Tag: Kashmir

Vignettes from the Past

Gowher Bhat mulls over his conversation with Nazir Ahmed Khan, who published his first book at ninety-three

Nazir Ahmed Khan, the man who published his first book at ninety-three. Photo by Gowher Bhat

“Before Partition, people entered each other’s homes without hesitation,” says Nazir Ahmad Khan. “Life moved together.”

Born in 1933, Nazir Ahmad Khan belongs to a generation that witnessed significant social and cultural changes in Kashmir over many decades. His memoir, Biscoe Boy’s Echoes of Time, written in his nineties, is shaped by long memory and lived experience. Through personal recollections and reflections, the book presents glimpses of everyday life, education, work, sports, and social transformation across different periods of time.

Nazir Ahmad Khan explains that the purpose of writing the memoir was not to analyse events or offer commentary. Instead, he wished to preserve memories that might otherwise disappear with time. “I did not write to explain events,” he says. “I wrote to record what I actually witnessed over time.”

Recalling his early days in Kashmir, Nazir Ahmad Khan has memories in which people interacted freely and naturally. Homes remained open to relatives, friends, and neighbours, and social interaction formed an essential part of daily life. Families shared happiness and hardship together, and community bonds were maintained through constant communication and mutual familiarity.

According to Nazir Ahmad Khan, life during those years moved with simplicity and closeness to local surroundings. Most people depended on small businesses, agriculture, trade, and traditional crafts. Daily routines were modest, and relationships were shaped more by personal connection rather than by formality.

Education also had a deep impact and was viewed as very important. Although opportunities and resources were limited compared to today, learning was regarded as a source of discipline and personal growth. Schools played an important role in shaping character and responsibility among young students.

As years passed, society gradually changed. Expanding educational institutions, professional opportunities, and administrative systems introduced new ways of life. Traditional occupations continued, but they increasingly existed alongside modern professions and growing public institutions.

Nazir Ahmad Khan describes these changes as gradual adjustments that influenced everyday experience. Familiar neighbourhood patterns slowly evolved, and people adapted to changing social and professional environments. Yet many older values, particularly discipline, simplicity, and respect for community life, continued to remain important.

Traditional crafts such as weaving, carpet-making, woodwork, and papier-mâché also gained wider recognition over time. These crafts connected local skill and artistry with larger markets while preserving traditions rooted in Kashmiri life.

The life of Nazir Ahmad Khan itself reflects this period of transition and development.

He studied at the Tyndale Biscoe School, which he describes as one of the most influential institutions in shaping his outlook and discipline. According to Nazir Ahmad Khan, the school focused not only on academics but also on physical activity, service, courage, and responsibility.

“It was not about comfort,” he says. “It was about preparation for life outside school.”

The school encouraged students to develop confidence and resilience through activities such as swimming, sports, outdoor exercises, and teamwork. Students were expected to learn discipline through action and responsibility rather than produce grand results based on classroom instruction alone.

For Nazir Ahmad Khan, the values taught at the school remained meaningful throughout his life. Many students from that generation later entered different professional fields, including administration, engineering, medicine, education, business, policing, and sports. He believes that the school’s emphasis on discipline and commitment helped shape their future journeys.

Nazir Ahmad Khan explains that the title Biscoe Boy’s Echoes of Time itself comes from his years as a student at the Tyndale Biscoe School. Since the institution played a central role in shaping his personality, discipline, and outlook on life, he chose the title Biscoe Boy as a reflection of that lifelong connection and identity.

The professional life of Nazir Ahmad Khan moved through several important departments and institutions. Over the years, he worked in transport administration, food supply systems, youth development, and sports administration, eventually serving as Director General of Youth Services and Sports.

When speaking about his career, Nazir Ahmad Khan describes his work in practical and modest terms. His responsibilities often involved coordination, management, organisation, and public service.

“My work required patience and responsibility,” he said.

Alongside his professional life, football remained an important part of his identity. His long association with the sport continued across many decades. For Nazir Ahmad Khan, football represented discipline, teamwork, dedication, and collective participation.

He recalls local football culture with warmth and clarity, remembering tournaments, playgrounds, and the enthusiasm people once carried for the game. Sports, according to him, brought people together and encouraged qualities such as cooperation, endurance, and mutual respect.

Even in old age, many of these memories remain vivid in his mind.

When discussing his memoir, Nazir Ahmad Khan explains that the book developed slowly over time through recollections, notes, and reflections gathered across many years. The writing process itself became an exercise in revisiting moments that had quietly remained preserved in memory.

“It came in fragments,” he says. “Not in order.”

The memoir therefore does not follow a strictly linear structure. Instead, it moves through scenes, experiences, observations, and remembered moments that together form a portrait of a long and eventful life.

Nazir Ahmad Khan notes that writing in old age changed the nature of memory itself. Certain major events became distant, while small ordinary moments returned with surprising clarity. A classroom, a road, a conversation, a sports ground, or a familiar face often remained more vivid than larger public developments.

“At this stage,” he reflects, “you do not arrange life. Life arranges itself in memory.”

This observation perhaps captures the spirit of the memoir. Rather than focusing on grand conclusions, the book remains attentive to everyday experiences that quietly shape a person’s understanding of life over time.

At its core, the narrative suggests that memory is built not only through achievements or milestones but also through ordinary moments that remain connected to place, relationships, education, work, and routine life.

Throughout the memoir, Nazir Ahmad Khan repeatedly returns to the idea of documentation rather than interpretation. He views writing as a way of preserving lived experience honestly and simply.

“What I have written is not the story of everything,” he says. “It is what remains when everything else has settled.”

Seen in this way, the book becomes more than a personal memoir. It serves as a reflective record of changing times, social life, education, sports culture, and everyday experience across generations in Kashmir.

Through these recollections, Nazir Ahmad Khan preserves glimpses of a world shaped by simplicity, discipline, community life, and gradual social change. His memories remind readers that the essence of history often survives not only in official records or major events, but also in classrooms, neighbourhoods, friendships, routines, and the quiet persistence of memory itself.

Gowher Bhat is a columnist, freelance journalist, beta reader, book reviewer, avid reader, and educator from Kashmir, and a published author of both fiction and nonfiction. He serves as a senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley.

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

Tags Biscoe Boy's Echoes of Time, Gowher Bhat, Kashmir, Kashmiri, Nazir Ahmed Khan

Essay

Sam Dalrymple and the Shattered Lands

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date May 14, 2026
No Comments on Sam Dalrymple and the Shattered Lands

By Farouk Gulsara

When the word ‘Partition’ is mentioned, it is always assumed to refer to the 1947 Partition of India and Pakistan. In fact, the Partition of the British Raj occurred five times.

Not so long ago, as recently as 1928, a vast expanse of land from Aden in the West to Rangoon in the east was united as the Indian Empire, all under British rule. It was the zenith of the British Empire, and it seemed the sun would never set on the Empire. A quarter of the world’s population lived here, from the Red Sea to Southeast Asia, and they all used the Indian rupee. One would travel across the span with an Indian passport. By 1971, in just 40 years, this Empire had been shattered five times, resulting in 12 nation-states.

We should learn to tell stories by listening to how housewives gossip. They narrate intimate personal stories about their neighbours, with vivid detail, as if they were there in the target’s bedroom. It becomes more believable when real characters are added. The same advice applies to telling history, his-story. Sam Dalrymple’s Shattered Lands: Five Partitions and the Making of Modern Asia does exactly that. A dry subject like history is turned into an unputdownable book by giving human faces to the people making difficult decisions at the administrative level and to those who have to bear the brunt of those decisions. Perhaps the author’s filmmaking background pushed him towards this style. That makes it very engaging.

The author, Samuel Hew Tantallon Darymple, is a scholar of Sanskrit and Persian, as well as a historian, author, activist, and social media influencer. He co-founded Project Dastaan[1], a peace-building initiative that uses digital technology to reconnect people displaced by the 1947 Partition of India with their childhood communities and villages.

The five Partitions mentioned in this book are: the separation of Burma from India in 1937; the reclassification of Aden as a British protectorate; the formation of Pakistan; the dissolution of the 550-odd princely states; and, finally, a bloody civil war that led to the formation of Bangladesh.

The Indian idea of ‘Bharat’ is traditionally shaped by the ancient Hindu geography of Bharatvarsha, a triangular landmass stretching from the Himalayas in the north to the Indian Ocean in the south. Notably, Afghanistan, mentioned in the Mahabharata, and Burma, known as Brahmadesh (Land of Brahma), do not fall within this framework. The city of Kandahar in Afghanistan is apparently named after Gandhari, the blindfolded matriarch of the Kaurava clan.

