Robihara 2 (Sunless 2) by Nazrul has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Chapter 1 of Isa Kamari’s novel, The Throne,has been translated by the author from Malay. We will be running the whole novel as serial through the year. Click here to read.
An excerpt from Aslam Dostain‘s novel, Sótkál, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click hereto read.
A Sudden Shower has been written and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Clickhere to read.
Jhor or Storm, a poem by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Rain, Steam, and Speed – The Great Western Railway, 1844, Painting by Joseph Mallord William Turner
Perhaps, the only constant that makes a difference in this ever-transforming world is how we react to changes around us. How do we interact with not just humans but our whole planet with its climate, contours, its plethora of flora and fauna? Will that impact our survival in the long run? And yet with our focus on legacies, traditions, beliefs, we tend to ignore the call to adapt to the new that might help us move towards an unpredictable future. We forget perhaps that these systems had all been made by our ancestors to ensure survival. Somewhere along the way, these have become like fences caging us into small subsets. The strange thing is we continue to allow that to happen and create enclosures which we fight to maintain. The future that we face now seems even more tumultuous with climate change, rising sea levels and global warming taking a front seat while influx of refugees from war and natural disasters have already started making themselves felt. Add to that the shortages of resources that we have taken for granted for centuries. How would we survive these?
Is it by redefining the constructs we have created or just meeting in corners and finding commonalities as suggested by Ryan Quinn Flanagan in his poem ‘Corners’?
Corners are a meeting place, they hold a room together
Our poetry section often reflects what we experience, feel or see around us. We have poems on how nature overrides human constructs by Khayelihle Benghu. In ‘Passport for the Rain‘, she writes:
If rain possessed a passport, it would read: Citizen of every place that drinks.
We also have poetry in our translations with Ihlwha Choi giving us a glimpse of Korean life. Professor Fakrul Alam has brought to us in English a Bengali poem by Nazrul written on the death of Tagore, a poem that was read out in Calcutta radio by the poet himself in 1941. Tagore’s poem, Storm, has been translated in keeping with the heavy downpours in Asia this season. Fazal Baloch has shared an excerpt in English, which reads like a short story, from Aslam Dostain’s Balochi novel, Sótkál, giving us a flavour of the hard life in their region, where self-reliance is a felt need for survival. We have mental heath issues woven into this section with Isa Kamari’s translation of his own Malay novel into English, The Throne. We will be running a chapter every month from this novel.
Book excerpts also has a translation this time with Ramananda Bharati’s Bengali travelogue, The Forest of Snow, brought to us in English by Somdatta Mandal. Aruna Chakravarti has reviewed this non-fiction for us. The other excerpt is from Hughes’ The Biscuit Thief, a book that reflects his distinct brand of absurd humour. Keith Lyons’ interview this time features an excerpt from interviewee Jayanthi Sankar’s short story set in Singapore. Mandal has written on yet another translation from Assamese by Ranjita Biswas of Arupa Patangia Kalita’s The Moonlight Saga. Bhaskar Parichha has discussed Rabindranath Tagore: The Myriad-Minded Man, co-authored by Krishna Dutta and Andrew Robinson. He claims that this book is “is indispensable reading for anyone interested in literature, intellectual history, cultural modernity, or the life of a man whose vision of humanity continues to speak powerfully to an increasingly interconnected world.”
This month’s non-fiction section has trotted around the globe. We have Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan’s essay discussing how to redefine norms. His take is a bit different from Flanagan’s. He tells us, using Huck Finn, Terminator and Sangam Literature, people need to ask not, “What is right?” but “How did I come to believe this is right?” Rengin Uçkan’s writes on the need for framing rules that are compassionate for refugees. And Farouk Gulsara with his inevitable gruff humour talks of climate change while stating things as it is: “Climate change not only shrinks our summer beachwear but also makes outdoor living impossible. Additionally, it’s proving to be more expensive to consume anything…” Jun A. Alindogan narrates how typhoons have increased in number in Philippines and how it affects them while Jeena R. Papaadi reflects on her literary journey. Meredith Stephens shares her sailing adventures in Australia with stunning photographs by Alan Noble. And Suzanne Kamata has brought us a flavour of the unique Zine Fest in Kobe, where both groceries and books find a place!
