurs and Bottle Gourds
on a bed of saffron rice
is nicer to devour than plain 
old Greek mythology.

Tell me honestly:
have you ever seen
A GHOST?

Death’s anniversary,
is a ghost’s birthday:
blowing out cake candles
with supernatural breezes
he teases the ectoplasm,
a professional phantasm.

Are spooks international?

I am turning Japanese
after a sneeze
because some wasabi
went up my nose.
Kimonos are my clothes.

Also, I play shogi
with my toes. (Shogi is a
kind of chess: I’m glad to
get this off my chest).

Now let’s have a
SELF-REFERENTIAL HAIKU

Counting syllables 
when confronted with haiku
ruins the effect.

That’s done.
Where else can we find our fun?

Do you know the tale of
Patriarchy and Mehitabel?
Do you know the tail that
twitches on the windowsill?

The proof is in the pudding,
or so they say,
but I think I know a better way:
the waterproof
is in the puddling duck.

A vestige of a visage?
My face is the place
where my luck never runs out.
It may lack grace,
a waste of features
belonging to other creatures,
but each to their own.

The philosopher doesn’t like
my tone: he tells me
to ponder harder
but not to think about
swamp imps named Marsha.
Easily done: I don’t
know anyone with that name.

Harsher, he calls me timid,
says I am a coward.
Coward? But how?
I don’t know the meaning
of that word
but I can work it out
and applied to me it’s quite absurd.
It means to move
in the direction of a cow,
or many cows, a herd.

Have mercy if you’re thirsty.
Be ruthless if you’re toothless.

Do farm girls 
grow on you over time,
seasonally?

A question I can’t answer
because I am a scarecrow.
No one planted me,
I do not grow. I do not know
a single thing.

But I can take a guess
about the mess
made by guests at dinnertime.
Billabong Monkeys
dunk their feet in the soup
in groups much larger
than gorillas are long.

Is that a SONG?
Somehow, I don’t think so.

And now
let’s have some
Soliloquies for Stringless Guitars.

Kiss her through the mask.
Miss her through the cask.

Foxglove Alley.
Weasel Stockings.
Garter Snakes, real and fake.
Rotten Shed and Rusty Rake.
I venture down
the Cul-de-Sac of Frogs.
I lost my way in the fogs.

That isn’t fog: it’s sand.
That’s no frog: it’s a panda.
Are you an understander?
There is no great demand
for sand disguised as mist
and so we insist you redo
the list of things you wish
to purchase in the sopping
shops that underwater lie.

Swinging on a garden gate,
it’s far too late
to palpitate at sunset
but the day’s still too early
to fly away and so you may
barbaric be,
barbaric bee, barbaric beer.

Beer comes in at the mouth.
Jokes come in at the ear.
Foam comes out of the nose.
POOR ATTILA lost his clothes
during a drunken stupor.
It’s not ideal but he is super.

Attila was very short.
Only one metre tall
and nocked with battle scars
at one centimetre intervals. 
No wonder he was such
an effective ruler!

He wanted his wife
to call him ‘Darling’
in the marriage bed
but she insisted on
calling him ‘Hun’ instead.

Oh dear!
Have no fear:
King Lear has shed a tear
that splashes
on the lashes of the whip
that thickens cream
in dreams.

When I was younger 
I had a narrow mind 
and only thought of
narrow things:
tight corridors, 
blocked canals,
mountain ledges,
malnourished gulls,
ladders designed
for stick insects,
crevices into which no
man could fall.

But now I am older
and think only of
wide things like
canyons and gulfs,
the open mouths that
shout bravo at gigs,
the taste in literature
of well-read people,
the square bases of
the mighty steeples
perched on churches
in historical towns,
the flapping gowns
of aristocratic vamps,
the pipe bowl of my
eccentric gramps and
the prehistoric snouts
of pigs snuffling for
unripe but fallen figs.

Listen closely, my dear…

My love for you
might sound hyperbolic 
to hyperactive alcoholics.
But it will sound 
perfectly fine to
good romantic folks.

Now here’s a thing:
sea roofs on the inside
are called sea lings.

Freshwater otters in Goa.
Salty authors in the shower.
Both are so clean
but only the latter dare dream
of rivers of cash.
The former dream only of fish.

FOR A FLUTE?

Love
for a flute
is holy love
because a flute without holes 
is a stick
and love for sticks 
makes me sick
but flutes have holes
thus my stomach will settle
at the base of the kettle
and I will laugh:
tea-hee cough-hee.

The frozen lion
thaws before he roars.

