Tag: Malaysia

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Tribute

The Eternal Sleep of Kumbhakarna

By Farouk Gulsara

I reported to Kuala Pilah[1]District Hospital on 11th August 1989. Just having passed out from medical school a year earlier, followed by a year of housemanship training, I was rearing to go. Like Dr. David Livingstone, who explored the interior of Africa to treat the needy (and convert them), I thought I would change the world.

1989 Kuala Pilah District Hospital was a secondary 100-bedded hospital with a resident Obstetrician-Gynaecologist, a few medical officers and a functioning operating theatre. Many seriously ill patients who needed tertiary care were transferred to a general hospital about 40km away.  

The hospital administrator was pleasantly surprised to meet me. He thought I would join the team when the rest of the doctors reported on the first of the month. Truth be told, I was down with a case of occupational hazard. I was down with chicken pox after delivering a mother with the disease. I had to extend my training ten days after exhausting my annual leave.

After the cursory formalities, I was given time off to help settle in. The hospital did not have any accommodation facilities for its staff. They only had a vacant but rundown wooden attap house just outside the hospital. It had all the basic amenities, electricity and water supply. I thought I would use it temporarily before getting better accommodation elsewhere. That is when I was introduced to CK. CK was to be my housemate. 

CK was working as an anaesthetic medical officer in the hospital. He was a year senior to me in service and was training to be an anaesthetic specialist. He alternated with another medical officer trained in anaesthesia to do daily calls in the Kuala Pilah District Hospital. 

CK walked in when I was talking to the hospital administrator, Dr Teng. 

“Oh yes. This is Dr. CK. He can be your housemate,” Dr Teng said. He will move into a new place once he gets one.”

“I think I’ll stay with CK and probably share his new place,” I said, “…that is if he is okay with sharing.”

CK was a lovable chap with a smiling face and an approachable demeanour. Slightly chubby, he resembled a cuddly teddy bear. His affable charm put everyone at ease, which helped him in his career as an anaesthetist. I later found that, understandably, the one thing he loved in his life was his food. He would later jokingly say that his paunch was an asset for him in his job. It helped to stabilise patients’ heads when he was intubating them. 

A tall Minangkabau roof. From Public Domain

Before the phrase ‘living out of a suitcase’ became vogue, I was already living that life. Uprooting from point A to point B meant shoving everything into a couple of suitcases into the car’s boot, and off I went. My needs were few. 

My stay was at an old wooden house built with a tall Minangkabau-styled roof. At any time of the day, it was cool. A cool breeze constantly swept through the length of the house. The tall ceiling helped. Despite its location in the heart of Kuala Pilah town, it was eerily quiet. The only noise one hears is the squeaking of its wooden floor when someone walks. As mentioned, the home had modern electricity and water supplies. The quarters pleasantly surprised me with a newly installed telephone line. 

It was a time before digital mobile devices came into existence. All we had were landlines and pagers. Telephones were essential to medical treatment as they remained the only way to track down doctors on the go, from ward to ward, in a compound with single-story buildings. It was comical to see musical chairs at play. Sometimes calling someone is like playing ‘Whac-a-Mole’. One calls Ward B only to be told the doctor has gone to Ward A, which has just been called. In emergencies, if a doctor could not be tracked down, a runner (literally the most agile of the staff) would run from point to point to hunt the doctor down. The public announcement system was available but would forever be under repair, and the person holding the key to the audio room would be AWOL[2]. 

As CK was the anaesthetic medical officer (MO) on call, attending cases that needed surgery, he did not need to sleep in the hospital. He could return to his quarters (the one I was to share) after midnight to retire for the night. He would typically hang around the hospital before leaving for his quarters when the coast was clear.

Now, CK was a heavy sleeper. Like Kumbhakarna[3], he was one of those who could sleep through a nuclear holocaust. The only thing that CK woke up to was a telephone ringing—the first ring at that! No, the bleep of the pager would not do.

Later that evening, after meeting around the new colleagues, CK and I walked to a nearby food court for dinner. The char koay teow[4] stall there later became our favourite hunting ground for dinner for the next year while we were there in Kuala Pilah. 

Ah Chong, the char koay teow seller, who had known CK for his regular patronage, ran out. Ah Chong was born and bred in Kuala Pilah. He ran Kuala Pilah’s famous halal char koay teow stall and took a keen interest in every little gossip around town. A simple-looking man whose wardrobe probably had two types of garments — white pagoda tee-shirts and black knee-length trousers — must probably be one of the wealthiest men in Kuala Pilah. 

“Hello, boss. What happened early this morning, ah? So much commotion, with lights, honking and ambulance sirens. What happened? A bus accident or something like that? I think the whole of Kuala Pilah got up!”

CK sheepishly told Ah Chong, “No, nothing. The hospital just wanted to contact me.” Ah Chong left to prepare our dish.

After Ah Chong left our table, CK started to chuckle.

“You know what he is talking about?” asked CK.

“No.” I shrugged.

“The day I arrived here, I knew I would be on-call. And I took the quarters to stay before getting a proper house. Teng, the administrator, told me to do calls on the third day I arrived.” CK started. “I told Teng he needed to install the telephone line at the quarters immediately as they may need to contact me after late.” 

“Teng told me he will get it done next week. He said, “You know, these small towns, they do things slowly.”

“I told him I was doing calls and that I am a deep sleeper. The only thing that wakes me up is the sound of a phone ringing.”

“But he said he would get it done as soon as possible.”

“Yesterday, I was on call. I don’t know why; maybe it was because it was the start of the hungry ghost month or something, and the wards were eerily quiet. There were no cases after 4pm.”

“I was at the doctors’ lounges watching TV and dosed off. Can you imagine there were bed bugs on the settee cushion?”

“I started scratching and scratching like a monkey on heat. I left for the quarters, telling the Operation Theatre (OT) staff to contact me if needed.”

“I left close to midnight. As luck would have it, a mother came in just as I left, after being in labour at home since morning. Our friend, Morrison, thought she needed a Caesarian Section. They paged me. Twice. No reply. So, Wahab, the OT attendant, ran to the quarter.”

“Wahab came to the quarters’ gate. He was just too shy to come in. So, he started calling for me. I must have been in my deepest sleep state. I guess I was just too tired yesterday. Too tired, not doing any work.”

“After a few times, he started throwing pebbles at my window. No response. Then he ran back to the nurse to tell the situation. The OT nurse, now in desperate mode, called the ambulance driver. She thought the ambulance driver, being good at raising the alarm, could raise me from a dead sleep!”

“What?” I exclaimed. I had no clue in which direction this story was going.

“Now, the ambulance driver is a smart man. He knew it was 4 o’clock on a Tuesday morning. He can’t simply turn on the ambulance siren at full blast. People had to go to work the next morning. He had to answer if any of the townfolks were to complain.” 

