Tag: Kolkata

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Musings of a Copywriter

Demolition Drives… for Awards?

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Belated realisation that it played a key, though passive, role in the demolition of homes owned by minority communities generated a sense of remorse. So much so that it has now chosen to demolish what was an item of proud display inside its own home. Whether this fall-out is entirely an act of atonement or just a far-sighted move to avoid tons of rubble of its own reputation built over the years is a matter of speculation at this point. So long as the earth-moving juggernaut refuses to explain whether it has also embarked on a search for the meaning of life, quite like Lorenzo[1], the façade of credibility will continue to be bull-dozed by carping critics and authors.

The three alphabets of its brand name, sounding strikingly similar to ABC, facilitate quick, easy recall of its association with acts of destruction deemed legal though held morally incorrect and interpretative[2]. With images of the demolition drives flashing across various media channels, one name that stands readable is that of the behemoth monster employed and operated to execute controversial missions. While there are domestic brands for everything, this foreign giant emerges as the clear favourite in the construction business. Delivering targets with agility and precision is what has portrayed the entity in bad light. The crushing potential has built the negative brand image that cannot be demolished now. Usually, brands are switched when they do not meet the needs, but in this case, its preferred status due to super performance has wrecked its brand image. Ironical, isn’t it?

The intellectual voices remain shrill, signing letters to lampoon the role of the company in destroying homes and building literary careers. These contradictions cannot go together is the common refrain. Is there any sane voice to enlighten writers that the company does not sponsor the destruction of homes and it cannot insert any clause before product sale to prohibit its use in the razing of homes with it? Surely, they know a manufacturer has no control over how its product will be used or misused. On this count, the corporate shenanigan cannot be held responsible.

Literature gives space to all – including criminals and gangsters – to tell stories and many such memoirs gain legitimacy as works of art later. Misled folks, misfits, and all sorts of misleading characters enjoy the freedom to enter the world of books in some form or the other. If an underworld don decides to set up a chain of brick-and-mortar bookstores and launch a publishing house, the reaction of published authors is a predictable boycott. The literary world that boasts of freedom of speech for all is much likely to shrink and apply the moral compass to ensure its ouster even if the intent of the new entrant is reformist. The world of writing should be, ideally speaking, like a place of worship where the identity of a visitor or his background does not matter when he bows before the Lord.

When a large group of authors come together to use the collective power of the pen to dismantle the role of an award sponsor and question its right to distribute such awards, there is not much the corporate player can do to remain engaged in it. The prize tried to promote writers and writing, not just English but other regional languages, and the hefty prize money enabled many winners to earn a decent income from the job of writing. Now the critical authors seem to rejoice that their objections have been powerful enough to make the company do a rethink or at least for the time being stay out of the awards game. One hopes the protesting writers also launch a similar drive against respected awards that have ignoble connections — many of which they have also competed for or served as a jury member. 

The winners and shortlisted authors of this prize will have nice memories of its brief existence, and they will credit it for bringing regional writers to global limelight. There is another side of this story that requires focus. With Indian regional writers also winning the much bigger and more prestigious International Booker prize (two winners in five years), the unique distinction for bringing regional literature to the global platform gets shared unequally between the two prizes. It cannot champion itself as the sole promoter of Indian languages and literature anymore. That the apparently defunct prize was the first one to give a major boost to Indian regional literature is its solid, solitary achievement that should not be brushed aside on account of the recent episodes of misuse of its quality products. 

Whether the discontinuation is permanent or temporary will be clear within a year – in case the company makes a formal announcement regarding its fate. Till then, speculation gathers froth that the award will have a new avatar and broaden its range and reach to align with the expansive mindset of the flagship corporate brand. As a British major, it is already a force to reckon with in developing countries and it would probably not like to disassociate itself from the world of literature forever. But in case it has already decided to give the prize a silent burial, the voices of dissent will also go down the same path. With some more awards calling it the end of their journey, there is a lot of suspense in the story that will unfold over a period of time.

Many governments the world over have committed atrocities but they continue to be associated with prestigious awards. The sheen of respectability for decades seems to carry global acceptance. For new entrants in literature or cinema, a litmus test is always involved. When there is so much flak to face, to pass the test of time, to prove purity in earnings and non-involvement in fraudulent activities, one thing emerges quite clearly: the new awards cannot beat the veteran ones even if they are tainted.

In such a murky, unequal scenario, isn’t it better to demolish all awards? Awards were set up to recognise talent, to make the tough journey easy with encouragement and monetary compensation. But awards have failed in their objective and turned creative people into chronic fame-seekers. Once it goes out of the system forever, writers will realise they have to write well to be read more. If they do not earn handsome royalty, they will have to pursue some other jobs for a living. This hard truth should be crystal clear. There’s no ray of hope that a big award will come their way to take care of their pension needs.

Writing is addictive because those who want to write will write irrespective of whether there is money or agony. Many classics that are read today have never won any award – because there were no awards to contest and win. Many great authors have produced masterpieces but they never had trophies to display as a mantlepiece.  A return to such a perfect world will demolish the false gods of literary stardom.

.

[1] Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life by Upamanyu Chatterjee was given the JCB award in 2024. Funded by a construction company, (Joseph Cyril Bamford from UK),  the award was started in 2018 and closed down in 2025.

[2] News reports from Guardian, in Business and Human Rights Resource Centre

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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
Essay

The Literary Club of 18th Century London

By Professor Fakrul Alam

Beauty Boarding at Dhaka
Indian Coffee House at Kolkata
Literary hubs or clubs? From Public Domain

We Bengalis think that no one can match us for our addas[1]. If you were growing up in Dhaka in the 1950s or the 1960s and happened to be literary in your inclinations, chances are you would end up on some evenings in Old Dhaka’s hotel-cum-restaurant Beauty Boarding. You would do so not mainly for the good food sold there at modest prices, but chiefly because you intended to see and hear poet Shahid Quadri regaling everyone in a table that probably included budding poets such as Shamsur Rahman and Syed Shamsul Huq, a promising film maker like Abdul Jabbar Khan, or a gifted painter like Debdas Chakraborty.

Over seemingly endless cups of tea, Quadri and his fellow poets and artists and friends and many other enchanted hangers-on would be entertaining each other late into the evening. Everyone present would in all probability say to each other or to others later: “Was there anywhere any adda as good as the one that took place in Beauty Boarding that evening?”

And, of course, Bengalis of Kolkata will claim that there was never ever any place for chatting and no addas held anywhere that have been able to match the ones at the city’s College Street Coffee House. Who hasn’t heard the song by Manna Dey[2] that has immortalised the conversation and the characters there—poets, journalists, actors, artists—all engaged in intellectual chitchat over nonstop cups of coffee? And though the song laments the passing away of a generation, one can find Kolkata’s Coffee House, like Dhaka’s Beauty Boarding, still very busy and very full of addas even now. But surely among the most famous addas of all times were the ones that took place in 18th century London’s “The Club,” aka “Literary Club”. This was the archetypal club for flowing conversation conducted over good food, great coffee, and suitably stimulating drinks (this last bit is conjectural!). Without a doubt, it is the most famous British literary club in history, and here outstanding intellectuals would engage in always entertaining and often scintillating conversation.

Just consider the luminaries in attendance at the Club on a typical London evening. At the centre of the conversation would be the physically huge figure of Dr Johnson—he of the towering intellect, he who was also known as “Dictionary Johnson” for his incredible feat of penning the first substantial dictionary of the English language almost single-handedly. Listening to him would be his devoted biographer, James Boswell; the greatest painter of the period and the founder of the Club, Sir Joshua Reynolds; Burke, the brilliant orator, passionate parliamentarian and indefatigable critic of the East India Company; Oliver Goldsmith, the renowned author and playwright, and Dr Christopher Nugent, the successful physician. As they conversed, sparks surely must have flown all around the table and Boswell must have been taking notes all the time of the pearl s dropping from Dr Johnson’s lips!

It was Reynolds who had proposed the toast associated with the Club— “Esto perpetua,” Latin for “Let it be perpetual.” Club membership was restricted—at first there were nine members, but soon some more were inducted. They included cultural luminaries such as the greatest actor of the time, David Garrick; the great parliamentarian and minister of the British Government for a while, Charles James Fox; the luminous economist Adam Smith and arguably one of the greatest of British historians, Edward Gibbon. According to the author and member of the Club, Bishop Thomas Percy, as far as Johnson was concerned, the thing that all members were to keep in mind was that the Club “was intended” to “consist of such men, as that if only two of them chanced to meet, they should be able to entertain each other without wanting the addition of more Company to pass the evening agreeably”. Or, to use the word coined by the great Dr Johnson himself, Club members had to be “clubbable!”

