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.
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.
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 acceptanceof 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.
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!
Last month the Doomsday Clock had moved closer to midnight than at any point since it was created in 1947. Maintained by the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, the clock is meant to signal how close humanity stands to destroying itself, whether through nuclear conflict, climate breakdown or new technologies. Its latest shift suggests that we are living through a particularly dangerous moment.
That is one way to look at the year ahead.
Another comes from a friend of mine who follows astrology. “2026 will be intense,” she told me after we had worked out the time difference to talk. “There are major planetary shifts happening. But that also means there is potential for growth.”
Between scientific warning and planetary symbolism sits a familiar question. Are we heading towards catastrophe, or simply moving through another period of change?
It is difficult to judge the scale of events while we are inside them. Perspective usually comes later. At the time, everything feels amplified. The media leans towards urgency. Our own thoughts do the same. The expectation of upheaval can sometimes be more overwhelming than the experience itself.
In recent weeks there have been many reminders of transition: the turning of the calendar year; the Lunar New Year observed across China, parts of Southeast Asia, Korea and the Himalayan region; the beginning of Ramadan for Muslims around the world. These moments draw people together in ritual and reflection. They offer continuity, even when the wider world feels unstable.
At the same time, global leaders speak in stark terms. The Secretary-General of the United Nations recently described a world marked by conflict, inequality and unpredictability. Climate scientists warn that we have entered uncharted territory. Heat records continue to fall. Rain arrives in sudden deluges. Winters in some places are no longer as cold as they once were.
For centuries, seasonal rhythms have provided reassurance. Spring follows winter. Festivals return at roughly the same time each year. Even the Gregorian calendar, introduced in 1582, was an attempt to bring order to time.
The Greek philosopher, Heraclitus, wrote that no person steps into the same river twice. The water flows on, and so do we. It is a simple image, but it captures something steady and true about human life.
What feels different now is the speed. Changes that once unfolded across generations now seem compressed into years. Climate patterns shift within decades. Technology reshapes industries almost overnight. Artificial intelligence systems are altering the nature of work, leaving some people optimistic and others uncertain. I know people who are struggling to find employment, both those nearing the end of long careers and those only just starting out.
My friend attributes the turbulence to a conjunction of Saturn and Neptune. She links economic instability and political upheaval to movements in the sky. When she mentioned the recent increase in visible auroras, I thought of astronomers pointing out that the Sun is nearing the peak of its eleven-year solar cycle. Different explanations, same phenomena.
Whether we turn to science, philosophy or astrology, the underlying experience is similar. Things feel unsettled. Time feels faster. The future feels closer than it used to.
It is tempting either to tune out the warnings or to become consumed by them. Neither response changes what is happening. Ignoring risk does not reduce it. Constant alarm does not resolve it either.
We cannot return to a previous version of stability. The seasons will continue to shift, though perhaps less predictably. Technologies will continue to develop. Political arrangements will evolve. Some changes are small and gradual. Others are abrupt and disorienting.
The real question is how we live through them.
After our conversation, my friend sent a message: “Changes aren’t endings, but thresholds.” It is a hopeful way to think about uncertainty. Crossing a threshold suggests movement rather than collapse.
Perhaps this year calls for small, steady practices. Paying attention to what we consume, digitally and otherwise. Slowing down our thinking when everything pushes us to react. Staying connected to the people around us. These are modest responses, but they are within reach.
We step into the river again. The water is different. So are we.
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Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’sEditorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Six years ago, a few of us got together to bring out the first issue of Borderless Journal. We started as a daily blog and then congealed into a monthly journal offering content that transcends artificial borders to meet with the commonality of felt emotions, celebrating humanity and the Universe. Today as we complete six years of our existence in the clouds, we would like to celebrate with all writers and readers who made our existence a reality. We invite you to savour writings collected over the years that reflect and revel in transcending borders, touching hearts and some even make us laugh while exploring norms.
In this special issue. we can only offer a small sample of writings but you can access many more like these ones at our site…Without further ado, let us harmonise with words. We invite you to lose yourselves in a borderless world in these trying times.
Rebel or ‘Bidrohi’, Nazrul’s signature poem, ‘Bidrohi‘, translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Manish Ghatak’s Aagun taader Praan (Fire is their Life) has been translated from Bengali by Indrayudh Sinha. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem, Tomar Shonkho Dhulay Porey (your conch lies in the dust), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty as ‘The Conch Calls’. Click here to read.