“He brought the ambulance near the quarters, parked it facing the main gate and turned on the high beam. No reply. Then he flickered it repeatedly. All were quiet in the rooms.”

“Then the genius thought, why not turn on the beacon? So, up came the stroboscopic red light twirling around town, waking everybody!”

“He was not prepared for what came next. Lights from nearby shophouses started flickering, too. Soon, he could see silhouettes of people drawing their curtains, trying to figure out the commotion. One by one, everyone was up!”

“Still, I was sleeping, it seemed. As a last measure, before calling the police, the driver started blaring the siren!”

“Luckily, I got up. As an instinct, I saw my pager and the numerous messages there.”

“I ran out like the Merry Melodies cartoon character. I got the shock of my life when I came out to the gate. Outside, to greet me were the uncles and aunties, with their sarongs[5]and nighties, all with blurry eyes trying to make sense of the pandemonium. I could see through the windows that the lights were on. People were craning their necks trying to see all the excitement — lights, ambulance lights, siren and crowd.”

“KP is a peaceful town. I think people never get more excitement in their lives. Ever.”

“Anyway, the surgery went fine and baby too.”

That was how our first day started. A few days after that episode, we moved to a single-storey house some 10 minutes from the hospital. Filled with quirky moments like that and many more, we got embroiled in our respective works. A year flew past by. CK went on to be a consultant anaesthetist a few years later. We have been in contact since.

One October morning, 2024, I heard CK was found slouched in the bathroom. He had an apparent coronary event. Nothing could arouse CK this time, not even the 1,000 elephants who allegedly walked over Kumbhakarna to wake him up. 

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[1] Kuala Pilah is the second in the State of Negeri Sembilan, Malaysia. It is 36 km from the state capital, Seremban, and 101 km from Kuala Lumpur.

[2] Absent without official leave

[3] In Ramayana, Ravana’s (the king who abducted Sita) brother is Kumbhakarna. An intellectual and physically menacing prince was tricked into receiving the boon of sloth. He remained asleep for six months, just to get up, eat and sleep again. Legend has it that he could only be awakened by having 1,000 elephants walking over him.

[4] A popular stir-fried flat rice noodle dish of Southern Chinese origin

[5] A loose cloth wrapped around the lower body, worn by men and women of the Malay Archipelago.

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

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

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Essay

A Doctor’s Diary: Syncretic Festivities

By Ravi Shankar

I fondly remember my first place of work after graduation and the lessons it taught me. My education and house surgency had prepared me well for medical practice. I was removed from the cocoon of my alma mater and learned to practice medicine in the community. I have not visited the place after I left, and the ensuing three decades must have brought about a lot of changes. Unsure if any of my colleagues are still working at the hospital.  I owe a debt of gratitude to the nurses, fellow resident doctors, specialists and others who got me started on the long road toward independent medical practice!

I recall… in the 1990s, the time was after two in the afternoon when I reached Perumpaddapa in Malappuram district of Kerala state in India. I had used public transport. Public transport in Kerala is mainly provided by private buses. I was happy to meet two of my seniors working at the KMM hospital as medical officers. The hospital had advertised a resident medical officer (RMO) post in local dailies, and I had travelled to apply for the position.

Coincidentally, two seniors both had the same name as me — Ravi, and they strongly recommended me for the position. The Medical Superintendent was a paediatrician. Based on my academic records and my friends’ recommendations, I was offered the position. The hospital was a busy one and it was my first job after graduation and house surgency. Soon we had three Ravis as RMOs at the hospital. The other two RMOs were named Abdul Ghafoor.

The hospital was next to the famous Puthenpalli (new mosque in Malayalam) and was located at the Southern border of Malappuram district. There was a strong influence from the neighbouring district of Thrissur where I did my undergraduate medical degree. The nearest town was Kunnamkulam. I had frequented the town many times before. We, the RMOs were posted in different departments, and had to take emergency duty in turns. There was an emergency duty room. We spent the evening and night there while on duty. The hospital had a psychiatry department and a coronary care unit (CCU). These were not common in the 1990s. In the evening, we accompanied the psychiatrist and the internal medicine specialist on their rounds in the psychiatry ward and the CCU. The hospital was not built to a central plan, and buildings had been added as per need leading to a warren of buildings and structures.

During the mornings I worked in the Paediatrics outpatient department (OPD) and assisted the Paediatricians. Our lead child specialist was very popular in the region and had a lot of patients. Most doctors working in the hospital did private practice in the afternoon and evenings. On my non-duty days, I would be free by around two in the afternoon. I stayed in a quarter provided by the hospital. The quarter was a two-story building surrounded by swaying coconut and betel nut trees. I was on the top floor and my apartment had a small sit out, a living room and a bedroom and a kitchen. There were two quarters on the top floor while the ground floor only had one large quarter occupied by our orthopaedic surgeon. There were two buildings in proximity.

The rooms had basic furniture —  armchairs, cots and beddings. There were no curtains and old fashioned open wooden cupboards fitted into the walls. These consisted of wooden planks and frames recessed into the wall. These are often depicted in older Malayalam movies.

I occasionally made house calls. The region had a lot of individuals working in the ‘Gulf’. Remittances had made the region prosperous.   

It was a short three-minute walk to the hospital. Puthenpalli was a popular place for pilgrimage. The mosque contains the maqbara (grave) of a renowned Sufi saint, Sheik Kunjahmed Musaliyar. Devotees believe that his blessings keep the place safe and radiant. The consecrated water at the mosque is believed to have divine healing powers.

Puthenpalli Mosque
Duffu Muttu dance
From Public Domain

Puthenpalli Nercha[1] was the annual festival and drew pilgrims from far and wide. Ghee rice was distributed to the pilgrims and the needy. Ghee rice is a popular delicacy in the Malabar region. The flavour was largely syncretic as the festival was in December around Christmas and it catered to all communities irrespective of religious inclinations. A grand procession involving elephants and traditional musical performances like Chenda Melam using the traditional drums of Kerala and Mapila Pattu… dances like Kol Kali and Duffu Muttu followed.

Chenda Melam
Kol Kali — a stick dance
From Public Domain

It is typical of Kerala that religious festivals have both a religious and a community purpose. Over centuries, different religions have co-existed in harmony. Elephant processions are common in Hindu temple festivals and are also increasingly used in church and mosque celebrations.

In the olden days these festivals were also important locations for commerce as various stalls were set up selling a variety of goods. Today with online shopping sites and home delivery this may be less important though the shopping attraction still exists. These festivals enable people to forget the challenges of daily life and be transported to a different world for a few days. The Hindu festivals are called Poorams or Velas, the Christian ones are termed Perunnal and the Muslim ones are called either Nercha or Perunnal. Puthenpalli Nercha also boasted a mesmerising fireworks display at night.

The mosque committee served the community by running a school and an orphanage.