After the 1905 Partition of Bengal and the 1919 Jallianwala Bagh massacre, calls for self-governance grew louder. To pacify the Indian public, the Crown sent a group of seven, known as the Simon Commission[2], in 1928 to implement constitutional reforms. It did nothing to advance Indian independence but demarcated Burma as a territory quite separate from British India, and its inclusion in India was an error.

Coincidentally, this was the aftermath of the 1928 Depression. Before this, Burma was a melting pot of cultures. Its capital, Rangoon, one of the busiest commercial cities in Asia, was labelled the ‘Paris of the East’. It is said that in 1920, there were more traders in Burma than in New York. Rangoon port was an important harbour for the export of rice, teak and petroleum. Its banking services drew people from many regions. It was a multilingual and multicultural city, shaped by large-scale migration. People were heard speaking Bengali, Gujarati, Tamil, Marwari, Urdu, Chinese, English, and other languages.

The turn of the economic tide and the disparity in economic status between the ethnic Burmese and the sojourners sparked a series of unrest. The Chettiars and Bengali houses and shops were targeted. Indians were systematically excluded from Burma, forcing rich traders to become refugees and make a beeline for India. This long march over the Patkai hills to India became a feature again as Japanese soldiers (and the Indian National Army under Bose) advanced during World War 2. The experiences of Mariappan, a Tamil shopkeeper who fled to Tamil Nadu to start anew in Burma because of his lowly caste, and had to run again because of Burmese nationalism, are heart-wrenching. Then there is Uttam Singh, who had to endure a treacherous long march home to Punjab across the hills. Losing everything, it was a miracle that he and his family made it in one piece. Little snippets like these are the real reasons this book grows on readers.

Caught in the middle are the Naga people, whose land lies precariously between Burma and India. Although its leaders rallied for an independent Naga state, a fifth of the region fell under Burmese control. For decades to come, insurgency remained an issue. On April 1st 1937, Burma was carved out of British India, leaving many unanswered questions and triggering years of attempts to usurp power within Burma, followed by years of military rule and turmoil.

After its capture by the British East India Company, Aden was governed as part of the Bombay Presidency. It was an important coal station for ships. The administrators regarded Arabs as fundamentally different from Indians. To increase efficiency, the British decided in 1937 to rule the port of Aden as a British colony and its hinterland as a protectorate, much to the dismay of many in the Indian community there. The rise of Arab nationalism that followed, with the emergence of dynamic leaders such as Gamal Nasser of Egypt, who promoted Arab patriotism, meant the former Arabian Raj kingdom would no longer be associated with Indians. Indians, once regarded as cultured and civilised, were soon viewed as competitors. By the late 1950s, a reverse exodus began. Indians with deep roots in these Arab lands, including property, businesses, and connections, had to flee helter-skelter back to India and the UK. The Ambanis were one such family affected by this.

Although Jinnah initially joined the Indian National Congress, his affiliation with the Muslim League grew stronger as he felt that Gandhi was leading the party and the nation towards a more Hindu-centric direction. The way the Congress conducted its meetings was as if they were at a religious ceremony, with chanting of mantras and singing of religious hymns. Muslims began to question how they would be treated in an independent India with Congress at the helm of power. Even though Jinnah appeared as an icon of Hindu-Muslim unity, later events propelled him and other Muslims to push for a two-state solution for post-independent India.

In a way, as Gandhi promoted his Hindu agenda, the Burmese, with their Buddhist practice, also increasingly felt more detached from India, further fuelling Burmese nationalism.

The post-WW2 era saw many changes in India. Britain was in debt, and the push for independence and a separate nation for Muslims was in full force. The third Partition was about to take place, but it was preceded by mindless killings and violence in the areas destined to be part of Pakistan. The Bengal region witnessed brutality on Direct Action Day, led by Suhrawardy and his acolyte, Mujibur Rahman, who would later be instrumental in the formation of Bangladesh. Things were no better in Punjab. The confusion created by Radcliffe’s arbitrary carving of the country left people unsure which country they belonged to, even one month after the ‘tryst with destiny’ speech.

There was then a scramble to recruit the 550-plus princely states to join Pakistan or India, or to stand alone. This was the 4th Partition. Recruitment reached feverish heights in states such as Junagadh, Kashmir, and Hyderabad. Junagadh housed two sacred Hindu sites, Dwarka and Somnath, but was ruled by a Muslim Nawab. Kashmir had a Hindu king, but his subjects were predominantly Muslims. The situation was reversed in Hyderabad.

The shattered subcontinent of India has been in constant flux even after attaining self-rule. It has to deal with internal squabbles and hostile neighbours. The situation becomes complicated as the world divides itself into the blue corner of capitalism and the red corner of communism. Marxism and Maoist ideology spread across its states, creating skirmishes here and there.

Pakistan, too, had its own problems. The insistence on using Urdu as the national language was not taken lightly by the Bengali-speaking East Pakistanis. The discord reached a tipping point in 1971, when the Bengali Awami League won the Pakistani elections. Civil war broke out when West Pakistani leaders refused to accept the election results. India sent in its troops to squash West Pakistan’s army and effectively completed the Fifth Partition, the creation of the country of Bangladesh.

The recurring theme throughout the book is that people continue to help one another, regardless of the day’s political climate. Despite ideological differences, people help people. The book highlights numerous heart-stirring accounts of the extraordinary resilience and compassion of everyday people. These ‘unity in diversity’ stories emerge from small acts of kindness that transcend religious, social, and economic boundaries.

It remains to be debated by future historians whether the colonial masters can be blamed for shattering the land that spanned the Arabian Gulf to Southeast Asia. Given the insatiable appetite of human greed for land, wealth and power, are these sequelae inevitable anyway?

[1] https://samdalrymple.com/project-dastaan

[2] https://www.britannica.com/topic/Simon-Commission

Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog, Rifle Range Boy.

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

Musings

Where Stories Find You…

By Gowher Bhat

There are places in this world that do not seek attention. They exist quietly and hold something essential. In such spaces, differences soften. What remains is a simple sense of connection.

The Sunday Book Bazaar of Daryaganj, now at Mahila Haat near Delhi Gate, is one such place. Every Sunday this space fills slowly. The city moves in its usual rhythm, yet here time seems to settle into something gentler. People begin to arrive from many walks of life. Students come with curiosity. Collectors arrive with patience shaped over years. Families walk through the narrow lanes with children who pause at almost every stack. Some come with purpose. Others arrive without any clear intention. Yet all seem drawn by something they cannot fully explain.

A bookseller looks up and smiles at a passerby. “What are you looking for, sir?” he asks.

The question lingers for a moment. The answer does not come easily. Perhaps that is how most people arrive here. Not searching for something specific, but open to possibilities.

Within this space, differences begin to evaporate. People stand side by side, turning pages, asking questions, sharing small discoveries. Conversations form and dissolve with ease. What remains is a shared interest in stories and knowledge. In that quiet exchange something simple takes shape. People come closer without effort.

For more than six decades this bazaar has existed as a home for books and readers. What began in 1964 has grown into a living space that continues to gather voices across time. Books lie in uneven stacks that rise and fall like small landscapes. Some are worn with age, their pages softened by many hands. Others remain untouched, waiting for their first reader.

A reader pauses at a stack and picks up a worn paperback. The cover is slightly faded. The pages carry the faint scent of time. A nearby voice observes gently, “Old edition. Hard to find now.”

There is quiet assurance in such words. Years spent among books leave their own kind of memory. Titles are not just remembered. They become familiar, almost like people one has known for a long time.

Books move through this space with a quiet freedom. A thought written years ago finds meaning in the present. A story that began in a distant place settles into a new life. Each exchange is simple, yet it carries something lasting. In these movements books connect people without effort.

There is comfort in that continuity.

The booksellers who sustain this space form its quiet centre. Many have spent years, even decades, among these pages. Their knowledge is shaped through experience and repetition. They know where a book might be found. They sense what a reader may need. Often, they understand before a question is fully spoken.At another stall a name is mentioned in passing. The response comes without hesitation. “If it is not here today, it will be found.”

There is no urgency in the voice. Only certainty. It is a certainty built not on systems, but on familiarity and care. Their interactions remain simple and unforced. A suggestion is offered. A brief conversation begins. A moment of connection follows. During these exchanges, the act of selling becomes something more. It becomes a quiet way of keeping stories alive.

In their own way, they create bridges between people who might otherwise have continued remain strangers.

As one moves through the bazaar, small moments begin to gather meaning. A child sits on the ground, absorbed in a book that seems to hold engross. A student moves from one stack to another, choosing carefully, balancing interest with affordability. An older reader pauses with a book in hand, holding it for a little longer, as if revisiting something once known.