Ihlwha Choi spent some time in Santiniketan and here are poems he wrote in reaction to his observations near the ‘home of R.Tagore’, as he names Santiniketan and the Kobiguru. Click here to read Nandini.
Rituals in the Garden: Marcelo Medone discusses motherhood, aging and loss in this poignant flash fiction from Argentina. Click here to read.
Navigational Error: Luke P.G. Draper explores the impact of pollution with a short compelling narrative. Click here to read.
Henrik’s Journey: Farah Ghuznavi follows a conglomerate of people on board a flight to address issues ranging from Rohingyas to race bias. Click hereto read.
The Magic Staff , a poignant short story about a Rohingya child by Shaheen Akhtar, translated from Bengali by Arifa Ghani Rahman. Click here to read.
A Cat Story : Sohana Manzoor leaves one wondering if the story is about felines or… Clickhere to read.
When West Meets East & Greatness Blooms: Debraj Mookerjee reflects on how syncretism impacts greats like Tagore,Tolstoy, Emerson, Martin Luther King Jr, Gandhi and many more. Click here to read.
The Day Michael Jackson Died: A tribute by Julian Matthews to the great talented star who died amidst ignominy and controversy. Click here to read.
Potable Water Crisis & the Sunderbans: Camellia Biswas, a visitor to Sunderbans during the cyclone Alia, turns environmentalist and writes about the potable water issue faced by locals. Click here to read.
My Love for RK Narayan, Rhys Hughes discusses the novels by ths legendary writer from India. Click here to read.
Travels ofDebendranath Tagore: These are travel narratives by Debendranath Tagore, father of Rabindranath Tagore, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.
Baraf Pora (Snowfall): This narrative gives a glimpse of Tagore’s first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated by Somdatta Mandal . Clickhere to read.
The Day of Annihilation: An essay on climate change by Kazi Nazrul Islam has been translated from Bengali by Radha Chakravarty. Clickhereto read.
Reminiscences from a Gallery: The Other Ray: Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen. Click here to read.
The Bauls of Bengal: Aruna Chakravarti writes of wandering minstrels called bauls and the impact they had on Tagore. Click here to read.
Most people like you and me connect with the commonality of felt emotions and needs. We feel hungry, happy, sad, loved or unloved and express a larger plethora of feelings through art, theatre, music, painting, photography and words… With these, we tend to connect. And yet, larger structures created over time to offer security and governance to the masses—of which you and I are a part — have grown divisive, and, by the looks of it, the fences nurtured over time seem insurmountable. To retain these structures that were meant to keep us safe, wars are being fought and many are getting killed, losing homes and going hungry. We showcase such stories, poems and non-fiction to create an awareness among those who are lucky enough to remain untouched. But is there a way out, so that all of us can live peacefully, without war, without hunger and with love and a vision towards surviving climate change which (like it or not) is upon us?
Creating an awareness of hunger and destruction wreaked by war is a heartrending story set in Gaza by JK Miller. While Snigdha Agrawal’s narrative gives a sense of hope, recounting a small kindness by a common person, Sayan Sarkar shares a more personal saga of friendship and disillusionment — where people have choice. But does war leave us a choice as it annihilates friendships, cities, homes and families? Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s story reiterates the belief in the family – peace being an accepted unit. Vela Noble’s fantastical fiction and art comes like a respite– though there is a darker side to it — with a touch of fun. Perhaps, a bit of fantasy and humour opens the mind to deal with the more sombre notes of existence.
The translation section hosts a story by Hamiruddin Middya, who grew up as a farmer’s son in Bengal. Steeped in local colours, it has been rendered into English by V Ramaswamy. Nazrul’s song revelling in the colours of spring has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Atta Shad’s pensive Balochi lines have been brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch. Isa Kamari continues to bring the flavours of an older, more laid-back Singapore with translations of his own Malay poems. A couple of Persian verses have been rendered into English by the poet, Akram Yazdani, herself. Questing for harmony, Tagore’s translated poem while reflecting on a child’s life, urges us to have the courage to be like a child — open, innocent and willing to imagine a world laced with trust and hope. If we were all to do that, do you think we’d still have wars, violence and walls built on hate and intolerance?