Devraj Singh Kalsi hovers between fact and fiction. He has a musing which seems like a hash of dark fiction but based on his experiences. He has also shared a story that is purely fictional. Yi-jung Chen brings to us a quirky love story set in Taiwan across time and space while Brindley Hallam Dennis tells a tale about a dog who sits at a table and sips drinks with a straw! Jay Samanta gives a narrative about a modern relationship based on social media output. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has shared a fable that talks of freeing nature. The issue is, can we really?
In Borderless Journal, we hope to create a space which will help reflect not just the times but also look forward to ideas that can move us towards surviving in a happier world, built on the basis of accepting differences, filled with love, kindness and compassion. While this may sound clichéd and repetitive, given the current climes, these values cannot be emphasised often enough and perhaps our content to an extent does reflect that, sometimes with a soupçon of humour. Do pause by our contents page for this August and tell us what you think.
Winding up this issue, we would like to thank our all contributors for their wonderful writings and photographs. Huge thanks to the Borderless team without who this issue would not have been as vibrant. Special thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Thank you all. All of you together make this journal come alive.
“One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” – Friedrich Nietzsche
In our teenage, my sister and I used to haunt three libraries in our town.
One was a tiny, dark place, where older people sat outside in the evenings, reading newspapers and chatting; where all the books I wanted, battered, doodled, faded and ripped as they were, were crammed into one shelf, maybe two. I would head directly to these shelves; never even moderately curious to turn to the rest of the small library. Books that went missing or were never returned were not replaced. The books I wanted—by a beloved author or the next in a series or a new one I had heard of—were almost always checked out by someone else, and once in a while, if I’d find some of those much-desired books in transit, I would consider it magic.
The second was a larger and more frequented library in the heart of the city, with a range of medium battered books and a few good-looking ones. People who read them scribbled on their margins; sometimes the pages were torn. The books were bound tight and often we had to prise the binding apart to read. There was a moderate fine if books were lost or overdue. Readers would hide the books they wanted in a different shelf in a different part of the library so that they could find these during their next visit. Yes, it worked most of the time.
The third was an elegant, vast, air-conditioned, foreign space where we stepped into, holding our breath, for fear it would shatter its grandeur and sanctity. We had to take our shoes off at the entrance—the whole process giving a holy air to the place. We thoroughly enjoyed sinking our feet into the soft carpet. It would not be an exaggeration to say walking was one of the highlights of the library. Many of the readers hovering around the bookshelves looked befittingly intelligent, haughty and grave. The books were well maintained and arranged; and fines followed you home and lingered outside your door if you defaulted.
It gives me goosebumps when I recall youngsters slipping in and out of libraries with books under their arm, a sight I don’t see much these days for a variety of reasons. In the 80s and 90s, we were advised to keep story books away and focus on studies. Today we request and plead with our children to read a book or two.
Some of the books in the first library and perhaps in the second as well, were not recommended by grown-ups. No, we were specifically forbidden from approaching ‘those books’—they were ‘trash’. I concluded that books with intimate pictures on the cover were trash. They wrapped them in white paper to conceal the covers. In fact, the white wrapping signified a forbidden book. It also became the symbol of rebellion: when their teenagers walked about with white books, parents could only glare. I also associated some authors with this qualifier: ‘trash’. I dutifully kept my eyes away from them, however intriguing they seemed.
Years later, I would discover that some of those novels were actually thrillers and quite entertaining ones at that. The juicy cover picture served the purpose of enticing enough to make readers curious, and yet very little within the story would justify the image.
“The pleasure of creativity can erase any pain.” – Dr Nawal El Saadawi
When I started writing earnestly and was ready to release my work into the wilderness, I was, like any other writer, apprehensive about how it would be received. More than whether it would be disliked or ignored, I was worried that it would be of so poor a quality and would be considered ‘trash’. I had no clue what went into attaining that label, nor how to protect myself from it. I laboured to infuse energy and life and gravity into my writing so that it would be perceived a serious piece of work.