A thaw in the old ball bearings 
and the machinery of his desire
began working again.

The machine marks time
like a strict examiner
puffing out his metal cheeks
in the weeks
before the summer holidays.

Do machines
really play the drums?

As a rule of thumb, yes!
Keeping the beat with steel feet.
How neat. What a treat.
The soul of the dance 
is deep in the soles.
The heels heal the heart.

We have 
our whole lifetimes 
A HEAD of us
in which to try out 
new hairstyles, she said. 
She knew what 
she was talking about.
The barber’s wife.

Mourning becomes Electra.
Evening becomes etcetera.

The gentle love drizzle
puzzles the riddler.
The lion is sizzling 
in the meri jaan frying pan
over the fire
of our heartfelt desire.

And that’s
the end of the line
for the wandering rhymes
and the Nomads
of the Bone will soon end
up back home.

*meri jaan is an endearment in Hindi meaning my life

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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

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Categories
Essay

From Madagascar to Japan: An Adventure or a Dream?

By Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia

For as long as I can remember, I have been an introvert — this is who I am and will always be. Yet, few believe it. I come from Madagascar, a distant island where the people are called the Malagasy — a community bound by culture, tradition, and a shared sense of identity. Malagasy people are known for their warmth and generosity, often revealing a talkative side as they delight in conversation, and playful exchanges.  In contrast, I am reserved — a shy person who expresses myself freely only when comfortable and among those I trust.

As a child, I was the most talkative among my siblings, recounting every detail of my school day to my parents. I delighted in describing the funny expressions my primary school teacher made while explaining lessons, or the mischievous boys who always stuck their chewing gum on the pupils’ desks and all the tasks I had accomplished. I wanted my parents to know I was doing well, that the teacher praised me, and that I helped classmates who struggled.

Both my parents are very talkative, especially my father, from whom I inherited the gift of words. Speaking in front of my family comes naturally, yet in front of others, my words often falter — a fear that has always troubled me. I speak freely only with those I know well— my family and a few close friends.

Facing a large audience has always been daunting. My father encouraged me to confront this fear, to be confident, and to meet the audience’s gaze. I tried many times: presenting in group projects, speaking as a class representative, even addressing an audience at a classmate’s parent’s funeral.

As I grew older, my determination to overcome this fear grew. I devoured books and videos on public speaking, eager to communicate with confidence. My first real test came in 2018, when I delivered a speech in a Japanese language contest. I had loved Japanese language since childhood, captivated by its culture, and dreamed of becoming fluent. Entering the contest was a dream — an opportunity to speak publicly and a chance to win a trip to Japan.

I was guided by two close friends who practiced with me daily. They corrected my mistakes, offered feedback, and most importantly, encouraged me. Having known me for years, they understood how terrifying standing on stage could be, yet they supported me out of love, friendship, and belief in my potential.

During rehearsals, I gave my utmost effort, memorising the script when necessary. Still, doubts lingered about meeting expectations, conquering fears, and not disappointing those who believed in me. The days of practice passed quickly, and soon, the big day arrived. Nervous at first, I gradually became more at ease while speaking. I managed to control my anxiety but knew my performance was imperfect. I focused on each word, yet my mind occasionally went blank, struggling with the judges’ questions. Embarrassment washed over me; I feared I had let my friends and family down.

In the end, I did not win the first prize, but my closest friends congratulated me. They reminded me that the true milestone was stepping onto the stage, speaking in front of an audience, and maintaining composure. Their encouragement helped me realise that courage and effort mattered more than the outcome itself.

As an introvert, talking to strangers is challenging, let alone addressing a crowd. Hearing the words “public speaking” makes my stomach tighten, palms sweat, and heart race. Stage fright, fear of facing many people and sharing my thoughts has always been real. Each time my name is called, I shake, my mind blanks, heart pounds, mouth dries, and confidence seems to vanish before I start. Yet, I have never lost hope. Deep down, I knew a strength within me would help rise above fear and grow into a better version of myself.

One year later, I stood again in the same contest. This annual competition was a goal I refused to let go of. As before, my friends encouraged, pushed, and trained with me every day until the D-day. Their support gave me the strength to continue. I prepared even more fiercely — joining language clubs and volunteering in storytelling activities. But it was not easy. I never felt comfortable speaking or working with strangers. I was told teamwork required discussion, sharing, and collaboration — a nightmare for an introvert.

Solitude had been my ally, yet suddenly, I was surrounded by people of all ages and personalities. Cooperation was no longer optional. However, through this challenge, I discovered an important truth: whether introverted or extroverted, whether silent or talkative, we must learn to connect with others. Survival and growth depend on collaboration and support.

