Gower Bhat discusses the advent of coaching schools in Kashmir for competitive exams for University exams, which seem to be replacing real schools. Clickhere to read.
In winters, birds migrate. They face no barriers. The sun also shines across fences without any hindrance. Long ago, the late Nirendranath Chakraborty (1924-2018) wrote about a boy, Amalkanti, who wanted to be sunshine. The real world held him back and he became a worker in a dark printing press. Dreams sometimes can come to nought for humanity has enough walls to keep out those who they feel do not ‘belong’ to their way of life or thought. Some even war, kill and violate to secure an exclusive existence. Despite the perpetuation of these fences, people are now forced to emigrate not only to find shelter from the violences of wars but also to find a refuge from climate disasters. These people — the refuge seekers— are referred to as refugees[1]. And yet, there are a few who find it in themselves to waft to new worlds, create with their ideas and redefine norms… for no reason except that they feel a sense of belonging to a culture to which they were not born. These people are often referred to as migrants.
At the close of this year, Keith Lyons brings us one such persona who has found a firm footing in New Zealand. Setting new trends and inspiring others is a writer called Harry Ricketts[2]. He has even shared a poem from his latest collection, Bonfires on the Ice. Ricketts’ poem moves from the personal to the universal as does the poetry of another migrant, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, aspiring to a new, more accepting world. While Tulip Chowdhury — who also moved across oceans — prays for peace in a war torn, weather-worn world:
I plant new seeds of dreams for a peaceful world of tomorrow.
Fiction in this issue reverberates across the world with Marc Rosenberg bringing us a poignant telling centred around childhood, innocence and abuse. Sayan Sarkar gives a witty, captivating, climate-friendly narrative centred around trees. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao weaves a fable set in Southern India.
A story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi from the dusty landscapes of Balochistan has found its way into our translations too with Fazal Baloch rendering it into English from Balochi. Isa Kamari translates his own Malay poems which echo themes of his powerful novels, A Song of the Wind (2007) and Tweet(2017), both centred around the making of Singapore. Snehaprava Das introduces Odia poems by Satrughna Pandab in English. While Professor Fakrul Alam renders one of Nazrul’s best-loved songs from Bengali to English, Tagore’s translated poem Jatri (Passenger) welcomes prospectives onboard a boat —almost an anti-thesis of his earlier poem ‘Sonar Tori’ (The Golden Boat) where the ferry woman rows off robbing her client.
We have plenty of non-fiction this time starting with a tribute to Jane Austen (1775-1817) by Meenakshi Malhotra. Austen turns 250 this year and continues relevant with remakes in not only films but also reimagined with books around her novels — especially Pride and Prejudice (which has even a zombie version). Bhaskar Parichha pays a tribute to writer Bibhuti Patnaik. Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan explores ancient Sangam Literature from Tamil Nadu and Ratnottama Sengupta revisits an art exhibition that draws bridges across time… an exploration she herself curated.
We have a spray of colours from across almost all the continents in our pages this time. A bumper issue again — for which all of the contributors have our heartfelt thanks. Huge thanks to our fabulous team who pitch in to make a vibrant issue for all of us. A special thanks to Sohana Manzoor for the fabulous artwork. And as our readers continue to grow in numbers by leap and bounds, I would want to thank you all for visiting our content! Introduce your friends too if you like what you find and do remember to pause by this issue’s contents page.
Wish all of you happy reading through the holiday season!
Sunset at Colaba, Bombay, which is currently referred to as Mumbai. From Public Domain
To think that Bombay is attainable is the first mistake of the rookie. And though this city attracts and repels in equal measure, it is the former that makes me want to linger all the more. And linger I do, over a cup (or was it two?) of piping hot Irani chai and bun maska at the Persian Cafe in Cuffe Parade. The rain starts just as soon as I step out of the metro station and make for the safer confines of the cafe, reminding me of home in more ways than one. It is only in Bombay that I am reminded that the culture of the Zoroastrians flourishes somewhere outside of Hyderabad as well.
Colaba lures me, but Kala Ghoda’s immense detachment from its suburban-esque walkways seems more pensive. With Mahatma Gandhi Road sweeping past the Fort and Dr Dadabhai Naoroji Road intersecting it at Flora Fountain, Bombay’s charm offensive lies bare. It is only much later, after I step into Kitaab Khana, the Bombay equivalent of Madras’ Higginbotham’s and Calcutta’s Oxford, that I strongly feel the Raj’s tentacles of reunion. On the other side of the road, the college named after Lord Mountstuart Elphinstone, who twice gave up the chance to be appointed governor-general of India, preferring to finish his two-volume work, History of India (1841) instead, is a reminder of the good that existed among our colonial masters.