Nearby a young voice carries a quiet excitement. “This one was only fifty[1].”

The reply comes with an easy smile. “That is a good find.”

The exchange is brief, yet it holds a sense of completeness. At such moments, the value of something is not measured by price alone, but by the joy of discovery.

These are not merely transactions. They are connections between people and ideas. Each book that changes hands leaves behind something unseen, yet quietly lasting.

Around the books other objects carry fragments of time. Old coins rest in small boxes. Stamps lie arranged with care. Postcards show places that may no longer look the same. Each object holds a story that extends beyond itself.

A gentle question arises. Do people still come for these?

The answer is simple. “They do. Some have been coming for years.”

Memory does not disappear easily. It finds ways to remain present, often in the simplest forms.

In a world that moves quickly such spaces feel rare. Here there is no rush to finish. One can pause without purpose. One can browse without intention. One can sit with a book and allow time to move at its own pace.

There is also a quiet sense of trust that shapes this place. A book may be handed over without hesitation. A familiar face is recognised without effort. A price may soften in a moment of understanding.

“Take it,” a voice says gently. “You can pay next time.”

Such gestures do not draw attention to themselves. Yet they remain long after the moment has passed.

The bazaar continues despite its challenges. Facilities are limited. Weather often interrupts the day. At times the space must adjust and adapt. Yet it endures — not through ease, but through persistence and care.

Perhaps that is what gives it its meaning.

Because this space is not only about books. It’s about access. It’s about memory. It’s about people sharing something simple and real. It allows stories to continue moving. It allows connections to form without effort.

It offers a quiet reminder. When people come together with openness something meaningful begins to take shape.

As the day moves towards its close the space begins to thin out. The stacks remain. The voices grow softer. Yet something lingers in the air, something that cannot be easily named.

A small gesture remains. A bookmark is handed over, light and unassuming.

“For your reading,” comes the gentle voice.

On it a single line rests.

Some stories find you.

The words feel simple, yet they stay.

As one leaves the bazaar there is a quiet awareness that follows. Not every visit is planned. Not every discovery is expected. Some moments arrive without effort and remain without intention.

Sometimes stories find us.

They arrive at the turning of a page. In a passing conversation. In something remembered long after the day has ended. They remind us of what we share, even when we do not speak of it.

In a fast-paced world, such spaces offer something steady. They remind us that connection still exists in simple forms, that stories continue to travel without barriers, that meaning does not always need to be sought. Sometimes it appears quietly, in places we might overlook.

[1]Fifty rupees or USD 0.53

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

Tags Daryaganj, Delhi, Delhi Gate, Gower Bhat, Kashmir, Sunday Book Bazaar

Contents

Borderless, April 2026

Editorial

Wild Winds and April Showers… Click here to read.

Translations

Daliya, a story by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.

Roktokorbi (Red Oleanders), a full length play by Tagore, 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.

Shooting Dida (Grandmother) by Kallol Lahiri has been translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy. Click here to read.

Jonmodin (Birthday) by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Charles Rammelkamp, A. Jessie Michael, David Mellor, Mahnoor Shaheen, John Grey, Fazal Abubakkar Esaf, Jim Murdoch, Malaika Rai, Tony Dawson, Pramod Rastogi, Debra Elisa, Ananya Sarkar, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Snigdha Agrawal, George Freek, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Rhysop Fables: More Absurd Narratives, Rhys Hughes we hear more about Aesop and Rhysop. Click here to read.

Musings/ Slices from Life

Sundus, You Are My World

Gower Bhat explores the joys of fatherhood. Click here to read.

Flavours of Hyderabad

Mohul Bhowmick visits festive celebrations in March 2026 in Hyderabad. Click here to read.

Serendipity in Vietnam

Meredith Stephens travels to more of rural Vietnam and writes about it, with photographs by Alan Noble. Click here to read.

Technology War in the House

Chetan Poduri writes of the gaps technology has created in his home. Click here to read.

A Fishy Story

Jun A. Alindogan gives an account of how an overgrowth of water hyacinth affects aquatic life and upsets the local food chain while giving us a flavourful account of local food. Click here to read.

Conditional Comfort

Anupriya Pandey muses on her daily life. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Hiring a Bodyguard, Devraj Singh Kalsi ironically glances at the world of glitz. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Imagining Cambodian Dancers at the Royal Palace, a mesmerised Suzanne Kamata shares not just her narratives and photographs but also video of the Cambodian dancers in Phnom Penh. Click here to read.

Essays

A Cyclists’s Diary: Jaipur to Udaipur

Farouk Gulsara narrates with text and photographs about his cycling holiday. Click here to read.

Nobody Cries at Goodbyes Anymore

Charudutta Panigrahi writes of the infringement of technology over human interactions. Click here to read.

Stories

The Blue Binder

Jonathon B Ferrini shares a story around mental disability. Click here to read.

Homecoming

Oindrila Ghosal shares a story set in Kashmir. Click here to read.

Stale Flat Bread

Sangeetha G writes of a young woman’s fate. Click here to read.

When Silence Learned to Speak

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao explores a modern day dilemma. Click here to read.

Features

A review of Leonie’s Leap by Marzia Pasini and an interview with the author. Click here to read.

Keith Lyons in conversation with Keith Westwaters, a poet from New Zealand. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Scott Ezell’s Journey to the End of the Empire: In China Along the Edge of Tibet. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Tarana Husain Khan’s The Courtesan, Her Lover and I. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Indranil Chakravarty’s The Tree Within: The Mexican Nobel Laureate Octavio Paz’s Years in India. Click here to read.

Meenakshi Malhotra reviewed Radha Chakravarty’s In Your Eyes A River: Poems. Click here to read.

Rabindra Kumar Nayak reviews Bhaskar Parichha’s Odisha – 500 Years of Turmoil, Mayhem and Subjugation. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Ashoke Mukhopadhyay’s No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata, translated from Bengali by Zenith Roy. Click here to read.

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

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

Tags A Jessie Michael, Aesop's Fables, Alan Noble, Ananya Sarkar, Ashoke Mukhopadhyay, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, Cambodian, Charles Rammelkamp, Charudatta Panigrahi, Chetah Poduri, Daliya, David Mellor, Debra Elisa, Fakrul Alam, Fazal Abubakkar Esaf, George Freek, Gower Bhat, Hyderabad, In Your Eyes a River: Poems, Indranil Chakravarty, Isa Kamari, Jim Murdoch, John Grey, Jonathon B. Ferrini, Journey to the End of the Empire: In China Along the Edge of Tibet, Jun A. Alindogan, Kallol Lahiri, Kashmir, Keith Lyons, Keith Westwater, Leonie's Leap, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Mahnoor Shaheen, Malaika Rai, Malay, Marzia Pasini, Meenakshi Malhotra, Meredith Stephens, Mitali Chakravarty, Mohul Bhowmick, New Zealand, No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata, Nobel laureate, Octavio Paz, Odisha - 500 Years of Turmoil Mayhem and Subjugation, Oindrila Ghosal, Phnom Penh, Pramod Rastogi, Rabindra Kumar Nayak, Radha Chakravarty, Red Oleanders, Rhys Hughes, Sangeetha G, Scott Ezell, Snigdha Agrawal, Somdatta Mandal, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, Tarana Husain Khan, The Courtesan Her Lover and I, Tony Dawson, V. Ramaswamy, Zenith Roy

Editorial

Wild Winds and April Showers

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date April 14, 2026
No Comments on Wild Winds and April Showers

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, 
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 
And bathed every veyne…

The Canterbury Tales (1387-1400) by Chaucer, Prologue

This is the month Asia hosts sprays of new years across multiple regions. Many of these celebrate the fecundity of Earth, spring and the departure of bleak winter months. Each new year is filled with hope for the coming year. The vibrant colours of varied cultures celebrate spring in different ways, but it is a welcome for the new-born year, a jubilation, a reaffirmation of the continuity of the circle of life. Will the wars, especially the shortages caused by them and felt deeply by many of us, affect these celebrations? Had they impacted the festivals that were celebrated earlier? These are questions to which we all seek answers. We can only try to gauge the suffering caused by war on those whose homes, hopes, families and assets have been affected other than trying to cope with the senselessness of such inane attacks. But, in keeping with TS Eliot’s observations on Prufrock, most of us continue our lives unperturbed and as usual.