The big day of the speech contest arrived in May, a season of transition between summer and winter. I arrived at the hall just in time, accompanied by a close friend. A staff member guided me to my seat, only a few meters from the judges. I felt cheerful, and calm, even giving a fist bump to nearby contestants. For the first time, I felt truly ready to give a speech — optimistic, and at peace. Perhaps it was the preparation or my friends’ wholehearted support, or maybe I had begun to trust myself.

There were four contestants in the advanced level, and I was the last to speak. Each of us hoped to win the grand prize — a trip to Japan. I did not worry about the others. I believed in my success and was determined to win first place. Just days before, I even dreamed of visiting Japan, so nothing could stand in my way.

Finally, it was my turn. I adjusted the microphone, greeted in Japanese, and bowed to the judges and audience. I spoke for about five minutes on how Malagasy parents raise children. Three judges asked each two questions. Thanks to countless practice hours and mock questions and answers sessions with my best friends, I answered every tricky question. For the first time, right after my speech, I felt like a winner.

The event lasted about three hours, and the final verdict came. The Master of Ceremonies announced winners, starting with the beginner level, then the advanced. Among the four in my category, only two remained. The Master of Ceremonies paused dramatically before announcing the first-place winner… and pronounced my name. I whispered a silent thanks to God. This result — the goal I had worked so hard for — had become reality. The trip to Japan was the reward, and even more importantly, I had overcome stage fright. I spoke naturally and confidently in front of the audience — another milestone achieved.

Later that year, in 2019, I visited Japan for the first time. The experience was magical. I met wonderful people, explored my favorite country, and fulfilled a long-cherished dream.

Six years later, I returned to the Land of the Rising Sun—this time as an international student. I now live in Tokushima prefecture, which is in southeastern Japan, far from the bustling cities, in a quiet countryside where few tourists venture. Yet, the city and its neighbourhoods are simply wonderful. It is peaceful, surrounded by greenery, and while the locals may seem reserved, they are incredibly welcoming. Even with some grasp of the local language, adapting to a new country as a foreigner is challenging. Still, thanks to the support of my seniors and friends who have lived here for years, I managed to navigate my first six months successfully.

The city where I live hosts an annual Japanese speech contest open to foreigners who have been residing here for some time. I was encouraged to participate, partly because I could speak some Japanese, and partly because it was a great chance to gain experience. I thought, why not? After all, I gradually grew more comfortable speaking in front of others.

This time, participants could choose their own topics, though it was suggested to focus on their experience in Japan or explore cultural connections between their home country and Japan. I was eager to participate, but selecting a topic was harder than I expected. Inspiration felt scarce, and I had no clear direction. Still, I knew that finding my own perspective was key to making the speech meaningful.

Overwhelmed by my studies, I barely noticed the passage of time. Before I knew it, the deadline had arrived. I had not written a single word, though ideas swirled in my mind. I opened my laptop, took a deep breath, and began writing everything that came to my mind. Reflecting on my experiences in Japan, I realised that people often struggled to pronounce my name correctly. That inspired me to talk about the hidden culture behind Japanese and Malagasy names.

With my theme set, I focused on making my speech coherent and captivating. I tend to draw inspiration at the last minute. I wrote, rewrote, and proofread repeatedly, staying up all night without noticing morning approaching.

Finally, I finished my manuscript and emailed it to one of my Japanese teachers to check for grammatical errors. She responded immediately, and her quick proofreading allowed me to submit my speech on the deadline. I felt relieved, yet strangely nervous, a sensation I could not quite describe.

Six years have passed since I last spoke in front of an audience. Preparing another speech made me feel nostalgic, bringing back memories of long rehearsals, the advice of my best friends, and countless sleepless nights.

A month after submitting my manuscript, I received an email from the event organizer announcing my selection. I was among the fourteen candidates chosen to compete. I whispered a quiet “wow,” but doubts immediately surfaced. I had two months to prepare. To understand what awaited me, I watched recordings of previous competitions, while my seniors and Japanese teacher helped me refine my speech.

Four students were selected from my university. The other three were Asian students with extensive experience in Japanese language and culture. They read Kanji （Japanese characters）effortlessly and conversed naturally. And then, there was me. Though I had been exposed to Japanese language and culture since childhood, memorising every character reading and grasping dialects was never easy. Back in my country, despite growing interest in Japanese language and culture, opportunities to use it in daily life remain limited. Once again, I faced a new challenge—this time in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Time flew, and soon the two months of preparation had passed. Finally, the big day arrived. Early that morning, a kind university staff member greeted us with a bright smile. As I descended from my dormitory, I saw her waiting by her car near the main gate, bowing politely. Her excitement was palpable. Three of us rode in her car; she asked about our preparations and told jokes, perhaps to ease our nerves, which were all visible.

