He smiled, ruffling his son’s capped head. He knew that the lenses children were born with eventually writhed and crumbled to dust with age. That had been the fate of his pair. Though when and how, he didn’t remember anymore. If only Moji[1] was still around, he thought, she would have spread out the detailed list in front of him.
Instead, he replied, “Ghosts and the living do not stay together.”
“Like dirty and clean laundry?”
He nodded.
“But I think you had not seen the ghosts growing up. They didn’t want you to see them.”
“I don’t think I ever told you a bedtime story about growing up with ghosts around me.”
He chuckled. He reminded himself of his son’s skill in repeating stories that he had heard a few nights ago, refracted through his lenses. But wasn’t that common for kids?
He had learnt the art of storytelling from Moji, who each night would cradle his tiny head on her lap and tell him stories she had grown up hearing while embroidering shawls by the lamp. He narrated the same stories to Fabienne, Kashyap’s mother, years later during their freezing nights in Fairbanks. Perhaps Kashyap had picked up the trait then, for when he grew a little older, he not only insisted on completing the stories his father began but also firmly believed that his parents continued telling stories with changed climaxes, in their bedroom. In those nights of exchanging stories, little by little, Fabienne was shrinking her plot points until, after one such invigorating session, she was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s just that you don’t remember anymore, Daddy,” complained Kashyap, tightening his clasp around his father’s gloved hand.
“You and your stories,” he scoffed, lifting his five-year-old son into his arms.
Their white breaths – his deep and his son’s short – swirled into each other’s before disappearing in the crystal air. He gripped the rotting capping rail of the fence with the other hand.
As a child, the fence had scared him with its enormity. Sometimes he crouched behind it, fixing an eye to a hole in the wood, when he returned home late from fishing rainbow trout in the river or playing cricket in the chinar groves. Now its height reached only an inch above his waist.
“Are we going to get inside, Daddy?” Kashyap’s exasperation reddened his ears, like Moji twisting them in the hideout behind the fence.
The cold stroked his ears. He did not lift a finger to scratch the inflammation. He simply stared at the home of his ancestors, what reminded of it further hidden under the snow. Moss on the walls. Grimy. Rickety. Unwashed soot. Unfixed windows. Battered porch. Clogged chimney. The skeleton of a juniper at the back.
Something tugged at the little hairs in his nose. Something burnt his eyes. Maybe a fly ash of yesteryears.
“Daddy?” Kashyap lightly kicked his ribs.
He clicked his tongue and continued staring at the ensemble of wood and brick through the strings of delicate snowflakes showering on the house, showering on them.
“Daddy,” he said with the softness of the snowflakes.
“Yes, Kay.”
“Do you want to hear a story?”
“Go on,” his voice, frozen in a trance, answered.
“The story starts with a family heading to the house of the fairies. A boy of my age. A father of your age. A mother…no, not a mother.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know any story with a mother in it.”
He added after some time, hesitantly, “Do you know stories of mother, Daddy?”
“Umm hmm.”
“Do you know stories of your mother?”
Even with the eddying of meditation in his blood, he curled his lips in a smile—before his neurons could conjure the scene of Fabienne’s terror-stricken face, begging him to keep his history, his story, from their son.
“What story do you want to hear?”
“Her story.”
“My mother, my Moji, came many years ago to this house as a young bride. This was the house where my Mole[2] was born. He had lived his entire life in the valley. Moji was from the Silver Mountains – up there. She had never seen the valley until the wedding. He had never been to the mountains before.”
“And then?”
“That’s the end of the story.” He lied. His promise to Fabienne lurked at the end of his tongue.
“You’re a terrible storyteller, Daddy.”
He laughed. “How would you have told the story, then?”
“I would not have kept my audience in the dark. What does Moji look like? Does she have my hazel eyes? Or your red cheeks? Does she have wrinkles now? Is her nose really tiny?”
His moji’s humming—a soft rustle—of ‘door ballaai tsajiyo[3]’ streaming in from the susurrating faraway wind dispersed his son’s shrill words haywire in the current. Before his eyes, on the thickening snow, feeble, disconcerted images pulsed. Moji’s green irises. The raisin mole on her lips. Her ears chained to pairs of elongated dejhoor[4]. The emerald on her nose. The scarlet scarf fastened around her head.
When his son’s swollen fingers, behind fleece gloves, tucked at his beard, he blinked his eyes, but the water-painted figments remained. He was unaware for how long he had been gaping at the glowing and dimming on the unruly, stark white snow.
“Are there any photographs of her inside?” his son’s voice reached him as if from across the mountains.
He paused. He plucked his reddening eyes from the snow to the dark porch. Was still moji, red and peeling from the burns, crouching? The orange flames rising from somewhere in the house were deafening her mute cries and devouring the bricks and wood. The embers and their smoke had already charred the chords in her throat. He had stopped right at the fence. The black orbit, where her mouth had been, was still muttering, asking him to flee.
He shouldn’t have left to run her errands, he cursed. Either he and moji would have burrowed their way out under the fire or, hand in hand, said their last prayers amidst the flames licking their cheeks. But moji had been under the weather for a few weeks, and mole had disappeared into thin air the previous full moon. His coworkers at the post office or the baton-wielding patrolling policemen across the streets and the lakes were equally clueless about the whereabouts of his shoestring after he had left for home, sliding the pen into his pocket.
He closed his eyes and opened them again. Only moji-shaped soot remained at the porch. The blackened sepulchre blended in with the twilight setting.