As one can imagine, with such amazing minds and larger than life characters, the reputation of the Club spread far and wide—in London and beyond. For sure, there were other clubs in swelling and increasingly prosperous London (as is the case with Dhaka now!), and Johnson himself was associated with quite a few of them, but who could compete with the members of The Club?

Initially, Tuesday was set aside as the meeting day, then Friday; eventually other days were considered good for clubbing as well. According to one member, the writer and lawyer John Hawkins, The Literary Club soon proved to be “the great delight of Johnson’s life, a centre of conversation and mental intercourse.” As the century progressed and more and more, people vied with each other to become a member of The Club, strict rules were initiated to keep up its reputation.

Eventually, elections and “blackballing” were procedures chosen to control the number of members as well as to ensure that only “quality” people became members. Hawkins, unfortunately, was deemed to be “unclubbable” by Johnson himself and therefore was soon expelled from the Club! But Club members could be of varying political beliefs—Burke, for example, was passionate about the rights of the American colonists but Johnson critical of them. Burning political issues such as the right of the American colonists came up for discussion and debate but tempers were kept under control and wit-combats proved to be the rule and not scuffles. On most days, conversation flowed freely.

On April 3, 1778, Boswell records in his biography of Johnson, for example, “The conversation began with sculpture” and then “the subject is dropped for emigration; it then moved on to “population increase” and “density”; next to parliamentary oratory, then to philology; afterwards to travelling abroad and thence to “human nature generally”!

Johnson died in 1784, and The Club eventually disappeared from recorded history, but it had survived long enough to become a model of clubs where great minds could come together for a convivial atmosphere, free and witty exchange of ideas, and company worth seeking every evening. It became the inspiration of many such institutions all over the world. Dhaka Club, thus, can claim that any recorder of its primordial history would find The Club as one of its ancestors. For sure, for our club members, or literary minded people wanting to elevate their addas a lot, the London Club can be a source of inspiration and the conduct of its members well worth emulating during addas for fantastic clubbing!

The Literary Club met on Friday evenings until midnight in London. The club gatherings with all the luminaries spanned a period of 20 years. From Public Domain

[1] Could be a tête-à-tête or just a chat with multiple people.

[2] Manna Dey (1919-2013) sang about adda in the legendary Coffee House of Calcutta.

(First published on August 20, 2018 in Daily Star, Bangladesh)

Fakrul Alam is an academic, translator and writer from Bangladesh. He has translated works of Jibonananda Das and Rabindranath Tagore into English and is the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award (2012) for translation and SAARC Literary Award (2012).

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

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Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Syrupy Woes

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Chole Bhature

The doctor is shocked to hear my advice when he prescribes pills and capsules. Accustomed to customisation offers almost everywhere, I am quick to spell out my preference: syrup. As expected, he casts a befuddled look, and takes a while to cool down by closing his eyes, to distract his agitated mind. Here’s a fussy patient sitting right in front of the trained physician, showing the gall to be choosy during a bout of illness, directing the medical practitioner to write what he loves to drink to get cured. Had he not been a member of this noble profession and contractually bound to be courteous, his anger would have compelled him to throw the patient out of his chamber along with his fees.

My fascination for syrups dates back to childhood days. Dr Nandy, a gentle paediatrician, kept the tender organs of a developing kid safe from the side-effects of pellet-size capsules. Whenever my mother took me to him for liver concerns, poor appetite issues, gastric problems or cough and cold complications, he always gave syrups the first chance to cure me. Most of the time, these seemed to suit me well. So much so that I loved to memorise the names and recall them with ease in front of the doctor during the next visit, hoping he would add one of these in the fresh prescription he wrote for me.

Whenever I find these bottles lined up on the shelves inside medical stores even today, I am thrilled beyond measure to discover that these, much like classics, have survived the test of time, despite the arrival of newer brands. My instant query relates to how well these age-old brands are doing in the competitive market, and the chemist does not disappoint by saying most of these record higher sales vis-à-vis several new and heavily promoted brands.

The fear of vitamin deficiency haunts me and this explains my inclination to pop supplements from time to time, with fortnightly breaks thrown in between. Since many of these are sold over the counter, without a valid prescription, I feel it safe to down them without medical recommendations. The first one is the Vitamin B complex syrup that I am fond of – the sweet taste makes me feel tempted to slurp a spoonful twice a day, sticking to the standard dosage limit printed on the label. 

Cough syrups are addictive for some who consume these throughout the year. The sleep-inducing impact slows them down and they tend to relax, not knowing a thing about the harmful effect on their vital organs. As the chemist in the neighbourhood informs me that I should avoid these though the taste is good even if it’s sugar free. I am left with no option but to cough and prove that I need it genuinely and desperately. He offers herbal brands instead, which are costlier but supposedly healthier and safer when consumed in moderation, proving himself to be a true devotee of the bearded yoga instructor who has stretched all possible limits to ramp up the profitability of his medical business empire.  

The pineapple or mixed fruit flavour of the enzyme-boosting appetiser syrup features on top of my list in every season. The pure delight of enjoying the yummy flavour is further enhanced as it makes me crave for more. Instead of two chhole bhatura, I can gobble up four and still find space to add a sweet dish like kheer[1]. When it comes to developing more appetite for a heavy lunch punctuated with burps, trust the syrup to work wonders. In case there is a persistent feeling of heaviness, this is the right time to consume a teaspoonful of antacid syrup to neutralise digestive threats forming alliances inside me. These have retained their charm over the years and I prefer to have a dedicated cabinet for these, just like those who flaunt a wine cabinet to mirror their class.

My last visit to a very senior doctor to find relief from stress and anxiety did not produce results of my choice as he ruled out the possibility of syrups being effective in my case. He wrote down the name of a sleep-inducing drug to relax my jangled nerves. I discontinued the dose after having a few pills that produced some side effects I was not ready to face. I switched to bananas for higher magnesium and preferred darker chocolates to boost up feel-good hormones to battle rejections with a smiling visage.

Being a vegetarian, my mother was deprived of Omega 3 as chia seeds were not a household name yet. She kept having capsules that were specified to be non-vegetarian. Despite knowing the truth, she made no distinction between vegetarian and non-vegetarian stuff when it came to life-saving medicines. When I approached the doctor to know if a syrup for Omega 3 enrichment existed, he suggested a new syrup. I started enjoying the awesome taste as it is cheaper and affordable than walnuts and seeds. To keep nerves strong in a precarious profession like advertising is a priority and the consumption of a syrup for better nerve function is justified. What goes on inside the brain and the damage caused due to creative exhaustion is something undetected until the symptoms of shaky hands begin to disturb. One never knows when one reaches the excess level using supplements to stay healthy.

When the snack break phase started, I switched to protein shakes and protein bars to imitate body builders and gym goers. Always being deficient in terms of protein, I found this to be a good source to regain muscles, to punch mobsters and gangsters with my powerful fist. From a practical angle, this would mean I was strong enough to lift shopping bags and gaze at my brawny biceps without feeling ashamed that they lacked firmness. Guzzling syrupy, sugary protein and energy boosting drinks might not be the healthiest way to stay fit, but it is certainly one of the most effective ways for protein-keen people to build strength and stamina without burning a hole in the pocket. With discount offers raining across online platforms at odd hours, I am always on the lookout for the steal deal to pick up protein-rich drinks. My calf muscles need to remain strong enough to enable my long, winding walks to connect with nature and ideate, to climb three floors without feeling breathless and worn-out.

Whenever I am travelling within the country, I prefer to carry my syrup bottles as I am not sure of getting the same brands elsewhere. I do not forget to consume these during breakfast, post lunch and after dinner. Many doctors I met in my circle have found it funny that I was so obsessed with syrups.

After I discovered from articles that many creative people, not just writers, were fond of syrups and they were legends, my confidence has grown manifold. Even if I cannot compare my output with their body of work, what enters my body does some good work indeed.

The other day, my chemist made an attempt to break my bonding with syrups and suggested that I should consult good doctors for pills because syrups are not right for my age. I did not understand what made him suggest this, but I felt he realised I was old enough to fatten his medical income. These syrups were nominally priced and of no use for his profitability. To sound less hurtful, I said I would add an iron supplement next month but it was a lollipop he was not interested in. Even if he stopped giving discounts on syrups, I was okay with that.