After twenty minutes, we arrived at a large building and walked up to the fifth floor through corridors decorated in traditional style. Japanese architecture and design have always fascinated me, and I was struck by their beauty once again. The event hall was medium-sized, with a small table at the entrance holding our name tags.

One by one, the other candidates arrived. We were then led to a smaller room for a preparatory meeting. While waiting, we chatted briefly to get to know one another. The competition began in the early afternoon. We were instructed to enter the hall one by one, greeted with warm applause. Observing the other candidates, I could tell they were ready. Fourteen contestants competed in total. Thirteen were Asians from countries including China, Vietnam, India, Indonesia, the Philippines, Taiwan, Sri Lanka, and Thailand. I was the only African, from a distant country few people knew. Before each speech, the Master of Ceremonies shared a brief anecdote about the candidate’s country, offering the audience a glimpse into its culture. Each contestant then delivered a five-minute speech.

There were two types of awards: the Golden Prize for first and second place, followed by four Silver Prizes. I had hoped to place among the top five while preparing my speech.

As I listened to the first three candidates, I was deeply impressed. Their speeches were powerful, emotional, and delivered with near-native fluency. I was surprised by how advanced and impressive their speaking skills were. I was the sixth speaker. Perhaps it had been so long since I last addressed an audience, or perhaps it was the absence of my closest friends but standing alone in a foreign country in front of strangers was overwhelming. My hands trembled. When my name was announced, I feared I might not endure those five minutes on stage.

Still, I stood before hundreds of people. I bowed, held the microphone firmly, and began. My heart raced and sweat ran down my face and back. Gradually, the pressure eased. When I shared the example of the longest name in the world—from my country, the audience reacted with surprise and amusement. I realised how attentive they were and regained inner calm. Although I forgot one line, I finished my speech smoothly and expressively.

The remaining eight candidates were equally impressive. Their eloquence was such that, with eyes closed, one might mistake them for native speakers. It was the highest-level contest I had ever participated in. Each theme and presentation were unique, and every contestant spoke with confidence. I doubted whether I would receive a prize, but reassured myself that even without one, the experience was worthwhile. Most participants had lived in Japan for over three years, and the Chinese and Taiwanese contestants were especially strong in oral expression. Yet, standing among such talented competitors was an honor.

After a break that was supposed to last twenty minutes but stretched to fifty, results were announced. They began with six Encouragement Prizes. I thought I might be among them, but my name was not called. Two more awards followed, still not mine. A friend nudged me, whispering, “Congratulations!” I replied, “Stop joking. Congratulations to you instead!”

Finally, the Silver Prizes were announced. They first called my country, then my name. The applause and cheers overwhelmed me, and tears welled in my eyes. I had not expected to win a Silver Prize, given the competition’s level. One friend from my university won the Golden Prize, and the second Golden Prize went to a Vietnamese contestant.

Participating in such a high-level competition was a tremendous challenge. Every step—from manuscript preparation to standing on stage—pushed me beyond my comfort zone. Yet, when it was over, I felt immense pride. I had once again delivered a speech before a large audience, this time in the country whose language I had cherished for years.

Though I had been nervous, the audience remained unaware. Their attentive expressions and warm applause carried me through. Afterwards, my Japanese teachers praised my performance, saying I had done exceptionally well. In that moment, I realised every hour of preparation, every doubt, and every fear had been worthwhile. I had faced a formidable challenge, stood my ground, and expressed myself fully, a reminder that courage, practice, and determination can transform daunting experiences into triumphs. It is a memory I will treasure forever.

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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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Categories
Editorial

Seasons Out of Time

Today, as I gaze in this autumnal light,
   I feel I am viewing life anew.

— Tagore's Aaj Shororter Aloy (Today, in the Autumnal Light)
Autumn Garden by Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890). From Public Domain

September heralds the start of year-end festivities around the world. It’s autumn in one part and spring in another – both seasons that herald change. While our planet celebrates changes, dichotomies, opposites and inclusively gazes with wonder at the endless universe in all its splendour, do we? Festivals are times of good cheer and fun with our loved ones. And yet, a large part of the world seems to be in disarray with manmade disasters wrought by our own species on its own home planet. Despite the sufferings experienced by victims of climate and war-related calamities, the majority will continue to observe rituals out of habit while subscribing to exclusivity and shun change in any form. Occasionally, there are those who break all rules to create a new norm.