I have always been plagued by the question of what constitutes ‘trash’ or even ‘bad’ writing.
How do we, as readers and writers, distinguish good writing from bad?
A seemingly simple problem with a clear solution; however, it is anything but.
Surely a person who has been devouring books since the age of nine or ten, has grown up to be a decent judge of writing?
I am still unpacking the answer.
Bad writing could manifest itself in the form of poor language, unoriginal style, weak structure, unconvincing plots or flat characters, and generally would be unable to stand on its own. Good writing could excite the reader—by its concise, sharp and taut quality, rich characters, and its ability to surprise.
However, sometimes the difference is subtle. It is a feeling, rather than a quantitative measure of what went right or wrong. Reading is a subjective experience. One person’s ‘brilliant read’ could be another’s ‘trash’ or ‘boring stuff’.
One has only to take a glance at some of the reviews on critically acclaimed titles to know there is no such thing as a work that is loved by every single person who has read it.
Copied below are actual reviews on a renowned book by a Nobel Prize winner:
“I thought it was kind of boring.”
“This may be my favourite book of all time.”
“Pretentious, with poor descriptions and transparent characters.”
“The storytelling is so exhilarating that one gets goosebumps.”
The author may be beyond caring but the rest of us are around to assess their work.
A book that critics wrote off as mediocre becomes an overnight best-seller. A cleverly written, intriguing story with deep, unforgettable characters vanishes into the folds of history with not so much as a ripple. Every so often, out of the shadows of controversy emerges a superb piece of literature, taking off to heights unexpected. There is no formula to success in writing. Many factors apart from the quality of writing contribute to it. In fact, the very term ‘success’ defies definition. Famous critics, reviewers or others whose voices matter, can steer popular opinion in a certain direction as would clever marketing strategies. These are days when sales numbers do not necessarily mean what we think they mean.
No one sees your writing the way you do. No one.
Similarly, we can never really see our writing through another person’s eyes, and hence, never objectively judge it. The best we can do is to put some distance between us and the piece, come back to it weeks or months later and see if it still holds its ground.
By gauging the quality of writing in the works of both prominent and unknown authors, digging for their strengths and weaknesses, searching for the definition of ‘bad’ writing, I am trying to find the answer to the real question, simmering beneath the skin: How do I decide if my own writing is any good?
Am I a good writer?
There is a shift that happens almost overnight when you, as a discerning adult, transform from a ‘reader’ to a ‘writer’. From a person who praised or critiqued books with abandon, you have become one who appreciates the effort that goes into conjuring and creating something out of thin air.
All of a sudden, you have the superpower to see the writer behind a book, as though she were seated before you: working, seeking perfection, tearing her hair apart, rewriting, doubting and second guessing herself, pouncing on the perfect phrase, jumping for joy, sinking to the ground, all in a matter of minutes. You’re kinder to her and her creation, since you know the struggle so well.
I have heard writers (real as well as reel) declare that they have always wanted to write, and that they have been writing from the time they could pick up a pen.
I wish I had something similar to say but the truth is that although I did scribble in my teenage, I neither considered myself a writer, nor wanted to be a writer, and not even called my produce ‘writing’. It was just something I had to get out of my mind so it would not torture me so — jot it down, complete or not, and toss it to a side. If it clawed its way back into my mind, I would develop the idea and complete it—or procrastinate enough so that it died in my mind too.
A couple of friends who were allowed to read my writing were warned to keep their mouths shut about it. To this day, I have no clue what I was so terrified of. Of being laughed at? Of being read? Of being seen? Of being found? Of being ignored? Or was I not even sure? Had I tried to analyse the source of the fear, I might have found the courage to overcome it. I was intensely possessive of what I wrote, because it came from a well deep inside whose existence I could not explain or justify.
Like any wise teenager, I tore most of those writings apart, even set fire to some, so there was no way to judge their quality. What I remember makes me cringe a bit—but I consider it a good sign, because that is where I began.
Years later, when I got to the point of daring to call myself a writer, I sought the purpose of writing, several times: why do I want to write stories? Why do I write at all? Whence comes this beast, thrashing about in the dungeons of my mind? Why this unrelenting torment until I release it?
