Tag: Khayma Balakrishnan

Categories
Editorial

Other Echoes in the Garden…

“Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them…”

— TS Eliot, ‘Four Quartets: Burnt Norton’(1936)

Humans have always been dreamers, ideators and adventurers.

Otherwise, could we have come this far? From trees to caves to complex countries and now perhaps, an attempt to reach out towards outer space for an alternative biome as exploring water, in light of the recent disaster of the Titan, is likely to be tougher than we imagined. In our attempt to survive, to live well by creating imagined constructs, some fabrications backfired. Possibly because, as George Orwell observed with such precision in Animal Farm, some perceived themselves as “more equal”. Of course, his was an animal allegory and we are humans. How different are we from our brethren species on this beautiful planet, which can survive even without us? But can humanity survive without Earth? In science fiction, we have even explored that possibility and found home among stars with the Earth becoming uninhabitable for man. However, humanity as it stands of now, continues to need Earth. To live amicably on the planet in harmony with nature and all the species, including our own, we need to reimagine certain constructs which worked for us in the past but seem to have become divisive and destructive at this point.

Ujjal Dosanjh, former Minister in the Canadian cabinet and former Premier of British Columbia, in his autobiography, Journey After Midnight – A Punjabi Life: From India to Canada, talks of regionalism as an alternative to narrow divisive constructs that terrorise and hurt others. He writes in his book: “If humanity isn’t going to drown in the chaos of its own creation, the leading nations of the world will have to create a new world order, which may involve fewer international boundaries.” We have a candid conversation with him about his beliefs and also a powerful excerpt from his autobiography.

An interview with Professor Fakrul Alam takes us into Tagore’s imagined world. He discussed his new book of Tagore translations, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore. He has brought out a collection of 300 songs translated to English. In a bid to emphasise an inclusive world, we also have a translation of Tagore’s ‘Musalmanir Galpa’ (A Muslim Woman’s Story) by Aruna Chakravarti. A transcreation of his poem, called ‘Proshno or Questions’ poses difficult challenges for humanity to move towards a more inclusive world. Our translation by Ihlwha Choi of his own Korean poem to English also touches on his visit to the polymath’s construct in the real world, Santiniketan. All of these centring around Tagore go to commemorate the month in which he breathed his last, August. Professor Alam has also translated a poem from Bengali by Masud Khan that has futuristic overtones and builds on our imagined constructs. From Fazal Baloch we have a Balochi translation of a beautiful, almost a surrealistic poem by Munir Momin.

The poetry selections start with a poem on ‘Wyvern’, an imagined dragon, by Jared Carter. And moves on to the plight of refugees by Michael Burch, A Jessie Michael, and on migrants by Malachi Edwin Vethamani. Ryan Quinn Flanagan has poetry that suggests the plight of refugees at a metaphorical level. Vibrant sprays of colours are brought into this section by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Saranyan BV, Jahnavi Gogoi, George Freek and many more. Rhys Hughes brings in a spot of humour with his mountainous poetry (literally) and a lot of laughter with his or rather Google’s attempt at automatic translation of a poem. Devraj Singh Kalsi has shared a tongue in cheek story about an ‘amateur professional’ — rather a dichotomy.

We travel to Andaman with Mohul Bhowmick and further into Sierra with Meredith Stephens. Ravi Shankar travels back in nostalgia to his hostel and Kathleen Burkinshaw dives into the past — discussing and responding to the media presentation of an event that left her family scarred for life, the atomic holocaust of 1945 in Japan. This was a global event more than seven decades ago that created refugees among the survivors whose homes had been permanently destroyed. Perhaps, their stories are horrific, and heart wrenching like the ones told by those who suffered from the Partition of India and Pakistan, a divide that is celebrated by Independence Days for the two nations based on a legacy of rifts created by the colonials and perpetrated to this day by powerbrokers. Aysha Baqir has written of the wounds suffered by the people with the governance gone awry. Some of the people she writes of would have been refugees and migrants too.

A poignant narrative about refugees who flock to the Greek island of Lesbos by Timothy Jay Smith with photographs by Michael Honegger, both of whom served at the shelters homing the displaced persons, cries out to halt wars and conflicts that displace them. We have multiple narratives of migrants in this issue, with powerful autobiographical stories told by Asad Latif and Suzanne Kamata. Paul Mirabile touches on how humans have adopted islands by borrowing them from seas… rather an unusual approach to migrations. We have an essay on Jane Austen by Deepa Onkar and a centenary tribute to Chittaranjan Das by Bhaskar Parichha.