He gasped. His spine shuddered. His son in his tightened grip shuddered too.
“Can we go back, daddy?”
“What?” He had not heard him.
Kashyap repeated.
“Sure. Fifteen steps and we shall be indoors.”
“Let’s go home, daddy.”
He turned to his son’s crumpled face in his arms. He whispered, “Open doors remind me of mommy.”
Apology handheld dread in his son’s eyes. He had so far mirrored his father’s whine about visiting the home of his childhood as they sat in an aircraft from the other side of the globe and drove through the sea of paperwork and up the mountains. But the open door shattered him. It vividly brought back the evenings he relentlessly tired himself with the stories mommy had told him and invented newer ones when they exhausted in boring him enough. The same words, the same scenes flowed. Had mommy’s letters ever arrived by mail, as in a chapter taught at school, his stories would have charted new ground too. They would have been of a different composition. He believed daddy would understand.
His eyes didn’t utter a word. He tucked Kashyap closer to his warm chest and wrapped him in his arms. As he trod away, Kashyap dug his chin into his daddy’s square shoulder. Somewhere around the backyard of the house, red-smeared white petals of a tulip were unfurling under the snow. Had the ghosts from daddy’s childhood planted the seeds?
[3] A lullaby sung by Kashmiri mothers to ward off evil: Literally, “let evils stay far…”
[4] Long chained earrings worn by married Kashmiri women
Oindrila Ghosal is an emerging author and also a doctoral student at Tata Memorial Centre – Advanced Centre for Treatment, Research and Education in Cancer, Navi Mumbai. So far, her short stories, “The Harlot’s Veena”, “The Asylum” and “The Jungle Within Me” have been published in Kitaab.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Story by Lakhvinder Virk, translated from Punjabi by C. Christine Fair
Translator’s note
This story comes from Lakhvinder Virk’s first collection of Punjabi-language short stories titled, Colors that Were Not Red (Rang Jo Suuha Nahin Sin), which was published in 2024 by Ojj Parkashan in India. Punjabi literature, despite the presence of important giants such as Amrita Pritam and Ajeet Cour, is still dominated by male voices and male interiorities. Even when male authors ventrilolocute for female characters, it often feels voyeuristic. Upon reading this story, I was immediately struck by its distinctive voice and storyline. This story is distinctive both because of its adventurous female protagonist, who is willing to explore her own sexuality and negotiate the boundaries of marriage, but also its theme of a husband who seeks an open marriage. In India such concepts are even more rare and controversial than they are in the United States. Upon encountering this story, I was awed by Virk’s brave willingness to engage a subject matter that is so verboten in India. While other stories in her collection of short stories flirt with similarly provocative themes, I believed “Open Marriage” was an important story to translate. While the specificities of this story are rooted in upper-class Mumbai, India, the challenges confronted by the young female protagonist are universal. How do women everywhere negotiate unreasonable demands and behavior from a husband who was heretofore presented as loving and caring? When has the Rubicon been crossed? When does a woman leave a marriage that is destroying her? How much is too much to tolerate? This story presents its own answers.
Lakhvinder Virk
Open Marriage by Lakhvinder Virk
The sound from the phone caught both of their attention. It was likely text message. Indeed, Siddarth got a message on his phone. He did not pick up his phone to look. Tania’s gaze was fixed on the television screen. Because it was Sunday, both were free, and they planned to watch the film Animal on Netflix. They ordered out for food and began watching the movie.
On the TV. screen, there was a scene: the hero, having lied to his wife, formed a physical relationship with another girl. When the wife found out, she was inconsolable. She cried and left the house, taking the children with her.
Siddharth picked up the phone and went to the bathroom. But the sound of the message on his phone kept nagging Tania.
Tania tried to focus on watching the film. “Is it such a big deal if a husband is involved with another woman? He still loved his wife,” she thought to herself. “If what is being depicted is real, then so what?”
*
Siddarth and Tania were married two years ago. Siddarth was the CEO of a multinational company in Mumbai, and Tania was the general manager in a branch of the State Bank of India. They had an arranged marriage through a matchmaking app. After marriage, the husband and wife would clean the kitchen together as well as other household chores. Because Tania shifted from Delhi to Mumbai, she had to work hard to understand the new place and new environment. Siddarth helped her thoroughly in this process.
One day Siddarth asked, “Tania, did you have a boyfriend before marriage?”
“I am not so narrow-minded. Don’t worry. Come on. Tell me.”
“In truth, no.” Tania was collecting herself.
“This isn’t possible, dear. Don’t lie.”
“No Siddarth, it’s the truth.”
“This means that you don’t trust me, Tania. These days, there’s nothing bad about having relationships. Moreover, in our society, if you don’t have a relationship, it means that there is something wrong with you.” Siddarth wanted to know about Tania’s past.
“I never got the free time, Siddarth. I just focused upon my career and studies,” Tania answered, looking away. She was afraid that Siddarth would read her emotions.
“Tell me about yourself,” Tania asked.
“Yes. I had many. I had my first girlfriend when I was in the sixth grade. Before marriage, I had thirteen girlfriends.” Siddarth answered proudly, counting them on his fingers.
“Oh my god! At such a young age,” Tania said in bewilderment.
“Young?” Siddarth looked at Tania as if she had come out of the jungle and knew nothing about the world. “Some of my friends had several physical relationships by the time they were in the tenth grade. I even had a friend who was caught with his girlfriend in the school toilet. Both of them were kicked out of school. In this regard, I was slow. My friends would make fun of me because I was clueless. Then somehow, during my graduation, I mustered the courage with my fourth girlfriend,” Siddarth explained while laughing. Tania was looking at him, astonished.