Some of us think and try to dissent for peace and a world without borders with words – prose or poetry. To reinforce ideas of commonalities that bind overriding divides, we are excited to announce a poetry anthology mapping varied continents with content from Borderless Journal, Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems. We are hugely grateful to Hawakal Publishers for this opportunity and to Bitan Chakraborty for the fabulous cover design. We invite you all to browse on the anthology which is available in hardcopy across continents.

Our issue this month is a bumper issue with the translation of Tagore’s Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders) by Professor Fakrul Alam. It’s the full-length play this time as earlier we had carried only an excerpt. The play is deeply relevant to our times as is Somdatta Mandal’s English rendition of his story, ‘Daliya’, set in Arakan. We also have also translated Tagore’s response to the idea of mortal fame and deification in poetry. Kallol Lahiri’s poignant Bengali story about the resilience of an ageing actress has been brought to us in English by V Ramaswamy. Isa Kamari brings us translations of his Malay poems exploring spirituality through nature.

Our poetry section explores myriad issues – some with the help of nature. We have a vibrant selection of poems from Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, A. Jessie Michael, Mahnoor Shaheen, John Grey, Fazal Abubakkar Esaf, Malaika Rai, Tony Dawson, Pramod Rastogi, Debra Elisa, Ananya Sarkar, Jim Murdoch and George Freek. In one of his four poems, Charles Rammelkamp reflects on the impacts of global warming. David Mellor explores the impact of bombing. Ryan Quinn Flanagan brings us an ekphrastic poem which leaves us smiling. Snigdha Agrawal explores a battle of kitchens on YouTube with a touch of humour and Rhys Hughes dedicates a poem in memory of Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953), which too brings a smile to the lips.

But what really grips are the fables that Hughes will be sharing with us over four months. He calls them Rhysop Fables, after the ancient ones from Aesop’s with the ancient author himself being mentioned in one of the short absurdist narratives this time. In fiction, our regular fable writer, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao explores a modern-day dilemma, that of social media intruding into the development of children. Jonathon B Ferrini glances at resilience and mental disability while, Sangeetha G looks into societal attitudes that still plague her part of the world. Oindrila Ghosal gives a story set in Kashmir.

From Kashmir, Gower Bhat shares a heartfelt musing on being a first time father. Mohul Bhowmick writes of Eid in Hydearbad (Hari Raya in Southeast Asia) — echoing themes from Kamari’s poems — and Anupriya Pandey ponders over the quiet acceptance of mundane life that emphasises social inequities. Jun A. Alindogan brings home issues from Phillipines. While we have stories about Vietnam from Meredith Stephens, Suzanne Kamata muses about Phnom Penh, mesmerised by Cambodian dancers.

Farouk Gulsara writes of his cycling trip from Jaipur to Udaipur bringing to life dichotomies of values and showing that age can be just a number. Chetan Poduri reinforces gaps created by technology as does Charudutta Panigrah, a theme that reverberates from poetry to fiction to non-fiction and much of it with a light touch. Devraj Singh Kalsi sprinkles humour with his strange tale about hiring a bodyguard.

Keith Lyons has brought in Keith Westwaters, a soldier-turned-poet who seems to find his muse mainly in New Zealand. We have also featured an author who overrides borders of continents, Marzia Pasini. Her book, Leonie’s Leap, has a protagonist of mixed origin and her characters are drawn out of Russia, India, Bulgaria and many other places.

We have variety in book excerpts. Scott Ezell’s Journey to the End of the Empire: In China Along the Edge of Tibet is a non-fiction about the author’s rather unconventional trip while the other excerpt is a historical fiction, Tarana Husain Khan’s The Courtesan, Her Lover and I. In book reviews, Mandal travels back a to the last century to the times of Octavio Paz (1914-1998) as she writes of Indranil Chakravarty’s The Tree Within: The Mexican Nobel Laureate Octavio Paz’s Years in India. Meenakshi Malhotra has discussed Radha Chakravarty’s second poetry collection, In Your Eyes A River: Poems and Rabindra Kumar Nayak has written of the prolific Bhaskar Parichha’s latest book, Odisha – 500 Years of Turmoil, Mayhem and Subjugation. Parichha himself has reviewed Ashoke Mukhopadhyay’s No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata, translated from Bengali by Zenith Roy. The review rsuggests a fascinating story that hovers on the lives of the ‘invisibles’ — the people who continue to ‘help’ the middle classes in South Asia lead a comfortable life. Acknowledging societal gaps is perhaps the start of raising consciousness so that a move can be made towards bridging them and eventually, closing them.

This rounds up our April issue. Do visit our content’s page and explore the journal further.

Huge thanks to the wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her art. They help bring together the colours of the world to our pages. Huge thanks to contributors who make each issue evolve a personality of its own. And heartfelt thanks to readers who make it worth our while to write.

Wish you all a wonderful month ahead!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE APRIL 2026 ISSUE

READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGIES BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK

Tags A Jessie Michael, Aesop, Ananya Sarkar, Anupriya Pandey, April, Arakan, Ashoke Mukhopadhyay, Bengali, Bitan Chakraborty, Bulgaria, Cambodian, Cambodian dancers, Charles Rammelkamp, Charudutta Panigrahi, Chaucer, Chetan Poduri, Daliya, David Mellor, Debra Elisa, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Eid, English, Fakrul Alam, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Abubakkar Esaf, George Freek, Gower Bhat, Hary Raya, Hawakal Publishers, Hilaire Belloc, Hyderabad, In Your Eyes a River: Poems, India, Indranil Chakravarty, Isa Kamari, Jaipur, Jim Murdoch, John Grey, Jonathan B. Ferrini, Journey to the End of the Empire: In China Along the Edge of Tibet, Jun A. Alindogan, Kallol Lahiri, Kashmir, Keith Lyons, Keith Westwater, Leonie's Leap, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Mahnoor Shaheen, Malaika Rai, Malay, Marzia Pasini, Meenakshi Malhotra, Meredith Stephens, Mohul Bhowmick, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata, Octavio Paz, Odisha - 500 Years of Turmoil Mayhem and Subjugation, Oindrila Ghosal, Phillipines, Phnom Penh, Pramod Rastogi, Prufrock, Rabindra Kumar Nayak, Radha Chakravarty, Red Oleanders, Rhys Hughes, Roktokorobi, Russia, Ryan Quinn Falangan, Sangeetha G, Scott Ezell, Snigdha Agrawal, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, South Asia, Southeast Asia, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, Tarana Husian Khan, The Canterbury Tales, The Courtesan Her Lover and I, The Tree Within: The Mexican Nobel Laureate Octavio Paz’s Years in India, Tony Dawson, TS Eliot, Udaipur, V. Ramaswamy, Vietnam, Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems, Zenith Roy

Musings

Sundus, You Are My World

By Gowher Bhat

Nothing could have prepared me for the weight of holding someone so completely mine.

I first held Sundus at 3 a.m., in a room lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Her tiny chest rose and fell with a fragile, steady rhythm. I whispered to her, almost to myself, “How am I supposed to love someone so small so completely?”

For months before her arrival, I had imagined this moment endlessly: quiet nights, gentle rocking, tiny hands curling around mine, the first tentative smiles, her eyes meeting mine for the very first time. And somewhere under all the hope was a quiet worry, what if I can’t do this?

Late one evening, while sitting in the nursery with my wife, I found myself speaking aloud the fears I had carried for weeks. “I keep imagining all the ways I might mess up,” I said softly.

My wife reached for my hand, resting hers on mine. “You don’t have to be perfect,” she said gently. “All you need to do is be there. That’s enough. You’ll see.”

Her words stayed with me. I realised then that fatherhood wasn’t about knowing all the answers. It was about presence, patience, and the willingness to feel everything fully. And we were in this together, learning step by step, moment by moment.

When Sundus finally arrived, the world became a delicate rhythm of small, luminous acts. Nights blurred into mornings filled with feeding, rocking, wiping tiny faces, humming songs we barely remembered. I watched my wife navigate these first days with patience and care, and together we learned to notice the subtle changes in Sundus’s breathing, the way her little body stiffened when curious, or relaxed when comforted. Each gesture became a promise, I am here, we see you, we will stay with you.

But the early months were not without fear. The first time Sundus was hospitalised, I felt a pain I could never have imagined. My wife tried to feed her, letting her suck as hard as she could, but the milk wasn’t coming through enough. Sundus’s tiny lips were raw from all the effort, and still, she struggled. When her sodium levels rose dangerously high, I felt my heart split in two, as if a hot, sharp knife had cut right through it. Watching her in the ICU, so small and fragile, my chest ached with every tiny cry she made. We whispered encouragements that felt almost powerless, holding her little hands, willing her to be safe. After six long days, once she was stable, Sundus was gently put on formula milk. I had never realised before how terrifying it could be to love someone so completely, and how fiercely protective a father’s heart can ache.