I produced prescriptions which were old, and he refused to sell on the basis of these. I confessed the doctors who wrote these prescriptions were no longer alive. I had to produce a new prescription and so I was forced to approach a young doctor who sat in his shop. I told the doctor I have no health reason to consult him for but I want his permission to keep drinking these syrups. He refused to write down the names but when I came out with a forlorn look and paid the fees, the chemist gave me a hamper of syrups again! Was he trying to make an extra buck forcing me to consult with the doctor on his premises?

[1] Dessert of thickened milk

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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
Interview Review

Of Wanderers and Migrants & Anuradha Kumar

A review of Anuradha Kumar’s Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India (Speaking Tiger Books) and an interview with the author

Migrants and wanderers — what could be the differences between them? Perhaps, we can try to comprehend the nuances. Seemingly, wanderers flit from place to place — sometimes, assimilating bits of each of these cultures into their blood — often returning to their own point of origin. Migrants move countries and set up home in the country they opt to call home as did the family the famous Indian actor, Tom Alter (1950-2017).

Anuradha Kumar’s Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India captures the lives and adventures of thirty such individuals or families — including the Alter family — that opted to explore the country from which the author herself wandered into Singapore and US. Born in India, Kumar now lives in New Jersey and writes. Awarded twice by the Commonwealth Foundation for her writing, she has eight novels to her credit. Why would she do a whole range of essays on wanderers and migrants from US to India? Is this book her attempt to build bridges between diverse cultures and seemingly diverse histories?

As Kumar contends in her succinct introduction, America and India in the 1700s were similar adventures for colonisers. In the Empire Podcast, William Dalrymple and Anita Anand do point out that the British East India company was impacted in the stance it had to colonisers in the Sub-continent after their experience of the American Revolution. And America and India were both British colonies. They also were favourites of colonisers from other European cultures. Just as India was the melting pot of diverse communities from many parts of the world — even mentioned by Marco Polo (1254-1324) in The Kingdom of India — America in the post-Christopher Columbus era (1451-1546) provided a similar experience for those who looked for a future different from what they had inherited. The first one Kumar listed is Nathaniel Higginson (1652-1708), a second-generation migrant from United Kingdom, who wandered in around the same time as British administrator Job Charnock (1630-1693) who dreamt Calcutta after landing near Sutanuti[1].

Kumar has bunched a number of biographies together in each chapter, highlighting the commonality of dates and ventures. The earliest ones, including Higginson, fall under ‘Fortune Seekers From New England’. The most interesting of these is Fedrick Tudor (1783-1864), the ice trader. Kumar writes: “In Calcutta, Dwarkanath Tagore, merchant and patron of the arts (Rabindranath Tagore’s grandfather), expressed an interest to involve himself in ice shipping, but Tudor’s monopoly stayed for some decades more. Tagore was part of the committee in Calcutta along with Kurbulai Mohammad, scion of a well-established landed family in Bengal, to regulate ice supply.”

Also associated with the Tagore family, was later immigrant Gertrude Emerson Sen (1890-1982, married to Boshi Sen). She tells us, “Tagore wrote Foreword to Gertrude Emerson’s Voiceless India, set in a remote Indian village and published in 1930. Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore called Emerson’s efforts, ‘authentic’.” She has moved on to quote Tagore: “The author did not choose the comfortable method of picking up information from behind lavish bureaucratic hospitality, under a revolving electric fan, and in an atmosphere of ready-made social opinions…She boldly took in on herself unaided to  enter a region of our life, all but unexplored by Western tourists, which had one great advantage, in spite of its difficulties, that it offered no other path to the writer, but that of sharing the life of the people.’” Kumar writes of an Afro-American scholar, called Merze Tate who came about 1950-51 and was also fascinated by Santiniketan as were some others.

Another name that stuck out was Sam Higginbottom, who she described as “the Farmer Missionary” for he was exactly that and started an agricultural university in Allahabad. Around the same time as Tagore started Sriniketan (1922), Higginbottom was working on agricultural reforms in a different part of India. In fact, Uma Dasgupta mentions in A History of Sriniketan: Rabindranath Tagore’s Pioneering work in Rural Reconstruction that Lord Elimhurst, who helped set up the project, informed Tagore that “another Englishman” was doing work along similar lines. Though as Kumar has pointed out, Higginbottom was a British immigrant to US — an early American — and returned to Florida in 1944.

There is always the grey area where it’s difficult to tie down immigrants or wanderers to geographies. One such interesting case Kumar dwells on would be that of Nilla Cram Cook, who embraced Hinduism, becoming in-the process, ‘Nilla Nagini Devi’, as soon as she reached Kashmir with her young son, Sirius. She shuttled between Greece, America and India and embraced the arts, lived in Gandhi’s Wardha ashram and corresponding with him, went on protests and lived like a local. Her life mapped in India almost a hundred years ago, reads like that of a free spirit. At a point she was deported living in an abject state and without slippers. Kumar tells us: “Her work according to Sandra Mackey combined ‘remarkable cross-cultural experimentation’ and ‘dazzling entrepreneurship.’”

The author has written of artists, writers, salesmen, traders (there’s a founder/buyer of Tiffany’s), actors, Theosophists, linguists fascinated with Sanskrit, cyclists — one loved the Grand Trunk Road, yet another couple hated it — even a photographer and an indentured Afro-American labourer. Some are missionaries. Under ‘The Medical Missionaries: The Women’s Condition’, she has written of the founders of Vellore Hospital and the first Asian hospital for women and children. Some of them lived through the Revolt of 1857; some through India’s Independence Movement and with varied responses to the historical events they met with.

Kumar has dedicated the book to, “…all the wanderers in my family who left in search of new homes and forgot to write their stories…” Is this an attempt to record the lives of people as yet unrecorded or less recorded? For missing from her essays are famous names like Louis Fischer, Webb Miller — who were better known journalists associated with Gandhi and spent time with him. But there are names like Satyanand Stokes and Earl and Achsah Brewster, who also met Gandhi. Let’s ask the author to tell us more about her book.

Anuradha Kumar

What made you think of doing this book? How much time did you devote to it? 

These initially began as essays for Scroll; short pieces about 1500-1600 words long. And the beginnings were very organic. I wrote about Edwin Lord Weeks sometime in 2015. But the later pieces, most of them, were part of a series.

I guess I am intrigued by people who cross borders, make new lives for themselves in different lands, and my editors—at Scroll and Speaking Tiger Books—were really very encouraging.

After I’d finished a series of pieces on early South Asians in America, I wanted to look at those who had made the journey in reverse, i.e., early Americans in India, and so the series came about, formally, from December 2021 onward. I began with Thomas Stevens, the adventuring cyclist and moved onto Gertrude Emerson Sen, and then the others. So, for about two years I read and looked up accounts, old newspapers, writings, everything I possibly could; I guess that must mean a considerable amount of research work. Which is always the best thing about a project like this, if I might put it that way.

What kind of research work? Did you read all the books these wanderers had written?

Yes, in effect I did. The books are really old, by which I mean, for example, Bartolomew Burges’ account of his travels in ‘Indostan’ written in the 1780s have been digitized and relatively easy to access. I found several books on Internet Archive, or via the interlibrary loan system that connects libraries in the US (public and university). I looked up old newspapers, old magazine articles – loc.gov, archive.org, newspapers.com, newspaperarchive.com, hathitrust.org and various other sites that preserve such old writings.

You do have a fiction on Mark Twain in India. But in this book, you do not have very well-known names like that of Twain. Why? 

Not Twain, but I guess some of the others were well-known, many in their own lifetime. Satyanand Stokes’ name is an easily recognisable still especially in India, and equally familiar is Ida Scudder of the Vellore Medical College, and maybe a few others like Gertrude Sen, and Clara Swain too. I made a deliberate choice of selecting those who had spent a reasonable amount of time in India, at least a year (as in the case of Francis Marion Crawford, the writer, or a few months like the actor, Daniel Bandmann), and not those who were just visiting like Mark Twain or passing through. This made the whole endeavour very interesting. When one has spent some years in a foreign land, like our early Americans in India, one arguably comes to have a different, totally unique perspective. These early Americans who stayed on for a bit were more ‘accommodating’ and more perceptive about a few things, rather than supercilious and cursory.

And it helped that they left behind some written record. John Parker Boyd, the soldier who served the Nizam as well as Holkar in Indore in the early 1800s, left behind a couple of letters of complaint (when he didn’t get his promised reward from the East India Company) and even this sufficed to try and build a complete life.

How do these people thematically link up with each other? Do their lives run into each other at any point? 