*
But the second mistake that the rookie can make is by affirming that all of Bombay lies within the island of Colaba. While it did, in the days of the Raj, it no longer holds the sanctity of tradition as much as it does for the affluent who have no idea of when the last local leaves from Churchgate to Borivali. Versova, much a fishing village as Bandra had once been, is as far away from Colaba as Islamabad is from Vancouver, and Jogeshwari is a mere landing ground for the aristocrats of the north, for whom Thane is where the merely envious congregate and share stories over pav bhaji. A hint of Marathi wafts over the air, sprinkled generally with salt from the sea, and the Bambaiya of Parel and the Hindi of the island city are forgotten.
For what does a gentleman bred in the now-reclaimed Old Woman’s Island, fondly called Little Colaba, know of the fighting on the streets of Dadar? The Gateway of India, looming far beyond the ordinary, takes no part in the skyline of this Bombay, where political representatives of all hues and colours sell dreams just as kaleidoscopic as their ever-changing loyalties. Areas where no cars enter are not strictly unheard of in the Bombay of the north, and as Suketu Mehta so lovingly painted in Maximum City, it is a conurbation not afraid of its past, and one that is constantly stuck in an identity crisis. For there are more millionaires in Bombay than in any other city in the country, and they are only matched by the number of people who go to bed hungry. The Marine Drive becomes an elongated resting place for the unfortunate, the destitute or the merely curious once the lights on the Queen’s Necklace get turned on. I would have seen it had I known where to look.
*
To reclaim the days of the Raj, there are few places more apt to while away an evening than Colaba. There are certainly no places as germane as the cafes Mondegar and Leopold, which happily serve continental fare to their patrons after all these years without a trace of embarrassment at the culinary debaucheries they joyfully commit. Old men, with fedoras last seen in fashion in 1930 (before World War II took away the joys of wearing headgear, apart from sola topis, in a country where the sun has been awarded citizenship), and with shirts tucked into waistbands up to their lower chest, order bottles of grizzled beer with a side of mashed potatoes. Cholesterol and high blood sugar are forgotten when relieving one’s youth, especially with Spanish women gawking at the absurdity of it all in the flea market on the causeway outside. With the stroke of a pen, these men bring to life the jazz clubs of the early 1950s, recollecting the trumpeter Chris Perry at Alfred’s. And then they remember Lorna Cordeiro, of whom they speak as if she were a loved one.
The scarcity of vada pav in the vicinity of Kala Ghoda scares me until I remember that even autorickshaws are banned from this part of town. Much like a man seeking water from the desert atrophies of the Middle East, I lunge into a seller close to the Victoria Terminus. When he asks for a mere INR 30 for two vada pavs, I am shamed into submission, looking towards my shoes — coloured an extravagant yellow — and murmur notes of dissent that even my ears cannot pick up. A jet-black Mercedes-Benz skids past the puddle of water that has gathered around Flora Fountain, dousing me with dredges of obstinacy. There are two worlds that we live in, and Bombay may have achieved its supremacy over both yesterday.
Bun Maska can be found in Iranian cafes in Mumbai Pav Bhaji, a popular street food of Mumbai From Public Domain
Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, poet, sports journalist, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published four collections of poems and one travelogue so far. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Ratnottama Sengupta muses on her encounter with the writings of eminent artist and writer, Dhruba Esh, and translates one his many stories, Amiyashankar Go Back Home from Bengali. Click here to read.
All around us, we hear of disasters. Often, we try to write of these as Tagore seems to do in the above lines. However, these lines follow after he says he draws solace and inspiration from a ‘serene lotus’, pristine and shining with vibrancy. He gazes at it while looking for that still point which helps him create an impact with words. That is perhaps what we can hope to do too — wait for a morning where clarity will show us the path to express not just what we see, but to find a way to heal and help. Finding parallels in great writings of yore to our own attempts at recreating the present makes us realise that perhaps history is cyclical. In Rome, new structures rear up against thousand-year walls, reflecting how the past congeals into the present.
Congealing the past into our present in this July’s issue are stories of American migrants — like Tom Alter’s family who made India their home — by Anuradha Kumar in her new non-fiction Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India. We feature this book with a review and an interview with the author where she tells us how and why she chose to write on these people. We have more people writing of their own wanderings. Mohul Bhowmick wanders into Cambodia and makes friends over a local sport while Prithvijeet Sinha strolls by the banks of the River Gomti in Lucknow. Meredith Stephens not only takes us to the Prime Meridien in Greenwich but also to Carnarvon which houses a science and technology centre in Australia. Devraj Singh Kalsi wanders with humour to discover gastronomical inspiration and hopes for sweeter recompense.