We were provided with food from the school hostel. The food was usually par boiled rice and sardines. We were provided with both spicy sardine curry and sardine fries. Two sardines in the curry and two or three well fried and crispy ones for both lunch and dinner. Eating the same food day after day could get a bit boring though! There would also be a vegetable that used to vary daily. And Kerala papadam. The Kerala fish curry used plenty of coconut and tamarind. A coconut and chilly paste was coated on the sardine and it was then deep fried in coconut oil before being part of the curry. Shallots, Kashmiri chillies and curry leaves are common ingredients. I discovered as you travelled up the Malabar coast toward Mangalore, the coating became less spicy.

The emergency department was busy during the evenings, but things usually quietened down at night. I always found night duty tiring as it took me a long time to go back to sleep after attending to a case. Injuries were common and we also received psychiatric patients for admission to the psychiatry ward and cardiac patients as we had an CCU. We were not sufficiently trained to handle aggressive patients. We did have a security person on duty outside the emergency. There were also other security personnel on duty at the entrance to the CCU and at different outpatient departments.     

The hospital was surrounded by village homes, and we often walked along the quiet by lanes. The quarter next to me on the top floor was occupied by a lab technician and he was good company and had a wealth of stories to tell. The buses were usually very crowded.

The coast was not far, and you could also walk on the beach and watch the fishermen set out in their boats. The mosque was usually crowded. There were no academic activities at the hospital, and we learned by doing. We would get a break after finishing our night duty and I used to combine my leaves and spend two or three days with my uncle in Palakkad once every two months. KMM hospital was a good place to work. I eventually left to join a small hospital and clinic at Areacode further north in the same district.

[1] The Perumpadappu Puthen Palli Nercha is a Muslim festival that celebrates Marhoom Kunji Mohammed Musaliar. https://www.keralatourism.org/1000festivals//assets/uploads/pdf/1515486704-0.pdf

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Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

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

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Categories
Musings

To Be or Not to Be…

By Farouk Gulsara

From A Trip to the Moon, a 1902 film by Georges Méliès (1861-1938). From Public Domain

A teacher lost all her life savings, around RM 200,000, to spammers. Over 400 children were rescued from orphanages in two states from sexual predators in Malaysia. Stories like these are not ground-breaking anymore but happen on a daily basis. The worrying trend of late is that these are no isolated incidents perpetrated by individual wackos with ill intents. It is, in fact, a well-organised, well-lubricating establishment with vast tentacles lurking all over the globe. 

The brains behind all these schemes are super intelligent, erudite people who can judge what is good and what is evil. They are also aware of what is beneficial and what is detrimental and brings misery. Yet, these same people wilfully devise newer schemes to prey on people’s weaknesses year after year. 

They know how every action has an equal and opposite reaction. They understand what goes around comes around. Yet, without an iota of guilt, they carry on life. 

Is the lure of materialism too strong to resist? Is the power that money yields too compelling that it becomes an addiction? Is this business a quicksand too strong to extricate one out of? Like a politician trapped in a quagmire that needs to feed his cronies, perhaps this scamming business is multilayered and needs to be fed at many levels, from mafias to enforcement units. 

Only the conscientious person worries and regrets any of their deeds. He will have sleepless nights pondering and regretting his actions. He would fear its implications or pursuant legal ramifications. He would shudder to visualise how it hurt his reputation or embarrass his family. 

So, when people say humanity lives in each of us and that there is still goodness in the world, are they correct? Are we all innately evil and only conditioned to behave in a particular way because our wise ancestors told us so?

Have we developed a consciousness so advanced that we can justify all our devious actions? We say the people who lost their hard-earned savings can afford to lose some. It is all part and parcel of the circle of life’s ups and downs, karma, warts and all. It is a zero-sum game. One party loses for the other to live. Life is not fair, and we have to live with it. Nature is hostile and humans are part of nature. Our duty, first and foremost, is that we are obliged to take care of ourselves and our own at all costs. In the meantime, the conscientious brood over the evil that is spewed throughout the world. They make their lives purpose to correct the balance. They yearn for equality and social justice and lose valuable sleep over it. 

Meanwhile, fraudsters and psychopaths cheat without an iota of guilt. They justify all their crimes. In fact, they feel entitled to do what they do and obtain inner gratification from their manipulations. On the other hand, the conscientious ones constantly assess and reassess their actions, aiming to do the correct thing. These thinkers carry much guilt and regret. They consider their own actions and try to do the ‘right’ thing.

This topic is nothing new. It was tackled by the legendary Tamil philosopher-poet Valluvar[1]. His origin is hazy, but many parties claim him to be part of their tradition. He was probably a Jain-Hindu poet. His short couplets are recited daily by most primary schoolchildren in Tamil schools. These couplets generally talk about righteousness, love and wealth. He sarcastically comments in one of his lines (Kural #1072), “Blessed are the cheats who do not think about good and bad.”

[1] Dated to have lived between 4th and 5th century BC

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

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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
Editorial

A Sprinkling of Happiness?

A Pop of Happiness by Jeanie Douglas. From Public Domain

Happiness is a many splendored word. For some it is the first ray of sunshine; for another, it could be a clean bill of health; and yet for another, it would be being with one’s loved ones… there is no clear-cut answer to what makes everyone happy. In Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (JK Rowling, 2005), a sunshine yellow elixir induces euphoria with the side effects of excessive singing and nose tweaking. This is of course fantasy but translate it to the real world and you will find that happiness does induce a lightness of being, a luminosity within us that makes it easier to tackle harder situations. Playing around with Rowling’s belief systems, even without the potion, an anticipation of happiness or just plain optimism does generate a sense of hope for better times.  Harry tackles his fears and dangers with goodwill, friends and innate optimism. When times are dark with raging wars or climate events that wreck our existence, can one look for a torch to light a sense of hope with the flame of inborn resilience borne of an inner calm, peace or happiness — call it what you will…?

It is hard to gauge the extreme circumstances with which many of us are faced in our current realities, especially when the events spin out of control. In this issue, along with the darker hues that ravage our lives, we have sprinklings of laughter to try to lighten our spirits. In the same vein, externalising our emotions to the point of absurdity that brings a smile to our lips is Rhys Hughes’ The Sunset Suite, a book that survives on tall tales generated by mugs of coffee. In one of the narratives, there is a man who is thrown into a bubbling hot spring, but he survives singing happily because his attacker has also thrown in packs of tea leaves. This man loves tea so much that he does not scald, drown or die but keeps swimming merrily singing a song. While Hughes’ stories are dark, like our times, there is an innate cheer that rings through the whole book… Dare we call it happiness or resilience? Hughes reveals much as he converses about this book, squonks and stranger facts that stretch beyond realism to a fantastical world that has full bearing on our very existence.