“Delhi is also an open environment like this. How is it possible that you did not have a boyfriend? Yaar[1], these days one has to do a lot of things due to peer pressure. Among my friends, if someone didn’t have a girlfriend, they would kick him out of the group. I don’t believe you didn’t have a boyfriend. Come on. Tell me,” Siddarth insisted.
“It’s not necessary that every girl has a relationship.”
Tania had two boyfriends. One was in the twelfth grade. When Tania saw him, she fell in love with him. But this was a childhood crush that ended in a few days when he became friends with another girl. The second was when she was doing her MBA. She fell in love with a classmate. She was fairly serious in this relationship. She wanted to marry him, but when she raised this matter with him, he responded in rage. Tania was outdated to him. “I’ve never even thought like this. What does marriage mean?” he had said.
After that, they could never be normal again, and they broke up.
Tania wanted to tell all of this to Siddarth, but she was afraid. She had always heard that a boy could do whatever he wanted, but a boy wouldn’t tolerate hearing this from girls. Her mom said that talking about such things could lead to a divorce. Thinking about all of this, she kept quiet.
Siddharath brought Tania into his embrace and said, “This is normal, Tania. We go out of the house, it’s natural that we’re attracted to members of the opposite sex. If I can, why can’t you? I am not an old school type.”
Even though Tania didn’t want to, she hid the truth. After this, Siddarth did not raise the issue again.
One night after dinner, when all of the work was finished, Tania came into the bedroom. Siddharth was reclining on the bed, reading a magazine.
“Do you know about open marriages?” Siddharth asked, signaling her to come near him.
“Open marriage?” Tania asked out of great curiosity, sitting beside him.
“I am reading some stuff about open marriages and…So be it. I myself am thinking about this,” Siddarth said.
For a moment, silence spread between them.
“What is an open marriage?” Tania stood up and started putting on some lotion. She had put on a nightie in Siddarth’s favourite color, but Siddarth had paid it no attention.
“An open marriage means that within the marriage, there are some commitments, but both partners can form relationships apart from the other,” Siddarth explained. “It’s not cheating but understood as a different aspect of intimacy.” He was looking towards Tania and saying, “In doing this, the couple’s bond can deepen and they never get bored.”
Before responding, Tania was quiet for some time, thinking about this.
“It seems interesting but….is it practical? Moreover, it could bring stress to the couple. And consequently, the marriage will get very complicated.”
Siddarth shook his head, “I know that this isn’t easy, but if one talks openly and honestly with each other, it seems to me that it isn’t so hard.”
For some time, a silence spread between them.
“Tania I don’t want our marriage to become old and conventional, and after some years we fight and become distant. Many of my friends are in open marriages or are into wife swapping. Actually, I didn’t want to get married, but my parents pressured me and I got married.”
“You mean you can have a girlfriend, and I can have a boyfriend. Right?” Tania asked in astonishment.
“Yes. It’s necessary to keep our marriage alive.”
“But how will this work? This seems very awkward to me.” Tania was stuck, conflicted.
“Go back deep into history, there is polygamy in our culture,” he began to explain to Tania. “In our country, there are multiple such examples in which Kings had hundreds of marriages. Apart from this, they had other relations. The queens had relations with the various slaves living in her palace. Were these not open marriages? We boast about that culture. I also want to follow that culture. It’s not impossible.” Siddharth wanted to convince her through whatever means.
Tania, flabbergasted, sat there in silence listening to him speak.
“Then after some time when there are children, nothing can happen anymore. At the very least, until then, we should enjoy our life according to our wishes.”
For some days, this argument went on between them. In the end, after hearing the various arguments, Tania agreed with Siddharth, and they decided to have an open marriage.
Whenever Siddarth had a new girlfriend, he discussed it with Tania. If he went to see a film or went on a date, he definitely told Tania. In the beginning, Tania did not like this. She felt jealous, but this feeling gradually faded. Siddarth kept on asking Tania whether she had a boyfriend. Tania, in those days, was very busy at the office. She didn’t take a liking to any man.
“You are so lazy,” Siddarth teased her, laughing.
“I have made a third girlfriend and tomorrow I am going on a date with her.”
“Well done,” Tania said with great flair. They both began to laugh.
The next day, Tania looked very closely at the men working with her, but none struck her fancy.
For the last few days, Tania had begun taking yoga classes. On that day, she went to her yoga lesson after work, and she saw a new face in the class. He was about 30 years old. He was a tall, attractive young man. Tania’s attention kept floating towards him. As soon as the session finished, people began gathering their mats.
“Hello.” The young man said to Tania, sitting on the same bench where Tania was sitting, and putting on her shoes.
“Oh. Hello, I am Tania.” Tania extended her hand and immediately felt that her hand was the hand that had touched her shoes. She pulled her hand back.
“Gavi.” The young man extended his hand, smiling. “My hands also touched my shoes. It’s no big deal.”
Tania really liked his style. “This is the first time I am seeing you?” Tania asked.
“I have just joined. Actually, I just shifted from Chandigarh a few days ago,” he replied.
“Oh nice. Chandigarh is a happening place. I wonder how people from Chandigarh can live in a congested place like Mumbai,” Tania said as they were heading towards the parking.