There was a small scare when Sundus had a minor health issue and seeing her so tiny under the gaze of doctors made our hearts ache. Every cry she let out cut deeper than I could have imagined. I held her hand and whispered, “We are right here with you,” while my wife stroked her hair softly, murmuring, “It’s going to be okay, baby.” In that moment, I understood how our own parents must have felt, fear, helplessness, and a love so intense it can almost hurt.

One particularly long night, after another restless evening, I slumped in the chair and whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

My wife leaned over, brushing my hair from my forehead. “Look at you,” she said softly. “You’re doing this. You’re here. You’re enough. I see you. Sundus sees you.”

In that moment, I understood that fatherhood was less about courage or perfection and more about vulnerability. And in that vulnerability, I found a kind of strength I hadn’t known existed, the strength to be fully awake, fully present, fully human, alongside the person who shared this journey with me.

Now, at eight months, fatherhood reveals itself in small miracles that arrive unannounced. Sundus’s first laugh that lights up the room, the way she reaches for a toy with tiny fingers, the tilt of her head when my voice calls her name, they are moments too precious to be planned. Each one feels eternal, luminous, and grounding all at once.

Even though Sundus doesn’t speak yet, her smile and her eyes say everything. Each look, each tiny gesture carries a language all her own, telling us joy, curiosity, comfort, and trust without a single word. In those moments, it feels as though she is having long conversations with us, and we understand her perfectly.

I watch Sundus explore the world with wide-eyed curiosity, and I am reminded that love is both ordinary and extraordinary. It is in quiet sighs of contentment, in the trust of falling asleep in my arms, in the small discoveries she makes each day. Every moment is a thread weaving us together, a connection invisible to anyone but us. My wife and I share those moments, sometimes in laughter, sometimes in whispered awe, sometimes in the silent gratitude of being a little family.

I talk to Sundus constantly, narrating the world as she notices it, “Look at this leaf turning golden,” I say, or “See how the sunlight falls across the floor?”. My wife does the same, her voice soft and steady, full of warmth. Even though Sundus cannot respond in words yet, I know she hears us, I know she feels it.

She reaches for our hands often, tiny fingers curling around our thumbs, and every time she does, the world narrows to this circle of warmth and trust. Every cry, every sigh, every tiny movement speaks to me in ways I cannot fully name. I whisper, “I love you, Sundus,” and my wife echoes it softly, almost as if the walls of the room themselves could carry the weight of our love.

Fatherhood is not about routines or perfection. It is about noticing, feeling, responding. It is about showing up every day for someone who depends on you completely. Even in quiet, uncelebrated moments, it is extraordinary.

The mornings when Sundus wakes with a new curiosity in her eyes, the afternoons when she naps across my chest, the evenings when my wife and I share a quiet tea while watching her drift to sleep, all of these moments accumulate into a kind of living memory that feels sacred and ordinary at the same time. The hospital scares, the sleepless nights, all of it has carved space in my heart deeper than I ever thought possible, a space I now carry with love and awareness.

Sometimes, I catch my wife looking at Sundus and whispering, “She is ours, isn’t she?” Her eyes glisten, and I nod, realising that every joy and every fear belongs to both of us equally. Even the silent, unnoticed moments, like watching her eyelids flutter during a nap, or feeling her tiny sighs against my chest, carry meaning that words cannot hold.

Looking back on the months before Sundus’s birth, I understand that imagining fatherhood was not rehearsal for perfection. It was preparation for presence. Anticipation taught me patience, empathy, and the courage to love fully, imperfectly, and unreservedly. Sharing this journey with my wife has made every moment richer, every fear lighter, every joy deeper.

The first time Sundus rolled over on her own, I felt a surge of pride and awe. My wife and I celebrated quietly, as though the world beyond our room did not exist. The small milestones, the tiny gestures, the new sounds she makes, all carry weight far beyond their size. Each moment is a new discovery, a lesson in patience, in wonder, in presence.

Eight months into this journey, I am still learning. Every smile, every gesture, every fleeting glance teaches me something new about love, presence, and wonder. Fatherhood is beyond imagination, yet it begins in imagination. It is ordinary and extraordinary, quiet and luminous, intimate and universal.

Every night, when I hold Sundus close and see her nestled against her mother, I know this truth with absolute certainty. To love and be loved in this way is the most profound gift life can offer. Perhaps in these quiet months, we also come to understand something deeper about life itself, the fragile, luminous weight of love, patience, and presence that threads generations together, unseen but unbreakable.

And in the moments between laughter and tears, between cries that feel like knives through the heart and sighs of contentment, we feel the invisible, enduring pulse of family, of trust, of presence, of love that makes all the sleepless nights, the hospital fears, and the quiet anxieties worthwhile. Sundus, you are my world.

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

Tags Gower Bhat, ICU, Kashmir

Essay

A Cyclist’s Diary: Jaipur to Udaipur

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date April 14, 2026
No Comments on A Cyclist’s Diary: Jaipur to Udaipur

Narrative and photographs by Farouk Gulsara

If one wants to understand the ‘chaos theory’, one has to place oneself at the centre of ‘around about’ — the way the traffic weaves around, observing the traffic go by as everyone swerves to get to their destinations. The one from 9 o’clock reaches 3 o’clock; 6 o’clock reaches 12 o’clock. It does not matter whether the vehicle is following or counter to the traffic flow; it gets through.

Adding to the pandemonium is the incessant honking from all right, left and centre.

Despite knowing all these, after our stint from Kashmir to Leh, India still managed to lure us back. This time around, we signed up for a tour across Rajasthan, from Jaipur to Udaipur.

Day 0: Delhi to Jaipur

After landing in Delhi from Kuala Lumpur late at night, we left for Jaipur the next morning. We had our first lesson in chaos theory that morning. The confusion about transport arrangements, running to get a taxi in a hurry, rushing to an unmarked site designated as Jaipur bus station, waiting for a bus we thought had left, and finally getting on the correct bus were all proof that the churning of the Universe is indeed impossible to comprehend.

Despite all the traffic jams, the packed vehicles and our increasing anxiety not to miss the bus, all the taxi driver could tell us was “aram sey!” (equivalent to saying, take a chill pill).

Jaipur, the Pink City, had its rare February showers the day before. As if to usher in our visit, the large part of the city around the lake, Jal Mahal, was in full gear, preparing for an air show. We managed to catch a glimpse of what the Indian Air Force had in store.

Jaipur showcases a history that built alliances with the Mughals and managed to preserve its buildings and heritage. Their allegiance with the invaders could have been viewed as betrayal by their contemporaries, the Sikhs and Marathas, who were fighting tooth and nail against the Mughals. Ajmer Fort is a massive fort with brilliant engineering.

To top that, there is a stepwell, Phanna Meena Ka Kund, with its intricate geometrical design that has stood the test of time. Jaipur is known as the Pink City, not without good reason. The roads leading to town are paved, lined with multiple red buildings and architectural marvels. The intricacies of Hawa Mahal make it look like a 3-D movie cutout propped against a building. It was too beautiful to be true.

Adjacent to the Hawa Mahal is Jantar Mantar, a UNESCO World Heritage Site that houses the world’s largest stone sundial clocks. One cannot help but wonder: with so much scientific knowledge in their ancient past, how did they just fall like swatted flies when the Western imperial powers walked over them in the 18th century through to the 20th?

Day 1: Jaipur to Sambhar

We started early at 6 am to avoid the morning traffic. Surprisingly, Rajasthanis must be early risers, as even at that early hour, the streets were already bustling with activity.

The itinerary for each day was straightforward. We would cycle daily around 70-90km, with a water break every 20-30km, and reach our predetermined accommodations around noon. There were 12 cyclists; the youngest was 33, but most were over 60.

The route on the first day was mainly flat, traversing small towns and villages, and sometimes haggling with motorcycles, lorries, and buses for space to pass. The trouble is that the vehicle sometimes appears unannounced (with loud honks, of course) and goes against the traffic!

The terrain was mostly flat. It was funny cycling in desert-like conditions, with scorching sun and a cool 20 C wind. The early morning temperatures would start around 15C and reach 23C at noon.

After reaching the hotels prepared by the organisers, evenings would be spent in tête-à-têtes, awaiting dinner, or being shown around town.

