Tag: Jeena R Papaadi

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Contents

Borderless, June 2026

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

Changes, Ruskin, Snakes and Frogs… Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s lyrics of Mor 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 own Malay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.

The Heartless, a Balochi story by  Abdul Qayum 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. Click here 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. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Erik Kennedy, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Anne Whitehouse, Snehaprava Das, George Freek, Pramod Rastogi, SR Inciardi, Aardhra Chandran, John Grey, Heera Unnithan, Jim Bellamy, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In A Few More Rhysop Fables, Rhys Hughes shares more absurdist fables. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

The Stars that Watch Us…

Sai Abhinay Penna muses during his morning jog. Click here to read.

Vignettes from the Past

Gowher Bhat mulls over his conversation with a debut author who published his first book at ninety-three. Click here to read.

Salvaging the Furling Line in the Joseph Bonaparte Gulf

Meredith Stephens takes us on a sailing adventure with photographs by Alan Noble. Click here to read.

Looking for that Goodness…

Farouk Gulsara explores why ‘evil’ exists with the help of experiments in science. Click here to read.

The Gift of Grace

Jun A. Alindogan talks of blessings and narrow escapes, including from the Typhoon Ondoy. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Consulting a Physician, Devraj Singh Kalsi writes of doctors and patients with a touch of humour. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In It’s in the Bag, Suzanne Kamata explores Japanese etiquettes. Click here to read.

Essays

Homecoming

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. Click here to read.

One Soul, Two Seas

Charudutta Panigrahi explores similarities across two geographically separated regions. Click here to read.

A Cyclist’s Diary: Criss-crossing Titiwangsa

Farouk Gulsara explores local colours as he cycles in the highlands of Malaysia. Click here to read.

Stories

The Sea of Loneliness

Keiran Martin journeys to the depths of the ocean. Click here to read.

The Silent Valley

Jeena R Papaadi builds a mystery around an experience. Click here to read.

The Art of Letting Go

Plamen Vasilev shares a human interes story set in Europe. Click here to read.

The City that Refused to be Found

Rabiya Rehman sets her fiction in Lahore. Click here to read.

The Village that Chose Trees

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao imagines a utopian, environment friendly village. Click here to read.

Interview

Keith Lyons converses with Erik Kennedy, a migrant poet who lives in New Zealand. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

Excerpts from Ruskin Bond’s Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond. Click here to read.

Excerpt from Anmol Diddan’s Burnout Highway. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal has reviewed Ruskin Bond’s Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond. Click here to read.

Rakhi Dalal has reviewed Shyam Manohar’s The Cold War of Sadanand Borse, translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto. Click here to read.

Meenakshi Malhotra has reviewed Giti Chandra’s debut poetry collection, Setting Traps for Light. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Stephen Alter’s The Fragrance of Rain: A Brief History of the Monsoon. Click here to read.

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Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

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Editorial

Changes, Ruskin, Snakes and Frogs…

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.

Somdatta Mandal discusses Bond’s Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond and concludes: “It [the book] is a collector’s delight and also one to be gifted and recommended for anyone who loves to read about Ruskin Bond’s deep and lifelong love for the Himalayas. Bond’s poetic prose can hardly be imitated…”

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.

The June poetry section also homes a poem on monsoon by Aardhra Chandran. Anne Whitehouse takes us to Egypt with her vivid words. Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri has shared a series of poems in memory of his late father. We have more from Snehaprava Das, George Freek, Pramod Rastogi, SR Inciardi, John Grey, Heera Unnithan and Jim Bellamy. Ryan Quinn Flanagan’s lines do bring a smile to the lips while Rhys Hughes writes of census of centaurs! Erik Kennedy, a migrant poet from New Zealand, shares his poetry and also his views in a candid interview with Keith Lyons.

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!

Happy reading!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE JUNE 2026 ISSUE

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Stories

The Silent Valley

By Jeena R. Papaadi

From Public Domain

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

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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

Click here to access the contents for the June 2025 Issue

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

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

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

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