Categories
Editorial

‘How do you rebuild a life when all that remains is dust?’

The Great War is over
And yet there is left its vast gloom.
Our skies, light and society’s soul have been overcast…

'The Great War is Over' by Jibanananda Das (1899-1954), translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam.

Jibanananda Das wrote the above lines in the last century and yet great wars rage even now. As the world struggles to breathe looking for a beam of hope to drag itself out of the darkness induced by natural calamities, accidents, terror attacks and wars that seem to rage endlessly, are we moving towards the dystopian scenario created by George Orwell in 1984, which would be around the same time as Jibanananda Das’s ‘The Great War is Over’?

Describing such a scenario, Ahmed Rayees writes a moving piece from the Kashmiri village of Sheeri, the last refuge of the displaced refugees who were bombarded after peace was declared in their refuge during the clash across Indo-Pak borders. He contends: “People walked back not to homes, but to ruins. Entire communities had been reduced to ash and rubble. Crops were destroyed, livestock gone, schools turned into shelters or craters. How do you rebuild a life when all that remains is dust?”

People could be asking the same questions without finding answers in Gaza or Ukraine, where the cities are reduced to rubble. While we look for a ray of sunshine, amidst the rubble, Farouk Gulsara muses on hope that has its roots in eternity. Vela Noble wanders on nostalgic beaches in Adelaide. And Meredith Stephens travels to the Australian outback. Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in lighter notes writing of driving lessons while Suzanne Kamata creeps back to darker recesses musing on likely ‘criminals’ and crimes in her neighbourhood.

Lopamudra Nayak writes on social media and its impact while Bhaskar Parichha writes of trends that could be brought into Odia literature.  What he writes could apply well to all regional literature, where they lose their individual colouring to paint dystopian realities of the present world. Does modernising make us lose our ethnic identity and how important is that? These are questions that sprung to the mind reading his essay. As if in an attempt to hold on to the past ethos, Prithvijeet Sinha wafts around old ruins in Lucknow and sees a cemetery for colonial soldiers and concludes: “Everybody has formidable stakes, and the dead don’t preach the gospel of victory or sombre defeat.”

Taking up a similar theme of death and war is a poem from Saranyan BV. In poetry, we have colours from around the world with poems from Allan Lake, Ron Pickett, Ananya Sarkar, George Freek, Jim Bellamy, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Juairia Hossain, Gautham Pradeep, Jenny Middleton, Mandavi Choudhary and many more. Multiple themes are woven into a variety of perspectives, including nature and environment, with June hosting the World Environment Day. Rhys Hughes gives a funny poem on the Welsh outlaw, Twm Siôn Cati.

We have mainly poetry in translation this time. Snehaprava Das has brought to us Soubhagyabanta Maharana’s poems from Odia and Ihlwha Choi has translated his own poem from Korean. Sangita Swechcha’s poem in Nepali has been rendered to English by Saudamini Chalise. From Bengali, other that Jibanananda Das’s poems translated by Professor Fakrul Alam, we have Tagore’s pensive and beautiful poem, Sonar Tori (the golden boat). Yet another Bengali poet, one who died young and yet left his mark, Sukanta Bhattacharya (1926-1947), has been translated by Kiriti Sengupta. Sengupta has also translated the responses of Bitan Chakravarty in a candid conversation about his dream child — the Hawakal Publishers. We also have a feature on this based on a face-to-face conversation, giving the story of how this publishing house grew out of an idea. Now, they publish poetry traditionally, without costs to the poet. Their range of authors are spread across continents.

Our fiction again returns to the darkness of war. Young Leishilembi Terem has given a story set in conflict-ridden Manipur from where she has emerged safely — a story that reiterates the senselessness of violence and politics. While Jeena R. Papaadi writes of modern human relationships that end without commitment, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao relates a value-based story in a small hamlet of southern India. 

From stories, our book excerpts return to the real world, where a daughter grieves her father in Mohua Chinappa’s Thorns in My Quilt: Letters from a Daughter to Her Father while Wendy Doniger’s The Cave of Echoes: Stories about Gods, Animals and Other Strangers, dwells on demystifying structures that create borders. We have two non-fiction reviews. Parichha writes about David C Engerman’s Apostles of Development: Six Economists and the World They Made. And Satya Narayan Misra discusses Bakhtiyar K Dadabhoy’s Honest John – A Life of John Matthai. Somdatta Mandal this time explores a historical fiction based around the founding of Calcutta, Madhurima Vidyarthi’s Job Charnock and the Potter’s Boy while Rakhi Dalal looks at fiction born of environmental awareness, Dhruba Hazarika’s The Shoot: Stories.