An answer would help me ascertain the best way to tackle the beast. The quest took me way back—to the point where I started reading.
As children, all of us loved listening to stories; many of us enjoyed reading as well. Books were perhaps the only engagement we had, apart from games.
Stories were captivating; they left us wanting more. When a narrative got dull, we could stop listening or reading. But what is it in stories that captivated us? Why did the thought of a book waiting for us, a story to come back to after school or work, excite us?
Books take us to worlds hitherto unknown; to people and cultures unfamiliar; to points of view unheard of. Add a breath-taking book cover to the mix—and there are no words to explain the exhilaration. That is the straightforward, simple response.
But no, I am not satisfied, so I dig deeper. What do we feel when we are reading a story; when we finish reading a story? Where does the hunger for the next book spring from?
In the midst of a particularly entertaining novel, I found my answer. The main character, lost and dejected like me, did something to change her life. She took a stand and went forward with a decision she had been postponing for long out of fear. I read that paragraph many times. I found that I could do something similar—and I did. I cannot recall if the outcome changed my life in any significant way—but the act of performing it did. The few hours I engaged in it, I was saved from darkness. I realised that I needed to keep changing my life in bouts and escapades.
Isn’t that the whole essence of life—not the outcome, but the journey? The book provided me with an answer not only to the wretchedness I was feeling, but also to my question—what do stories do?
Stories open up new possibilities. We read stories because somewhere in those pages we are going to find an idea; a solution. They may not solve all our problems, but they give us a direction. We realise we are not alone in this. We are reminded of how alike we are, across countries, across continents, across cultures, across genders, across race. The stories, for a brief moment in time, hold our heads above water. We breathe in huge gulps of air.
Which brings me to the next revelation—when we read, we are looking for a connection, of the kind that we don’t always find in real life. We connect with the characters, we identify with them and their challenges, we guide each other. We make friends with their friends. We fall in love with the people they fall in love with. We become them, flaws, follies, foolishness and all. Their embarrassment becomes ours. At the end of the book, we feel satisfied (though we want more) and we feel stronger and ready to take on the world, albeit for a short while.
We read and write stories to establish human connections. We read and write to feel less lonely, less depressed.
“How many times have people used a pen or a paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?” – Virginia Woolf.
Left to itself, the human mind has the tendency to sink to the bottom. Attaining peace is a daily struggle. We need to find a reason that has the power to raise our heads above the surface. Stories do that for us. For some of us fortunate enough to be able to create stories, all the more so. Isabel Allende writes in The Soul of a Woman: “I am grateful to that unhappy childhood because it provided ample material for my writing. I don’t know how novelists with happy childhoods in normal homes manage.”
The more miserable you are, the more meaningful and impactful the stuff you churn out. I am certain this applies to all forms of creativity. You have this vast reserve from which you can dredge out diamonds. I suppose the twisted way of putting it is, be happy you are miserable—misery makes you a genius.
One thing is certain: no one is coming to save us; we have to save ourselves. It’s a heady fact that simultaneously empowers and petrifies us.
And to save ourselves, we seek connections: a touch, a hug, a kind word, a compassionate look, a listening ear. However much we desire to live without depending on others, the universal truth is that, at some point or another, we would lean on them, and they on us.
When we write, we are doing the same thing: looking for connections in the world we create. If we feel them ourselves, so we can offer them to the reader.
We write to find and provide solace.
We write to find someone; often ourselves. At other times we write to get back at people we can’t in real life. It is liberating.
We write so as to do things we cannot in real life. We take flight in those pages, though in reality we are confined by infinite human laws. We write to break free. We write to support causes, we write to explore our stance.
It is said that when we write we are talking to ourselves; explaining and describing to ourselves; causing the situation to present itself before us in all its colours.
Even in an unlikely fictional world, one finds the author lurking between the lines. Her philosophy, her ideas, her notions and her truth jump at you. The exceptional writer does not distinguish between the story and herself. She becomes the story. The reader does not identify where the author ends and where fiction begins.