Taking up the theme of cli-fi, Rajat Chaudhuri’s Wonder Tales for a Warming Planetseems to bring hope by suggesting adapting to changing climes. Rakhi Dalal tells us in her review: “It dares to approach the climate crisis through the lens of empathy and imagination rather than panic or guilt. In doing so, Rajat Chaudhuri gives us what many adult climate narratives fail to deliver—a reason to believe that another world is not only possible but already being imagined by the young. All we need to do is listen.” Bhaskar Parichha has discussed the autobiography of a meteorologist and Distinguished University Professor at George Mason University, Jagadish Shukla. In A Billion Butterflies: A Life in Climate and Chaos Theory, he claims Shukla has “revolutionised monsoon forecasting.” Somdatta Mandal has written about Dilip K Das’s Epidemic Narratives: The Cultural Construction of Infectious Disease Outbreaks in India. And Gower Bhat reviews Neha Bansal’s best-selling poetry collection, Six of Cups.
With that, we wind up the contents of this month’s issue. Do pause by our content’s page to check it out in more details.
This month’s edition would not have been possible without all our contributors, our fabulous team and especially Sohana Manzoor’s artwork. Huge thanks to all of them and to our wonderful readers who make it worthwhile for us to write and publish. Do write in to us if you have any feedback. Five years ago, we chose to become a monthly from a daily… We have come a long way from then and grown to host writers from more than forty countries and readers from almost all over the world. For this, we owe you all – for being with us and encouraging us to find fresh pastures.
Blank faces welcome me in Phnom Penh. That the people smile at all is a miracle; years of haggard living, tortured upbringing, and painful deprivations have reduced this golden city of Indochina to one filled with figurative corpses. What America could not achieve, Pol Pot did in a flash and years of oppression turned into that of a blood-filled regime that the Mekong did not even try to wash away. For all its salubriousness, this river, among the greatest in the world, stood by and watched its children be consumed by an ephemeral fire that could only be extinguished in 1979.
Then the Vietnamese intervened, returning only after being loathed by almost everyone in Cambodia. The former, among other benedictions, took apart whatever little credibility the Democratic Kampuchea (Khmer Rouge) government had amassed in three and a half years in power. Pol Pot’s name, quite naturally, does not feature on the political billboards and hoardings that seem to have made themselves inconspicuous in Phnom Penh today. The national dish, Amok, made of fish or several vegan accoutrements to serve the European traveller, takes up the spot left by those of the beggars in the parking spot north of the royal palace.
As I sip my umpteenth sugarcane juice, fortified with cubes of ice that may have once come out of Tibet, I wonder whether the king curls his lips in distaste seeing the beggars and rag-pickers waiting outside the golden gates of his palace. But the official line in Cambodia is that Sihamoni is a staunch Buddhist who likes the occasional bit of Czech opera, and all my thoughts of irreverence — born out of weeks of living in Indochina — flush down the confluence of the Mekong and the Tonle Sap while looking past Sisowath Quay to the east.
This river, the lifeblood of Indochina, had once emerged as a trickle in Tibet, and I am perplexed by the lack of cohesion it shows while merging with the Tonle Sap, which also shares its name with a large freshwater lake in Siem Reap. During the monsoon season, the Mekong forces the Tonle Sap to reverse its water with such gushing force that the latter is left with no choice but to flood itself with fish.
It doesn’t rain in Phnom Penh; I had heard this phrase before but am accosted with it with painful lucidity for the first time when visiting the Tuol Sleng primary school that served, for years, as a torture centre for the Khmer Rouge. Had it rained on the frangipani-filled lush gardens of the school — belittling the despair and agony that went on inside — I would not have noticed. I envy the frangipani blooms and their ability to distance themselves from such emotions as those that afflict men. Outside, a survivor of the Khmer Rouge years sells his story for a few pennies; recognition from the foreigner seems more validating to him than acceptance from his countrymen, who have long forgotten his ordeals. I am told that a McDonald’s might soon open across the street.
When encountering the fabled ‘baby-killing tree’ in the ignominious Killing Fields in Cheoung Ek outside Phnom Penh, there is a numbing sensation which I have scarcely felt before. The tears fall heavier than the unseasonal rains I would have wished to encounter in Phnom Penh; it was not too long ago when I could have claimed that I had not cried in ten years. That this tree is also a Pipal, a cousin of the one under which Sakyamuni attained enlightenment, seems a cruel joke to me. That there is still some sign of life on it, populated by the innumerable butterflies and twittering sparrows, exacerbates this feeling all the more.
Angkor
Angkor[1], a few days later, seems resplendent at dawn, but I am unable to escape the reality that the men who built this monument had also given birth to the reality that the Khmer Rouge would later become. Indeed, Pol Pot was known for his selective readings of the classics of the Khmer kingdom of Angkor — if building this city was possible, anything was, even his vastly unerudite idea of returning the country to a year ‘zero’, doing away with the market economy, abolishing money and persecuting intellectuals for wearing spectacles.
The rain that evades me in Phnom Penh finally catches up with me in Angkor Wat; unable to make a visit early one morning on a bicycle in a thunderstorm through the black jungle, I remain rooted to my guesthouse and eventually fall asleep.