Yes, I placed them in categories thanks to an invaluable suggestion by Dr Ramachandra Guha, the historian. I’d emailed him and this advice helped give some shape to the book, else there would have been just chapters following each other. And their lives did overlap; several of them, especially from the 1860s onward, did work in the same field, though apart from the medical missionaries, I don’t think they ever met each other – distances were far harder to traverse then, I guess.

What is the purpose of your book? Would it have been a response to some book or event? 

I was, and am, interested in people who leave the comforts of home to seek a new life elsewhere, even if only for some years. Travelling, some decades ago, was fraught with risk and uncertainty. I admire all those who did it, whether it was for the love of adventure, or a sense of mission. I wanted to get into their shoes and see how they felt and saw the world then.

Is this because you are a migrant yourself? How do you explain the dedication in your book? 

I thought of my father, and his cousins, all of whom grew up in what was once undivided Bengal. Then it became East Pakistan one day and then Bangladesh. Suddenly, borders became lines they could never cross, and they found new borders everywhere, new divisions, and new homes to settle down in. They were forced to learn anew, to always look ahead, and understand the world differently.

When I read these accounts by early travellers, I sort of understood the sense of dislocation, desperation, and sheer determination my father, his cousins felt; maybe all those who leave their homes behind, unsure and uncertain, feel the same way.

You have done a number of non-fiction for children. And also, historical fiction as Aditi Kay. This is a non-fiction for adults or all age groups? Do you feel there is a difference between writing for kids and adults? 

I’d think this is a book for someone who has a sense of history, of historical movements, and change, and time periods. A reader with this understanding will, I hope, appreciate this book.

About the latter half of your question, yes of course there is a difference. But a good reader enters the world the writer is creating, freely and fearlessly, and I am not sure if age decides that.

You have written both fiction and non-fiction. Which genre is more to your taste? Elaborate. 

I love anything to do with history. Anything that involves research, digging into things, finding out about lives unfairly and unnecessarily forgotten. The past still speaks to us in many ways, and I like finding out these lost voices.

What is your next project? Do you have an upcoming book? Do give us a bit of a brief curtain raiser. 

The second in the Maya Barton-Henry Baker series. In this one, Maya has more of a lead role than Henry. It’s set in Bombay in the winter of 1897, and the plague is making things scary and dangerous. In this time bicycles begin mysteriously vanishing… and this is only half the mystery!

We’ll look forward to reading a revival of the characters fromThe Kidnapping of Mark Twain: A Bombay Mystery. Thanks for your time and your wonderful books.

.

[1] Now part of Kolkata (Calcutta post 2001 ruling)

Click here to read an excerpt from Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India

(This review and online interview is by Mitali Chakravarty)

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

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Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Gastronomy & Inspiration? Sherbets and More…

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Entering the sherbet shop introduced me to an ambience I was not au courant with at all. Not the usual, expectedly flashy interiors greeted my bespectacled eyes. Instead, I was transported to another era, a kangaroo leap of a century in time, to witness heritage stir up breezy nostalgia. With old-fashioned teakwood tables, carved chairs, and antique lamp shades, framed, sepia-tone portraits of legends decorating the distempered walls chipped at various places, it was not difficult to guess that the outlet had retained a robust connection with the hallowed past.

As I walked in with the curiosity of an aficionado exploring an art gallery, there was so much else to engage myself with – apart from the listings on the laminated menu card. Before I sat down and ordered something to gulp down my parched throat, I chose to update myself with a walking tour of the entire sherbet joint. Driven by thirst to find enriching inputs from knowledgeable sources, I finally settled down and asked for assistance from the gentleman who served. He looked eager to share anecdotes about the quaint little shop, tucked away in a small, congested lane, that had managed to retain its client base with support from young students who made it their favourite haunt despite the easy availability of snazzy food kiosks and juice corners proliferating around their college premises. That the present generation – and the several earlier ones – had realised the need to patronise this outlet as a historical and cultural link was truly worthy of appreciation.

I trooped in at different hours of the day, and found that most of the seats were occupied by college and university students who were also lovers searching for a comfortable, affordable space where they could sit for long hours, sip their favourite sherbet, and slow down the passage of time while holding hands and making lifetime commitments. As the straw pipes in the two glasses made empty noises, couples ordered another tall glass of sherbet, of an untried flavour, to keep alive the flow of their discussions and personal plans for some more time without feeling remorseful that they were adversely impacting the commercial profitability of the century-old outlet with their prolonged stay. This sensibility was rare but precious and the sherbet store staff never disturbed such couples who preferred the rear seats, keeping themselves away from public glare. The front benches were readily available for fleeting customers of our kind who walked in casually to enjoy the chilled sherbet and walked out with a vintage experience.

Leading luminaries from diverse streams such as politics, arts, and literature frequented this shop over time. Their portraits on the walls were not only tributes to their contribution but also a part of cherishing the close association with the change-makers. A small conversation with the manager revealed snippets from the past – passed down the generations as heirlooms. Refreshing tales energised customers who felt delighted to be present here. Imagining this century-old world was recreated by the culturally conscious owners, who brushed aside upgradation requests only to preserve as much of the past as possible. The giant ceiling fans circulated not much air. So an air-conditioning system had been installed. But the slowly whirring fans were not dismantled. The wooden deer head wall mount above the door was a silent reminder of how much had not changed despite the lapse of time.

I chose to go with the manager’s recommendation – daab malai sherbet [1]– for a hot summer afternoon. He called it the favourite summer drink of a famous city-based author from the last century. I should have thanked him for offering it to another wannabe writer – even though he would not have been much impressed with this disclosure. At a personal level, the writer inside felt motivated that two authors, from two different centuries, enjoyed the same cooling drink under the same roof. Talking about the merits of the sherbet, it was amazing to taste: authentic and traditional. The flavour was different if not unique and this outlet was proud to offer it to those who valued the past. When I asked him if I could get this drink anywhere else in the city, he was reticent for a while. After poring over its faint possibility, he set me free to explore the city to find something remotely close and comparable to this drink. There was a smirk on his face, which suggested I would fail in my mission to get an equivalent to what I was served here.  

He suggested grapes crush sherbet as another specialty I would relish, and its taste was unique this time, with crushed grapes floating around the fragmented ice cubes to lend an authentic appeal. After consuming these two flavours, the flavours of the past came alive in my mind. I felt really close to the great artists on the wall, feeling the immediate need to write creative stuff. This was working at another level: offering me loads of inspiration and motivation to write. It was more effective and quicker than attending motivational workshops or literature festivals to boost up creative energies and overcome my writer’s block. Tuning into great speeches by life coach experts often failed to resonate with the audience. But my brief visit here seemed to have worked wonders as I was already feeling charged up to go home and write something powerful to move the cold, insensitive generals of warring nations to embrace peace forever.

The rapid flow of ideas made me insecure about losing them on my way home and I regretted not carrying a notebook to jot them down. When I visited the place again, I made it a point to carry my diary and pen and sat for hours to draft a story outline. It was not a matter of shame as I found the serving staff look happy to see my passion, to be added to their new list of great patrons. As our familiarity developed further, they showed me newspaper cuttings mentioning the sherbet outlet – how some journalists kept them alive in the print editions just as the young crowd made their outlet famous on the social media, with hundreds of Instagram reviews and top ratings of the place.  

This was just one outlet that motivated me but I was sure there should be more in the city, not just sherbet shops. I looked for other outlets that were part of the lives of the great artistes. I made it a quest to look for them in order to experience a surge of motivation that always does not come from sitting idle in front of an open window. As I began my search for similar outlets, I came across several of them still operating from modest spaces.

There was a bookstore on the first floor of a ramshackle building where some leading film directors came to buy imported books. Climbing the same stair case evoked feelings of nostalgia. In an era when many bookstores have shut down, this family-owned bookstore had over the generations expanded its list to include vernacular and academic books to stay commercially viable. The wooden shelves and the cash counter manned by a dhoti-clad septuagenarian gentleman keeping a hawk’s eye like a surveillance camera suggested retirement was still far away.  I was informed by the gentleman regarding the operational presence of another stationery store where many freedom fighters came to buy pens and ink. Holding a fountain pen bought from the store located in the next street, hidden behind a paan shop basking in the glory of serving great musicians of the country, I walked home to begin a new story with it.