“For my best poems were all written when I felt the worst. When I was happy, I didn’t write anything.” – Langston Hughes
Human beings achieve immortality through their legacy. We read authors from centuries ago, see the world through their eyes, and realise, to our surprise, that they experienced pretty much the same prejudices and problems as we do in the 21st century.
Parents comment that their children are smarter than their own generation, older people speak of better times in their youth, there is always a war going on somewhere, bigotry thrives, slavery and oppression change forms and evolve, privileged people live comfortably and blame the underprivileged for their situation, the voiceless continue to suffer, everyone is unhappy.
Our convenience would always be the driving force of our progress. Any technological development that makes our lives simpler and allows us to be lethargic, would flourish. Everything else is a side dish.
I want my writing to survive. I want it to mirror today’s world. I want a future reader to earn a glimpse into my neck of the woods in this century. I want them to consider how similar life is, even when it is different. I want to reach out and hold their hands. Because the more we try to change, the more we go back to our original instincts.
For a person who was once mortified of her writing being seen, who was possessive about her thoughts and creativity, this desire seems strange: for her writing to be read and analysed and discussed and taken apart by the rest of the world—because it would mean she has lived. She has struggled. She has been brave. She has fallen and picked herself up. So many times. One has to pass through the long, dark tunnel of despair and emerge to have that change in perspective.
Creating art that survives is the only way a person can hope to achieve immortality. For most of us, the real question that keeps us awake at night is: will my writing outlive me?
Jeena R. Papaadi is a writer based in Bengaluru and Thiruvananthapuram, with six published books. Her work has appeared in several publications including The Hindu, Borderless Journal, The Hemlock Journal, Usawa Literary Review, The Wise Owl and Kitaab. Jeena’s work is listed at: https://linktr.ee/jeenapapaadi
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Nazrul’slyrics ofMor Ghumogore Elo Monohor (In my Sleep, Came the Enchanting One) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
The Heartless, a Balochi story by AbdulQayum Sarbazi, has been translated by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Dragonfly 2 has been composed and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem, Amra Choli Somukhpane(We Look Forward and March), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Clickhere to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: Pink Dreams is an autobiographical narrative by Priyanka, written and compiled by Deeksha Vats. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Clickhere to read.
Larry S Su, who migrated from a mud cave in Shaanxi province to America, shares his story of the changes he sees during three visits to his home and muses on the gaps he has observed between these two places. Clickhere to read.
Summer, Dune in Zeeland by Piet Mondrain (1872 – 1944)
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.
‘Burnt Norton’, Four Quartets (1941) by TS Eliot
If we look back in time, we have a better life than that of our ancestors. Though conflicts rage and climate change is a reality that we all dread, it can safely be said, we have progressed beyond the imagination of those who lived a hundred years ago. The fact that some books from the past still reverberate with echoes of what the present holds says much for the outliers or authors who could think out of the box. Despite this complex intermingling of ideas and times, perhaps the world will change more now than before. We do not know anything for sure though experts are always predicting a future that for most of us remains unknown. What we can present is our own estimate of what can be and a definite assertion of what is. Truth as such is a matter of perception. That complicates it further. However, one of the changes that is definitely here to stay is climate change and our changing environment. Given that this is the month that homes World Environment Day, we have a smattering of writings that revolve around nature and also the human spirit that defies age.
We have featured a writer who revels in nature and is an ageless voice that bridges multiple cultures, Ruskin Bond. As he turned ninety-two last month, he published multiple new books. We have an excerpt from one of them, Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond, a brilliant collection of snapshots of his interactions with nature over time — be it frogs, snakes or just trees. Some of the vignettes are humorous and some, as all classics are, thought provoking. Bond puts into words how he chose to work in Landour (a small town in Himalayas) and continued to write from there for sixty years. He talks of the spell the mountains cast on him, “I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape.” The other book excerpt is a contrast to Bond’s, a non-fiction called Burnout Highway by Anmol Diddan. It explores the collective suffering of stress at work where achievements distance humans from nature and a fulfilling life and urges readers to be open to changes.