Day 2: Sambhar to Pushkar

Starting before the break of dawn, at 6, we began cycling into the dark under the guidance of the bicycle headlight and the road lines. When dawn broke, we finally realised that our view was acres of fields as far as the eye could see. About an hour into our journey, we reached a village, one of the many villages yet to come. The villagers would look at us funnily, not knowing what to make of us, a bunch of fellows cycling at an unearthly hour. All we had to do was hail, “Jaya Sri Ram“! Their look would change, a smile would emerge, and they would raise their hands in unison, in solidarity, knowing quite well that we were harmless and one of them.

Along the journey, we saw many animals that we, Malaysians, would not see in mainstream. We saw peacocks perched on trees and houses. Lining the roads were innumerable cows, donkeys, goats and even pigs.

As the day got hotter, the temperature built up to about 25 °C. Riding in desert-like conditions with no shade from trees or clouds. The interesting thing is that we did not see a single person carrying an umbrella. They were pretty much comfortable, just under the sun, with the ladies in their veils and the men in their turbans.

The main attraction of Pushkar is the rare Brahma temple. Legend has it that Lord Brahma was cursed that He should not be worshipped. The irony of this place is the presence of a large lake amid arid terrain with desert vegetation. It remains an enigma waiting to be answered, just like the mystery of creation and why the Creator Himself does not have a temple of worship.

Day 3: Pushkar to Beawar

Again, the trip started early at 6 in the morning, in complete darkness, along what turned out to be acres and acres of fields. The generic appearance of a village would have concrete roads, a row of shops with large advertisement boards in big Hindi fonts, and a strikingly gaudy combination of hues: yellow, green, and red. This same psychedelic colour combination is mirrored in Rajasthani clothes. The ladies’ sarees and dupattas are so contrasting that they cannot be missed. The same goes for the men’s unique bright coloured turbans.

Cows would seem to roam freely, with their droppings spread liberally on and by the roads. The row of buildings would mostly end with a temple or a school.

The terrain today was mostly flat, with the sun shining at its fullest by 9.30 at 23C. After about 6 hours, we reached Beawar.

For a small town, Beawar has so many mid-range hotels, probably to cater to the numerous businesspeople who come here. Beawar, due to its central location, serves as an important hub for the cement, textile, and wool industries. There is no special iconic monument.

Day 4. Beawar to Kamlighat

Rise and shine, and we hit the roads again. Today’s menu is a gruelling one, cutting through the Aravalli hills.

“What is all this for?” asked a curious onlooker when told that we were cycling from Jaipur to Udaipur. I thought that was a profound question that questions the core of our existence. What is the purpose of anything in life?

This ride turned out quite hilly, mostly along the national highway. Missing today were the tractors with loudspeakers blasting Bhangra beats. For the past few days, we had seen tractors plying the countryside carrying workers and produce, setting the beat for the whole vicinity to get into the dancing mood. Err, but the lyrics were neither inspiring nor devotional. They were suggestive and laced with profanity.

Growing up in Malaysia, we were taught that travelling on a highway was sacrosanct, with traffic rules to be followed and vehicles in tip-top condition. Not in Rajasthan, they are not. One could actually see a whole five-tonne lorry travelling on the wrong side of the highway and honking violently at oncoming traffic as if the lorry’s right to drive on the wrong side was being infringed!

The terrain was monotonous, with rolling hills and a steep 6.5% incline, and the sun was hot from 9.30 am. Being a highway, there was nothing much to see here. About 6 hours later, we reached Kamlighat, some 88km away.

Kamlighat is a small town with nothing spectacular to show. A row of shops, many stalls selling fruits and vegetables, and our accommodation was the biggest building around. A stroll pretty much covers the whole town.

Day 5. Kamlighat to Kumbhalgarh

This proved to be the toughest ride yet. Riding through the Aravalli hills was no walk in the park. It was a slow burn with multiple gradual inclines. The 70km journey ended at the Kumbhalgarh Fort. The fort is labelled the Great Wall of India, the second-longest wall in the world after the Great Wall of China.

There was a light-and-sound show that essentially narrated the glory (and sometimes turbulent) days of Maha Rana Kumbha. He was a descendant of Emperor Asoka and later Rana Rathap, who fought valiantly against the invaders.

Day 6. Kumbalbagh to Udaipur

This proved to be a fun ride. Starting late at 7 am, it turned out to be a short ride, after much heckling and joking. A large proportion of the journey was along national highways; the later detour through the smaller villages proved interesting. A few observations I made as a curious Malaysian passing through the everyday people in the midst of their day-to-day lives are these.

Villages in Rajasthan are no different from those in Malaysia. If in Malaysia, azan and religious sermons are broadcast over the speakers, here in almost every village, it is the sound of ‘Om Jaya Jagadisha Hare[1]‘ and sermons on their speakers. The bottomline is that the majority dictates what is kosher for the masses.

We, the cyclists, were kind of local celebrities among the people, especially among the younger kids, who would wave at us. Some would even come so far as to bump fists with us. Interestingly, even some young ladies who walked along the roads would wave to us. If one were to observe, the ladies would not do the same when accompanied by a male companion. Instead of waving, they would pull down their shawls to cover their gaze.

Addendum

The cyclists shared many pleasant moments on and off the saddle. During one of those tête-à-têtes, the talk about each other’s countries’ politics came up. There was a lot of Modi-bashing among the Indian cyclists — that he had outlived his usefulness and that his every move appeared like propaganda. So I asked them one question, “If there were a snap national election today, who would you vote for?” Without a pause, they all replied in unison, “Modi!” That’s the trouble everywhere. Nobody has a perfect government. Everyone has to decide between the devil they know and the one they do not.

Last day in Udaipur, running around

The cyclists utilised this day to unwind after six days of cycling. The few touristy spots were the target.

First, we visited the picturesque City Palace and scenic Lake Paricha. There was a boat ride around the lake, quite reminiscent of that in Budapest, only that Udaipur had much more to offer. The City Palaces had many sections and a museum attached to them. Pichola Lake is situated in the centre. A boat takes tourists around and makes a stop at a luxurious hotel to give them a taste of opulence. The property opens onto another section of town called Hathipole, which features rows of shops showcasing Rajasthani art, crafts, produce, and souvenirs. Hathipole is another proof of order within chaos. The auto-trishaws and motorcycles weave through the tiny lanes while shoppers still manage to jump from shop to shop, getting their best bargains.

To absorb the Rajasthani experience, one has indulge in their culinary traditions. Two dishes specific to this region are batti, a tennis-ball-sized hard bread made from unleavened wheat flour. It is eaten with dal or yoghurt. Next is lal maas, a fiery mutton dish, packed with chilli and Rajasthani spices.

The day ended with lazing around town and walking the streets of Udaipur. Fateh Sagar Lake offered an excellent view of the various hues of the setting sun on the horizon. It houses a solar observatory station.

Extra day

While we were still in recovery mode, most Indian cyclists returned home. We had one more day to kill, so we went out to explore more of Udaipur, the Lake City.

Still centred around the lakes, we took a cable car trip up to Neemach Maa Mandhir, perched 900 metres up on a hill overlooking Fateh Sagar Lake. It is said to be a powerful protective guardian of a particular dacoit clan.

Next stop was at the Maruthar Folk Dance to sample a traditional Rajasthani Cultural show. Besides witnessing some folk dances, we watched puppet shows and an experienced dancer performing a balancing act with multi-tiered pots on her head whilst grooving to metal petals, bowls, and shredded glass.

To end our visit on that hot day was the mausoleum erected for Rajasthan’s most revered hero, Maharana Pratap and his heroes who defended the region from foreign invaders. The enclosure also includes a museum that relives the glory days when the kingdom of Rajasthan was a force to be reckoned with.

Take-home message

An international expedition like this is quite life-affirming. It is priceless to realise that our mental illness is shared by many around the world. With this healthy obsession, we can explore places worldwide at a quite close and personal level. One is not merely taken to touristy spots, but can see the country as it is, warts and all.

While walking around the Kumbalbagh fort, we encountered a group of 60- and 70-year-old American cyclists, not quite by accident but by what was screaming on their T-shirts. After the usual cursory greetings, we discovered that they were more eccentric than we. These people in the geriatric age group were on a month-long cycling tour around Rajasthan, Kashmir, and Ladakh!

[1] “Om, Victory to the Lord of the Universe (Vishnu), the Remover of Miseries”. A devotional prayer in Hindi.

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

Contents

Borderless, March 2026

Editorial

Is Sky the Limit?… Click here to read.

Feature

A brief introduction to Aruna Chakravarti’s Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories and an interview with the author. Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s lyrics of Mor Priya Hobe Eso Rani (My Sweetheart, Be My Queen) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Eight quatrains by the late Majeed Ajez have been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Four of his own Malay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.

Open Marriage, a story by Lakhvinder Virk, has been translated from Punjabi by C Christine Fair. Click here to read.