One such group of people are the bauls or mendicants from Bengal. Aruna Chakravarti has shared an essay about these people who have created a syncretic lore with music and nature, defying the borders that divide humanity into exclusive groups. As if to complement this syncretic flow, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s piece on a human construct, literary clubs spanning different cultures spread over centuries – no less an area in which we find norms redefined for, the literary, often, are the harbingers of change.

Weaving in stories from around the world, our non-fiction section offers parenting tips ( or are these really nerdy meanderings?) from Farouk Gulsara who looks inclusively at all life forms — big and small, including humans. Meredith Stephens brings us a sobering narrative with a light touch from the Southern Hemisphere. Prithvijeet Sinha takes us to explore an ancient monument of Lucknow and Jun A. Alindogan tells us “what’s in a name” in Philippines — it’s quite complex really  — it reads almost as complicated as a Japanese addresses explained in her column by Suzanne Kamata. In this issue, she takes us through the complexities of history in South Carolina, while Devraj Singh Kalsi analyses literary awards with a dollop of irony!

Humour is brought into poetry by Rhys Hughes, though his column houses more serious poems. Joseph C.Obgonna has an interesting take on his hat — if you please. We have poetry on climate by Onkar Sharma. Verses as usual mean variety on our pages. In this issue, we have a poem (an ekphrastic, if we were given to labelling) by Ryan Quinn Flanagan on a painting, by Ron Pickett on aging and on a variety of issues by Arshi, Joseph K Wells, Shamim Akhtar, Stephen House, Mian Ali, John Grey, Jim Murdoch, Juliet F Lalzarzoliani, Jim Bellamy, Soumyadwip Chakraborty, Richard Stimac and Sanzida Alam. We have translations of poetry. Ihlwha Choi has self-translated his poem on a dragonfly from Korean. Snehprava Das has brought to us another Odia poet, Ashwini Mishra. Tagore’s Aaj Shororter Aloy (Today, in the Autumnal Light) has been translated from Bengali. Though the poem starts lightly with the poet bathed in autumnal light, it dwells on ‘eternal truths’ while Nazrul’s Karar Oi Louho Kopat (Those Iron Shackles of Prison), transcreated by Professor Alam, reiterates breaking gates that exclude and highlight differences. In the same spirit as that of the bauls, Nazrul’s works ask for inclusivity as do those of Tagore.

We have more poetry in book excerpts with Sinha’s debut collection of poems, A Verdant Heart, and in reviews with veteran poet Kiriti Sengupta’s Selected Poems, reviewed by academic Pradip Mondal. Rakhi Dalal has written on Mohua Chinappa’s Thorns in my Quilt: Letters from a father to a Daughter. while Bhaskar Parichha has discussed Kalyani Ramnath’s Boats in a Storm: Law, Migration, and Decolonization in South and Southeast Asia, 1942–1962, a book that explores beyond the boundaries that politicians draw for humanity. The pièce de résistance in this section is Somdatta Mandal’s exploration of Aruna Chakravarti’s selected and translated, Rising from the Dust: Dalit Stories from Bengal. The book stands out not just for the translation but also with the selection which showcases an attempt to create bridges that transcend linguistic and cultural barriers.

Mandal, herself, has a brilliant translation featured in this issue. We have a review of her book, an interview with her, and an excerpt from the translation of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas. Written and first published in the Tagore family journal, Bharati, the narrative is an outstanding cultural bridge which even translates Bengali humour for an Anglophone readership. That Sen had a strictly secular perspective in the nineteenth century when blind devotion was often a norm is showcased in Mandal’s translation as well as the stupendous descriptions of the Himalayas that haunt with elegant simplicity. 

Our fiction this month seems largely focussed on women’s stories from around the world. While Fiona Sinclair and Erin Jamieson reflect on mother-daughter relationships, Anandita Dey looks into a woman’s dilemma as she tries to adjust to the accepted norm of an ‘arranged’ marriage. Rashida Murphy explores deep rooted social biases that create issues faced by a woman with a light touch. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao brings in variety with a fable – a story that reflects human traits transcending gender disparity.

The September issue would not have been possible without contributions of words and photographs by many of you. Huge thanks to all of you, to the fabulous team and to Sohana Manzoor, whose art has become synonymous with our journal. And our heartfelt thanks to our wonderful readers, without who the effort of putting together this journal would be pointless. Thank you all.