As I continued with my search for such outlets to stir the pot of motivation, I realised, to identify closely with such landmark establishments, was indeed a powerful way to fill myself with zest and zeitgeist. During my next journey, I came across a sweet shop specialising in a wide variety of sandesh and its owner, standing beside a pedestal clock that was functional since the nineteenth century, spoke of the days of glory, with the intellectuals of the city dropping in the evening to pack boxes of sweets. They continued to keep the freshness of the sandesh alive without any compromise in terms of quality. They are not affected by modern shops making false claims of serving high quality traditional sweets. They proudly say those who value good taste and can differentiate between fake and original are their clients, always ready to pay extra to buy pure and tasty stuff. The melt-in-the-mouth experience of their sweets was heavenly indeed. I made it my preferred shop to buy sweets from to celebrate all successes in life. For festive occasions, there could be other shops, but to celebrate success I chose to bring home sandesh from this shop alone, even if it meant going an extra mile for their delicacy. It has been quite a while since I last went there – because the occasions to celebrate successes have dried up in the recent years, with tragedies and setbacks mounting allied attack since the pandemic. While the sherbet store has helped me regain a lot of confidence in the writing process, I hope the sandesh shop will soon find me at their glass counter, to order packets of sweets to celebrate literary success.  

[1] Coconut cream sherbet

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

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Categories
Musings Stories

Dhruba Esh & Amiyashankar

Ratnottama Sengupta introduces a prolific, popular and celebrated Bengali writer and an artist

Dhruba Esh; Courtesy: Kamrul Hasan Mithon


“Dhruba Esh, born 1967, is a full time cover designer – and a part time writer. He has authored stories for children and thrillers for grown-ups. A total of 40 books — or maybe more.”

This is from the cover flap of one of the artist’s published works. Cryptic? Yes. But it does not fail to convey the whimsy every Dhaka-based publisher and poet identifies with the name, Dhruba Esh. Read what Humayun Ahmed (1948-2012), a prolific author, dramatist and director of unforgettable films like Ghetuputra Kamola[1], saysabout the designer in Chaley Jaay Basanta Din[2]. “Must get hold of Dhruba Esh. For some unknown reason he’s been out of reach. Pasted on the front door of the flat he lives in is an A4 sized paper. It is adorned with the sketch of a crow in flight and is signed off with these words in Dhruba’s handwriting: ‘The Bird has Flown the Nest.’

“What I need to do is this: Throw away that A4 sheet and replace it with another, inscribed by these words: ‘Come back, Birdie!’

“Dhruba Esh might not know, but a bird that takes to its wings always returns to its nest. Only the caged bird has nowhere to fly off to. Its only reality is to stay put in one location…” 

Why am I taking a serious note of what Humayun Ahmed wrote? Not only because Dhruba Esh has penned the biography, Tumi Achho Kemon, Humayun Ahmed? More so because this custodian of Bangladesh literary culture, who continues to be a top seller at Ekushe Book Fair[3], is one of the cornerstones of modern Bengali literature on either side of the barbed wires.

Dhruba Esh is himself a legend in the Bangla literary firmament, I learn from Kamrul Hasan Mithon, a photographer turned publisher cum writer has been instrumental in reconnecting me with my father, Nabendu Ghosh’s roots in Kalatiya, once a village in Dhaka district that is now a suburb of the capital city. Bhaiti, as I affectionately address him, has been writing a column, Dyasher Bari (Ancestral Home), in Robbar (Sunday) magazine published online from Kolkata. Featured in it are all the major names of Bengali art, literary and cinema world — from Suchitra Sen, Mrinal Sen, Paritosh Sen to Ganesh Haloi, Miss Shefali, Sabitri Chatterjee and not forgetting Baba.

“Dhruba Esh is just one of his kind. He does not have a wife, no mobile, nor a Facebook page. He does not even ride a bus or train. If a destination is too long to walk, he travels only by rickshaw. He is most indifferent to money matters. But he is most enthusiastic about painting and designing. 

“Starting in 1989, when he was still a second year student at the Dhaka University, he has designed nearly 25,000 book covers. In addition he has designed music albums – and T’s too! Three years ago he was bestowed with the Bangla Academy Literary Award for his contribution to Children’s Literature – with titles such as Ayng Byang Chang [4] and Ami Ekta Bhoot[5].”

I fell for ‘Amiyashankar…’ at the very first reading. How effortlessly the surreal narrative etches a contemporary reality obtaining in the land of my forefathers!

Amiyashankar Go Back Home

Story by Dhruba Esh, translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta

Subachani or Bar footed Geese flying over Himalayas: From Public Domain

“Amiyashankar Go Back Home!”

“That’s the title of the book?”

 “Yes Sir.”

“Is there a poem by this name?”

“No Sir. There’s no mention of Amiyashankar in my poetry.”

“No mention at all? Oh!”

“Can I send you some of my poems?”

“You may send.”

“Can you do the cover within this month?”

“Not this month. You’ll get it on the 12th of the next month. Only sixteen days to go now.”

He started laughing.

He’s a small town poet. A young professor. I have been to the town where he teaches in a girls’ College. It’s like a watercolour painting. There’s a river to the north of the town. Blue mountains in the distance complete the view.

The geese of Subachani had flown over this town on their journey towards the Manasarovar to restore Ridoy to his human size. The poet was unaware of this. He has not read Buro Angla[6].

“What is the book about? Birds?”

“You can find the PDF on Google.”

“Thanks. I will read it.”

Two days later he called. “Reading Buro Angla has sparked some fireflies in my mind. I’d not read the book until now.”

He was given my number by Rasul Bhai, a poet and a cricketer from the same town. He just about looks after the family publishing business. A good person. Last year I had done the cover for his book of poems, Lake Mirror of the Full Moon.

The poet had emailed his poems. He had said he’d send some poems, instead he had sent the PDF of the complete book. On the basis of Divine Selection I read 13 poems. He cannot be faulted for not reading Buro Angla. This poet writes good poetry. In two days I readied the cover for his book.

*

“Is Amiyashankar a friend of yours?”

“No.”

“Why are you telling him to go back home?”

“Because he is Amiyashankar.”

“What?”

“His wife waits for him.”

“He has no one of his own but his wife?”

“He has kids. One son, one daughter.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a teacher in a government primary school.”

I was startled. Subhankar, Tushar, Amiyashankar, me — we are childhood friends. Our Amiyashankar is a teacher in a government primary school. He has a son and a daughter. The poet who lives in another town has never been to our town. He is not likely to have set his eyes on or made an acquaintance of Amiyashankar. Or, is a person likely to know another person through social media?

“I am not on social media,” said the poet.

“Why?”

“I get disoriented. Confused.”

“Oh. Your Amiyashankar’s wife is named Mitra?”

“Mitra. Yes, I did not tell you, sorry. Amiyashankar’s son is called Arnab, his daughter is Paramita.”

“Why are you creating Amiyashankar?”

“I have no friend.”

Our Amiyashankar’s wedded wife is Mitra. His son is Anu, Miti his daughter.

I call him.

“Hey, what’s the proper name of Anu and Miti?”

“Here — Anu is Arnab…”

“And Miti is Paramita?”

“Yes. You know it already.”

Really tough to suffer this.

I mentioned the poet. Amiyashankar did not read or write poetry. He had never heard of the poet.

“A modern poet?” he was curious.

“A post-modern modern poet.”

“Now what is THAT? Good to eat or wear?”

“Eat. Wear.”

“Does it hide your shame?”

“It covers your shame.”

“Good if it hides all.”

“Yes. Right. Where are you now?”

“I’m here, at Moyna and Dulal’s stall, sipping tea.”

“Aren’t you cold? Go back home.”

Amiyashankar, go back home.

*

On the 12th I sent the EPS file of the cover to the poet.

“If you don’t like it you may discard it,” I messaged.

Reply: “Will you design another cover then?”

Reply: “No.”

Reply: “This will do. I like it. There’s no Amiyashankar but one can visualise him. Thanks. Do I pay you online through bKash?”

I sent my bKash number. He sent the money.

End of give-and-take.

*

I blocked the poet’s number. I deleted every bit of communication in the mail. We had an Amiyashankar in flesh and blood. The poet had concocted an identical Amiyashankar. That Amiyashankar did not live and breathe – how’s that? Such convolution and complication! I was fed up of continuously, endlessly, unendingly living in complexity.

Better to shut my eyes and think of uncomplicated glow worms in my mind.

.

[1] A 2012 film by Humayun Ahmed centring around the exploitation of ghetupatras – young boy performers, Komala being a ghetupatra.

[2] The spring day passes

[3] Known as Eternal Twenty-first Book Fair is the largest organised by the government in Bangladesh.

[4] Bang is frog in Bengali. The rest are fun rhyming words.