Poetry brings in a sprinkling of good cheer not only with a photo poem by Hughes, but also with more in a lighter vein from Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Michael R Burch, Arshi Mortuza, Jason Ryberg and others. Sanjay C Kuttan has given a poem dipped in nostalgic happiness with colourful games that evolved in Malaysia. Koiko Tsuuda, an Estonian, rethinks happiness. George Freek, Stuart MacFarlane and Saranyan BV address mortality. Nilsa Mariano and G Javaid Rasool have given us powerful migrant poetry while John Grey, Craig Kirchner, Jane Hammons, Nia Joseph, Noopur Vedajna Das and Adeline Lyons refer to climate or changes wrought by climate disasters in their verses.

A powerful essay by Binu Mathew on the climate disaster at Wayanad, a place that earlier had been written of as an idyllic getaway, tells us how the land in that region has become more prone to landslides. The one on July 30th this year washed away a whole village! Farouk Gulsara has given a narrative about his cycling adventure through the state of Kashmir with his Malaysian friends and finding support in the hearts of locals, people who would be the first to be hit by any disaster even if they have had no hand in creating the catastrophes that could wreck their lives, the flora and the fauna around them. In the wake of such destructions or in anticipation of such calamities, many migrate to other areas — like Ranu Bhattacharya’s ancestors did a bit before the 1947 Partition violence set in. A younger migrant, Chinmayi Goyal, muses under peaceful circumstances as she explores her own need to adapt to her surroundings. G Venkatesh from Sweden writes of his happy encounter with local children in the playground. And Snigdha Agrawal has written of partaking lunch with a bovine companion – it can be intimidating having a cow munching at the next table, I guess! Devraj Singh Kalsi has given a tongue-in-cheek musing on how he might find footing as a godman. Suzanne Kamata has given a lovely summery piece on parasols, which never went out of fashion in Japan!

Radha Chakravarty, known for her fabulous translations, has written about the writer she translated recently, Nazrul. Her essay includes a poem by Tagore for Nazrul. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated two of Nazrul’s songs of parting and Sohana Manzoor has rendered his stunning story Shapuray (Snake Charmer) into English. Fazal Baloch has brought to us poetry in English from the Sulaimani dialect of Balochi by Allah Bashk Buzdar, and a Korean poem has been self-translated by the poet, Ihlwha Choi. The translations wind up with a poem by Tagore, Olosh Shomoy Dhara Beye (Time Flows at an Indolent Pace), showcasing how the common man’s daily life is more rooted in permanence than evanescent regimes and empires.

Fiction brings us into the realm of the common man and uncommon situations, or funny ones. A tongue-in-cheek story set in the Midwest by Joseph Pfister makes us laugh. Farhanaz Rabbani has given us a beautiful narrative about a girl’s awakening. Paul Mirabile delves into the past using the epistolary technique highlighting darker vignettes from Christopher Columbus’s life. We have book excerpts from Maaria Sayed’s From Pashas to Pokemon and Nazes Afroz’s translation of Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Shabnam with both the extracts and Rabbani’s narratives reflecting the spunk of women, albeit in different timescapes…

Our book reviews feature Meenakshi Malhotra’s perspectives on Shuchi Kapila’s Learning to Remember: Postmemory and the Partition of India and Bhaskar Parichha’s thought provoking piece on Malvika Rajkotia’s autobiographical Unpartitioned Time: A Daughter’s Story. While both these look into narratives around the 1947 Partition of the Indian subcontinent, Rakhi Dalal’s review captures the whimsical and yet thoughtful nuances of Namita Gokhale’s Never Never Land. Somdatta Mandal has written about Upamanyu Chatterjee’s latest novel, Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life, which is in a way a story about a migrant too.

When migrations are out of choice, with multiple options to explore, they take on happier hues. But when it is out of a compulsion created by manmade disasters — both wars and climate change are that — will the affected people remain unscarred, or like Potter, bear the scar only on their forehead and, with Adlerian calm, find happiness and carpe diem?

Do pause by our current issue which has more content than mentioned here as some of it falls outside the ambit of our discussion. This issue would not have been possible without an all-out effort by each of you… even readers. I would like to thank each and every contributor and our loyal readers. The wonderful team at Borderless deserve much appreciation and gratitude, especially Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. I invite you all to savour this August issue with a drizzle of not monsoon or April showers but laughter.

May we all find our paths towards building a resilient world with a bright future.

Good luck and best wishes!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the content’s page for the August 2024 Issue.

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Categories
Poetry

Malayan Meanderings…

By Sanjay C Kuttan

Chaptek: The feathered shuttlecock is kicked with the heel to keep it in the air as long as possible
Belon acah (or galah pajang) is a team sport where players cross against the barricading opponents.
LIFETIME BY MAIN MAIN 
 
wooden blocks, wooden trains,
ageing memory still remains.
     friends divide, police and thief,
     evening sweat a stress relief.
Belon acah on badminton court,
cari lobang through the fort.
      colourful feathers adorn chaptek,
      mesti main during pagi break.
hantam bola with acrobatics, 
ducking projectile, elak tactic. 
       rounders, imperfect diamond,
       home runners jadi legend.
ceper with five bottle caps,
navigating past the 3D traps.
     guli lined up without blame, 
     mata sempit taking aim.
tightened cord, to spin gasing,
if too loose kepala pusing,
     whack the stick, gili danda,
      count back jangan salah.
Hide and seek, every little nook, 
hearts like pages of an open book.


Glossary 
main main: play, playing 
Belon acah: name of the game
cari: look; lobang: gap or hole 
chaptek: featherball 
mesti: must
pagi: morning; 
hantam: strike / hit; bola: ball 
elak: avoid
jadi: become 
ceper; bottle cap 
guli: marble 
mata: eye; sempit: narrow slit 
gasing: tops that spin 
kepala: head
pusing: turn, context is disoriented
gili danda: name of the game
jangan: don’t: salah: error / mistake

You can check out more about the games mentioned in the poem by clicking here.

https://youtube.com/watch?v=e9Mua7A-oJo%3Fsi%3DNnD6Y3hf_7rxc1xh
A game of Ceper

.Sanjay C Kuttan, poet, philosopher and writer, was born in Malaysia, lives in Singapore, has his poetry published in Where Fires Rage, In One Breath, Under the Spell of Flickering Lights, Quilted Sails and in other anthologies.

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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

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Categories
Slices from Life

The Pearl of the Indian Ocean

By Ravi Shankar

A panoramic view of Colombo. Photo courtesy: Ravi Shankar

My impressions of Colombo and Sri Lanka were positive. I was aware of the high human development indicators of the island nation, progress in access to essential medicines and the civil war. Sri Lanka shares many similarities with the state of Kerala in Indian in terms of topography, culture, food habits, high human development, outmigration, militant trade unions and a passion for egalitarian development. I also remembered the recent violent uprising against the former president and the image of the public frolicking in the pool at the presidential palace.