On my first visit to Angkor Wat, I am stunned by the intricacies and details that seem to have permeated every angle of Khmer design. The frescoes on the walls and the images on the gates of the large temple complex depict wars fought and construction projects undertaken; for all its virility in eventually losing its grasp over modern-day Cambodia, the Hindu-Buddhist Khmer kingdom — of whose ilk Jayavarman VII had been, and whose predecessor Suryavarman II had ordered this temple made in 1150, at first as a tribute to Vishnu, and eventually, a mausoleum for himself — was remarkable in its aesthetic sensibilities.
Ta Prohm
The several other temples in the area, including the great Bayon, Ta Phrom and Prasat Preah Khan — not to mention the gigantic meadows located in the heart of the old city of Angkor Thom — attract and drive my senses even as I struggle to cycle on flat roads in the deadening midday heat. The meadows, which feature statues of elephants attired in regal resplendence, remind me of a time simpler than this, when a thousand parasols could be had for cheap and held over the head of the king. The climate of Indochina, I surmise, may not have been too different from what it is now; I look yonder for concrete jungles mimicking the ones that seem to have sprung up choc-a-bloc in west Hyderabad, but encounter only lush blackness.
Angkor Thom
In effect, understanding Khmer society or the part of it which is shown to the visitor, is a challenging affair unless one undertakes a voyage of the heart that infrequently involves short-changing between lives of a different kind. The Mekong, which makes no appearance in Siem Reap, slithers away from the intemperate nature one finds in Angkor.
When I walk past Sisowath Quay one night under a moonless sky, I am reminded of my own idea of happiness, which seems to have been torn to shreds on this journey; a group of middle-aged Khmer men, devoid of languor in this dark hour and well-fortified with Angkor, the brew and not the temple, beckon me over to join in their game of sai[2]. It is then that I know it is time to put the killing tree to bed. For now.
[2] Played with the foot with a shuttlecock-like structure
Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, poet, sports journalist, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published four collections of poems and one travelogue so far. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Tumi Kon Kanoner Phulby Tagore andAnjali Loho Morby Nazrul, love songs by the two greats, have been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click hereto read.
One Life, One Love, 300 Children : Keith Lyons writes of Tendol Gyalzur, a COVID 19 victim, a refugee and an orphan who found new lives for many other orphans with love and an ability to connect. Click here to read.
When West Meets East & Greatness Blooms: Debraj Mookerjee reflects on how syncretism impacts greats like Tagore,Tolstoy, Emerson, Martin Luther King Jr, Gandhi and many more. Click here to read.
Dilip Kumar: Kohinoor-e-Hind: In a tribute to Bollywood legend Dileep Kumar, Ratnottama Sengupta, one of India’s most iconic arts journalists, recollects the days the great actor sprinted about on the sets of Bombay’s studios …spiced up with fragments from the autobiography of Sengupta’s father, Nabendu Ghosh. Click here to read.
Are Some of Us More Human than Others ?: Meenakshi Malhotra ponders at the exclusivity that reinforces divisions, margins and borders that continue to plague humankind, against the backdrop of the Women’s Month, March. Click here to read.
Reminiscences from a Gallery: MF Husain: Dolly Narang recounts how she started a gallery more than four decades ago and talks of her encounter with world renowned artist, MF Husain. Click hereto read.
Baraf Pora (Snowfall) by Rabindranath Tagore,gives a glimpse of his first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Clickhere to read.
Cherry Blossom Forecast: Suzanne Kamata brings the Japanese ritual of cherry blossom viewing to our pages with her camera and words. Clickhere to read.
Two Pizza Fantasies, Rhys Hughes recounts myths around the pizza in prose, fiction and poetry, Click here to read.
An Alien on the Altar!: Snigdha Agrawal writes of how a dog and lizard add zest to festivities with a dollop of humour. Click here to read.
Where it all Began: Sybil Pretious recounts her first adventure, an ascent on Mt Kilimanjaro at the age of sixty. Clickhere to read.
Conversations
Rabindranath Tagore: A Universal Bard.: This conversation between Aruna Chakravarti and Sunil Gangopadhyay that took place at a Tagore Conference organised by the Sahitya Akademi in Kochy in 2011. Click here to read.
Sriniketan: Tagore’s “Life Work”: In Conversation with Professor Uma Das Gupta, Tagore scholar, author of A History of Sriniketan, where can be glimpsed what Tagore considered his ‘life’s work’ as an NGO smoothening divides between villagers and the educated. Click here to read. (Review & Interview).
In conversation with the late Akbar Barakzai, a Balochi poet in exile who rejected an award from Pakistan Academy of Letters for his principles. Click here to read.
Jim Goodman, an American traveler, author, ethnologist and photographer who has spent the last half-century in Asia, converses with Keith Lyons. Click here to read.
InBridge over Troubled Waters, the late Sanjay Kumar tells us about Pandies, an activist theatre group founded by him that educates, bridging gaps between the divides of university educated and the less fortunate who people slums or terror zones. Click here to read.