Mario Fenech takes a look at the idea of time. Amir Zadnemat writes of how memory is impacted by both science and humanities while Andriy Nivchuk brings to us snippets from Herodotus’s and Pericles’s lives that still read relevant. Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan gives the journey of chickpeas across space and time, asserting: “The chickpea does not care about your ideology, your portfolio, or your meticulously curated identity. It will grow, fix nitrogen, feed someone, and move on without a press release.” It has survived over aeons in a borderless state!
In book excerpts, we have a book that transcends borders as it’s a translation from Assamese by Ranjita Biswas of Arupa Kalita Patangia’s Moonlight Saga. Any translation is an attempt to integrate the margins into the mainstream of literature, and this is no less. The other excerpt is from Natalie Turner’s The Red Silk Dress. Keith Lyons has interviewed Turner about her novel which crosses multiple cultures too while on a personal quest.
Holding on to that idea, we invite you to savour the contents of our February issue.
Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for making this issue possible. Heartfelt thanks to our wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork.
Enjoy the reads!
Let’s look forward to the spring… May it bring new ideas to help us all move towards more amicable times.
Keith Lyons in conversation with Natalie Turner, author of The Red Silk Dress
Natalie Turner in Lisbon
Tell us about your background and life. If you had to give a relatable elevator pitch to readers, what would you say?
I was born in 1968, a year of social upheaval, into a life shaped early by movement, belief, and questioning. My parents were Christian missionaries, so I grew up immersed in faith, travel, and a strong inner world. From a young age, I wanted to be a writer. I was also restless, resistant to fixed paths, and fiercely independent, which meant that desire took many shapes before it found its way home.
As a young adult, I travelled and worked across Asia and Latin America, experiences that expanded my worldview and quietly dismantled many of the belief systems I had inherited. I later studied politics, economics, and social psychology, worked in Parliament, and then moved into business and innovation, where I continue to help organisations navigate change. Writing stayed alive throughout, mostly through journals and ideas, even when it wasn’t centre stage.
The red thread running through my life has always been transformation. A willingness to question what no longer fits, and the courage to follow what is asking to emerge. Writing fiction felt like the most honest way to bring that thread home.
What first inspired The Red Silk Dress?
The inspiration came from living inside a world that looked complete from the outside but felt fractured beneath the surface. In Southeast Asia, I was surrounded by what’s often called the expat life, glamorous settings, elegant events, and success on display. Yet in quieter moments, especially in conversations with women, a very different story would surface.
Many were intelligent, capable, outwardly fulfilled, yet privately wrestling with a sense of loss. They had raised families and built impressive lives, yet somewhere along the way they felt they had misplaced themselves. The contrast between the polished exterior and the unspoken interior stayed with me.
At the same time, I recognised a parallel in myself. From the outside, my life also looked full and successful. Inside, I sensed something unfinished, something buried. The novel grew from that convergence. From the tension between what we show the world and what quietly asks for attention. Cambodia, and a writing retreat in Siem Reap, became the place where that question could no longer be ignored.
Why did you choose Claudette, a French woman living overseas, as the heart of this story?
I didn’t choose Claudette in a deliberate way. I wasn’t designing a character or thinking about nationality or backstory. She arrived. On the outskirts of Angkor Wat, during a writing retreat, surrounded by experienced writers and acutely aware of my own inexperience, this woman appeared fully formed in my imagination.
She was elegant and guarded, wearing a wide-brimmed white hat and dark glasses. She introduced herself as Claudette, from Paris, and asked me to write her story. When she removed her glasses, what struck me was the sadness in her eyes. That moment carried a quiet insistence. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was unmistakable.
I wrote the opening paragraph that day, and it remains the opening paragraph of the novel. Claudette wasn’t invented to make a point. She was the right vessel for the story that wanted to be told.
The novel explores longing, desire, and reinvention. What drew you to these themes?
Reinvention has always fascinated me because I’ve lived it. I’ve moved countries, changed careers, and rebuilt my life more than once. That capacity for agency, for choosing to become something new, has been a quiet through-line in my work and my thinking.