I was happy to receive an invitation to travel to Colombo in July 2023. I was invited to The Colombo Medical School, which was established by the British in 1870 and is one of the older schools in South Asia. It is the premier medical school of the country, and a new tower block has been constructed. The twenty-story tower is spacious and houses various departments. the humanities. The school was the first to start a Department of Medical Humanities (using art in the education of doctors) in South Asia. The physiology department has created a museum consisting of old instruments and apparatus that are no longer used. This is an excellent idea, and you remain in touch with the history of medicine.

The hotel where I stayed was located on Galle Face Road with the beach and the Galle Face green on the other side of the road. The beach was clean, and the park was originally laid out in 1859 by the British Governor General Sir Henry Ward. The Dutch had placed the cannons facing the ocean as a defence against the Portuguese. Sri Lanka had changed hands multiple times among the different colonial powers.

One of the striking features of Colombo is its cleanliness. The buses may be old and crowded but they are colourful. There are also rickshaws in a variety of colours, mainly green and red though yellow ones were less common. The kittul jaggery harvested from the fishtail palm or the jaggery palm is famous and I loved the gingelly rolls made with this jaggery. My second visit was in early January this year. The apartment where I stayed was attached to an old Sri Lankan house. The location was near to all conveniences but away from the noise and traffic.

I visited the Sri Lankan national museum, the largest in the country. It was established by Sir Gregory, the British governor of Ceylon (as Sri Lanka was then called) in 1877. The museum is housed in a white, neo-Baroque building and offers a fascinating glimpse into Sri Lanka’s past. The museum is well maintained though it is not air conditioned. The humidity is a constant presence in Colombo. The collection of antiques at the museum is extraordinary.

The Museum
Inside the temple
Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar

On my last evening in Colombo, I did some sightseeing. We went to the Gangaramaya temple, the most important one in Colombo. The architecture is a mix of Sri Lankan, Indian, Thai, and Chinese styles. The temple was started by the famous scholar monk Hikkaduwe Sri Sumangala Nayaka Thera in the late 19th Century. The temple has a rich collection of Buddha statues and huge collections of ivory that must be worth millions if not billions. Our next stop was the Lotus tower at 351.5 metres, the largest self-supported structure in South Asia. The lotus is a symbol of purity. view of Colombo city from the observation tower at the top is excellent. I could see the Galle Face Road where I had stayed during my last visit. We could see the Sri Lankan railway depots and stations.

Colombo is a fascinating city. There is plenty to see and do. Recent economic events have hit the island hard. During my subsequent visit I plan to explore other parts of this magical country. Serendip/Serendib was the ancient Persian/Arab name for the country. The name is believed to be derived from the Sanskrit Simhaladwipa (dwelling place of Lion’s Island). The lion occupies a prominent place on the Sri Lankan flag.

The three princes of Serendip in an ancient story had the knack of making unexpected discoveries and is the root of the word serendipity in English. Visit Colombo and Sri Lanka, who knows what serendipitous discoveries await you?

Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar

Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

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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

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Categories
Conversation

‘Home has been a Process of Lifelong Search’

In Conversation with Kirpal Singh

Dr Kirpal Singh

 “Singapore is intimately linked with home and, yet for me, home has always been a process of lifelong search. Partly because of the early months of my birth. The record says I was born in March 1949, but the time was not certain as I do not have a birth certificate. My father forgot to register my birth,” reminisces Dr Kirpal Singh, an internationally recognised scholar. Born in the Straits Settlement of Singapore, before the island emerged as an independent entity, he has lived through much of history. He tells a story of multi-racial, multi-cultural growth that the island afforded him.  

His father, he tells us, was “well known throughout Malaya — Jeswant Singh nicknamed as ‘Just One’ — a boxer who would knock people down with his left hook. In 1954, he left boxing when he killed someone during a match.” His mother, a Jewish Scot who he cannot recollect, he tells us, “ might have been David Marshall’s sister according to my stepsister but no one else has said that.”  Marshall[1] was the first Chief Minister of Singapore from 1955 to 1956 and then Singapore’s Ambassador to France, Portugal, Spain, and Switzerland 1978 to 1993. He is the founder of the Worker’s Party. His parents had emigrated from Baghdad to Singapore in 1908 according to current resources.

How did Singh’s parents come to be in Singapore? Were they immigrants or colonials?

He responds with what he knows: “My grandfather and grandmother came to Singapore on board a ship in 1900. They left Jullunder, Punjab, in 1899. By the time they reached Singapore, it was the end of 1900. They left to seek their fortune. They were from the farming community. My grandfather was only sixteen and my grandmother was about twelve. They were in transit in Penang for six months. They came to Singapore in 1901. Actually, it was all Malaya — Singapore was part of the Straits Settlement. They came to Singapore by train. Trains were just starting out. It was around August 1901.

Trains in Malaya

“My uncle was conceived during this journey. They halted in Singapore for only two or three weeks. My grandfather’s cousin was in Perak[2], in Malaya. So, he wanted to be with his cousin. His cousin had cattle. Most of the Sikhs were cattle farmers. They settled in Pahang[3], an area which eventually became a nuclear dump[4] for Australia. It is closed to public now. There was a stone that proclaimed the land was a nuclear dump when I went with my son a few years ago.

“My father moved to Singapore as his prospects were better here as a boxer. This is where he met my mother. I was born here. He actually met mum because my mother’s two brothers had invited her to come from Glasgow. My mother is Scottish, from an industrial background. Her brothers came to the Far East to make money.  She finished her school leaving exams and came to visit her brothers during her vacation. She would go with her bothers to watch boxing, where she saw my father, the champ. She was only fifteen or sixteen. The next thing the brothers knew was she was pregnant with me.”

Jeswant Singh was popular with colonials. Kirpal Singh tells us: “Some Europeans saw him box and offered him a job then in the Base Ordinance Depot. This was the British Military camps in the Far East. There were three bases in Singapore: the naval base, Kranji and one in the South. He worked there for thirty years and retired after that. In 1972[5], after the final British withdrawal from Singapore, dad’s formal employment status ended. After that he just did odd jobs, ending up as a security guard, looking after the factories in Jurong, earning about two to three hundred dollars a month.”

Kirpal Singh spent his childhood with his grandmother and uncle. Before he started schooling, his father left him with his grandmother and divorced his mother in favour of a new bride. Dr Singh tells us the story of how he returned to Singapore: “I was basically in Perak with my grandmother. My uncle, who was the first Sikh to become a Christian in Southeast Asia, left home because his father gave him a beating for changing his religion. My uncle was an Anglican. His conversion saved him from the Great Depression as the clergy was very well looked after. From 1929 to 1933, the church looked after him because he was the priest in Seramban. My father was still young. My uncle was born in 1911 and my dad in 1923. My grandmother bore eighteen children. Five of the infants passed away before they were one month old. But thirteen survived. She passed away at 95… I knew when I left for my doctorate programme in Adelaide that that was the last time I would see her. I had a hunch and was crying on the plane. Six weeks later, I got a letter with the news of her death.”