In Lessons Old and New from a Stray Japanese Cat, Keith Lyons talks with the author of The Cat with Three Passports, CJ Fentiman who likes the anonymity loaned by resettling in new places & enjoys creating a space for herself away from her birthplace. Click hereto read.
Fiction
Aparichitaby Tagore: This short story has been translated as The Stranger by Aruna Chakravarti. Click hereto read.
Hena by Nazrul has been translated from Bengali by Sohana Manzoor. Click here to read.
Playlets byRabindranath Tagore: Two skits that reveal the lighter side of the poet. They have been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.
Abhagi’s Heaven, a poignant story by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay translated by Aruna Chakravarti. Click here to read.
An Eternal Void, a Balochi story by Munir Ahmed Badini translated by Fazal Baloch. Click hereto read.
The Witch, a short story by renowned Bengali writer Tarasankar Bandopadhyay (1898 to 1971), translated by Aruna Chakravarti. Clickhere to read.
I Grew into a Flute: Balochi Folktale involving magic retold by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Give Me A Rag, Please:A short story by Nabendu Ghosh, translated by Ratnottama Sengupta, set in the 1943 Bengal Famine, which reflects on man’s basic needs. Click here to read
Rakhamaninov’s Sonata: A short story by Sherzod Artikov, translated from Uzbeki by Nigora Mukhammad. Click hereto read.
The Magic Staff , a poignant short story about a Rohingya child by Shaheen Akhtar, translated from Bengali by Arifa Ghani Rahman. Click here to read.
Khaira, the Blind, a story by Nadir Ali, has been translated from Punjabi by Amna Ali. Click here to read.
The Browless Dolls by S.Ramakrishnan, has been translated from Tamil by B Chandramouli. Click hereto read.
No Man’s Land: Sohana Manzoor gives us surrealistic story reflecting on after-life. Click hereto read.
The Protests Outside: Steve Ogah talks of trauma faced by riot victims in Nigeria. Click here to read.
Flash Fiction: Turret: Niles M Reddick relates a haunting tale of ghosts and more. Click here to read.
Henrik’s Journey: Farah Ghuznavi follows a conglomerate of people on board a flight to address issues ranging from Rohingyas to race bias. Click hereto read.
Does this Make Me a Psychic?; Erwin Coombs tells a suspenseful, funny, poignant and sad story, based on his real life experiences. Click here to read.
Phôs and Ombra: Paul Mirabile weaves a dark tale about two people lost in a void. Click here to read.
A Queen is Crowned: Farhanaz Rabbani traces the awakening of self worth. Click here to read.
Aparna Vats shares a narrative around female infanticide centring her story around a BBC interview and an interview with the journalist who unfolded the narrtive. Click here to read.
Dolly Narang recounts how she started a gallery more than four decades ago and talks of her encounter with world renowned artist, MF Husain. Click hereto read.
Ghoom, Darjeeling, is almost 2.5 km above sea level. Standing in the rarified air of Ghoom, you can watch the Kanchenjunga turn gold as it gets drenched in the rays of the rising sun. The phenomenon lasts for a short duration. The white pristine peak again returns to its original colour blending and disappearing among the white cirrus clouds that flit in the sky. Over time, it’s shrouded by mists that hang over this region. The event is transitory and repeats itself on every clear morning like life that flits in and out of existence over and over again…
Witnessing this phenomenon feels like a privilege of a lifetime as is meeting people who shine brightly and unusually, like the Kanchenjunga, to disappear into mists all too early. One such person was the founder of pandies’ 1 who coordinated the pandies’ corner for Borderless Journal, the late Sanjay Kumar (1961-2025). The idea of starting this column was to bring out the unheard voices of those who had risen above victimhood to find new lives through the work done by pandies’. In his book, Performing, Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play, published by Cambridge Scholars Publishing, he described his scope of work which in itself was stunning. His work ranged from teaching to using theatre and play to heal railway platform kids, youngsters in Kashmir, the Nithari survivors and more — all youngsters who transcended the scars seared on them by violations and violence. We hope to continue the column in coordination with pandies’.
Another very renowned person whose art encompassed a large number of social concerns and is now lost to time was the artist, MF Husain (1915-2011). This issue of Borderless is privileged to carry an artwork by him that has till now not been open to the public for viewing. It was a gift from him to the gallerist, Dolly Narang, on her birthday. She has written nostlgically of her encounters with the maestro who walked bare-feet and loved rusticity. She has generously shared a photograph of the sketch (1990) signed ‘McBull’ — a humorous play on his first name, Maqbool, by the artist.