[5] I am a ghost

[6] Book by Abanindranath Tagore (1871-1951, nephew of Rabindranath Tagore) published in 1953. Buro Angul is Thumb in Bengali. This is the humorous story about a mischievous boy, Ridoy, who was shrunk to the size of a thumb. He had to journey to the Mansarovar in Himalayas to regain his original size and meets various creatures, including the geese referred to here.

Dhruba Esh, born 1967, is a full time cover designer — and a part time writer. He has authored stories for children and thrillers for grown-ups. A total of 40 books — or maybe more. This story was first published in Bengali in a hardcopy journal called Easel.

Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of  The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and writes books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award. 

.

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

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Categories
Feature

In Translation: Bitan Chakraborty

The story of Hawakal and a conversation with the founder, Bitan Chakraborty, whose responses have been translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta.

Hawakal Publishers grew out of the compulsive need young Bitan Chakraborty had to express and connect. This was a young man who was willing to labour at pasting film hoardings to fund his dreams. An Information Technology professional by training, Chakraborty realised early he did not want to tread on trodden paths and started his journey as a creative individual. Now, he not only writes and publishes but also designs the most fabulous covers and supports local craftsmen.

Over the last nearly two decades, the brand Hawakal has become synonymous with traditional poetry publication from India. They do not offer buy back deals or ask to be paid like most publishers but pick selectively. No one seems to know what it is they look for. All Chakraborty says is – “We aimed to introduce a fresh wave in publishing.”

First Bengali book by Hawakal: Ut Palaker Dairy – Diary of a Camel Herder published in 2009
First book in English published by Hawakal in 2015

Chakraborty writes fully in Bengali which is why the dentist-turned-writer-turned-publisher, Kiriti Sengupta, had to chip in with the translation of his responses in Bengali. Their friendship matured over the last decade when Sengupta approached Chakraborty to publish a book of critical essays, which along with essays on Sharmila Ray’s poetry homed critical writing on his too. This was the first English publication of Hawakal.

Sengupta had given up dentistry by then and was living in a hostel on a packet of Maggi a day to indulge his creative passions.  A skilled poet with a number of books under his belt, he eventually joined Chakraborty to run the English section of Hawakal.  He also translates from Bengali to English. We have one of his translations of Chakraborty’s short story, Disappearance. A powerful reminder of social gaps that exist in the Subcontinent, it’s a poignant and frightening narrative, the kind someone writes and imagines out of a passion to reform.

Some of Bitan’s works are available in English. His style — by the translations — seems graphic. The deft strokes make the landscape and the stories almost visual, like films. 

Chakraborty worked with ‘Little Magazines’ for some time. Then he made his way into publishing full time. Though he found it hard to make ends meet, he started his adventure without compromising his beliefs. He wanted to take books to readers and, with that spirit, they started the Ethos Literary Festival, where they host writers published by them. In fact, in the 2025 festival, Hawakal sold more than 400 books in seven hours! Who said poetry doesn’t sell?

Bookstall at Ethos Litfest 2025
Packed House at Ethos Litfest 2025
Glimpses from Ethos Literary Festival 2025. Photos provided by Hawakal

Chakraborty and Sengupta have yet another hallmark. They wear matching clothes. These are tailored with material sourced from handloom weavers. They resorted to this when they found that commercialisation was killing the traditional homeborn handlooms. In that spirit, they started a clothes venture too, Mrinalika Weaves. 

Chakraborty is an unusual person – as the interview will reveal – humble, stubborn with aims like no other publisher or writer in this day and age! He doesn’t talk of money, survival, politics, awards or glamour, but what matters to him. He is direct and straightforward and perhaps, his directness is what makes his outlook appealing. He translates a few to Bengali for his own growth. But these are poets who are known for their terse writing. Maybe, that is what he looks for… Let’s find out!

Conversation
Bitan Chakraborty. Photo Courtesy: Kiriti Sengupta

Bitan, you are a multifaceted person: a writer, an artist, a photographer, and, most importantly, a publisher for all writers. What is it you most love to do and why?

I need to talk. What I observe or learn from my experiences compels me to express myself. Therefore, regardless of the medium I use, I strive to convey meaningful messages. Nevertheless, the range I enjoy in weaving words is unparalleled.

What sparked your interest in writing? Please elaborate. Do you only use Bengali to communicate with others? Do you translate from other languages to Bengali?

I felt emotionally down when I began writing. What a dreadful time it was! I believe it must be the emotional turmoil of my youth. However, writing has never left me since then. It’s more accurate to say that I have never managed to rid myself of my urge to write. During the early period, my writings contained more emotion than substance. In my college years, I was engaged in student movements that helped me discover the purpose of words. Society, socio-economic status, politics, and human dissatisfaction are the themes that run through my stories. Bengali is my mother tongue: I think, speak, dream, and curse in Bengali. I find it challenging to derive the same pleasure from using another language; it is my shortcoming.

Nevertheless, when I meet outstanding works in English, I attempt to translate them into Bengali. Not everything I read, but I have translated poems by Sanjeev Sethi and Kiriti Sengupta. I have consistently translated Gulzar into Bengali, but it has yet to be published in book format. Translation is a mental exercise; it particularly helps when I am experiencing writer’s block. I read poetry when I wish to untangle my thoughts, and when I come across fine poems in another language, I try to make them my own — bring them into my culture through translation.

Do you write only prose or poetry too?

I have been writing stories and essays for the past fifteen years. Interestingly, I began with poems, but they turned out to be junk. Therefore, I focussed on writing fiction.

Many of your stories focus on the Bengali middle class. What inspires your muse the most? People, art, nature, or is it something else?

I grew up in a lower-middle-class environment. Poverty, unemployment, and debt were parts of my formative years. I witnessed how this economic disparity allowed a particular segment of society to insult and humiliate others. Consequently, I have developed a strong affinity for those who are underprivileged. Later, when I began writing fiction, my political awareness enhanced my observations — I was able to merge the existing economic inequality with the nation’s political perspectives. The lessons I have learned over the years motivate me to write.

You design fabulous book covers. Do you have any formal training, or is it a natural flair?

When I entered the publishing industry, I had no funds to commission professionals for book covers or layouts. I had been involved with Little Magazines since my college days. I used to spend hours with the printers, meticulously observing how they designed cover spreads and interior text files. This experience proved useful when I began producing books. For the past several years, I have frequented bookstores, picking up a book or two — I also purchase books online, especially those that help me stay abreast of recent developments in book architecture. In my early years, I was unable to learn design formally due to financial constraints.

When and why did you decide to go into publishing? Could you tell us the story of Hawakal?

From 2003 to 2008, I was involved with four Little Magazines. Bengali Little Magazines thrive on minimal funds. Therefore, we (the team) managed everything necessary to publish a little magazine. We oversaw printing, distribution, book fairs, and other activities. By the middle of 2007, I realised I wasn’t suited for a day job. I understood that I would struggle to survive the conventional 10 am to 5 pm career. During that time, my family was in financial difficulties. Suddenly, we had the opportunity to publish Kishore Ghosh’s debut collection of poems, Ut Palaker Diary. It was published under the banner of the little magazine I was actively working with. As we worked on the book, I learned that publishing a magazine and publishing a book were entirely different endeavours. A little magazine is primarily sold through the efforts of its contributing writers and poets, while a book is sold through the combined efforts of the author and the publisher. I decided to pursue publishing as my career after we successfully sold 300 copies of Ghosh’s book in 10 months. That was the beginning.

Why did you opt to name your firm after a windmill — Hawakal in Bengali? Please elaborate.

We spent days selecting a name for our publishing concern. Finally, we chose the title of one of Kishore Ghosh’s poems as our company name. Hawakal, in English, means windmill. It signifies an alternative source of energy. We aimed to introduce a fresh wave in publishing. As an independent press, we have consistently operated ahead of our time. From developing a fully-fledged e-commerce hub (hawakal.com) in 2016 to producing the highest number of books during the pandemic (2020-2021), Hawakal has accomplished it all.

The first logo of Hawakal designed by contemporary artist, Hiran Mitra and then modified over time by Bitan Chakraborty.

You have boutique bookshops in Kolkata, Delhi — any other places? I believe you started a collaboration to get your books into the USA? Could you tell us a bit about your outlets and how you connect writers with the people? Are your boutique shops different from other bookshops? Do they only stock Hawakal books?