Longing and desire entered the novel more subtly. At the time, I was living in Penang, Malaysia, immersed in colour, texture, heat, and beauty. I began to experience desire not as something reckless or romanticised, but as a form of intelligence. A way back into memory, creativity, and the parts of us that go dormant when life becomes crowded with too much to do.
Longing, for me, is a signal. If we ignore it, we stay as we are. If we listen, it draws us inward, into an interior journey that can quietly change the course of our lives.
Is The Red Silk Dress a love story, or is it really about something deeper?
It’s about something deeper than a conventional love story. The love affair in The Red Silk Dress isn’t a romance in the usual sense, and it isn’t about escape or transgression for its own sake. It functions as a catalyst. Love, in Claudette’s case, is what wakes her up to herself.
What interested me was eros in its older meaning. A sensual awakening of the body and the senses, of attention and aliveness. A pause that draws us back into ourselves and allows us to inhabit moments more fully.
In that sense, eros doesn’t just awaken desire. It awakens attention. And sustained attention inevitably sharpens conscience. When we feel more alive, more present, more attuned, we become more aware of misalignment. Of what we are complicit in. Of what no longer feels bearable. That awareness naturally turns outward into questions of responsibility.
Places feel very alive in the book. Why were Cambodia, Malaysia, and Paris important settings?
The places are alive in the novel, as much a character as the people who inhabit it. Geography isn’t a backdrop for Claudette’s journey; it actively shapes it.
Cambodia is where the story begins because it is where her inner life is first disturbed and opened. I was deeply affected by Cambodia’s layers of history, from the ancient Angkor civilisation to the energy of contemporary artists, designers, and entrepreneurs rebuilding culture with pride and imagination. There is a sensuality and generosity in the country that opens Claudette.
Malaysia is her lived world. It is where I spent many years, moving between lush, gated communities, international enclaves, and the daily crossings into Singapore. That environment, with its contrasts between order and improvisation, privilege, and dislocation, shaped how Claudette learned to belong and not belong at the same time.
Paris represents origin and memory. It carries sensuality, identity, and an earlier version of herself. It is where Claudette must reckon with who she has been and who she is becoming, not nostalgically, but honestly.
And then there is Portugal, which sits quietly behind the book rather than inside the story. It is where the novel was edited, refined, and completed. After the intensity of Asia, it offered a different rhythm. More space. More listening. It was here that what had been awakened elsewhere could be integrated and shaped with patience.
For me, the locale is never decorative. Each country asks something different of Claudette. Cambodia opens her. Malaysia tests her sense of belonging. Paris calls her to reckon with her past.
What’s your connection with Malaysia, Cambodia, and Singapore, and what was your experience living and working there?
I moved to Singapore in 2010, initially for work. It was still a time when the traditional expat package existed, and the city was dazzling, ordered, and highly curated. I was fascinated by it, not because it was my life, but because of what it revealed about status, success, and performance.
We moved to Malaysia largely for practical reasons. In Johor Bahru, we became part of a more entrepreneurial, improvised community, shaped by people building lives across borders. I crossed into Singapore several times a week, so the contrast between those two societies became part of my daily rhythm.
Penang was where something settled. It was slower, textured, steeped in history. It was also where I returned fully to writing and committed to the novel. After years of living between worlds, Penang became the place where the book could finally be written.
You’ve lived and worked across many countries. How has that shaped the way you write about identity and belonging?
Living across countries has made identity feel less fixed and more relational. Belonging isn’t something you arrive at once and for all. It shifts depending on place, people, and season of life.
Being immersed in different cultures sharpened my sensitivity to belief systems, values, and the ways we construct meaning. Living now in Portugal has added another layer. After years of movement, it has offered a sense of feeling grounded without confinement. A rhythm where I can listen differently.
I now find myself writing more reflective cultural pieces that explore place, memory, and creativity. Belonging, I’ve learned, is not about fitting in neatly. It’s about learning how to be changed by place while remaining true to yourself.
You often write about moments when life quietly asks us to change. Where does that fascination come from?
From my own life. I’ve reinvented not just what I do, but how I think. What interests me most are the subtle moments when something no longer fits and begins to ask different questions.
Real change rarely arrives loudly. It comes as a discomfort, a quiet misalignment. Innovation, like personal change, requires the courage to step beyond conformity and tolerate uncertainty. I’ve always been drawn to that edge because it is where life becomes most alive.