The theme of migrants is echoed in stories by Farouk Gulsara and Shivani Shrivastav. Young Nandani has given an autobiographical story, translated from Hindustani to English by Janees, in which a migration out of various homes has shredded her family to bits — a narrative tucked in Pandies Corner.  Strange twists of the supernatural are woven into fiction by Khayma Balakrishnan and Reeti Jamil.

In reviews, Parichha has explored Arunava Sinha’s The Greatest Indian Stories Ever Told: Fifty Masterpieces from the Nineteenth Century to the Present. Somdatta Mandal’s review of Amitav Ghosh’s Smoke and Ashes: A Writer’s Journey Through Opium’s Hidden Histories seems to be an expose on how historical facts can be rewritten to suit different perceptions and Basudhara Roy has discussed the Greening the Earth: A Global Anthology of Poetry, edited by K. Satchidanandan and Nishi Chawla.

There is more wonderful content. Pop by our August’s bumper edition to take a look.

I would like to give my grateful thanks to our wonderful team at Borderless, especially to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our gifted contributors and our loyal readers. Borderless exists today because of all of you are making an attempt to bringing narratives that build bridges, bringing to mind Lennon’s visionary lyrics:

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

Thank you for joining us at Borderless Journal.

Have a wonderful month!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

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Visit the August edition’s content page by clicking here

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

Categories
Stories

The Coin

By Khayma Balakrishnan

Courtesy: Creative Commons

“What if you ran away?” Shyam suggested when she heard my story and saw the bruises on my hands. I looked at her between my tears. “Where?” I sniffled. Shyam stared at me blankly. She did not have an answer to that question.  I won’t lie. I had thought about running away many times. But I was seventeen and SPM[1] was just a few months away. If I did run away, what would happen to my future? Sometimes I wished that I wasn’t a person who thought so much. Why can’t I be like one of those girls who couldn’t care less? Why couldn’t I take risks? I tucked my hair behind my ears, a nervous habit of mine and looked down at my book, attempting to solve a complicated Additional Mathematics problem. It seemed to be as complicated as my life. I closed my eyes and looked out of the classroom. I wished to be anywhere at all, except home.

After school, I walked home, dreading each step, hoping time would slow down. I walked by the big red mansion, wondering if it really was haunted? As I turned into the junction, I wondered if the aunty and uncle in the corner lot were really abandoned by their sons? Why were all the swings broken in the playground? How many cars were there exactly in the Chinese house? Where did the vegetable seller live? As I came closer to home, my heartbeat quickened. I tucked my hair behind my ears with shaky fingers. Why was the walk home so short?

It was another day of beatings, curses, and a night of sleepless slumber. My mother screamed at me that she wished I had never been born. My aunt slapped me across the face for daring to answer her back. My grandfather spat his tobacco on my face while calling me worthless. As I helped shower my grandmother and changed her clothes, she scratched me, adding on to the existing bruises. After five years, I had gotten used to it. I couldn’t wait to be back at school the next day so I could at least fit in a nap.

As I sat staring at my homework that night, I wondered if things could have been different. What if I had not run away with my mother from my father’s home. He was a drunk who hit us, but back then, my mother loved me. She would hug me and kiss the pain away. I agreed to leave that hell, not knowing my mother would then become the demon. She kept telling me that I ruined her life, that she was stuck in a horrible marriage because of me. Often, I was confused. Was it really my fault? I never asked her to stay. Why was I constantly blamed for her choices?

As I strolled to school the next day, I wondered if Shyam would be willing to listen about what happened the previous day at home. Afterall, it must sound the same to her.  But before I could tell her, she came running to my table at the back of the class. “Don’t go to the canteen during recess, come to the Upper Six classroom, Steph has something to show you.” Before I could ask her more, Puan Vijaya entered the class. Shyam walked back to her table. I glanced at her, and she winked at me.

“Selamat Pagi, cikgu,“[2]we droned. History was fun. Normally, I would be interested. Now, I was curious. What could Steph have? Was it a new book? She had many of those naughty romances that were forbidden reads for us. Or was it a new picture she had drawn? She often drew pictures of men and women doing… that thing. I couldn’t focus as Puan Vijaya read about Malayan Union from the history textbook. Steph, Shyam and I met in Form Three. They have been listening to my stories ever since, offering a shoulder, often being angry on my behalf and asking me to run away from my home. But I was too much of a coward to do that.