He adds: “Dad was in not in a position to look after me. The responsibility fell on his brother William. His full name was William Massa Singh s/o Deva Singh. He had studied at the Ipoh Chinese school, topped the school, eventually worked as an insurance agent. He was very good in English. The principal of his school, a New Zealander, arranged for my uncle to move to Singapore. Then my father moved there too. Singapore was the metropolis even then. It was the centre of English education. Penang was the other one. In 1956, I was sent to Singapore from Perak on a train — a one-and-a-half-day journey to my uncle.”

His grandmother joined them within a few months as his uncle was, he says, “more interested in aiding Lee Kuan Yew get rid of the colonials. Lee Kuan Yew was a self-made man. He met Goh Keng Swee[6] and Rajaratnam[7] as students in England. They became buddies and wanted to move out of colonial rule and be independent.”

Then, how did a young child survive? Dr Singh tells us: “I used to earn my pocket money from age five six by watering gardens. I have had very interesting experiences. When I was in primary two, I used to give tuition to primary one students. With enough gumption, you can survive in this world.”

Kampongs in Singapore’s past

“I grew up with my uncle’s wards, who were brought home to be educated. There was even one who was a Chinese-Japanese mix. So, I grew up being familiar cross-cultural marriages and in a multicultural home. I grew up in the kampong with a Chinese boy and we became friends from the age of seven-and-a-half when we were in primary two. His name is Tan Jwee Song — I call him Jwee, ‘my good saint’.  He told me after O-levels he would support me to study further and took to teaching. At that time, you could become a teacher after completing your O level. I joined Raffles late during my time in high school because it was too expensive for me. I taught in night classes started by Lee Kuan Yew and studied. I owed Jwee $80,000 dollars and I wanted to pay his widow back — but she would not accept it. When I graduated in 1973 with an honours’ degree, I was $44 thousand in debt. Then, I was given a scholarship.”

And slowly, Kirpal Singh came to his own. When television came into being, he tells us: “I was often on TV in 1970s — days of early television — debates and interviews as a guest.” Kirpal Singh grew into an intellectual of repute as he worked and studied with the support of the many races and many people who, often like him, were migrants to Singapore.

As time moves forward, these stories — that are almost as natural as the sand, the wind and the sea — ask to be caught in words and stored for posterity, stories from life that show how narrow borders drawn by human constructs cannot come in the way of those with ‘gumption’.

(Written by Mitali Chakravarty based on a face to face conversation with Kirpal Singh. Published with permission of Kirpal Singh)

[1] https://www.roots.gov.sg/stories-landing/stories/david-marshall/story

[2] Now in Malaysia

[3] Now in Malaysia

[4] https://buletinonlines.net/v7/index.php/lynas-radioactive-waste-to-be-dumped-in-pahang-tax-free-while-australia-gets-a18-million-in-taxes-2/

[5] The British armed forces were scheduled to withdraw from Singapore by 1971. https://eresources.nlb.gov.sg/infopedia/articles/SIP_1001_2009-02-10.html#:~:text=On%2018%20July%201967%2C%20Britain,Singapore%27s%20defence%20and%20economic%20security.

[6] Deputy Prime Minister of Singapore, 1973-1980, one of the founding members of the ruling PAP (People’s Action Party) https://www.roots.gov.sg/stories-landing/stories/goh-keng-swee/story

[7] Deputy Prime Minister of Singapore from 1980 to 1985, one of the founding members of the ruling PAP https://www.roots.gov.sg/stories-landing/stories/sinnathamby-rajaratnam/story

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
Essay

My Love Affair with (Printed) Books

By Ravi Shankar

The last two years have been especially sad ones for printed books and magazines. Toward the end of 2023, the iconic magazine, National Geographic stopped selling its print issues. And in April 2024, Reader’s Digest stopped publishing. Many other print magazines have also downed their shutters though the online version continues.

I grew up with the Reader’s Digest. My father subscribed to the magazine and each month a copy wrapped in a brown envelope arrived at our door. The envelope partially covered the magazine inside, and you could see the top and bottom of the magazine. The size was small, and this made for easy handling. Reader’s Digest was a magazine you could read comfortably in bed. During the festival of Diwali, there was a special wrapping for the magazine. We had several magazines in our house when I was growing up. My mother used to read many magazines in Malayalam (our mother tongue).

Reader’s Digest provided shortened versions of stories and articles that had been published elsewhere. Their skill was in condensing the material while still retaining the interest. There was a rich collection of reading material. There were also advertisements for other books published by Reader’s Digest. Unfortunately, these were beyond our family budget. I wanted to purchase these when I grew up and became financially stronger. My neighbour who was a scientist had some of these books that I occasionally borrowed.

Another favourite of mine was the National Geographic. My father was a faculty member at a banker’s training college in Mumbai and their library subscribed to National Geographic. He often brought the magazine home. I was mesmerised by the articles and the photos in the magazine. The artistic quality of the photos was superb. The magazine had only three or four articles in an issue but addressed these at great depth. I travelled to faraway places, to the bottom of the ocean, to within the human body and to outer space with the magazine. Later, National Geographic started a television channel, and I would watch the documentaries in the nineties.

We also subscribed to the Illustrated Weekly of India. This was in a large format and again had very good photographs. I still remember the column by the journalist Khushwant Singh titled ‘With malice towards one and all’. I was also a fan of the comics section of the magazine. I had a huge collection of comics and my father purchased both Amar Chitra Katha and Indrajal Comics. Amar Chitra Katha introduced me to the rich history of India. Indrajal comics had superheroes like Phantom, Mandrake, and Flash Gordon. I used to eagerly await new issues. Most of my comics were lost when we shifted houses.   

When the news magazine, India today, made an appearance, we subscribed to it and to Outlook and The week (Indian news magazines). During my school days in May, I used to eagerly await the new textbooks and notebooks for the next class following the results. I used to go with my mother to purchase these from a stationery store near the railway station. The smell of the new paper and the fresh ink was mesmerising. I loved to read some of the easier chapters in these books. Covering the notebooks with brown paper was another major activity. Our school year started with the rains in June.  

My good friend, Sanjay Mhatre had a good library and loved to collect books. I loved to borrow from his vast collection. His collection on physics and cosmology were extensive. In those days, the erstwhile Soviet Union used to have cheap books of high quality for Indian readers. I remember the publishers Mir and Progress and I had several of their collections on science. The Soviet publishers used to hold exhibitions in our college. For twenty or thirty rupees, you could purchase high quality hard bound books. My introduction to quantum mechanics and to chemistry was through one such book.