As you know, Hawakal has two functional ateliers in Delhi and Kolkata, while our registered office is located in New Delhi. We do not have any plans for an additional studio in India. We also have a bookstore in Gurgaon called Bookalign. There is a small outlet in Nokomis, Florida. It is a new unit in the United States. We primarily stock books published by Hawakal and its imprints (Shambhabi, CLASSIX, Vinyasa). However, we carefully select titles from other publishers for our store. We have sufficient seating in the store, allowing readers to browse the books before making a purchase. Since we publish non-mainstream authors, readers need to make a conscious choice. This not only benefits the authors we publish, but it also helps us evaluate the effectiveness of our selection process.

You started as a Bengali publisher, if I am not mistaken, and then forayed into English; now you are bringing out a translation in Hindi? How many languages do you cover? Do you plan to go into publishing in other languages?

We initially focused on Bengali books. Our venture into English titles began when Kiriti Sengupta joined Hawakal as its Director. Publishing a Hindi book was unexpected. However, we will not release books in other languages that we cannot read or speak. It is essential, as a publisher, to be well-versed in the language of the books we publish.

What kind of writers do you look for in Hawakal?

Would you like me to reveal the truth? We expect more than just satisfactory work from our writers: we want writers who will value their work passionately and take the necessary steps to reach a wider readership. Please don’t assume that what we expect from our authors is not something we adhere to ourselves. We expect this because we understand what it means to be truly passionate about one’s writing.

I heard that Hawakal was diversifying into textiles. How does that align with your writerly and publishing journey?

We opened our first kiosk in Mathabhanga, North Bengal, back in 2016. We simultaneously sold books and sarees from that small outlet. We had to close the shop due to a lack of staff. Kiriti Sengupta has long cherished the dream of representing the fine textiles of Bengal. Our family has grown larger. Bhaswati Sengupta and Lima Nayak have joined the team; they are the ones who established Mrinalika, collaborating with artisans from remote regions of India to showcase their creations to a wider audience.

Where do you envision yourself and Hawakal, your most extraordinary creation, ten years from now?

We aim to publish fifty timeless books over the next decade.

Thanks for your time and for the service you render to readers and writers.

Cinema’s Artform edited by Bitshok Bhattacharya
Covers designed by Bitan Chakraborty

[1] Ut Palaker Diary – Diary of a Camel Herder

Click here to read Disappearance, a story by Bitan translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta.

(This feature — based on a face to face conversation — and online interview is by Mitali Chakravarty)

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
Review

Job Charnock and the Potter’s Boy

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: Job Charnock and the Potter’s Boy

Author: Madhurima Vidyarthi

Publisher: Niyogi Books

The nomenclature ‘historical fiction’ is sometimes quite confusing for the reader who keeps on wondering how much of the novel is real history and how much of it is the figment of the author’s imagination. Beginning in 1686, and set in the later part of Aurangzeb’s reign, this work of historical fiction named Job Charnock and the Potter’s Boy charts the turbulent history of an insignificant hutment in the inhospitable swamps of Sutanati in Bengal that becomes one man’s unyielding obsession. This man is no other than Job Charnock whom we all claim to be the original founder of the city of Calcutta.

Bengal during that period was the richest subah of the Mughal Empire and the centre of trade. The English were granted a toehold in Hugli when Shah Jahan ousted the Portuguese in 1632 and made it a royal port. Since then, they had been worrying Shaista Khan, the current nawab at Dhaka, to give them permission to erect a fort at the mouth of the river but the wily old nawab did not agree and dismissed their petitions repeatedly. This was a period of extreme flux when the European powers like the Dutch, the Danes, the French and the English were all playing out age-old rivalries in new battlefields, aided and abetted by individual interests and local conflicts. This is when Sir Joshua Child was at the helm of East India Company’s affairs in London throughout the 1680s and his plans were brought to fruition in faraway Bengal by William Hedges and then Job Charnock.

Of the earliest champions of the British Empire, none was as fanatic or single-minded as Job Charnock. He evinced no wish for private trade or personal gain, and unlike many of his contemporaries who returned to England as wealthy ‘nabobs’, he lived and died here as a man of modest means. His life’s work was only to identify the most strategic location on the river and secure it for his masters.

Sutanati, with its natural defences and proximity to the sea, appealed to his native shrewdness and he applied himself in relentless pursuit.  The story of this novel begins in Hugli in 1686, on the first day of the monsoon, when a poor potter, Gobardhan, and his wife, Indu, find it difficult to make ends meet and their life is centred around their young son Jadu. In the guise of Gobardhan relating bedtime stories to his son, the novelist very tactfully gives us the earlier historical background of the place. He tells us how during his great-great-grandfather’s time, two hundred years ago, Saptagram was the greatest city in the country, the greatest port in the Mughal Empire where ships and boats came from all over the world. Later the Portuguese bought land and built a fort at Golghat, but the Mughals grew jealous of them and finally attacked Hugli and ousted them from there.

Coming down to the present time, Jadu is twelve years old when his parents are burnt to death in front of his eyes as they were innocent bystanders in the struggle for power between the East India Company and the Nawab of Bengal. By a quirk of fate, Jadu is rescued by his father’s Mussalman friend, Ilyas, who is really protective of the boy and acts as a substitute father figure. But soon Ilyas leaves for Dhaka on a diplomatic mission and thrusts the young boy in the hands of a trusted Portuguese sailor and captain called D’ Mello. Since then, Jadu is drawn into the whirlwind of events that follow. He spends a lot of time on the river, and from December 1686 to February 1687, stays at Sutanati. Then, he moves from Sutanati to Hijli, and back to Sutanati up to March 1689, till at last he stands face to face with the architect of his misfortune — Job Charnock himself.

The rest of the tale hovers around how Jadu becomes one of his most trusted aides and though Charnock’s grand dreams did not come to fruition during his lifetime. When he died in 1693, the place was still a clutch of mud and timber dwellings still awaiting the nawab’s parwana[1] to build and fortify the new settlement. The English finally managed to acquire the zamindari rights to Sutanati, Kolkata and Gobindopur in November 1698, when the area had become quite lucrative by then.

In exploring the how, but more importantly the reason for this coming into being, the story then speaks of the motivations of the great and good and the helplessness of the not so great, all of whom in their own way contributed little nuggets of history to the city’s birth.  The novel is also filled with common folk, both local natives as well as foreigners, who watch unheeded while destinies are shaped by the whims of rulers. Interwoven with verifiable historical events and many notable characters from history, the novel therefore is above all primarily the story of an innocent boy Jadu who navigates the different circumstances he is thrust in and emerges victorious and hopeful in the end. As the narrative continues, he also moves from innocence to maturity. Through his eyes we are given to read about a wide range of characters who form the general backdrop of the story.

In the ‘Author’s Note’ at the end of the novel, Madhurima Vidyarthi categorically states that this is not a history book, but she has strung together imaginary events over a skeleton of fact, based on the sum of information available. She states, “While trying to adhere to accepted chronology, the temptation to exercise creative license is often too great to be overcome”. The most significant character in this perspective is Job Charnock’s wife, who has been the subject of much research and her treatment in the Company records is typical of the time. But though a lot of information is available about Charnock’s daughters repeatedly in letters, Company documents, baptismal registers, and headstones, their mother is conspicuous by her absence. This is where the author applies her ‘creative license’ and makes Mrs. Charnock’s interactions with Jadu reveal his coming of age, and with her death, he symbolically reaches manhood. Vidyarthi also clarifies that several characters in the novel like Jadu, his parents, Ilyas, Manuel, Madhu kaka and Thomas Woods are also imaginary, and they represent the nameless, faceless masses during that period and therefore provide a ‘slice of life’ that make up history. All in all, this deft mingling of fact and fiction makes this almost 400-page novel a page-turner, ready to be devoured as fast as possible.

[1] Written permission

Somdatta Mandal is a critic, translator and a former Professor of English, Visva Bharati, Santiniketan.

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Musings of a Copywriter

Driving With Devraj

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

After training for several months, I discovered that my driving instructor was not a qualified, certified one. With years of practice, he could easily take beginners for a ride. That he could bring the car to a screeching halt and avert head-on collision was his claim to fame recycled through unverified narratives circulated by his acolytes. Whatever he taught came under the lens of suspicion when I cross-checked with the driving manual and online videos. Nothing seemed to match with the tricks he passed on, making me feel the need to unlearn everything. The final moment of awakening arrived when my cousin laughed at my clumsy gear shifting exercise and raised the obvious question: who taught you driving?