The next two periods were biology and Bahasa Melayu[3], which crawled with an unbearable slowness. It was as if time was truly testing me. I kept drawing pictures all over my biology notebook as I barely registered what my teacher was saying. Science never interested me, but I took it to be close to Shyam and Steph. Finally, the much-awaited bell that indicated it was break rang. Girls poured out of classrooms and chatter filled the corridors of the whole school. Shyam looked at me meaningfully from the front of the class. My stomach felt like it might drop from the excitement. We walked together towards the stairs in silence.

On the way to the third floor, a patrolling prefect stopped us. “Masa rehat, tak boleh naik atas. Pergi kantin,[4]” she ordered. My shoulders slumped in defeat, but Shyam perked up. “Terlupa barang dalam kelas tambahan semalam. Sekejap je.[5] Please” I wondered what extra classes she meant but kept mum. The prefect looked at us both, and after a moment, let us pass. I was surprised. Shyam pulled my hand, and we climbed up the remaining stairs. Finally, we were outside the Upper Six classroom. It was a long classroom that had almost thirty tables. The classroom was usually empty as the girls in the Upper Six class were often in the library. Their classes were always conducted there.

Steph had closed the windows and pulled the curtains. I was excited. The moment was here. After we stepped in, we made sure to close the door and lock it. Steph took out a board that had numbers and alphabets. It looked like she had made the board herself. “This board will tell us our future,” she whispered. I eyed it sceptically. “How?” I asked out loud. My voice echoed in the silent room, making us jump.

“Shhhh,” she gestured. “Do you have a coin?” Shyam and I reached into our pockets. I produced a 20cents coin. She took it gleefully. “This is called Spirit of the Coin,” and my eye widened. I had heard of the game. Although I had never played it before, I knew many girls in my school played it, convening with the unseen and unheard. My stomach dropped further. “I’m scared,” I whispered. “Don’t you want to know when you can escape? When will she die?”

Her question piqued my interest. I nodded. Indeed, I did want to know. I just didn’t know if I was brave enough. I tucked my hair back and looked down at the board, studying it. It was a small board, had all of the Latin alphabets and numbers, ranging from zero to ten.

“It’s okay. Shyam and I will play first. You watch us. Then if you want, it’ll be your turn, okay,” I nodded again.

“First, the rules. You cannot summon a spirit that is dead for less than 30 days, or else the spirit will follow you home. You can only ask three questions. You cannot ask the spirit to do any favours for you. You must use the phrase — go home — when you want the spirit to leave, understand?” Shyam and I nodded again, as if in a trance.

I blinked and looked at her and asked, “Wait, what if you ask it to do a favour for you?”

Steph looked at me, surprised. Maybe she hadn’t expected me to ask a question. “From what I heard, the spirit will do it, but you will be indebted to the spirit for the rest of your life,” and I nodded.

“Who taught you how to play this? Did it work,” I pressed on further. I could see Steph was losing her patience.

“I watched my cousins play it yesterday. I remember it,” she said, her voice high from the annoyance she must be feeling towards me. I nodded silently. I had more questions but decided to be quiet. I didn’t want to make her too angry. 

“I’ll go first, you girls watch,” Steph sat on the ground, with the board in front of her. She placed the coin in the middle and muttered something. We felt a blast of wind, which was weird as all the windows were closed and the air was still.

“It’s here,” Steph whispered.

What was, I wondered? But I tucked my hair behind and decided to stay silent. “Will I pass my SPM?” was her first question. The coin started to move, as if on its own. It was fascinating yet frightening for me. Sweat poured out of my forehead as I watched the coin go to the words Y then E and lastly to S. I saw Steph’s eyes grow big. “When will I get married?” was her next question, and again I watched the coin move to numbers 2, then 0, then to 2 and finally to 5. 2025! Steph didn’t look too happy with the answer though. “Go Home!” Steph said out loud. There was a blast of wind, and the air became still.  She looked at Shyam. “Do you want to try?” Shyam nodded.

I looked at the clock in the classroom. We had five more minutes before breaktime was over. When Shyam’s finger touched the coin, we felt another blast of wind. I wonder who she summoned?  “Will I pass my SPM?” was also her first question. The coin answered Y-E-S. But before Shyam could ask her second question, we heard a bell ring shrilly. It indicated that break time was over. We had to hurry. “GO HOME” Shyam commanded. We felt a blast of wind and it was quiet again. Steph folded her board. Shyam held the coin, not knowing what to do with it. Steph took it from her and shoved it in my hand. It felt warm, almost hot.  I was stunned. I did not want the coin. “Keep it, you might need it,” she winked and opened the classroom door.