“You are right, but this is my first required posting outside of the state. No doubt, Chandigarh is a very beautiful and peaceful city, with zero crime. But you have to leave it for career growth. Chandigarh is a city of retired people. After retirement, I will definitely shift to Chandigarh,” Gavi looked toward Tania while smiling.
“In which department are you?” Tania asked.
“I am an Indian Police Service Officer.”
“Oh Wow!” Tania said happily.
“And you?” Gavi also wanted to learn about her.
“I am a general manager at the State Bank of India.”
“Good post.”
“Thank you. My flat is just here, and where do you live?” Tania asked as she was opening the car door.
“My flat is a five-minute drive from here.”
“Nice to meet you. See you soon.” Saying this, Tania sat in the car.
“Same here.” And as he said this, Gavi closed Tania’s car door.
After some days, Gavi and Tania became good friends. They sat side by side doing yoga. Sometimes, after class, they would stop to drink organic juice, and they would make small talk. Because he was newly arrived in the city, Gavi had no friends, but because of Tania he felt no loneliness. Tania also felt a lot of affection for Gavi. When she was with Gavi, she felt very special herself which she had never felt with anyone else.
On a vacation day, they planned to see a movie.
Tania had a message from Gavi on her phone that they would leave their homes at 10 o’clock. First, they would see the movie, then they would have lunch together. Siddarth read this message.
“You are dating someone?” Siddarth asked over dinner.
“Not exactly dating, but something like that. It’s nothing like this. We are good friends.”
“Hmmm. So you are going?”
“Yes. We made a plan.”
“Listen. I don’t like this,” Siddarth said, twirling his fork on his plate.
“What?” Tania asked with inquisitive eyes.
“This open marriage…Let’s close it.” Siddarth said.
“So…You have been enjoying the open marriage. I am just going to see a movie, and you want to close it?” There was bitterness in Tania’s voice.
“Yes. I want to close it. I cannot now live in an open marriage. You yourself were saying that marriage would get very complicated. Now I think the same.” Siddharth announced his decision.
“OK. No problem.” Tania agreed. “But it should be closed from your side too.”
“Yes. Done.”
Tania messaged Gavi that she was busy and, for this reason, she couldn’t come. After that, on several occasions, Gavi tried to make plans with her, but Tania made some excuse or another. She began to ignore Gavi.
For some days, Siddarth was working from home. One day, Tania finished her work early and returned home quickly so that she could spend some time with Siddarth. She took the duplicate key from her purse, unlocked the door, and went inside.
From inside, she heard a girl’s voice filled with anger. “Bastard. Scumbag. Have you no shame in having relations with me even though you are married? Did you tell me that you are married? I didn’t know anything. Either divorce your wife and marry me, or give me 2 Crore Rupees. Otherwise, I am going to the police station.”
Tania was astonished hearing this.
She went to the bedroom from which this noise was coming. She saw Siddarth begging this girl to forgive him. Tania didn’t know what she should do. She felt pity for Siddarth as well as anger.
Seeing Tania, the girl left quietly.
Siddarth told Tonia that he had been in a relationship with her for the past five months, and now this girl was blackmailing him. “She kept some videos and photos of our private moments, which she is threatening to make viral,” he added.
Tania didn’t know how to help Siddharth.
During this dilemma, she went to her evening yoga class. When the class finished, Gavi asked her why she was so sad, “What happened. Is your health okay? You are absolutely ashen. What happened?”
Tania needed a friend at this time. She went with him to a nearby coffeehouse. While drinking coffee, Tania told Gavi everything. It was like icing on the cake that Gavi was a friend but also a police officer.
Gavi listened to the entire thing and said, “Don’t worry, Tania. These kinds of groups, which ensnare people, are very active these days. They take their photos. Make videos. Then they blackmail them. Sometimes, these people don’t personally meet the victim. They do sexting and then record the phone sex. On this basis, they blackmail them. This is an elaborate net that has been cast. Our entire department is searching for these people. Don’t you worry. I will help you as much as possible.”
“Thank you so much, Gavi. I had no idea what I should do.” Tania felt as if a burden would be lifted.
The next day, Gavi called Tania and Siddarth to the police station. Sitting them in his office, he took the First Information Report and began to take action. It turned out that the girl was a member of such a group. The police wiretapped the entire group and arrested them.
During this, the way Gavi took care of Tania drew her even closer to him. She felt as if she had always needed a wise companion like him. She saw in Gavi’s eyes love and honour for her, something she had always wanted to see in Siddharth’s eyes. But apart from emptiness, there was nothing in his eyes.
*
Siddarth returned from the bathroom and became engrossed again in watching a movie.
Siddarth had taken his phone to the bathroom. She was very bothered by this. For the past few days, she was feeling that Siddarth was hiding something from her, whereas they both had agreed that they would not hide anything from each other.
“Should I ask him straightaway?” Tania thought to herself, but she thought it better to wait a bit. He may tell me himself. Is he still?…”
“Tania, tomorrow I am going to Pune for two days, for a workshop,” Siddarth told Tania while looking at his screen.
“Okay. Alone?” Tania asked.
“Of course. Can I take friends to a workshop?” Siddharth said in irritation.
The film was over, but in Tania’s mind, the phone’s notification kept playing. She could not stop thinking about this.
In the evening, when Tania was in the kitchen working, Siddharth’s phone was on the dining room table when a message came. Tania saw that Siddarth was taking clothes out of the armoire and packing them.