At Thrissur in Kerala most of our medical textbooks were western and predominantly from the United Kingdom. There used to be an English Language Book Society (ELBS) that published cheaper versions of textbooks for developing countries. With our limited resources purchasing textbooks was a challenge. The two major textbooks published from the United States were those of Anatomy and Pathology. Those days we did not have online textbooks and online sources and were limited to the printed word.   

I used to write for our medical college magazine and eagerly waited for the annual issue to be published. During my residency days at PGI, Chandigarh I was the literary secretary and was very involved in bringing out the annual magazine, The Resident. We also introduced a newsletter, ARDent Voice, with ARD standing for the Association of Resident Doctors.

At Pokhara, Nepal the college library had a good collection of general books and novels in addition to medical books. I used to read a lot of novels and the author, Frederick Forsyth was one of my favourites. His meticulous research blurred the lines between fact and fiction. Sidney Sheldon was another bestselling author. Novels enabled me to travel vicariously to different places and through varied situations.

Today reading has become less common among the younger generation. Reading strengthens creativity and the imagination as you must imagine in your mind’s eye the situation the author is creating. Is it not magical that the author can communicate with you, the reader through squiggles on a page across the boundaries of space and time?

I started writing during my MBBS days. I still remember the versification competition I took part in and won the first prize. I used to participate in different literary events at my college. In Nepal, I combined my triple loves of writing, photography and hiking with articles for the newly started newspaper, The Himalayan Times. I met my writing guru, Don through the magazine, ECS Nepal. Don was the editor of the magazine and a powerful writer with a deep knowledge of Nepal. I learned a lot from his comments and suggestions and the workshops he conducted. I also used to write a medical column for ECS Nepal. ECS Nepal was a beautifully produced magazine with great photographs. Unfortunately, it stopped publishing around the beginning of the pandemic.

Other travel and lifestyle magazines were also published from Nepal but could not sustain themselves. In the Caribbean Island of Aruba, I used to write off and on for a daily newspaper published in English. Again, the newspaper ceased publishing. During the last two decades several print magazines have ceased to exist. I feel it is a great loss.

I do not read much on paper these days. Most of my reading is done online on computers, laptops and tablets. I also have a Kindle reader. Kindle screen mimics the appearance of paper closely, but it is not the same as reading a printed page. You can no longer feel the smoothness of glazed paper, the smell of fresh ink and the vivid colours of photographs. With the closure of the print version of Reader’s Digest, an era in print publishing has ended. The demise was sadly expected. Without printed books, our (my) world may never be the same again!

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Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

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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
Editorial

Though I Sang in my Chains like the Sea…

      Time held me green and dying
    Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

Perhaps when Dylan Thomas wrote these lines, he did not know how relevant they would sound in context of the world as it is with so many young dying in wars, more than seven decades after he passed on. No poet does. Neither did he. As the world observes Dylan Thomas Day today — the day his play, Under the Milkwood, was read on stage in New York a few months before he died in 1953 — we have a part humorous poem as tribute to the poet and his play by Stuart McFarlane and a tribute from our own Welsh poet, Rhys Hughes, describing a fey incident around Thomas in prose leading up to a poem.

May seems to be a month when we celebrate birthdays of many writers, Tagore, Nazrul and Ruskin Bond. Tagore’s birthday was in the early part of May in 1861 and we celebrated with a special edition on him. Bond, who turns a grand ninety this year, continues to dazzle his readers with fantastic writings from the hills, narratives which reflect the joie de vivre of existence, of compassion and of love for humanity and most importantly his own world view. His books have the rare quality of being infused with an incredible sense of humour and his unique ability to make fun of himself and laugh with all of us. 

Nazrul, on the other hand, dreamt, hoped and wrote for an ideal world in the last century. The commonality among all these writers, seemingly so diverse in their outlooks and styles, is the affection they express for humanity. Celebrating the writings of Nazrul, we have one of his fiery speeches translated from Bengali by Radha Chakravarty and a review of her Selected Essays: Kazi Nazrul Islam by Somdatta Mandal. An essay from Niaz Zaman dwells on the feminist side of Nazrul while bringing in Begum Roquiah. Zaman has also shared translations of his poetry. Professor Fakrul Alam, who had earlier translated Nazrul’s iconic ‘Bidrohi or Rebel‘, has given us a beautiful rendition of his song ‘Projapoti or Butterfly’ in English.  Also in translation, is a poem by Tagore on the process of writing poetry. Balochi poetry by Manzur Bismil on human nature has been rendered into English by Fazal Baloch and yet another poem from Korean to English by Ilwha Choi.

Reflecting on the concept of a paradise is poetry from Michael Burch. Issues like climate, women, humanity, mourning, aging and more have been addressed in poetry by Shamik Banerjee, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Milan Mondal, Kirpal Singh, Craig Kirchner, George Freek, Michael Lee Johnson and many more. Hughes brings in a dollop of humour with his response to a signpost in verse. Irony is woven into our non-fiction section by Devraj Singh Kalsi’s musing on writers and assailants. Ravi Shankar explores his passion for computers in a light vein. Snigdha Agrawal gives us a poignant story about a young child from the less privileged classes in India. Suzanne Kamata writes to tell us about the environment friendly Green Day in Japan.

Ratnottama Sengupta this month converses with a dancer who tries to build bridges with the tinkling of her bells, Sohini Roychowdhury. Gita Viswanthan travels to Khiva in Uzbekistan, historically located on the Silk Route, with words and camera.  An essay on Akbar Barakzai by Hazran Rahim Dad and another looking into literature around maladies by Satyarth Pandita add zest to our non-fiction section. Though these seem to be a heterogeneous collection of themes, they are all tied together with the underlying idea of creating links to build towards a better future.

Our stories travel from Malaysia to France and India. Farouk Gulsara sets his in futuristic Malaysia, again exploring the theme of utopia as did his earlier musing. Paul Mirabile creates a story where a child tries to create his own idyllic paradise while Kalsi writes of fiction centring around a property tussle. The book reviews feature a couple of non-fiction. Other than Kazi Nazrul Islam’s essays, Bhaskar Parichha reviews Will Cockrell’s Everest, Inc. The Renegades and Rogues Who Built an Industry at the Top of the World. Ajanta Paul discusses Bitan Chakraborty’s The Blight and Seven Short Stories, translated from Bengali by Malati Mukherjee. Malashri Lal has written on Lakshmi Kannan’s Nadistuti: Poems, poems dedicated to Jayanta Mahapatra who the poet reflects lives on with his verses. And that is so true, considering this issue is full of poets who continue in our lives eternally because of their words. That is why perhaps, we recreate their lives as has Aruna Chakravarti in Jorasanko.