“Come, let’s go!” Shyam pulled my hand. I stuffed the coin into my pocket.

During the remaining classes, I kept stroking the coin in my pocket. I wanted to play the game, but what would I ask? About SPM? About my future? Or about my aunt? When would she die? When would the torment end? I had so many questions. But the most important question would be which spirit would I call? Appatchi[6]? Tata[7]? Or papa? As Mrs. Lee ended our class, we thanked her. The final bell rang, and as much as I did not want to, I had to start walking home. I wondered what awaited me at home today.

Once home, I quickly changed into my house clothes, and I kept the coin in the pocket of my shorts. I hoped it would give me strength to get through the day. I went through the routine like a clockwork. I bathed ammama[8], while she screeched and scratched me, blended her food and fed her. All while she spat it back on my face. At one point, I got so angry I wanted to scream at her, but I couldn’t. Because they were watching. And waiting for the opportunity to strike me. After feeding ammama, I did the dishes. She had laid out my food. Rice which was swimming in cold rasam[9]. Looking at it, I lost my appetite. I tucked my hair, made sure nobody was watching and threw the food away. I washed the clothes, took in the dry clothes, and folded them. I was used to doing six people’s laundry on my own. I swept and mopped the house. It was already six in the evening.

She had gone out to the pasar malam[10]. I sought permission from appaiya[11] to shower. He nodded and I ran to the washroom. As I was putting on my clothes after the shower, I heard her car honk. “No, no, no…” I muttered as I quickly pulled a t-shirt over and ran to the front of the house. I did not dry my hair and it was dripping, making my t-shirt wet.  She had gotten out of the car and was opening the gate.

“Where were you?” she screamed. The neighbours looked over, and then continued to mind their own business. This was normal to them.

“So..sorry cinamah[12], I was bathing” I answered.

“Why did you take so long to shower? Because of your hair? Do you think you are so pretty that you need to wash your hair? I’ll put an end to this today!” and I knew the worst part of the day was upon me. She dragged me by my hair to the kitchen.

“Kneel!” she commanded. I cried and begged her for mercy. She hit my head with a metal spoon and forced me to kneel. She rummaged the kitchen drawers and took a pair of scissors. She started cutting my hair while I cried. She kept cutting it until the entire floor was filled with hair. My head felt bare and my tears wouldn’t stop. She kicked my back and I fell on the floor. “Sweep up the kitchen. I don’t want to see your hair anywhere,” and she walked away.

Appaiya and amma[13] were watching and had done nothing to stop her. “You deserve it,” I heard amma behind me. I got up and stared at the floor.

My hair was everywhere. I walked towards the broom and swept it all up. I threw it all away and went into the room. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked terrible. There were patches of hair in some parts while some parts were so bare you could see the skin on my head. My tears refused to stop at the sight. How was I going to go to school? The girls would laugh. The teachers would stare. More tears spilled out. At the same time, anger bubbled in me. I wanted revenge. Maybe it was time for me to actually do something instead of crying. I closed my eyes and touched the coin. It felt warm to my touch.

The night went by without any other incidents. Cinamah had a satisfied look on her face, while amma laughed every time she saw me. I stayed in the kitchen as much as possible, until it was time to feed ammama her dinner and put her to bed. I did the rest of my chores quietly, but a plan was growing in my head. By the time they had all gone to bed, it was eleven thirty at night. I was ready to end this torture as well.

I started working on my homework and waited till the clock struck twelve. Then I tip-toed outside each room and waited till I heard their snores. Once I was satisfied, I walked back to the dining table where my books were and took out a piece of paper. I remembered how Steph’s board had looked. I drew the alphabets and the numbers. I reached into my pocket to take out my coin. It still felt warm on my skin. I was ready. I closed my eyes.

“Can you kill my whole family?” The coin remained rooted on its spot. I felt a blast of wind as I caught the coin move slowly.

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[1] Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia (SPM), or the Malaysian Certificate of Education equivalent to a GCSE exam

[2] Selamat Pagi : Good Morning: Cikgu: Teacher

[3] Malay language

[4] Break time, can’t go upstairs. Go to the canteen

[5] I forgot something in an extra class yesterday. Please let me go for a short while.

[6] Grandmother (The mother of one’s dad)

[7] Grandfather (The father of one’s dad)

[8] Ammama: Grandmother (The mother of one’s mom)

[9] A thin and spicy South Indian soup

[10] Night market

[11] Grandfather (The father of one’s mum)

[12] Aunt (Mother’s sister)

[13] Mother

Khayma Balakrishnan enjoys writing stories and poems. Her work in English contains flavours of her native tongue, Tamil, as well as her national language, Bahasa Malaysia. Her works have been published both in print and online from 2017 till 2023.