A clutch of rapid-fire queries, based on observations, to assess my fitness to go behind the wheel deflated my confidence. I shared with him the reality of the fake instructor who fleeced gullible folks with his dignified facade. Always dressed in spotless white kurta like sober academicians, he did not come across as a man who negotiated sharp bends at great speed and mastered the art of rash driving. The windshield of his falsehood was smashed by a business rival trying hard to expand his start-up business. The veracity of accusations could not be established but the active involvement of my driving coach in a fraudulent network was further corroborated by some disgruntled former employees. Sadly, it was too late for advanced learners to cancel the admission and enrol elsewhere. 

Excavating facts revealed interesting details. His driving licence – issued decades ago – was obtained after bribing the officials as he did not meet the eligibility criteria. Gathering false certificates of secondary school education and submitting those documents was an offence that never surfaced due to lack of investigation. He drove around the city and the state even though he did not deserve to be granted a valid licence. He cleared the litmus test and silenced those who expected him to make a blunder. He reversed the car with precision and amazing control. It was so spectacular that the senior officer, who had never seen such a move in the real world but only in action films,  felt he surpassed the need for other examinations, thus allowing the bogus instructor to hit the road with legal approval.

Picking up driving skills while working as a helper for a lorry driver was his first big break.  He gained experience and then switched to smaller, lighter vehicles he fondly referred to as toys.  Once he became comfortable, he made it his strength and spent days and nights driving taxis and matadors. Nothing seemed to match the rule book as his learning process was organic. Practical exposure made him an expert and he taught others just the way he taught himself. All those who sought his guidance were granted licences very quickly and this was the key reason why he remained popular over the years.

His contacts were useful as many jobless and illiterate youth trained under him to acquire genuine licences just as he had done long ago. The issue of corruption was immaterial as he appeared to be a messiah who provided the scope to get employment. Even though his modus operandi was shady, nobody accused him of misdoings till recently. Tons of regret that I shelled out a premium amount to learn exclusively from him for an hour every day. His 1:1 tutoring model failed to impart flawless training. I feel ashamed of learning the ropes from an instructor who duped unsuspecting entrants by mentoring them without sticking to the rule book. He formulated his own set of rules and remained confident that accidents would never occur if his guidelines were strictly followed even on dug-up, potholed roads.

Clearing the driving test in front of the transport officer was a big victory for which I remained grateful to the driving school and the dubious instructor, even though I realised the need to learn a lot more to drive safely. He believed in pushing the learner to get rid of fears – like throwing a non-swimmer inside the Olympic-sized pool on the first day. We were encouraged to take risks in our stride and decide how to get past a stray dog or a stranded bovine in the middle of the road without honking incessantly from a long distance and disturbing the peace of the locality. There is no denying the fact that it was more of a trial-and-error method of learning under his tutelage. He expected the learners to observe him and learn. Instead of pointing out individual shortcomings, he sought focus on his style, hoping we would also pick it up like he did from his truck driver boss. Since he managed to get valid licences for all learners enrolled with his school, there was nothing called rejection or loss of fees. Evidently, the amazing clearance statistics never grounded his growth story.  

Whenever I hit the road, I knew I had to face unexpected dangers. Driving through crowded streets and negotiating narrow lanes without scratches on the chassis involved prayers. Every day I had to thank God for keeping me safe. But one day I ran out of luck and rammed the front bumper into a pillar. As it was more than a dent, it had to be replaced. This accident led to a dent of confidence and I became afraid of my irresponsible driving, entrusting my spouse to handle the vehicle. Henceforth, all I did was to take the car out of the garage and park it right outside the house.

The sight of a truck pounds my heart even when I am not driving the car. I feel it is there with the ulterior motive of bumping me off, sent on a special mission by one of my hidden enemies. Such is the residual impact of watching masala potboilers from Bollywood that I suspect something fishy when I see a speeding truck either in front of me or catching up fast from behind. Although my spouse urges me to stay calm, it is the best example of anxiety attack that wrecks my state of mind. She suggests I should face more trucks to overcome this irrational fear but the beastly trucks and containers do not leave me in peace. I hold their domineering presence on the roads to be equally responsible for my failure to ace driving skills. Seeing other people remain composed in front of trucks makes me wonder how fearless they are. The highways are meant for heavy vehicles and it is common to find a fleet of trucks every hour. We often hear and read stories about drunken truck drivers bumping off car passengers. I always share such tragic news with my spouse to make her understand that my fears are genuine, raising concerns regarding the company-fitted air bags that fail to open up when required. 

Recently, she asked me to hire a full-time personal instructor and learn driving once again as she finds it cumbersome to guide me on the roads. But I suspect all drivers have acquired the licence from the same instructor with dubious credentials. The retired gentleman in my neighbourhood has bought a swanky car and he drives around quietly, making my spouse shower compliments on his smooth driving style. Envious, I approached him one evening to know how he mastered driving and from where he learnt. I poured forth my sob story and he suggested I must begin as a fresher. I sought his help in this regard and offered my car for training purpose in case the safety of his vehicle was his worry. But he politely declined. However, to lift my spirits, he conducted a short theory test. My answers did not satisfy him. When I asked him why he refused help, he confessed he was also a student of the same school but he had to learn it all over again from his daughter who lived in another city. If a retired fellow can learn how to drive, there is hope for me.

Even though my licence is valid, I consider myself unfit to drive and keep others safe. The best way to use it is to furnish it as my address proof to get the cooking gas cylinder. I should have learnt driving before marriage like my spouse did. But then, I had no idea I would get any chance to drive. I admire those sunroof sedans in the Western movies where romantic, breezy scenes of long drives are filmed so well. But the ground reality of roads is quite bumpy here. You have to ensure safety of vehicles and lives, which is nothing less than a miracle in a chaotic world where car crashes have become common like fractures.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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Contents

Borderless, May 2025

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

“Imagine all the people/ Living life in peace”… Click here to read.

Translations

The Day of Annihilation, an essay on climate change by Kazi Nazrul Islam, has been translated from Bengali by Radha Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Arise O Woman and Two Flowers on One Leafstalk, lyrics by Nazrul, have been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Five poems by Bipin Nayak have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das. Click here to read.

Identity by Munir Momin has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

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

Asha or Hope by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Ryan Quinn Flangan, Jim Bellamy, Snehprava Das, George Freek, Niranjan Aditya, Christine Belandres, Ajeeti S, Ron Pickett, Kajoli Krishnan, Stuart McFarlane, Snigdha Agrawal, Arthur Neong, Elizabeth Anne Pereira, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Did He Ever?, Rhys Hughes gives fun-filled verses on Lafcadio Hearn, a bridge between the East and West from more than a hundred years ago. Click here to read.

Musings/ Slices from Life

Will Dire Wolves Stalk Streets?

Farouk Gulsara writes of genetic engineering. Click here to read.

The Boy at the Albany Bus Stop

Meredith Stephens dwells on the commonality of human emotions. Click here to read.

The Word I Could Never Say

Odbayar Dorj muses on her own life in Mongolia and Japan. Click here to read.

Social Media Repetition

Jun A. Alindogan discusses the relevance of social media. Click here to read.

Shanghai in Jakarta

Eshana Sarah Singh takes us to Chinese New Year celebrations in Djakarta. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In My Writing Desk, Devraj Singh Kalsi writes of the source of his inspiration. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Feeling Anxious in Happy Village, Suzanne Kamata relates a heartwarming story. Click here to read.

Essays

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.

This Garden Calls Out to Me: A Flaneur in Lucknow’s Sikandar Bagh

Prithvijeet Sinha takes us back to a historical landmark, made for love but bloodied by war. Click here to read.

Stories

Going to Meet the Hoppers

Fiona Sinclair writes a layered story on human perspectives. Click here to read.

The Ritual of Change

Parnika Shirwaikar explores the acceptance of change. Click here to read.

The Last Metro

Spandan Upadhyay explores the spirit of the city of Kolkata. Click here to read.

Nico Finds His Dream

Paul Mirabile narrates how young Nico uncovers his own yearnings. Click here to read.

The Bequest

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a story reflecting a child’s lessons from Nature. Click here to read.

Conversation

Ratnottama Sengupta introduces and converses with photographer, Vijay S Jodha. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Devabrata Das’s One More Story About Climbing a Hill: Stories from Assam, translated by multiple translators from Assamese. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Ryan Quinn Flangan’s Ghosting My Way into the Afterlife. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Arundhathi Nath‘s translation, The Phantom’s Howl: Classic Tales of Ghosts and Hauntings from Bengal. Click here to read.

Andreas Giesbert reviews Rhys Hughes’ The Devil’s Halo. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Aubrey Menen’s A Stranger in Three Worlds: The Memoirs of Aubrey Menen. Click here to read.

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

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