Looking forward to happier times.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

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CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE SEPTEMBER 2025 ISSUE

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Categories
Musings

A Journey through Pages


By Odbayar Dorj

From Public Domain

Before I ever stepped into a classroom, I had already learned to read and write. Over twenty years ago in Mongolia, children typically started school at the age of eight. But I began a year earlier—at seven—already recognising the letters and words on the page.

I don’t remember exactly how I learned, but I do recall asking my mother, who worked at a school dormitory, to bring me a copy of the Tsagaan Tolgoi (Alphabet Book) from the school library. With the help of my grandparents, I memorized all 35 letters and began reading. Because my mother worked at a school, we often visited the homes of her coworkers. On one such visit, we stopped by the home of the school librarian, Mr. Bayaraa. I remember flipping through one of the literature books for older students and seeing a drawing of a giant with one eye standing before frightened people in a cave. Later, I realised it must have been The Odyssey. From that moment on, I was fascinated. I longed to read every book I could find—especially those with pictures and stories.

When I finally started school, I couldn’t wait to dive into books. But the first-grade routine quickly wore me down: we spent most of our time copying words neatly into our notebooks. Then our family moved from the countryside to the city, and I transferred to a new school. By fourth grade, I was enrolled in a class called Reading and Writing, which would later become Literature. It was my favorite subject. Our teacher encouraged us to borrow books from the school library and read outside of class. That was, without a doubt, the most exciting homework I’d ever been given.

Still, getting into the school library wasn’t easy. Our school operated in two shifts, and my classes were in the morning—from 8:00 to 11:00. I lived nearby and could be home in under five minutes. My grandmother always had lunch ready, usually a warm bowl of bantan. Those were some of my happiest moments.

In the afternoons, I would walk back to school and try to visit the library. But the teacher on duty at the entrance always interrogated me: “Where are you going? Who are you meeting?” I explained that I just wanted to visit the library. Even after getting permission, I often found a sign on the door that read: “Closed for internal work.” Many times, I left disappointed. The librarian never opened the door.

Everything changed when I entered junior high school and gained the independence to ride buses. I started visiting the National Public Library named after D. Natsagdorj. It took about thirty minutes by bus, and I could only afford to go once or twice a week. The library was mostly empty, except for a few elderly men reading newspapers. It used the old Soviet-era catalog system, which was difficult to navigate. Instead, I approached the librarian directly and told her the kinds of books I liked. She always picked something out for me, and even though I never knew what it would be, the anticipation became one of my favorite parts of the week. I spent many summer days in the tiny reading room, lost in stories. When the fall semester began and university students returned, seats became scarce. They, too, relied on public libraries for study space.

By the time I entered high school, our school librarian had changed. Finally, we were allowed to use the library after classes. It had a wide range of books—both Mongolian and international literature. It felt like a dream come true.

Years later, in 2020, my daughter started school. In Mongolia, we celebrate the moment children finish learning their 35 letters with a Tsagaan Tolgoi celebration—a joyful milestone that marks the beginning of reading and writing. Sadly, due to COVID, my daughter never got to experience that celebration. More than that, she never even had a chance to experience a library. Unlike my school, hers didn’t even have a library corner. Due to overcrowding, the library space had been converted into a classroom. After textbooks were distributed during the first few weeks of the school year, the “library” served no other purpose.

As a mother and a former student, I couldn’t help but feel heartbroken by this quiet loss.

Now, as I study in Japan, I’ve started volunteering as an English teacher for first- to fourth-grade students at a local elementary school. It was my first time being at a Japanese school not as a visitor, but as a teacher. Two retired female teachers welcomed me warmly and introduced me to the principal. I would start teaching on May 1st. Even though my Japanese was limited, I felt their kindness beyond words.

We visited the classroom—a spacious room, half of it open for movement and activities. I was shown the storage room where they kept teaching materials, including flashcards. I was given two weeks to prepare. I was thrilled—not just to be working, but to finally be using my professional skills.

I reviewed every flashcard, thinking carefully about how to incorporate them into my lessons. I created a 12-week lesson plan and excitedly prepared for my first class.

But the first class didn’t go as I imagined. Sixteen students joined the English club, and as soon as I started speaking in English, some children looked surprised. Because I am Mongolian and physically resemble Japanese people, many often assume I am Japanese. The students seemed confused—some even asked if I was pretending or acting, wondering why a “Japanese-looking” person was speaking to them in English. I had prepared fun activities like Simon Says and The Alphabet Song, hoping to create a lively atmosphere, but without help from the two retired teachers, it was hard to hold their attention. Somehow, I made it through the class, but I left feeling defeated.