In keeping with the theme of environment, Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Stephen Alter’s The Fragrance of Rain: A Brief History of the Monsoon. He tells us: “The Fragrance of Rain is much more than a history of weather. It is a meditation on nature, culture, memory, and belonging… Like the season it celebrates, the book is refreshing, nourishing, and lingering in its impact…” While Rakhi Dalal expresses her delight with Shyam Manohar’s The Cold War of Sadanand Borse, a novella translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto, Meenakshi Malhotra revels in Giti Chandra’s debut book of poems, Setting Traps for Light.
In translations, Professor Fakrul Alam has captured the flavours of Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics, which also echo of the rainy season or monsoons. Isa Kamari brings to us more of his Malay poems in English and Ihlwha Choi shares a rendering of his Korean poem, ‘Dragonfly 2’, into English. One of Tagore’s poems from Balaka (Flight of the Cranes, 1916) has found its way into this issue after being translated. We also have a touching Balochi story around social gaps from the late Abdul Qayum Sarbazi, brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes has continued sharing his short fables, which are absurd but also, comical! A sensitive story about the natural world mingled with Maori concepts by Keiran Martin seems so much in sync with the oceans while Jeena R Papaadi has woven a strange narrative located in a land that only one man could visit. Plamen Vasilev shares a human-interest story set in Europe and Rabiya Rehman takes us to Lahore in quest of a missing destination! Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s narrative takes us back to a village that opted for trees, thus enriching the environmental lore in this issue.
We have a real life heart rending story from a young girl in our Pandies Corner, written and related by Deeksha Vats, based on the story told by a victim of familial violations and violence.
Our non-fiction section homes Larry Su’s essay on how his life took him from a rural mud cave in Shaanxi province to the glamour of Chicago. Reflecting on the changes he has experienced on his rare visits to his original homeland, Su muses on the cultural and socio-economic gaps he has observed between the two places. Charudutta Panigrahi – as if in direct opposition — shares similarities between two diverse geographies.
Suzanne Kamata explores a custom which may not be that eco-friendly in her column from Japan. Jun A. Alindogan brings home the impact of climate disasters while dwelling on blessings with his narrative about a narrow escape from the Typhoon Ondoy (2009). While Meredith Stephen writes of sailing to Timor Sea with photographs by Alan Noble, Farouk Gulsara takes us on a cycling adventure around the mountains of Titiwangsa. In another musing, he also explores the idea of good and evil in a sardonic tone while Sai Abhinay Penna dwells on the grandeur and vastness of the universe over his morning jog. Gowher Bhat writes of a man for whom age seems to be just a number as he publishes his debut book at 93! One wonders at the frequency of such occurrences — we have writings about two authors above ninety in the June issue. In contrast, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in mortal fears while writing of visiting doctors with a soupçon of humour – some of it directed at himself.
Perhaps, laughter is really the best medicine to keep well! Ruskin Bond makes us laugh and writes of nature in a way that touches hearts and makes us forget the contrasting glitzy world, where we suffer stress and burnout. Our environment makes a difference, doesn’t it?
With that we wrap up our June issue. Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. To all our contributors, heartfelt thanks — we are because you are. And gratitude to our readers who make it worth our while to write and publish here.
We will next meet you during the monsoon months of South Asia though, near the equator, it rains almost every day and, in the Southern Hemisphere, it will be peak winter!
They found him wandering, kilometres away from where he was lost. Starving, malnourished, dehydrated. Hair, like straws, rising in all directions. Unkempt. Untidy. But with stars in his eyes, and head in the clouds.
To their questions as to what had happened, where he had been all these years, he only pointed backwards to the forbidding mountains. His replies didn’t make any sense. There’s a world out there, he said. People. Lots of people. A community. Life was such a dream. A fantasy. Perfect. Ideal.
Expedition after expedition set out into the deep dark jungle, which, generations ago had been explored and abandoned as uninhabitable, unattainable. They sent their best women and men. They found nothing, no one could pass, climb or survive; nor did they see anything when they flew over, but thick green canopy.