We have more content. Do pause by our contents page and take a look.

Huge thanks to all our contributors without who this issue would not have materialised. Heartfelt thanks to the team at Borderless for their support, especially Sohana Manzoor for her iconic artwork that has almost become a signature statement for Borderless.

Let’s hope that next month brings better news for the whole world.

Best wishes,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

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Categories
Stories

The Stranger

By Jeena R. Papaadi

I was sure I had kept a ten rupee coin ready. But, when he came around a second time, I was still fumbling. I looked up at him, embarrassed, shame-faced, and quickened my search. My hand travelled the same paths within my handbag that it had toured a few seconds ago, again encountering nothing.

He had no reaction. He had been at this job fa​r too long. Seen far too many people. Heard far too many excuses. Listened impatiently to far too many stories. He looked away and moved on. Destiny would bring him back though. He would persevere until my journey ended. Then I would be erased from his mind and some other deviant passenger without exact change, with a bagful of tales, would take my place.

I gave up and pulled out a hundred rupee note. Something you should never wave at a city bus conductor. I was doing the unthinkable. I had no choice. My ten rupee coin had vanished within the folds of my bag, liberating itself from its inevitable fate. With one hand grabbing the railing for dear life as the bus dashed across the city, this was the best I could do. If one could pause life long enough, one would admire the lesson in philosophy thus presented before oneself. But one was busy going rather red before the conductor’s stern gaze.

No change, I muttered, my words and eyes dripping with apology.

He could shout. He could yell. He could ask me to leave the bus. No, he couldn’t, but he certainly could make us believe he had enough power in the world to extinguish our lives with one flick of his hand. No wonder small children aspired to be bus conductors.

He decided against violence and sighed deeply. The burden of the entire human race rested on his shoulders that morning.

Out of nowhere, a hand appeared between the conductor and me, with a sparkling, crisp ten rupee note crackling between the fingers. My eyes fell on it and on the hand holding it, and traced it back to the man who owned both. 

For one long instant, all eyes of the people on the bus – except the driver, luckily – were on the man with the receding hairline and he began to look a tad uncomfortable at the attention. 

It’s okay, he said, seeing me hesitate. It’s okay.

Now all pairs of eyes transferred themselves to me because it was my turn. He was offering to pay my ticket, to save me from the hundred rupee note embarrassment and possible eviction from the bus. 

The conductor, still expressionless, leaning against a seat, immune to the insane race of the bus, waited for my response. To take the money or not to take it? He didn’t have all the time in the world. He had tickets to dispense and other things to do, I’m sure.

You can pay me back later, said the ten-rupee-note-man. Or not, he added hastily. 

So I nodded, unsure of the etiquette and expectations in such a situation. I wasn’t taught how to behave when a stranger on a random bus showed generosity or kindness. Should I accept it? Should I be offended? Should I presume that he had ulterior motives? Should I refuse and go back to unearth my delinquent ten rupee coin? Or stubbornly insist that the conductor give me exact balance for my hundred?

The conductor sighed again. I was wasting his time more than the ten rupees demanded. 

Everyone, and the bus itself, seemed to be holding their breath. I had to satisfy them all.

I took the ten rupee note, and handed it to the conductor whose patience was fast wearing thin, fairly certain that whatever I chose at this moment, I was going to regret later.

The situation defused, and everyone exhaled and went back to their own businesses of staring out the window, as the vehicle shot across the city.

I turned to my saviour and said, I’ll buy you tea. 

He had an easy smile, one that makes you want to see it again. Oh, that won’t be necessary. But if you insist…

My eyes did insist, I suppose.

People seated next to this developing scene of action were listening without appearing to, some clearly appearing to, and hopping to conclusions on where this could lead.

I’ll get my change for hundred too, I explained, showing the note. This was mostly for the benefit of the listeners.

Of course, he said.

We now had a solid reason to have tea together. 

So we got down at the stop where the ten rupees had led, and found a tea shop nearby. He was easy to talk to, easy to confide in, easy to befriend. He did not bore me to death with his stories, like most men did. He knew when he lost me, when to stop and when to pay attention.

One week later, we had dinner together. The strangeness had passed and we were comfortable as though we had been married for years. 

And then it happened, on the third date… When he lost himself and I was abandoned, the gaps began to reappear, and the cracks which were merely glossed over, never fixed, broke open.

Just as it was when we had been married.

Another failed experiment. Come, let’s be strangers again…

If you change nothing, nothing would change.

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Jeena R. Papaadi is an author of fiction and poetry. Her articles and stories have appeared in several publications including The Hindu Open page, Kitaab, European Association of Palliative Care, Aksharasthree, etc.

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