Thankfully, the teachers encouraged me: “Don’t be discouraged,” they said. “Especially with first graders—it’s only been a month since they started school.”

I spent the following week stressed and unsure. How could I communicate with children from another culture? How could I teach kids of different ages and learning levels?

There’s a Mongolian saying: “If God doesn’t know, ask a book.” I realised books were my only hope.

Just like the times I hesitated to enter unfamiliar spaces in Japan, I found myself nervous about entering the university’s children’s library. But I gathered courage, walked in, and soon found myself surrounded by picture books in English.

There were so many beautiful titles—more than I had ever imagined. I felt I was more excited than the children. Since then, finding the right book for my students has become my favourite part of lesson planning. I spend hours reading reviews, flipping through pages, and selecting stories that are both accessible and engaging.

At the same time, I couldn’t help but reflect on how lucky Japanese children are. Back in Mongolia, many children grow up without ever experiencing a library. And here I am, surrounded by cozy furniture and shelves filled with books, just a few steps away from the classroom.

Every week, I arrive an hour early to prepare for class. Right next to my classroom is the school’s library—bright, welcoming, and full of choices. Sometimes I see the first graders visiting with their teacher, eagerly choosing books and settling into child-sized chairs to read. And I think of my daughter. I feel sad—not only because I miss her, but because I know she doesn’t have access to a space like this. At her school in Mongolia, there is no library—not even a reading corner. Watching these children enjoy books so freely makes me wish my daughter could experience the same joy and comfort that comes from being surrounded by stories.

I remember my childhood dream: to one day have a small children’s library of my own. A place where I could read aloud to children, draw with them, fold origami, and spend quality time. That dream has only grown stronger.

In Mongolia, there are very few children’s book authors. Most publishers produce simplified versions of Disney movies or classic tales, often filled with too much text to engage young readers. Finding the right book for my daughter has always been a challenge. That’s when I began to dream—not just of reading books, but of writing one myself. After all, books hold countless lives, stories, and dreams. They are entire worlds we can live in.

I miss my daughter very much. I often make a list of things we could do together—places I want to show her if she ever comes here, places I want to go with her. I especially dream of going to the library with her, choosing and reading books together. I want to read aloud to her the book I think is the most beautiful, and then watch what she imagines, what she draws, and what she creates after reading it.

Sitting here in my university’s children’s library, I felt like I became a child again, and I found myself wishing that children everywhere in the world could have access to a library like this—one that sparks their imagination. That’s when I began writing this essay.

Because libraries are not just buildings filled with books—they are spaces where children begin to dream. I hope that one day, more schools in Mongolia will make room for those dreams. And until then, I’ll keep turning pages, teaching stories, and imagining that little library I still dream of—for my daughter, and for so many others like her.

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.

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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
Editorial

“Imagine all the people/Living life in peace”

God of War by Paul Klee (1879-1940)
The sky weeps blood, the earth cannot contain
The sorrow of the young ones we've slain.
How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain?

— from Stricken by Red Rain: Poems by Jim Bellamy

When there is war
And peace is gone
Where is their home?
Where do they belong?

— from Poems on Migrants by Kajoli Krishnan

Poetry, prose — all art forms — gather our emotions into concentrates that distil perhaps the finest in human emotions. They touch hearts across borders and gather us all with the commonality of feelings. We no longer care for borders drawn by divisive human constructs but find ourselves connecting despite distances. Strangers or enemies can feel the same emotions. Enemies are mostly created to guard walls made by those who want to keep us in boxes, making it easier to manage the masses. It is from these mass of civilians that soldiers are drawn, and from the same crowds, we can find the victims who die in bomb blasts. And yet, we — the masses — fight. For whom, for what and why? A hundred or more years ago, we had poets writing against wars and violence…they still do. Have we learnt nothing from the past, nothing from history — except to repeat ourselves in cycles? By now, war should have become redundant and deadly weapons out of date artefacts instead of threats that are still used to annihilate cities, humans, homes and ravage the Earth. Our major concerns should have evolved to working on social equity, peace, human welfare and climate change.