Your professional work focuses on creativity and transformation. Did those ideas find their way into this story?
Yes, though not in a literal way. My work has always been about how change unfolds as lived experience. Claudette’s journey follows that inner arc. Awareness, awakening, investigation, and consequence.
Creativity also enters the novel through the senses. Fabric, silk, touch, style. I wanted creativity to live in the body, not just the mind. In that sense, the story becomes a meeting place between beauty and transformation.
Did writing The Red Silk Dress change how you see yourself or your work?
The act of writing, and the way the book moved me emotionally and sensorially, awakened a level of creative energy I hadn’t experienced before. When I finished the novel, I realised I had opened a door into a new phase of my life.
It also reoriented my work. I no longer separate creativity, leadership, and transformation into neat categories. They belong together. Writing the novel didn’t replace my previous work. It gave it a deeper centre.
In parallel, I continue my work with women in leadership, creating spaces where they can step back from performance and certainty and listen more deeply to themselves. In many ways, those spaces and the novel are in a subtle, mutually reinforcing conversation. Both are about reconnecting with agency, voice, and purpose, not as theory but as lived experience.
Who do you think this book is for?
It will likely resonate most strongly with women who are curious, reflective, and drawn to immersive stories. Readers who want to be transported into another world and enjoy discovering history, culture, and meaning through story.
That said, men have responded deeply too. Several have shared how meaningful it was to inhabit a woman’s inner world so intimately. While it is a woman’s journey, the relationships and portrayals of masculinity are layered and intentional.
At heart, it’s for readers standing at a threshold. Those who sense a quiet unease and are open to being moved by a story that stays with them.
If a reader recognises themselves in Claudette’s struggle, what would you want them to take from her story?
I would want them to pause first. To take a breath and turn inward. Claudette’s story isn’t a prescription or a manifesto. It’s an invitation to reflect.
If there is one thing I hope readers take from her journey, it’s the understanding that feeling trapped does not mean being powerless. Agency often begins quietly, with hope, courage, and a willingness to trust what is asking to emerge.
And that emergence isn’t just personal. It shapes how we show up in our families, our work, our communities. Change, in this story, is not about abandoning life, but about stepping back into it with greater responsibility for the world we are helping to shape.
What do you hope readers feel or reflect on after turning the final page?
Above all, I hope the book creates a pause. A moment of deeper listening. Not a rush to act or decide, but an invitation to sit with what is emerging.
What’s your advice to aspiring writers?
I think writing begins with attention. Being open to life, to what keeps circling at the edges of consciousness, to the story that wants to be told. Craft matters enormously, of course. Writing a novel asks for depth, endurance, and commitment well beyond beautiful prose. Technique only comes alive when it is in the service of something true, something rooted in vulnerability. Finding your story is about learning how to listen, and then having the courage and patience to give it form.
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Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
Incomplete statues of Michelangelo in Accademia Gallery, Florence
In the Accademia Gallery, Florence, are housed incomplete statues by Michelangelo that were supposed to accompany his sculpture of Moses on the grand tomb of Pope Julius II. The sculptures despite being unfinished, incomplete and therefore imperfect, evoke a sense of power. They seem to be wresting forcefully with the uncarved marble to free their own forms — much like humanity struggling to lead their own lives. Life now is comparable to atonal notes of modern compositions that refuse to fall in line with more formal, conventional melodies. The new year continues with residues of unending wars, violence, hate and chaos. Yet amidst all this darkness, we still live, laugh and enjoy small successes. The smaller things in our imperfect existence bring us hope, the necessary ingredient that helps us survive under all circumstances.
Imperfections, like Michelangelo’s Non-finito statues in Florence, or modern atonal notes, go on to create vibrant, relatable art. There is also a belief that when suffering is greatest, arts flourish. Beauty and hope are born of pain. Will great art or literature rise out of the chaos we are living in now? One wonders if ancient art too was born of humanity’s struggle to survive in a comparatively younger world where they did not understand natural forces and whose history we try to piece together with objects from posterity. Starting on a journey of bringing ancient art from her part of the world, Ratnottama Sengupta shares a new column with us from this January.