The mountains and the forest stood firm like a wall, unnatural. Yet he persisted, and his words were met with scorn. Because, as he spoke, he giggled like a child and said, of course you will never understand. You’ll never see. You’ll never find it. That’s its beauty. That’s how it’s designed. Life is not what you think it is. You live in a fool’s paradise. They’ll never let you in. Actually, you’re in and they are out. You just don’t get it.And never will.
Everything you see is an illusion.
He was the only one to ever slip out of the Valley. That had been an accident too. He would never have returned of his own accord.
*
Months would pass before his delirium came down. He woke up gradually to the reality of who he was, where he was. As time passed, he grew more and more confused as to the time he spent in the Valley. He always called it the Valley, because that’s what the people over there did. The Silent Valley or the Shielded Valley, he couldn’t recall which.
“Do they exist, these people?” they asked.
“I—I think they do.”
He would try to explain it with theories, the well-wishers convinced him he was hallucinating, but no one could explain how he survived fifteen years in the wild. Least of all, himself.
Five years after his return, with the memory of the Valley but a dream, he set out himself to find it again, if only to satisfy his curiosity. He remembered people working, living, with animals and birds, peacefully and collaboratively. A world more naturally advanced, without the technology of this side. There was something otherworldly about it. Almost magical.
Now, back home, in control of his senses, he could feel it. He flew once again into the woods and parachuted roughly where he had crashed the last time, though the wreckage was never found. He had his gadgets, recording devices, tools, everything a human could think of. All he had to guide him was the memory of a tunnel he had passed through. He believed he could find it again.
He wandered, lost his way. When he slept, his stock of food was taken away, stolen. The bag was ripped open and the food was gone. None of the equipment was touched, they were only discarded in the search for food; some were damaged. It must have been a monkey, he concluded, although he could see none. But now he had a new problem—food.
He looked around and sensed a familiar aroma, so strong that it dislodged memories which then fought for his attention. He walked towards it. The mountain approached. Ominous, grim, hostile.
He was hit again by images, one after the other, by déjà vu, everything spiralling inside his head. He knew he was on the right track, and the reason why the others before him could not find it. Abruptly, he came across a clearing, where a shrub grew in large numbers, not exactly by happenstance, but cultivated.
He remembered this. He remembered its roots: fresh, juicy, nourishing. And the cool, low shade it provided. This—this was why he had left the Valley in the first place.
At that moment, he also realised that the Shielded Valley or the Silent People were closed to him forever. He opened his backpack and pinged his location for the pilot of the helicopter to find him and made his way to the centre of the clearing.
*
Back home, to the eagerly awaiting community—his family, well-wishers, scientists, health care professionals, and curious onlookers—he said that he had found nothing. He had lost his way, his food was stolen, and he wandered for a while and came back.
He had been gone one whole week.
Everyone was disappointed. They had been looking forward to the solution to the baffling mystery. No one noticed the same starry-eyed, head-in-the-clouds look he wore. He returned to the routine he had created for himself in this new, post-disappearance life, happier than he had ever been.
He turned down book and movie offers, interviews, documentaries, and invitations to study the forest and the mountain. He declined everything. When new expeditions were proposed, he refused to assist or guide. Leave them alone, he said. Nothing could entice him.
“Do they exist, the people?” they asked again.
“Yes, they do,” he would say with a smile, no longer any doubt in his eyes.
Every once in a while, a group would set out to find the silent, shielded Valley. They would battle the wild, and most of them would return, drained, spent, disheartened, injured. Some died. He never showed any interest whatsoever in those missions.
The unsolved mystery—and the fact that one person knew the answer and refused to divulge it—disturbed the collective human mind.
Sometimes, when alone, he would bring out the ripped backpack and settle back in his armchair. And his heart would return once again to the peace of the Valley and its People, float to the stars and kiss the clouds.
I’m not the one hallucinating. You are. All of you.
Jeena R. Papaadi is a writer based in Bengaluru and Thiruvananthapuram, with six published books. Her work has appeared in several publications including The Hindu, Borderless Journal, The Hemlock Journal, Dissent Dispatch, The Wise Owl, Kitaab, European Association of Palliative Care and Aksharasthree. Jeena’s published work is listed at: https://linktr.ee/jeenapapaadi
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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.”
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.
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.
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 far 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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