Jatra ( Journey), a poem by Rabindranath Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Jared Carter, Tim Tomlinson, Mohul Bhowmick, Nma Dhahir, Laila Brahmbhatt, George Freek, Lana Hechtman Ayers, Pramod Rastogi, John Grey, Snigdha Agrawal, Edward Reilly, Ron Pickett, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snehaprava Das, SR Inciardi, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Rhysop’s Fables, Rhys Hughes shares short absurdist narratives. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

Imprints from the Past

Farouk Gulsara muses on imprints left in time. Click here to read.

When Meassurement Fails

Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos muses on numbers. Click here to read.

How I Learned to Write from Films

Gower Bhat writes about the impact of the screen on his writerly journey. Click here to read.

Launching into the New Year

Meredith Stephens writes of a fire on the night of the New Year, a hot summer day in the Southern Hemisphere. Click here to read.

Visiting an Outpost of Lucknow: Moosa Bagh

Prithvijeet Sinha takes us to visit an eighteenth century garden and monument. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Missing the Tail, Devraj Singh Kalsi dreams with a dollop of humour on the benefits of humans having the extension. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In My Cambodian Taxi Driver, Suzanne Kamata writes of her experiences in Phnom Penh. Click here to read.

Essays

March Musings: Rethinking Histories

Meenakshi Malhotra writes of the diverse ways histories can be viewed, reflecting on the perspective from the point of view of water, climate, migrations or women. Click here to read.

Some Changes are Bigger than Others

Keith Lyons assess our times. Click here to read.

Somdatta Mandal on ‘Mother Mary Comes to Me’

Somdatta Mandal steps beyond the review to look into the marketing of Arundhati Roy’s memoir. Click here to read.

Mark Tully: A Citizen of the World

Mohul Bhowmick pays a tribute to a journalist who transcended borders. Click here to write.

Bhaskar’s Corner

In Odisha after 1947, Bhaskar Parichha brings us up to date with developments in this region. Click here to read.

Stories

The Wedding

Sohana Manzoor explores the razzmatazz of a Bangladeshi wedding to find what really matters. Click here to read.

Two Black Dresses

Jonathon B Ferrini gives a narrative that has a beam of light in a universe filled with losses. Click here to read.

Flying Away

Terry Sanville writes of death, growing up and healing from loss. Click here to read.

Whispers of Frost

Gower Bhat tells us a story set in Kashmir. Click here to read.

Ameya’s Victory

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao tells us a story that could happen in any school. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Aruna Chakravarti’s Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Kailash Satyarthi’s Karuna: The Power of Compassion. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Mohammad Asim Siddiqui has reviewed Anisur Rahman’s The Essential Ghalib. Click here to read.

Rituparna Khan has reviewed Malashri Lal’s Signing in the Air. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Deepta Roy Chakraverti’s Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor. Click here to read.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Tags Anisur Rahman, Aruna Chakravarti, Arundhati Roy, Balochi, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, C Christine Fair, Cambodian, Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories, Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor, Deepta Roy Chakraverti, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Edward Reilly, Fakrul Alam, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, George Freek, Gower Bhat, Japan, Jared Carter, John Grey, Kadam Kadam, Kailash Satyarthi, Karuna: The Power of Compassion, Kashmir, Keith Lyons, Laila Brahmbhatt, Lakhvinder Virk, Lana Hechtman Ayers, Lucknow, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Majeed Ajez, Malashri Lal, Mark Tully, Meredith Stephens, Mitali Chakravarty, Mohammad Asim Siddiqui, Mohul Bhowmick, Moosa Bagh, Mor Priya Hobe Eso Rani, Mother Mary Comes to Me, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Nazrul, Nma Dhahir, Odisha, Phnom Penh, Pramod Rastogi, Prithvijeet Sinha, Rabindranath Tagore, Rhys Hughes, Rituparna Khan, Ron Pickett, Ryan Quinn Falangan, Signing in the Air, Snehaprava Das, Snigdha Agrawal, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, Southern Hemisphere, SR Inciardi, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos, Terry Sanville, The Essential Ghalib, Tim Tomlinson

Editorial

Is Sky the Limit?

Sometimes, we have an idea, a thought and then it takes form and becomes a reality. That is how the Borderless Journal came to be six years ago while the pandemic raged. The pandemic got over and takeovers and wars started. We continued to exist because all of you continue to pitch in, ignoring the differences created by certain human constructs. We meet with the commonality of felt emotions and aesthetics to create a space for all those who believe in looking beyond margins. We try to erase margins or borders that lead to hatred, anger, violence and war. Learning from the natural world, we believe we can be like the colours of the rainbow that seem to grow out of each other or the grass that is allowed to grow freely beyond manmade borders. If nature gives us lessons through its processes, is it not to our advantage to conserve what nurtures us, and in the process, we save our home planet, the Earth? We could all be together in peace, enjoying nature and nurture, living in harmony in the Universe if only we could overlook differences and revel in similarities.

A young poet Nma Dhahir says it all in her poem that is a part of our journal this month —

This is how we stay human together:
by refusing the easy damage, by carrying each other
without calling it sacrifice,
by believing that what we protect in one another
eventually protects the world.

--'How We Stay’ by Nma Dhahir

In our poetry section, we have Ron Pickett suggesting peace and love with his poem on three doves on a roof and Snigdha Agrawal hinting at a future Earth. We have heartfelt poetry weaving in the colours of life with Jared Carter, Tim Tomlinson, Mohul Bhowmick, Laila Brahmbhatt, George Freek, Lana Hechtman Ayers, Pramod Rastogi, John Grey, Edward Reilly, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snehaprava Das, SR Inciardi and Ryan Quinn Flanagan while Rhys Hughes weaves in humour.

Translations has more poetry with Professor Fakrul Alam bringing us Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics in English and Fazal Baloch familiarising us with beautiful Balochi poetry of the late Majeed Ajez, a young poet who left us too soon. Isa Kamari translates his own poems from Malay, capturing the colours of the community in Singapore to blend it with a larger whole. And of course, we have a Tagore poem rendered into English from Bengali. This time it’s a poem called ‘Jatra (Journey)’ which reflects not only on social gaps but also on politics through aeons.

Christine C Fair has translated a story from Punjabi by Lakhvinder Virk, a story that reflects resilience in women who face the dark end of social trends, a theme that reverberates in Flanagan’s poetry and Meenakshi Malhotra’s essay, which while reflecting on the need of different perspectives in histories – like water and nomads — peeks into the need to recall women’s history aswell. This is important not just because March hosts the International Women’s Day (IWD) but because one wonders if women in Afghanistan are better off now than the suffragettes who initiated the idea of such a day more than a century ago?

This time our non-fiction froths over with scrumptious writings from across continents. Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos muses on looking at numbers and beyond to enjoy the essence of nature. Farouk Gulsara ideates about living on in posterity through deeds and ideas. Gower Bhat shares how he learns story writing skills from watching movies. Meredith Stephens talks of her experience of a fire in the Australian summer. Bhaskar Parichha writes with passion about his region, Odisha. We have a heartfelt tribute to Mark Tully, who transcended borders, from Bhowmick. And an essay on Arundhati Roy’s memoir, Mother Mary Comes to Me, from Somdatta Mandal, which explores not just the book but also the covers which change with continents. Prithvijeet Sinha travels beyond Lucknow and Suzanne Kamata brings to us stories about her trip to Phnom Penh.

Keith Lyons draws from the current crises and writes about changing times, suggesting: “Changes aren’t endings, but thresholds.” Perhaps, if we see them as ‘thresholds of change’, the current events are emphasising the need to accept that human constructs can be redefined. I am sure a Neolithic or an Australopithecus would have been equally scared of evolving out of their system to one we would deem ‘superior’. Life in certain ways can only evolve towards the future, even if currently certain changes seem to be retrogressive. We can never correctly predict the future… but can only imagine it. And Devraj Singh Kalsi imagines it with a dollop of humour where tails become a trend among humans again!

Humour and absurdity are woven into a series of short fables by Hughes while Naramsetti Umamaheswarao weaves a fable around acceptance of differences. In fiction, we have stories of resilience from Jonathon B Ferrini and Terry Sanville. Bhat gives us a story set in Kashmir and Sohana Manzoor gives us one set in Dhaka, a narrative that reminds one of Jane Austen… and perhaps even an abbreviated version of the 2001 film, Monsoon Wedding.