Drenched with nostalgia is also Professor Fakrul Alam’s essay, dwelling on more serious issues while describing with a lightness his own childhood experiences. Many of the nonfiction in this issue have a sense of nostalgia. Mohul Bhowmick recalls his travels to Bhutan. And Prithvijeet Sinha introduces as to a grand monument of Lucknow, Bara Imambara. Lokenath Roy takes us for a stroll to Juhu, dwelling on the less affluent side. Suzanne Kamata describes her source of inspiration for a few stories in her new book, River of Dolls and Other Stories. A darker hue is brought in by Aparna Vats as she discusses female infanticide. But a light sprays across the pages as Devraj Singh Kalsi describes how his feisty grandmother tackled armed robbers in her home. And an ironic tone rings out in the rather whimsical musing by Farouk Gulsara on New Year days and calendars.
Everyone was at each other's throats, insistent that the world was ending. But I felt differently, as though I were just beginning, or just beginning again…
Poets, like visionaries across time and cultures, often see hope where others see despair. And humour always has that hum of hope. In a lighter tone, Rhys Hughes makes one laugh or just wonder as he writes:
I once knew a waiter who jumped in alarm when I somersaulted across his restaurant floor after entering the front door on my way to my favourite table: he wasn’t able to control his nerves and the meal he was bearing ended up on the ceiling with people staring as it started to drip down.
Translations feature poetry. Lyrics of Nazrul (1899-1976) and Tagore (1861-1941) appear together in Professor Alam’s translations of their love songs from Bengali. He has also transcreated a Bengali poem by Jibananada Das (1899-1854). Profoundly philosophical lines by Atta Shad (1939-1997) in Balochi has been rendered to English by Fazal Baloch for his birth anniversary this month. Ihlwah Choi has translated his poem from Korean, taking up the poignant theme of transience of life. A Tagore poem called ‘Kheya (Ferry)’, inspired by his rustic and beautiful surroundings, has been brought to us in English.
Huge thanks to all our contributors, the Borderless team for all these fabulous pieces. Thanks to Gulsara, Kamata, Bhowmick and Sinha for the fabulous photography by them to accompany their writings. Heartfelt gratitude to Sohana Manzoor for her cover art and to Dutta for her artwork accompanying her poem. Without all your efforts, this issue would have been incomplete. And now, dear readers, thank you for being with us through this journey. I turn the issue over to all of you… there is more as usual than mentioned here. Do pause by our contents page.
pandies’ was started in 1987. It’s spelled with a small ‘p’ and the name was picked by the original team. Read more about pandies’ by clicking here. ↩︎
Young lamas, or monks, appearing for their annual examinations in the monsatry of Simtokha Dzong, Thimphu.
Bhutan, 2024
The sun sets far too quickly for my liking in Phuentsoling. There is little to no entertainment to speak of that is worth its name. The town, by and large, presents itself in its entirety and goes to bed by the time my friend, S, and I crisscross our way to our hotel uphill. It does not help that we enter Bhutanese soil on its National Day, celebrated to mark the coronation of their first king Ugyen Wangchuk in 1907, and find most places of public convenience closed.
The stark contrast that the Indian border town of Jaigaon offers to its Bhutanese counterpart Phuentsoling is remarkable. The lack of men — and their wherewithal — on crossing the north-eastern frontier is welcome, as is the steep upkeep that the Himalayan kingdom pushes upon its citizens.
*
The Phuentsoling-Thimphu highway has improved by leaps and bounds since Queen Mother Ashi Dorji Wangmo Wangchuck made her initial foray into the hills of Kalimpong from the village of Nobgang in the 70s. I try my best to spot a mule — or its track — but am left disappointed by the presence of a modern-day state-of-the-art business college in Gedu[1] instead.
The lower reaches of the Himalayas that surround us to the east act as forbidding barriers into the hidden crevices of the hidden kingdom we are attempting to climb in a motor vehicle, the likes of which were first seen in this country in the 1980s. The light — of which I had been so painfully deprived in Phuentsoling — seeps in with zeal I have seldom seen in the plains of the Deccan, and the lifeblood that flows inside me is roused enough to taste the incandescent flavours of kewa datsi[2]with red rice. And before I know it, a lifelong love affair has begun with this enticing dish.
*
We are welcomed into Bhutan proper only after arriving in Thimphu the next day, or so it seems. The capital city of this virgin kingdom has evolved significantly from Pico Iyer’s assumptions in 1989 that all of it could be explored over the course of an afternoon. That the Druk Hotel in which the legendary essayist stayed remains steadfast beyond the clocktower that shows no change of hands is a testament to the art of stillness that the Bhutanese so pride themselves upon; at 11 AM on a weekday at a laundromat not far from the main street hangs a signboard proclaiming, ‘closed for lunch.’ Iyer is not too far off the mark even thirty-five years later.
That the people smile easily takes me by surprise; I have seldom known a populace so unburdened by the weight of living that they have overtaken all their consternations and settled finally upon the art of being. Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuk, Bhutan’s present king, finds himself immortalised in pictures across every restaurant, hotel and store across the country.