Tania picked up the phone, but it was locked. She was very baffled. Previously, Siddarth did not lock his phone. She tried to unlock it. After some efforts, she managed to unlock the phone. She saw that a message had come on WhatsApp. When she opened the message, she saw a girl in a transparent nightie. The girl wanted to confirm that she should bring this nightie to Lohkhandwala if Siddharth liked it.
Tania, seeing this, was stunned. She messaged Gavi, “Can I stay in your house tonight?”
“Why not. But what happened?” Gavi quickly responded.
“I’ll tell you when I get there.” After messaging Gavi, she went to her armoire and took out clothes and necessary documents and began to pack them in a bag.
Seeing her do this, Siddarth repeatedly asked her where she was going? Why is she packing?
Tania did not answer. When she was leaving the house, she left the key to the flat on the shoe rack, and Siddarth grabbed her arm.
“Where are you going? What happened to you? Why aren’t you talking?” Siddarth didn’t understand what was going on.
“Wherever I may be going, I am definitely not going to Lokhandwala,” she said looking straight into Siddarth’s eyes.
Hearing this, Siddharth knew he was busted. He said nothing, and his grip loosened.
Lakhvinder Virk obtained her PhD from Punjabi University, Patiala in the department of linguistics and lexicography under the supervision of Professor Joga Singh. She lives in Chandigarh and serves as the head of the Punjabi Department in JDSD College in Kheri Gurana, Banur in Punjab. Her first book of short stories, Colors That Were Not Red, (Rang Jo Suuha Nahin sin) was published in 2024. This story was published in that volume.
Christine Fair did her Ph.D. in South Asian Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago. She is currently a professor of Security Studies at Georgetown University. Her translations have appeared in LIT Magazine, Muse India, Orientalia Suecana, The Bangalore Review, Borderless, The Punch Magazine, The Bombay Literary Magazine, and The Bombay Review.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
If language were a haircut, “saloon” got a buzz cut and a blow-dry and came out as “salon.” That change in spelling is the visible tip of a larger style transformation: one rough, male-only ritual space has been trimmed, straightened, scented and repackaged into a gleaming, multi-service, mostly woman-centred retail experience. Along the way, the loud, fragrant, argument-heavy mini-parliaments of small-town India — the saloons — have been politely ushered into warranties, playlists and polite small talk.
Barbers in India are almost as old as conversation itself. The profession of the barber — the nai or hajam — is embedded in pre-colonial life: scalp massage (champi), shaves, tonsure at rites of passage, and quick fixes between chores. These services were usually delivered in open-fronted shops or under trees, with tools that were portable and livelihoods that were local.
The “saloon” as a distinctive, Western-flavoured, male gathering place began to consolidate during the 19th and early 20th centuries. Port cities and colonial cantonments — Bombay (Mumbai), Calcutta (Kolkata), Madras (Chennai) — saw the rise of dedicated shops selling not only shaves and haircuts but also imported tonics, straight razors and a distinctly public atmosphere shaped by newspaper reading, debate and gossip. Over time, that form blended with older local practices and spread inland. By the mid-20th century, the saloon — a recognisable, chair-lined, mirror-fronted social stage — existed in towns from Kashmir to Kanyakumari and from Gujarat’s chawls to Assam’s market roads.
So ancient barbering traditions fed into a colonial-era intensification of the barbershop as public forum; by the 1950s–70s, the saloon as we remember it was firmly a part of India’s social furniture. The precise start date is a quilt of custom and commerce rather than a single founding ceremony — and that is part of the saloon’s charm.
Walk into a saloon in Nagpur, Nellore, Shillong or Surat and you’ll notice an uncanny resemblance. The reasons are simple and human:
Low price point: Saloons survive on quick volumes and walk-ins. That encourages many chairs, fast turnover, and layouts that invite waiting men to talk rather than sit quietly.
Ritual services: Shave, cut, champi. These are short encounters that thread customers through the same communal space repeatedly — ideal for gossip to collect and ferment.
Social role: The barber doubles as ear, counsellor, news-disseminator and crossword referee. That role is culturally consistent across regions: a saloon’s psychic geography is the same whether the tea is masala or lemon.
The result is that a saloon in Kutch and a saloon in Kerala will differ in language, politics and local jokes — but both will produce that same satisfying racket of opinion, repartee and advice. They are India’s unofficial, peripatetic fora for public life.
Enter the salon: padded seats, curated playlists, appointment-booking and a menu so long it reads like a restaurant wine list (colour, rebonding, keratin, facials, pedicures, threading, and sometimes a minor festival of LED lights). A couple of business realities did most of the heavy lifting:
Women’s services earn more and recur more often. Regular facials, hair treatments and beauty routines translate into steadier, higher bills. The money follows the customer, and the space follows the money.
Franchising and professional training created standardized staff who follow brand scripts — which tighten conversation and reduce the barber-confessor vibe.
Unisex salons consolidated footfall, but that consolidation shrank male-only territory. Men who once had a semi-public living room now sit in chic, quieter spaces that discourage loud, extended debate.
The practical upshot: the saloon’s boisterous mini-parliaments were replaced by stylists with laminated menus, muted background music and an etiquette that favours privacy over political salvoes.
What we miss (and what we gained)
We miss the moralisers, the wisecracks, the boisterous consultancy of unpaid experts who knew which councillor was friendly with which shopkeeper and which wedding was scandalous; the loud education in rhetoric and local affairs; the bench-seat apprenticeship in how to perform masculinity in public.
We gain in expanded choices for women, more professional hygiene and techniques, new livelihoods for trained stylists (especially women), and spaces where people can pursue personalised care without the social cost that used to attend public rituals.