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

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

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

Categories
Contents

Borderless, May 2023

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

Dancing in May? … Click here to read.

Translations

Aparichita by Tagore has been translated from Bengali as The Stranger by Aruna Chakravarti. Click here to read.

The Kabbadi Player, a short story by the late Nadir Ali, has been translated from Punjabi by Amna Ali. Click here to read.

Carnival Time by Masud Khan has been translated from the Bengali poem by Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Desolation, a poem by Munir Momin, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Loneliness, a poem, has been translated from Korean to English by the poet himself, Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read

Jonmodiner Gaan or Birthday Song by Tagore has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Conversations

A conversation with Mitra Phukan about her latest novel, What Will People Say? A Novel along with a brief introduction to the book. Click here to read.

Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri converses with Prerna Gill on her poetry and her new book of poetry, Meanwhile. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Michael Burch, Lakshmi Kannan, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Shahriyer Hossain Shetu, Peter Cashorali, K.V. Raghupathi, Wilda Morris, Ashok Suri, William Miller, Khayma Balakrishnan, Md Mujib Ullah, Urmi Chakravorty, Sreekanth Kopuri, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In What I Thought I Knew About India When I was Young, Rhys Hughes travels back to his childhood with a soupçon of humour. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

A Towering Inferno, A Girl-next-door & the Big City

Ratnottama Sengupta writes of actress Jaya Bachchan recounting her first day on the sets of Satyajit Ray’s Mahanagar. Click here to read.

Kissed on Kangaroo Island

Meredith Stephens travels with her camera and her narrative to capture the flora and fauna of the island. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In The Reader, Devraj Singh Kalsi revisits his experiences at school. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Making Chop Suey in South Carolina, Suzanne Kamata recaptures a flavour from her past. Click here to read.

Essays

Rabindranath’s Monsoonal Music

Professor Fakrul Alam brings to us Tagore songs in translation and in discussion on the season that follows the scorching heat of summer months. Click here to read.

A Night Hike in Nepal

Ravi Shankar hikes uphill in Nepal on a wet and rainy night along with leeches and water buffaloes. Click here to read.

Moving Images of Tagore

Ratnottama Sengupta talks of Tagore and cinema. Click here to read.

Stories

Threads

Julian Gallo explores addiction. Click here to read.

The Whirlpool

Abdullah Rayhan takes us back to a village in Bangladesh to give a poignant story about a young boy who dreamt of hunting. Click here to read.

Look but with Love

Sreelekha Chatterjee writes a story set in the world of media. Click here to read.

The Mysterious Murder of Adamov Plut

A globe-trotting murder mystery by Paul Mirabile, a sequel to his last month’s story, ‘The Book Hunter’. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Aruna Chakravarti’s Daughter’s of Jorasanko describing the last birthday celebration of Tagore. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Bhubaneswar@75 – Perspectives, edited by Bhaskar Parichha/ Charudutta Panigrahi. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Meenakshi Malhotra revisits Tagore’s Farewell Song, translated from Bengali by Radha Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Somdatta Mandal reviews KR Meera’s Jezebel translated from Malayalam by Abhirami Girija Sriram and K. S. Bijukumar. Click here to read.

Lakshmi Kannan has reviewed Jaydeep Sarangi’s collection of poems, letters in lower case. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Journey After Midnight – A Punjabi Life: From India to Canada by Ujjal Dosanjh. Click here to read.

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

Categories
Poetry

Dusky Beauty

By Khayma Balakrishnan

She’s a dusky beauty
Head full of hair, curly
Wild and carefree,
Living her life simply
Keeping her heart happy

She drives her family crazy
They say she is unruly
She is expected to be ready
A man of their choice, she must marry

She asks, what’s the hurry?
They mumble something about biology
She argues there is no chemistry
They tell her not to worry
That’ll be sorted with a baby

They want her to cook curry 
But they forget, although sweet, she is spicy
She walks away, head held high with dignity
Away from those who don’t understand her, the society

Khayma Balakrishnan is from Malaysia. Her work, albeit in English, contains flavours of her native tongue, Tamil, as well as her national language, Bahasa Melayu. She enjoys writing poetry. When she isn’t writing, she is either teaching, reading, or sipping on chai. Her works have been published both in print and online.

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