The fervour seems, to me, all the more in Thimphu, where the local masses try to outdo their neighbours in anticipation of the gentle 44-year-old stepping out of the Tashicho Dzong grounds (his palace) to inspect these pictures and possibly reward their owners for their loyalty. I suspect this ardour stems as much from devotion to their ‘living God’ as to the fear of missing out or merely keeping up with the Joneses — or Wangchucks. Some modern predicaments seem to have crept into Druk after all.
It is not without these frailties that one’s mornings in Thimphu are strewed. Gather and scatter, as the bard Vikram Seth[3] was wont to have mentioned, applies less to the hounding of the dogs mid-street all night than to the karaoke bars that pride themselves on staying open when the rest of the world sleeps.
Had Nehru not arrived in Paro from Nathu La in 1958 on the back of a yak, this journey would have seemed almost romantic to that of the least fatalistic of Indian prime ministers. It is not known whether the venerable freedom fighter from Allahabad shared any of his midnight oil burning advice with the Bhutanese during his state visit; it appears for certain that the karaoke bars sprung up like mushrooms much later and took his guiding directions to heart.
*
If it is not the baying of the foolhardy dogs, it is the crowing of the late-night suppliers at the fifty shops selling similar products on the Thimphu main street that keeps me — and my journalistic tendencies — awake. Onitsuka Tiger [4]rubs shoulders with Adidas Samba[5] with a glee that one forsakes in favour of the warmth that a bowl of tofu thukpa[6]offers; before long, a handsome policeman in his impeccable uniform including a heartening jacket and betel-stained teeth joins me for a cup of tea. He has just finished his duty of acting as the traffic signal in a city that has no traffic signals.
With the precision best described as that of mimicking an archer — of whose credulity there is a lot in Bhutan — my newfound friend diverts the few cars that choose to make the hike into Thimphu’s central business district on this cold night. He tells me about how gently the tea goes with the thukpa I have with me, all while seated on the plank of a wooden crate left behind by the Adidas doppelgangers.
A plate of momos — beef for him, and cabbage for me — soon arrives from Kinley Tsering, a lady who sells home-cooked food at night after tending to her household all day to augment the family income. In a horror mixed with incomprehension of protocol, my friend in livery whips out his wallet to pay; I am stunned by an act I have never seen uniform-clad men do in the past. The temperature plunges to minus six degrees Celsius as I walk back with the numbing, tear-inducing breeze on my face. I feel exhilarated.
*
The Paro airport is considered to be one of the most dangerous places in the world to land in.
Paro[7], imperious, meek and all-abiding, comes too soon and whisks away any perceptible delight that one feels at having escaped the wrath that Thimphu denotes upon those who cannot see. The dzong, located several miles outside of town, is the only real attraction besides the museum on the way down; modern tourists — and locals besides — tend to find enjoyment in climbing up the steep hillocks to gain a view of a Druk Airplane taking flight from what is considered to be among the most dangerous airports in the world. Back on the main strip that connects this valley to Chuyul in the north, dinner consists of dried ema (Bhutanese chilli), vegetables and rice, with accompaniments of dumplings.
The Taktsang Lakhang[8] stands upright on the shoulder of a cliff the next day; I am perplexed as to how I could be so close as to see the finer details of its inner sanctum in my mind yet far enough to appreciate the impossible angle at which it is perched. The monastery, which had dominated so many of my dreams about Bhutan in the past, is often referred to as the ‘Tiger’s Nest’ by the West. It takes its name from a spot allegedly visited by the Indian guru, Padmasambhava[9], on the back of a mythical flying tiger in the eighth century to flay a demoness who was tormenting the locals of the area.
The Taktsang LakhangSunset at Taktsang Lakhang
The climb is demanding, but the panoramic views of the valley to the east make it seem less so. The ardour of the fellow pilgrim is contagious enough for me to push past the mental barriers I have erected for myself without even trying, and before I know it, we are at the halfway point where the government has been kind enough to let an eatery ply its trade. The Local Train’s Vaaqif[10] accompanies us as Taktsang appears all the more closer, and all the more dangerous.
The ascent, dusty and translucent though it is due to the lack of rain for several months, troubles me with its penchant for nonchalance. I loathe to fall into the reverie that takes me over every minute while glimpsing at a branch of the hundred-year-old rhododendron that has stood firm while men have grappled past their anxieties. I awaken soon enough with the realisation that my worries and physical ailments may seem impotent to the staunch Buddhist who makes the six-kilometre hike to the monastery by prostrating himself full-length, getting up and repeating the feat till he gets to the top a week after he has begun.
The top is still way off from where one reaches the monastery proper. Perched dangerously on the edge of this cliff, the monastery virtually hangs into oblivion attracting gusts of wind, who somehow choose not to play to the gallery. Yet, it has survived for centuries, and if faith were one’s sole determinator, it shall survive for several more. The inside has temples dedicated to Padmasambhava in his various forms: astounded, wrathful and compassionate.