It’s not a zero-sum game — but it does reorder who feels proprietorial about public grooming spaces. The new economics say: she who pays more — and pays more often — gets the say.
Not all saloons are extinct. In smaller towns they still hum. In cities, they’ve evolved into hybrid forms:
Old-school saloons persist where price sensitivity and cultural habit remain strong: walk-ins, communal benches, loud conversation and a barber who’ll recommend both a haircut and the correct candidate for local office.
Nostalgic barbershops in urban pockets lean into the past with “vintage” decor, whiskey-bar vibes and sports on TV — except now they charge a premium and call the barber a “grooming specialist.”
Some entrepreneurs stage “men’s nights” or open-mic gossip hours in neighbourhood shops, trying to recapture the civic pulse while keeping the modern business model.
If you want the old saloon spark, look for places without appointment apps, with too many phones in sight but none in use, and with a tea flask on the counter.
What’s lost isn’t only a loud, male-only gossip pit; it’s a training ground for public argument and a place where local memory was kept live and messy. The saloon taught people how to spar without a referee; the salon teaches how to look good while being politely neutral. If you mourn for the saloon’s barbed banter, you can grieve — but also take action: host a “Salon for Men” in your local café, revive a community noticeboard at the barber, or convince your neighbourhood salon to schedule a weekly “open-chair” hour for community talk (and maybe offer tea).
And until then, if you miss the salty, pungent chorus of small-town democracy, go to any saloon that still has a kettle on the stove and a barber who knows the mayor’s schedule by heart. Sit down, get a shave, and watch a mini-parliament assemble around you. You’ll leave clean-faced, better informed, and maybe a little animated — exactly how democracy used to feel.
From Public Domain
.
Charudutta Panigrahi is a writer. He can be contacted at Charudutta403@gmail.com.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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.
Farouk Gulsara — with his dry humour — critiques the growing dependence on artificial intelligence (or the lack of it). Devraj Singh Kalsi again shares a spooky adventure in a funny vein.
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.
“This is Judge G.K.’s house”, the constable informed his senior officer as they were waiting for the front door of the apartment to open in response to their knock. He blew on his cupped fingers. “I have come here many times. They serve the best coffee. I hope they give us some now,” he continued, on meeting his colleague’s questioning look. “A strict but fair man. He retired a few years ago. He must be about seventy now.”
It wasn’t the Judge who opened the door and welcomed them in, but his diminutive wife. “I presume you have come to meet the Judge,” saying this, she ushered them cheerfully into a terrace. At the end of it was a hot house full of flowering plants and a giant of a man reclining in a chair, eyes shut enjoying the apricity of the winter sun. His eyes snapped open at their approach. Nothing old about those black eyes, thought the inspector. He and the constable sat down on the chairs indicated. It was humid inside the glass cabin, but pleasant after the outside chill.
“Namaste1, sir. We are here about a hit and run that happened last night”, began the inspector.
“You want my nephew then”, the Judge interrupted.
“Janu, call that Vinay”, said the Judge to his wife, who had entered bearing glasses of water on a tray.
Turning to the inspector, he said, “He’s my sister’s son. He’s staying with me till he finds a job.” The Judge shook his head sadly. “Lazy to the core. Stays in bed all day with his laptop and his phone. When he does step out, he’s gone all day and sometimes all night. Last night he came home late, I am sure. He has an Engineering degree. Hope he lands a job soon,”he continued.
The inspector set his glass down on the centre table. At that moment a young man came in. He was in flannel long pants and a Nirvana T-shirt. Short and slim, he looked almost like a schoolboy. He eyes were heavy with sleep and as he entered the room he was suppressing a yawn.
“These policemen are here to arrest you”, the Judge said, closing his eyes. The young man looked startled.
“Are you Vinay?” the inspector asked. The lad nodded.
“Sir, the reason we are here is this: Last night a car knocked down an old woman near the flyover at around midnight. The driver didn’t stop. You were nearby, and you took the victim to the hospital,” said the inspector.
“Yes, sir,” said Vinay.
“The victim…,” said the inspector.
The constable referring to a folder he held open in his hands, said, “Srimati Deepaben Goradia. Age 82.”
“Yes”, continued the inspector, “The victim regained consciousness this morning. She doesn’t recall much except being hit from behind and being in great pain, before she fainted.”
“Yes, sir”, said Vinay, “I saw a woman lying huddled in the middle of the road while I was returning home after watching a movie at Aurora theatre last night. At first, I thought it was a bundle fallen from a vehicle, a tempo or truck or something. It was really cold last night, and dark, I was hurrying home. Then when I went closer, I recognised Deepa ji.”
“How did you know it was her?” asked the constable.
“Well, I tutor her grandson who lives in the US. I teach him calculus. Online,” said Vinay, glancing at his aunt, who smiled at him encouragingly.
“Oh, I see,” said the inspector, glancing at the Judge, “You stay up late because of the time difference.”
“Yah,” said Vinay, giving in to his yawn.
“How did you trace Vinay?” asked the Judge’s wife, Janaki.
“I gave my name and address at the hospital front desk, mami2,” said the boy.
“Yes. And it’s a good thing you did. Mrs. Goradia’s family is very grateful to you. So is the police force. It was very kind of you to take care of her. In this weather and at her age, she would not have survived without your timely assistance. We need more people like you in this world. Most people would not have bothered to help,” said the inspector, standing up and shaking Vinay’s hand.