Drenched in struggles of the past is also Showkat Ali’s The Struggle: A Novel, translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir. It has been reviewed by Somdatta Mandal who sees it a socio-economic presentation of the times. We also carry an excerpt from the book as we do for Anuradha Marwah’s The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta. Marwha’s novel has been reviewed by Meenakshi Malhotra who sees it as a bildungsroman and a daring book. Bhaskar Parichha has brought to us a discussion on colonial history about Rakesh Dwivedi’s Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India: A Saga of Monstrous British Barbarianism around the Globe. Udita Banerjee has also delved into history with her exploration of Angshuman Kar’s The Lost Pendant, a collection of poems written by poets who lived through the horrors of Partition and translated from Bengali by multiple poets. One of the translators, Rajorshi Patranabis, has also discussed his own book of supernatural encounters, Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible. A Wiccan by choice, Patranbis claims to have met with residual energies or what we in common parlance call ghosts and spoken to many of them. He not only clicked these ethereal beings — and has kindly shared his photos in this feature — but also has written a whole book about his encounters, including with the malevolent spirits of India’s most haunted monument, the Bhangarh Fort.
Bringing us an essay on a book that had spooky encounters is Farouk Gulsara, showing how Dickens’ A Christmas Carolrevived a festival that might have got written off. We have a narrative revoking the past from Larry Su, who writes of his childhood in the China of the 1970s and beyond. He dwells on resilience — one of the themes we love in Borderless Journal. Karen Beatty also invokes ghosts from her past while sharing her memoir. Rick Bailey brings in a feeling of mortality in his musing while Keith Lyons, writes in quest of his friend who mysteriously went missing in Bali. Let’s hope he finds out more about him.
Charudutta Panigrahi writes a lighthearted piece on barbers of yore, some of whom can still be found plying their trade under trees in India. Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia dwells on her favourite place which continues to rejuvenate and excite while Prithvijeet Sinha writes about haunts he is passionate about, the ancient monuments of Lucknow. Gulsara has woven contemporary lores into his satirical piece, involving Messi, the footballer. Bringing compassionate humour with his animal interactions is Devraj Singh Kalsi, who is visited daily by not just a bovine visitor, but cats, monkeys, birds and more — and he feeds them all. Suzanne Kamata takes us to Kishi, brought to us by both her narrative and pictures, including one of a feline stationmaster!
We've run away from the simmering house like milk that is boiling over. Now I'm single again. The sun hangs behind a ruffled up shed, like a bloody yolk on a cold frying pan until the nightfall dumps it in the garbage…
('A Poet in Exile', by Dmitry Blizniuk, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov)
In translations, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s rendition of Nazrul’s mellifluous lyrics from Bengali. Isa Kamari has shared four more of his Malay poems in English bringing us flavours of his culture. Snehaparava Das has similarly given us flavours of Odisha with her translation of Pravasini Mahakuda’s Odia poetry. A taste of Balochistan comes to us from Fazal Baloch’s rendition of Sayad Hashumi’s Balochi quatrains in English. Tagore’s poem ‘Kalponik’ (Imagined) has been rendered in English. This was a poem that was set to music by his niece, Sarala Devi.
After a long hiatus, we are delighted to finally revive Pandies Corner with a story by Sumona translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. Her story highlights the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms. Sumana has assumed a pen name as her story is true and could be a security risk for her. She is eager to narrate her story — do pause by and take a look.
In fiction, we have a poignant narrative about befriending a tramp by Ross Salvage, and macabre and dark one by Mary Ellen Campagna, written with a light touch. It almost makes one think of Eugene Ionesco. Jonathan B. Ferrini shares a heartfelt story about used Steinway pianos and growing up in Latino Los Angeles. Rajendra Kumar Roul weaves a narrative around compassion and expectations. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a beautiful fable around roses and bees.
With that, we come to the end of a bumper issue with more than fifty peices. Huge thanks to all our fabulous contributors, some of whom have not just written but shared photographs to illustrate the content. Do pause by our contents page and take a look. My heartfelt thanks to our fabulous team for their output and support, especially Sohana Manzoor who does our cover art. And most of all huge thanks to readers whose numbers keep growing, making it worth our while to offer our fare. Thank you all.
Here’s wishing all of you better prospects for the newborn year and may we move towards peace and sanity in a world that seems to have gone amuck!