Propitiating the gods — and as an extension, their other halves, the demons — is commonplace in Bhutan, and the same holds for ParoTaktsang. While the inordinate thangkas[11] and artefacts collected over the years provide the inner sanctum sanctorum of the monastery with its sheen, it is the historical hostility that the local deities have displayed towards demons that make it eerily attractive. Indeed, folk tales observe that several local, protective deities were demons won over by the Buddhist dharma when Padmasambhava arrived on the back of his mythical tiger.
And so it is that I find myself in the dark, indistinct crevices of the cliff on which the monastery proper is located but beneath which is the original Tiger’s Nest which the Bhutanese claim to have a pug mark of Padmasambhava’s beast. The descent into the darkness, almost as if plunging into the unknown, requires one to be on his back and flatten himself along the rocks to reach the acute angle where the pug mark is located.
A lonely candle blows in this unventilated corner of the cliff, and only a sliver of light to the east remains to remind me of the vast world outside, that which I have forsaken to witness this tiny fraction of hope at Taktsang. This hope flutters unabated, almost as if without any beginning or end, and for a moment, I am suspended in the brilliant sunshine overlooking a valley fit for the heroic landscapes I so fervently pursue. Might this be the only time when I forsake my attachment to life in search of a glorious future, real or imagined?
There is no end to the ruminations that I have while being assailed by the light that peeps in almost as if it is too shy to ask for permission. The way out may be more difficult than the way in — as in life — but how do I respond to the call I have heard inside, the one that compels me to sing the songs of my fathers in the temples of my gods?
The thought strikes with a speed I had not known I possessed until I see the boulder above me swerve in its position in a quarter of a millisecond; with an equal lack of precision and comfort, I come out of the cave, for all the world a dishevelled a youth with an abrasive attitude towards the world, but in my own estimation, a changed man. I did not need new eyes, but merely a new way of seeing.
*
The magnificent Punakha dzong is surrounded by the river Mo Chhu.
The dzong[12] of Punakha is a magnificent object of interest to lovers of history and architecture alike; straddled on an oasis that one must reach after crossing the timid-looking Mo Chhu River, it looms large into the thoughtful sunshine all the while immersed in a meditative calm that only its altitude has any makings of. Like all dzongs in Bhutan, the one in Punakha too is much more impressive from the outside. Tall, gaunt and imperial in its outlook, it acts more as a presence of the godly authority that the king and abbot enjoy in Bhutanese society, the former only matched in his regal bearing by the latter.
Even more impressive, if the word is right, is the suspension bridge that takes one across the river Po Chhu (the male consort of Mo Chhu) behind the dzong. There is little to look at but the other end as one sways with the wind — and the breeze is far too strong for my liking even at three in the afternoon here — while praying to the Gods, both Indian and Bhutanese, that the bridge does not give way and deposit me into the freezing waters of the river about three vertical kilometres below. The 160-metres bridge span seems more than a mile to me; awake finally at the reality of life slipping away from my grasp in the blink of an eye, I experience the innards of a fear that I thought I had buried deep inside myself.
For the entire time that I cross the bridge — and return — for there is nothing to see on the other side but an eatery that sells delightful ice cream, this fear flares in a bid to reignite my passions for a world I had once deeply cared for and strongly felt like changing. For all the lack of consideration that I display, either in terms of material or intangible riches, there is little that stays on par with this kind of fear, the one that reminds me at every step that I am virtually playing with my fate, and that everything I have with me, most perceptibly my heartbeat, could drown in a second if the heavens so choose. A strong gust of wind and I can finally sense what Matthiessen[13] meant when he wrote:
‘This is a fine chance to let go, to win my life by losing it…’
I am driven back to life when a local teenager rides across the heavily swaying bridge and into the sun — with the mildly flowering dandelions emitting a heady scent ideal for such gallant terrains, on his bicycle — too young to care about life’s intricacies, yet old enough to realise that everything one wants is on the other side of fear.
It is in such heroic landscapes that I change my stance towards the heavens; where I drink the water from the stream gurgling past the Po Chhu and gulp in the air that promises a revival of a dream seen long ago. Such dreams deserve their rightful places in a world shorn of temerity in a way that human emotions can seldom fathom. And yet the dandelions, by now competing with the rhododendrons that shall have to wait till spring, promise a tomorrow that may not get swayed by this incredible afternoon breeze.
*
When I wake up a month later in the arid plains of the Deccan, unsure if such dreams are still worth chasing — or life still worth living — I remember that the dandelions would soon be in bloom in the hidden kingdom I so arduously seek within myself.
The gently flowing Paro Chhu river makes one lie down beside it and do nothing.
[13] Peter Mattheissen (1927-2014) novelist, naturalist and CIA Agent
Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, poet, sports journalist, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published four collections of poems and one travelogue so far. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Borderless 