The constable handed a small plaque to the Inspector. “For your kindness and presence of mind, the Police Force would like to award you with this plaque. We have instituted this recently to thank and recognise the citizens who help others selflessly.” The Inspector stood up and gave the plaque to Vinay. The constable had the camera ready to click a commemorative pic. “We will upload this pic on our website with a message,” he informed them.
“Thank you, sir. I only did what any one else would have done,” said Vinay.
“I don’t think you need to worry about this young man, sir,” said the inspector turning to the judge. “We’ll take your leave now.”
Vinay accompanied the policemen to the door and let them out.
About to turn the key in the ignition, the inspector turned to his junior, and said, “Sometimes we are fair to others but judge our own family harshly.”
“No coffee,” said that stalwart, morosely.
Namaste is a respectful way of greeting in India. ↩︎
They took away the knives, The scissors, the forks, The matchbox, lighters, candles, Hammer, nails, tape, Ropes, ribbons, bottles Made of glass, metal jars, My dog, my children. For safekeeping -- So they said. You can have them back Anytime you want As long as you Learn to walk, not fly To speak, not scream, To kiss, not bite, To look, not stare, To blink, not wink, In short, not die, not live. Exist, having expunged.
Vidya Hariharan is an avid reader, traveller, poet and teacher. Currently she resides in Mumbai, India.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Tuberose, a perennial species of the asparagus family and a native of Mexico has somehow found a home in India too. It blooms at night, which makes sense as in Hindi, it’s a compound of two words – ‘Rajni’ means night, and ‘gandh’ is the smell. It exudes the intense smell of the night, and the long, slender stems supporting the white waxy flowers at the top reinforces its nocturnal beauty. In the world of perfumery, tuberose is a prime source of scent production.
shaam kī ḳhāmosh rah par vo koī asrār pahne chal rahī hai rajnī-gandhā kī mahak bikhrī huī hai duur peḌoñ meñ chhupī dargāh tak
(In the silence of the evening She is wearing a mystery The aroma of rajnigandha is scattered As far as the hidden shrine among the distant trees)
-- Dhoop Ka Libaas (The Robes of the Sun) by Yameen( 1286-1368)
Like the aforementioned nazm, the perfume of tuberoses seem emanate from Basu Chatterji[2]’s 1974 film Rajnigandha too, a movie based on Mannu Bhandari’s story Yahi Sach Hai (This is the Truth). Deepa, played by Vidya Sinha, is the protagonist of the film who struts across the road, waits at a bus stop, with her saree pallu[3] resting on her right shoulder, and is annoyed at Sanjay’s constant tardiness. Sanjay, portrayed by Amol Palekar, is a freewheeling man with a chronic urge to converse excessively and forgets almost everything he was supposed to do. But when she looks at the bunch of Rajnigandha he brings for her, she forgets all her qualms about him. Rajnigandha phool tumhare yunhi mahke jeevan mein (May the fragrance of your tuberose keep blossoming in life), the verse from the film’s song, likewise, is Deepa’s prayer for life.
Deepa, a headstrong woman living in the Delhi of the 1970s, is in the final stages of writing her PhD thesis and is on a job hunt. Sanjay, on the other hand is a more laid back fellow with “just a BA” working in a firm, and fortunately does not suffer from a fragile male ego which feels threatened by a more qualified female partner. A job interview entails Deepa traveling to Mumbai where she meets her former flame, Navin (played by Dinesh Thakur). Seeing him again rekindles her feelings for him. Navin is a go-getter living the fast life of Mumbai, whose advertising job made his way into the party life of the city. Navin’s personality symbolises thrill and adventure, whereas Sanjay on the other hand perhaps defines stability, if not standstill, in life. Deepa is thrown into the dilemma of who should she choose, Navin or Sanjay, much like the film’s song, Kai Baar Yunhi Dekha Hai (Often, I have Seen), which essentially is the musical expression of Deepa’s situation, that says “Kisko Preet Banau? Kiski Preet Bhulau?” (‘whose love shall I accept, whose love shall I forget?’). While Navin does notice Deepa’s appearance, manages to be on time, he is also the one who broke her heart in college. Sanjay, on the other hand, who is hardly on time, forgets the film tickets he was supposed to bring, fails to notice what saree Deepa was wearing, and annoys her to the core, would probably never go as far as breaking her heart.
“Crafting Sanjay—a loquacious character who never explicitly expresses love but conveys it through his eyes—without making him seem selfish, was a challenge,” writes Amol Palekar in his memoir, Viewfinder. Both men however, had one similarity – the zeal for protesting, for unionising against injustice in their respective positions, a virtue that presumably was not surprising for the people belonging to the first generation of young independent Indians. The Deepa that Mannu Bhandari writes about appears firmer and bolder in her stances than the one Basu Chatterji crafted on screen, who is more shy, more reticent and even more confused.
While India did get its first and only woman Prime Minister by the 1970s, in Bollywood, it was the era of the ‘Angry Young Men’ that defined the careers of actors like Dharmendra, Amitabh Bachchan, and Rajesh Khanna, who embodied the larger-than-life character of the ‘hero’ in Hindi cinema and received a cult following as well. On a parallel but divergent plane, there emerged a different kind of male protagonist: he was the guy next door, a middle-class, urban, white collar office goer, who travelled in public transport and spoke no flashy dialogues. A point to be noted here is, that the said definition of the character also included that they were primarily English-educated and from a comparatively well-off background — compounding to the ‘middle-class’ phenomenon in urban India. This was the characterisation that Amol Palekar adopted with films like Rajnigandha, Chhoti Si Baat (A small Matter, 1975) and Baaton Baaton Mein (Between Conversations, 1979). Basu Chatterji’s films underscored this portrayal of the ordinary, urban middle class milieu which was often absent from the mainstream commercial Bollywood films from that time.