Ubud: Where Dean and Keith Stayed. Photo by Keith Lyons
So many questions remain about Dean. Many remain unanswered. Top of that list would have to be “Is Dean still alive?”, followed by “How and when did Dean die?”
But underlying all those questions about a gentleman I met in Indonesia in the late 2010s is the fact that I, along with many others who encountered him on the island of Bali, regard him as a ‘good man’ and miss his presence.
“Have you ever wondered if he is still alive but just can’t communicate?” suggested an associate; a possible scenario, given Dean was in his seventh decade on this Earth. “What would happen if he just turns up again? Wouldn’t that be funny?” another pondered.
I first met Dean a couple of years after I moved to the cultural heart of Bali, Ubud, a small town a couple of hundred metres above sea level, a place sometimes with its head in the clouds. When I moved into a room overlooking the rice paddies, just 10 minutes’ walk from the centre of town, I heard about Dean before I first met him in person. Staff mentioned the other ‘permanent’ residing in the neighbouring bungalow. Later that day, in the turquoise waters of the infinity pool that overlooked the gully cloaked in jungle, I saw a figure glide underwater from one end to the other, dive flippers giving the impression the creature was both extraordinarily tall and also well-suited to amphibious life.
Dean, as I was later to learn, was both frugal and generous. I never quite worked out if he was living off savings or a veteran’s benefit. Or if he served in the military or actively tried to avoid it. When I first met him on the pathway that connects our respective residences to the main path that straddles the accommodation and the rice fields, he told me how he would eat lunch at a local food stall, known as a warung, with it being as little as 10,000 rupiah — less than US$1 — for a simple rice-based meal.
He cared less for the plethora of cute Instagram cafes and foodie-recommended ‘must-try’ restaurants that catered to the tourists who thronged the central market and motorcycle-packed streets of Jalan Raya Ubud. Though, there was one exception. Every so often, sometimes to mark his arrival back from a visa-run to Malaysia (most foreigners living in Bali usually have to exit every three or six months depending on their visas), or at the end of his long stay, when he was about to travel elsewhere in south east Asia, as the end of year rainy season ramped up — then Dean displayed his munificence. He would treat the staff — and a few hangers on — to a calzone from a long-established pizza joint that prided itself on its secret sauce. Being a folded-over pizza, the fillings remain hot during its journey in the box on the back of a Honda Vario scooter.
I got invited to join in one of those calzone feasts. We sat under a long pagoda looking out across beyond the pool and jungle to the terraces and the ridge where silhouettes were just visible in the twilight. Dean was very much a global citizen, well-travelled, and scuba diving in almost as many countries as he had visited. He had worked as a dive instructor at schools and resorts. He still had with him equipment for aqua-living, along with other items stored in other places where he had lived and worked.
Just as scuba diving requires adherence to safe practices and procedures, Dean’s life on terra firma also followed routines and habits, which he hoped would ensure his longevity. One day he asked me to check an unusual skin condition with white patchiness on his upper arm, which he had convinced himself by Googling might be pre-cancerous. He was going to have it checked out, but on closer inspection, I thought it might just be a local fungal infection. Fortunately, it cleared up a week or so later, so he didn’t have to visit a clinic.
Because Dean seemed to live such an active life and appeared fitter and healthier than most of the visitors to Bali, it seemed like he was in a sweet spot: retired but active, living a simple life of contentment, sharing good vibes with all and sundry.
So, it was a surprise, after the COVID pandemic with its travel restrictions, that I didn’t hear from Dean, and later, concluded he must have left us. It was only a few months ago when I returned to Bali that the reality of his absence became more evident. When I visited, instead of my usual room at the end of the block overlooking the jungle, I was given the next upstairs bungalow, the one Dean usually stayed in.
Staff, as well as the former ‘manager’ and one of his closest friends, told me they hadn’t heard from him for more than a year. He’d moved to a coastal settlement, closer to the sea, and there were rumours he’d met someone. “Perhaps she was a gold-digger,” suggested his local friend, who I’ll call No. 4. “But I don’t think Dean had much gold for her to mine.”