One of the people who had expressed deep concern for social equity and peace through his films and writings was Satyajit Ray. This issue has an essay that reflects how he used art to concretise his ideas by Dolly Narang, a gallery owner who brought Ray’s handiworks to limelight. The essay includes the maestro’s note in which he admits he considered himself a filmmaker and a writer but never an artist. But Ray had even invented typefaces! Artist Paritosh Sen’s introduction to Ray’s art has been included to add to the impact of Narang’s essay. Another person who consolidates photography and films to do pathbreaking work and tell stories on compelling issues like climate change and helping the differently-abled is Vijay S Jodha. Ratnottama Sengupta has interviewed this upcoming artiste.

Reflecting the themes of welfare and conflict, Prithvijeet Sinha’s essay takes us to a monument in Lucknow that had been built for love but fell victim to war. Some conflicts are personal like the ones of Odbayar Dorj who finds acceptance not in her hometown in Mongolia but in the city, she calls home now. Jun A. Alindogan from Manila explores social media in action whereas Eshana Sarah Singh takes us to her home in Jakarta to celebrate the Chinese New Year! Farouk Gulsara looks into the likely impact of genetic engineering in a world already ripped by violence and Devraj Singh Kalsi muses on his source of inspiration, his writing desk. Meredith Stephens tells the touching story of a mother’s concern for her child in Australia and Suzanne Kamata exhibits the same concern as she travels to Happy Village in Japan to meet her differently-abled daughter and her friends.

As these real-life narratives weave commonalities of human emotions, so do fictive stories. Some reflect the need for change. Fiona Sinclair writes a layered story set in London on how lived experiences define differences in human perspectives while Parnika Shirwaikar explores the need to learn to accept changes set in her part of the universe. Spandan Upadhyay explores the spirit of the city of Kolkata as a migrant with a focus on social equity. Both Paul Mirabile and Naramsetti Umamaheswararao write stories around childhood, one set in Europe and the other in Asia.

As prose weaves humanity together, so does poetry. We have poems from Jim Bellamy and Kajoli Krishnan both reflecting the impact of war and senseless violence on common humanity. Ryan Quinn Flanagan introduces us to Canadian bears in his poetry while Snigdha Agrawal makes us laugh with her lines about dogs and hatching Easter eggs! We have a wide range of poems from Snehprava Das, George Freek, Niranjan Aditya, Christine Belandres, Ajeeti S, Ron Pickett, Stuart McFarlane, Arthur Neong and Elizabeth Anne Pereira. Rhys Hughes concludes his series of photo poems with the one in this issue — especially showcasing how far a vivid imagination can twist reality with a British postman ‘carrying’ sweets from India! His column, laced with humour too, showcases in verse Lafcadio Hearn, a bridge between the East and West from more than a hundred years ago, a man who was born in Greece, worked in America and moved to Japan to even adopt a Japanese name.

Just as Hearn bridged cultures, translations help us discover how similarly all of us think despite distances in time and space. Radha Chakravarty’s translation of Kazi Nazrul Islam’s concerns about climate change and melting icecaps does just that! Professor Fakrul Alam’s translation of Nazrul’s lyrics from Bengali on women and on the commonality of human faith also make us wonder if ideas froze despite time moving on. Tagore’s poem titled Asha (hope) tends to make us introspect on the very idea of hope – just as we do now. At a more personal level, a contemporary poem reflecting on the concept of identity by Munir Momin has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. From Korean, Ihlwah Choi translates his own poem about losing the self in a crowd. We start a new column on translated Odia poetry from this month. The first one features the exquisite poetry of Bipin Nayak translated by Snehprava Das. Huge thanks to Bhaskar Parichha for bringing this whole project to fruition.

Parichha has also drawn bridges in reviews by bringing to us the memoirs of a man of mixed heritage, A Stranger in Three Worlds: The Memoirs of Aubrey Menen. Andreas Giesbert from Germany has reviewed Rhys Hughes’ The Devil’s Halo and Somdatta Mandal has discussed Arundhathi Nath’s translation, The Phantom’s Howl: Classic Tales of Ghosts and Hauntings from Bengal. Our book excerpts this time feature Devabrata Das’s One More Story About Climbing a Hill: Stories from Assam, translated by multiple translators from Assamese and Ryan Quinn Flangan’s new book, Ghosting My Way into the Afterlife, definitely poems worth mulling over with a toss of humour.

Do pause by our contents page for this issue and enjoy the reads. We are ever grateful to our ever-growing evergreen readership some of whom have started sharing their fabulous narratives with us. Thanks to all our readers and contributors. Huge thanks to our wonderful team without whose efforts we could not have curated such valuable content and thanks specially to Sohana Manzoor for her art. Thank you all for making a whiff of an idea a reality!

Let’s hope for peace, love and sanity!

Best wishes,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the contents page for the May 2025 Issue

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