In reviews we have, Mohammad Asim Siddiqui discussing Anisur Rahman’s The Essential Ghalib. Rituparna Khan has written on Malashri Lal’s poetry collection reflecting on women, Signing in the Air. And Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Deepta Roy Chakraverti’s Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor, a book that reflects on the resilience that makes great women. Thus, weaving in flavours of the IWD, which applauds women who are resilient while urging humans for equal rights for one half of the world population.

Book excerpts host Kailash Satyarthi’s Karuna: The Power of Compassion and Aruna Chakravarti’s Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories. We are also running a feature on the latter collection with Chakravarti telling us why she switched from historical fiction to ghost stories. The interesting thing is many of her ghouls are embedded in histories where they suffered violences, which leads us to the bigger question, can human suffering dehumanise us? Should it?

While we ponder on larger realities, Borderless Journal looks forward to a future with more writings centred around humanity, climate change, our planet and all creatures great and small. This year has not only seen a rise in readership and contributors — and the numbers rose further after our unsolicited Duotrope listing in October 2025 — but has also attracted writers from more challenged parts of the world, like Ukraine, Iran, Tunisia and Kurdistan. We are delighted to home writing from all those who attempt to transcend borders and be a part of the larger race of humanity. I would like to quote Margaret Atwood to explain what I mean. “I hope that people will finally come to realize that there is only one ‘race’—the human race—and that we are all members of it.” And I would like to extend her view to find solidarity with all living beings. I hope that there will be a point in time when we will realise there’s not much difference between, a lizard, a fly, a human or a tree… All these lifeforms are necessary for our existence.

I would want to hugely thank all our team for stretching out and making this a special issue for our sixth anniversary and Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for being with us through our journey. Let’s change the world with peace, love and friendship!

Looking forward to the future.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE MARCH 2026 ISSUE.

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

Tags Anisur Rahman, Aruna Chakravarti, Arundhati Roy, Autralopithecus, Balochi, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, Borderless Journal, Christine C Fair, Creeping Shadows: 13 Ghost Stories, Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Extraordinary Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor | A Story of Courage, Deepta Roy Chakraverti, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Dhaka, Duotrope, Earth, Edward Reilly, English, Fakrul Alam, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, George Freek, Gower Bhat, International Women’s Day, Isa Kamari, Jane Austen, Jared Carter, Jatra, John Grey, Jonathan B. Ferrini, Kailash Satyarthi, Karuna: The Power of Compassion, Kashmir, Keith Lyons, Kurdistan, Laila Brahmbhatt, Lakhvinder Virk, Lana Hechtman Ayers, Lucknow, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Majeed Ajez, Malashri Lal, Malay, Mark Tully, Meenakshi Malhotra, Meredith Stephens, Mitali Chakravarty, Mohammad Asim Siddiqui, Mohul Bhowmick, Monsoon Wedding, Mother Mary Comes to Me, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Nazrul, Neolithic, Nma Dahir, Odisha, Phnom Penh, Pramod Rastogi, Prithvijeet Sinha, Punjabi, Rhys Hughes, Rituparna Khan, Ron Pickett, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Signing in the Air, Singapore, Snehaprava Das, Snigdha Agrawal, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, SR Inciardi, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos, Terry Sanville, The Essential Ghalib, Tim Tomlinson, Translations

Stories

Whispers of Frost

By Gowher Bhat

Christmas Bazaar in Kashmir. From Public Domain

The holiday market buzzed with life, bathed in the golden glow of string lights that twisted like ribbons between the stalls. Vendors hawked hot cider, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon and cloves. Children, bundled in puffy coats, raced around, their fingers clutching candy canes, their laughter mingling with the low hum of holiday songs. The warmth of the season wrapped the world in a festive embrace.

Shafi clutched her coffee tightly, the warmth of the cup unable to quell the cold gnawing at her insides. The heat of the liquid contrasted sharply with the chill that had settled deep within her…. a coldness that not even the bright lights or holiday cheer could dispel. She scanned the lively scene, but her focus was elsewhere, far from the twinkling stalls and cheerful music.

“You’re too quiet again,” Amir said, nudging her elbow gently. “You okay?”

Shafi tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just thinking.”

Amir frowned. “It’s Christmas. You’re supposed to feel warm and fuzzy, not… whatever this is. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It just feels… off.”

Amir gave a small laugh. “Paranoia. Classic Shafi.”

But Shafi couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on her chest. The world felt too loud and too quiet at the same time. The joy around her seemed distant, muffled by a creeping unease. She wanted to feel the warmth of the season, to laugh and enjoy the festivities like everyone else, but all she could think about was the shadow of her past, looming just out of reach.

As they walked toward her apartment, the streets emptied, and the festive energy of the market gave way to the solitude of falling snow. The sky had turned a deep shade of indigo, and the streetlights cast long shadows across the quiet pavement. The snow, falling gently at first, began to collect, blanketing the city in soft, white layers. Each flake seemed to carry its own quiet story, falling in silence but adding to the growing weight of the world.

When they reached her door, Shafi stopped dead in her tracks.

“Wait,” she whispered.

Amir followed her gaze, his expression shifting from concern to confusion. The door to her apartment was slightly ajar. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Stay back,” he said firmly. “We don’t know what’s inside.”

Shafi grabbed his arm, urgency flashing in her eyes. “No. I’m going in.”

They stepped inside together. The apartment was eerily quiet. The usual hum of the fridge, the faint rustling of curtains in the breeze, was absent. Everything seemed untouched—except for a single set of dusty footprints leading from the door to the table.

Amir moved cautiously toward the table, his eyes scanning the room for danger. On the table lay a folded piece of paper. It seemed ordinary, yet in the context of the silence and the unusual circumstances, it felt like a warning.

“Shafi,” he said softly. “You need to see this.”

Her name was scrawled on the front in jagged handwriting, the ink slightly smeared. The paper felt heavy in her hands as she took it, her fingers trembling.

“Shafi,” Amir read aloud, his voice steady but concerned. “The snow may bury, but the truth always thaws. You can’t hide forever.”

Shafi staggered back as though the words themselves had struck her, each letter cutting deep. A cold shiver ran down her spine. The past rushed at her with the force of an avalanche.

“What does it mean?” Amir asked, his voice tense.

Shafi didn’t respond. Her mind raced, the weight of her past crashing down like a flood. The words weren’t just a threat—they were a reminder of the life she had tried to leave behind, of the man she had betrayed, and the secrets she had buried.

“Shafi,” Amir said gently, insistent. “Talk to me. Who sent this?”

She clenched her fists, struggling to speak. The truth felt like a lump in her throat, burning to get out, but fear kept her silent. She had buried this secret for so long, hoping it would stay hidden. Now, it was all coming to the surface.

“It’s not that simple,” she whispered, trembling.

“Make it simple,” Amir said softly, kneeling beside her. “Please.”

She looked at him, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She had carried this burden alone for years, but now, in Amir’s unwavering presence, the walls she had built began to crumble.

“There was a man,” she began, voice breaking. “Rafiq. Years ago, I…” She paused, breath hitching. “I betrayed him.”

Amir’s brow furrowed. “Betrayed how?”

“I lied,” she admitted, voice heavy with guilt. “I framed him for something he didn’t do. It was him or me, and I chose myself.”

Amir stared silently. His quiet presence asked no questions; he simply waited.

“Why?” he asked softly.

“Because I was scared,” she whispered. “I thought it was the only way out. It worked—he went to prison, and I walked free. But now he’s out, and I think he’s come for me.”

Silence hung between them, suffocating. Shafi could barely breathe, the weight of her confession pressing down.

Finally, Amir spoke. “And this note… it’s from him?”

Shafi nodded, throat tight. “It has to be.”

Amir knelt, taking her hands gently. His touch grounded her. “Listen. Whatever you did, whatever he’s planning, we’ll handle it. Together.”

Tears streamed down her face. “You don’t understand. He has every right to hate me. I ruined his life.”

“And hiding will only make it worse,” Amir said firmly. “You need to face this. We need to face this.”

Shafi looked into his eyes, searching for doubt, for hesitation, and found none. Only resolve. Only support.

“What if he wants revenge?” she asked, barely audible.

“Then we’ll stop him. But first, we need to talk to him. No more running, Shafi.”

She nodded slowly. For the first time in years, the weight of her guilt began to lift not because the past had changed, but because she wasn’t facing it alone.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in quiet beauty. Inside the apartment, something new took root: hope.

Gowher Bhat writes fiction and non-fiction. He’s a a columnist, freelance journalist, and educator from Kashmir. His writing explores memory, place, and the quiet weight of the things we carry, delving into themes of longing, belonging, silence, and expression. A senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley, he is also an avid reader and book reviewer. He believes that books and writing can capture the subtleties of human experience.

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

Tags Christmas, Kashmir