In focus this time is a writer whose prose is almost akin to poetry, Rajat Chaudhuri. A proponent of solarpunk, his novel, Spellcasters, takes us to fictitious cities modelled on Delhi and Kolkata. In his interview, Chaudhuri tells us: “The path to utopia is not necessarily through dystopia. We can start hoping and acting today before things get really bad. Which is the locus of the whole solarpunk movement with which I am closely associated as an editor and creator…”

On that note, I would like to end with a couple of lines from Nazrul, who reiterates how the old gives way to new in Proloyullash (The Frenzy of Destruction, translated by Alam): “Why fear destruction? / It’s the gateway to creation!” Will destruction be the turning point for creation of a new world? And should the destruction be of human constructs that hurt humanity (like wars and weapons) or of humanity and the planet Earth? As the solarpunk movement emphasises, we need to act to move towards a better world. And how would one act? Perhaps, by getting in touch with the best in themselves and using it to act for the betterment of humankind? These are all points to ponder… if you have any ideas that need a forum on such themes, do share with us.

We have more content which has not been woven into this piece for the sheer variety of themes they encompass. Do pause by our content’s page and browse on all our pieces.

With warm thanks to our wonderful team at Borderless — especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous art — I would like to express gratitude to all our contributors, without who we could not create this journal. We would also like to thank our readers for making it worth our while to write — for all of our words look to be read, savoured and mulled, and maybe, some will evolve into treasured wines.

Thank you all.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the content’s page for the May, 2024 Issue

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Categories
Stories

Don Quixote’s Paradise

By Farouk Gulsara

 A new dawn or the sunset of better times? Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

It is the year 2074. Yes, the world is still around, and so is the human race. It has been over a century since Malaysia received its mandate to self-rule. Technically, we should be in a utopia with so much sunlight throughout the year and a chirpy tropical climate devoid of depressing, chilling winters or debilitating natural calamities. A potpourri of food options is available 24/7 at our fingertips and delivered to our doorsteps with easy-access drone servers. We should be the happiest people in the world. In reality, however…

Teenagers growing up in the formative years of Malaysia in the 1980s, not too long after the 1969 racial riots, were given a promissory note. They were told that if they followed the dotted line, they were assured of a utopia. They would be ushered into a land of milk and honey, oozing with order and tranquility. A land where brothers and sisters of all strata would be walking, holding hands, and singing one song of camaraderie and unity. Peace would be seen seeping from every pore. Smiles and cheery images of bright yellow sunflowers were immortalised in their vision of the future.

Coincidentally, massive oil reserves were discovered off their shores around that time, multiplying their euphoria. Money started flowing freely. The government made it their God-given duty to make millionaires out of their sycophants and display them as the nation’s success story. 

They were so confident that the good times would roll forever that they felt a pressing need to increase the population and strengthen their vote bank. They wanted their 17 million population in 1990 to snowball to 70 million by 2020!

Maybe it was their subconscious intention to exhibit their patriarchal prowess. Soon, the urban skyline was brimming with phallic-like skyscrapers. The Petronas Twin Tower became the pride of the nation. Detractors said it was a waste of taxpayers’ money, but the Government insisted it was a private venture of Petronas, the private-public partnership that struck black gold. 

Like the Tower of Babel, grand towers sprouted here and there, giving the illusion of wealth and prosperity. The government asserted that the promised ‘Vision 2020’ would have citizens speak one language of love for each other and would be knowledgeable and mindful. 

To facilitate foreign investors’ seamless flying in and out of the country, a world-class airport sprung out of the lush greenery at the expense of its natural fauna and flora. 

Like the fate of the Tower of Babel, with the sky being the limit but short on foundation, the idea of uninterrupted progress came tumbling down. The thought of people speaking one language was only on paper. Doublespeak was not only the domain of the leaders. The average citizen gave little back to Malaysia. Many saw little hope in their motherland. They grew wings to fly away to faraway shores. 

Trying times came in droves—first, repeated economic downturns and other black swan events that only the anti-fragile could weather. Then, a global pandemic hit the world. Rather than scrambling to save the economy, leaders were content undercutting and downplaying opponents to grasp the helm of administration. Instead of utilising science to fight rumours, they looked at religious texts for answers. That is when the penny dropped. Citizens realised the country had reached the point of no return. 

Now, in 2074, what we have is a country of economic migrants who sponge on the nation and use Malaysia as a transit point to hopscotch to greener pastures. The descendants of the first wave of workers whom the colonial masters brought in to build the nation are all but long gone. Draconian laws that rewarded mediocrity and championed race and religion successfully converted its subjects to a bunch of zombies, unflinching to the changes to the environment, but one with a one-track mind to satisfy the voices of his master. Religious bigotry ruled the land. Rather than speeding forward to the 22nd century, citizens were hellbent on returning to the 7th, their perceived golden era.

The latest election, the 25th election, went on without a glitch. Of course, there were no untoward incidences. All the opposition leaders have either been forced to retire or behind bars. Voters have been cowed to submission. Years of indoctrination have made the youths of today a bunch of unthinking yeomen. As they have been doing in the past ten elections, the ruling party won more than half of the election seats, uncontested. 

The propaganda machine ensures that people only receive pleasant news. In its infancy, the Internet promised the democratisation of information. Soon, everyone realised that people were not competent enough to filter news. The herd is easily swayed and falls prey to popular clickbait. Hence, the government had to play nanny to alleviate undue anxiety among its citizens. 

Our education system, which used to be at par with any other country, took a slow plunge. One by one, politicians scrapped examinations to garner popularity. Automatic promotions finally produced young adults who left high school without essential reading, writing, or arithmetic skills. People are inebriated by regular freebies and the periodic intoxicating religious cocktails churned out by government-appointed holy men. When they mentioned everyone using the same language and way of thinking, they meant mass conversion. Plurality and multiculturalism had gone out of the proverbial window long ago.

Under the guise of national security, press freedom is a legacy of the past. Policing the public meant monitoring what netizens uttered online and even the thoughts they shared on their social media posts. The lush tropical forests have mysteriously been denuded over the years. All the public protests fell to the deaf ears of the forest department. Files were closed when no one could be zeroed in to be responsible for the crime to nature. Everyone knows whose hand is in the cookie jar, but the leaders conveniently condemn it to global warming. The blame goes back to the public for being irresponsible in disposing of their garbage!

Outside the country, the three world wars that rocked the world to the brink of extinction never woke humans from their slumber. The Nuremberg trials failed to impress us that no one race is superior to the other and that in wars, nobody wins except arms dealers.

The imagined world free from wars and climate crises remains an unfulfilled dream. Whether 2074 or 2704, the world is fated not to learn from its past and is cursed to repeat the same mistake that it never learnt from its history. Humanity can only appreciate the beautiful world it once was on augmented reality screens. A once-promising roaring Asian tiger called Malaysia has now morphed into a toothless and tattered paper tiger. The best it can do is be a cautionary tale for other nations about what not to do in nation-building. 

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

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