With no surprises, the men in these films, like Sanjay in Rajnigandha, are not perfect feminist characters. From a snapshot in the film, Sanjay tells Deepa to keep her money to herself after marriage because the household shall be run with “his” money. Ideally, in an equal household, if both partners have a source of income, the expenses should be shared by both of them, which defines the ‘partnership’ in a relationship in the most literal sense of the term. Considering the time and space of when the film was made, it appears that while Chatterji, consciously or not, did try to incorporate modern ideas of women’s financial independence, he also at the same time, could not completely erase how a conventional ‘man’ from a patriarchal ethos would react — by still upholding the status quo of hierarchy between the two sexes.
Despite these few shortcomings in the film, Deepa’s character contains a multitude of complexities, unlike many films of the seventies where female characters are often reduced to archetypes as that of the demure, submissive wife, the sacrificing mother or the unattainable love interest. She is not an overtly assertive individual but is also neither a passive receiver of love nor a woman who blindly conforms to patriarchal conventions; rather, she is someone who constantly engages with her emotions, doubts, and desires. Her emotional conflict—to choose between thrill and stability, novelty and convention—reflects the larger question of female autonomy in a culture where women were often expected to follow predetermined roles. Although Deepa’s predicament is not a radical departure from typical romance plots, her internal journey is far more introspective and self-aware than the majority of female characters in the films belonging to that era. She is not a mere object of male desire or a meek heroine waiting to be ‘saved’ by a male hero. She is an individual in her own right, capable of making difficult choices that reflect the evolving understanding of herself.
Deepa’s decision-making isn’t straightforward or even particularly idealistic, but not once does she lose her individual agency to feel for herself and the emotional depth in her character offers a fresh perspective on the representation of women in Hindi cinema, portraying them as individuals with competing needs and aspirations, rather than as mere props for male narratives. Maeve Wiley, the protagonist from the Netflix show, Sex Education, calls “complex female characters” her “thing.” Well, this author’s proposition would be to include Rajnigandha’s Deepa as well into this list.
In its subtle critique of the pressure on women to conform to the traditional idea of womanhood, this film however does not provide any revolutionary discourse to the existing social and cultural norms surrounding women’s roles. It still runs on the same old conventional path that expects a woman’s happiness and worth to be defined by her relationship with a man. But it nevertheless has been able to depict a self-reliant woman whose existence itself is an act of revolution in male dominating spaces such as that of earning a doctorate in the 1970s.
Basu Chatterji, known for his ‘middle-of-the-road’ cinema was part of the Film Society Movement. According to historian Rochona Majumdar, the Film Society activists grappled with the definition of a “good” film. Was it’s primary goal to improve the lives of the Indian people, a goal that mainstream (profit-driven) “commercial” cinema had failed to accomplish? Or was it just to “mirror the aspirations of common people” through cinema, as one early film society activist put it? In line with the same thought, this film with no dramatic plot twist or a visible antagonist per se, stands out as a celebration of the ordinary, an ordinary man, an ordinary woman, travelling in public transport, with ordinary aspirations. Not to mention, this ‘ordinariness’ had a certain class and religious position as well.
The tuberoses could also perhaps be taken as an allegory of the ordinary. While conventionally, a rose is sought to be the flower connoted with love and romance, with countless romantic poems mentioning it, the tuberose in comparison appears to mundane. When one buys a bouquet, two-three tuberose stems are often seen given the geographical and seasonal context, but just as a supplement to the more prominent flowers wrapped in it. So, does this flower in the film symbolise a sense of yearning or through it, is it an attempt to tell an ‘ordinary’ love story?
The film’s title Rajnigandha does not just symbolise love or longing but aptly reflects the emotional tone of the film. Just as the flower blooms at night, Deepa’s journey towards self-realisation and emotional clarity unfolds in the quiet, introspective passages in the story, rather than in conspicuous expressions of passion or drama. Her feelings and relations are complex, layered, and occasionally challenging to describe, much like the flower’s euphoric yet elusive nature.
It won the Filmfare Critics Award for Best Movie, with two songs penned by the Hindi lyricist Yogesh, bagging Mukesh[4] the National Award for Best Male Playback Singer, and no distributor willing to buy the film initially, Rajnigandha also passes the Bechdel Test which examines how women are represented in films with distinction. This to me is its greatest triumph. Its delicate yet profound meditation on love, choices, and identity, is a masterwork of Indian cinema that contemplates on the silent, unpronounced qualms of daily life by fusing realism with emotional profundity. An honest depiction of human emotions, tastefully rendered in a small, intimate canvas, is what all works of Basu Chatterji (not just the film in question) deliver as a welcome diversion in an age of exaggerated melodrama and action. And Rajnigandha is a film that reminds people to value the nuances of human relationships and the elegance of slow, quiet cinema, making it a timeless classic.
[4] Mukesh Chand Mathur (1923-1976), playback singer in films
Bibliography:
MAJUMDAR, ROCHONA. “Debating Radical Cinema: A History of the Film Society Movement in India.” Modern Asian Studies 46, no. 3 (2012): 731–67. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41478328.
Borderless 