As we sat under the gazebo, gazing out at the perfect postcard scene of harmony between humans and nature, No. 4 confided that if Dean had already died, he had a rather onerous duty. Dean had asked him to dispose of his body. I thought perhaps that the American might have requested a cremation ritual, common on the island, which has evolved a blend of Hinduism, animism, and Buddhism into a rich mix of ceremony and devotion. But no, instead, he had requested that No.4 deal with his bodily form in another way. “See those coconut trees,” No.4 pointed towards the tall palm trees in the gully, which rose high up to their crown canopy of green fronds sheltering its fruit orbs. “Dean wanted to be strung up in one of those.”
We talked about the practicality of somehow hauling his body up 25 metres or more, and then about what processes and creatures might consume his corpse. It was quite a natural way to go, we concluded, though we did wonder about the sight, smell and impact on other guests staying in the bungalows.
“Dean also had another option, he mentioned to me a few times,” said No. 4, who seemed troubled by the responsibility. Plan B involved Dean’s body being fed to the lions at Bali Zoo. Dean had obviously given this some thought, and it weighed heavily on No.4, not just his role as Dean’s body caretaker, but what the duty might entail.
The following evening, my last before heading back home, I invited No.4 and some of others who knew Dean to get together. Amid the chat and speculation, the cool drinks and spicy snacks, as the breeze picked up and swayed the coconut trees gently this way and that, we had an informal farewell to Dean. Another of his friends — let’s call him Guitar Man — nominated one coconut tree and reckoned with some rope it would be possible to string up a body. No one wanted to try calling Dean’s phone, so I did again, just to confirm it was true. The number was out of service.
Another who knew Dean, let’s call him TaxiMan, talked through what Plan B might involve: chopping up with a machete Dean’s corpse, putting it into bags, visiting the zoo during its 9am to 5pm opening hours, and either throwing the parts over into the lion’s enclosure, or joining the special ‘Lion Feeding’ session (US$5). “I can find out what times they feed the lions and tigers,” he said, having worked out the practicality of this option. No. 4 looked nervous. There was more risk attached with this option, not just from a lion’s fangs, but from the law. How would you explain bags of body parts?
Then, just in time, I heard the strain of the motor-scooter coming up the rise of the terrace towards our place. It was the pizza delivery guy bearing two boxes with calzones I’d ordered.
As for Dean, we still don’t know for sure if he has died. We don’t know the circumstances of his death, or what remains of his body. What we do know is that he is still cherished and remembered. And that there can be few better legacies than to have friends fondly recall a person with a blend of missing, gratitude, and humour.
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Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
It has been a strange year for all of us. Amidst the chaos, bloodshed and climate disasters, Borderless Journal seems to be finding a footing in an orphaned world, connecting with writers who transcend borders and readers who delight in a universe knit with the variety and vibrancy of humanity. Like colours of a rainbow, the differences harmonise into an aubade, dawning a world with the most endearing of human traits, hope.
A short round up of this year starts with another new area of focus — a section with writings on environment and climate. Also, we are delighted to add we now host writers from more than forty countries. In October, we were surprised to see Borderless Journal listed on Duotrope and we have had a number of republications with acknowledgement — the last request was signed off this week for a republication of Ihlwha Choi’s poem in an anthology by Hatchette US. We have had many republications with due acknowledgment in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and UK too among other places. Our team has been active too not just with words and art but also with more publications from Borderless. Rhys Hughes, who had a play performed to a full house in Wales recently, brought out a whole book of his photo-poems from Borderless. Bhaskar Parichha has started an initiative towards another new anthology from our content — Odia poets translated by Snehaprava Das. We are privileged to have all of you — contributors and readers — on board. And now, we invite you to savour some of our fare published in Borderless from January 2025 to December 2025. These are pieces that embody the spirit of a world beyond borders…
I Am Not My Mother: Gigi Baldovino Gosnell gives a story of child abuse set in Philippines where the victim towers with resilience. Click here to read.
Persona: Sohana Manzoor wanders into a glamorous world of expats. Click here to read.
In American Wife, Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.
Sandy Cannot Write: Devraj Singh Kalsi takes us into the world of advertising and glamour. Click here to read.
Reminiscences from a Gallery: The Other Ray: Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen. Click here to read.
A discussion of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal, with an online interview with the translator. Click here to read.
Gower Bhat discusses the advent of coaching schools in Kashmir for competitive exams for University exams, which seem to be replacing real schools. Clickhere to read.
Borderless 