Ujjal Dosanjh, former Minister from Canada and former Premier of British Columbia, discusses his autobiography, Journey After Midnight – A Punjabi Life: From India to Canada, and the need for a world with less borders. Click hereto read.
Professor Fakrul Alam discusses his new book of Tagore translations, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore. Click here to read.
Translations
Tagore’sMusalmanir Galpa(A Muslim Woman’s Story) has been translated from Bengali by Aruna Chakravarti. Clickhere to read.
Masud Khan’s poem,In Another Galaxy, has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click hereto read.
Wakeful Stays the Door, a poem by Munir Momin, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Songs of Freedom: An Ordinary Taleis a narrative by Nandani based on her own experiences, translated from Hindustani by Janees. These narrations highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Click hereto read.
“Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them…”
— TS Eliot, ‘Four Quartets: Burnt Norton’(1936)
Humans have always been dreamers, ideators and adventurers.
Otherwise, could we have come this far? From trees to caves to complex countries and now perhaps, an attempt to reach out towards outer space for an alternative biome as exploring water, in light of the recent disaster of the Titan, is likely to be tougher than we imagined. In our attempt to survive, to live well by creating imagined constructs, some fabrications backfired. Possibly because, as George Orwell observed with such precision in Animal Farm, some perceived themselves as “more equal”. Of course, his was an animal allegory and we are humans. How different are we from our brethren species on this beautiful planet, which can survive even without us? But can humanity survive without Earth? In science fiction, we have even explored that possibility and found home among stars with the Earth becoming uninhabitable for man. However, humanity as it stands of now, continues to need Earth. To live amicably on the planet in harmony with nature and all the species, including our own, we need to reimagine certain constructs which worked for us in the past but seem to have become divisive and destructive at this point.
Ujjal Dosanjh, former Minister in the Canadian cabinet and former Premier of British Columbia, in his autobiography, Journey After Midnight – A Punjabi Life: From India to Canada, talks of regionalism as an alternative to narrow divisive constructs that terrorise and hurt others. He writes in his book: “If humanity isn’t going to drown in the chaos of its own creation, the leading nations of the world will have to create a new world order, which may involve fewer international boundaries.” We have a candid conversation with him about his beliefs and also a powerful excerpt from his autobiography.
An interview with Professor Fakrul Alam takes us into Tagore’s imagined world. He discussed his new book of Tagore translations, Gitabitan: Selected Song-Lyrics of Rabindranath Tagore. He has brought out a collection of 300 songs translated to English. In a bid to emphasise an inclusive world, we also have a translation of Tagore’s ‘Musalmanir Galpa’ (A Muslim Woman’s Story) by Aruna Chakravarti. A transcreation of his poem, called ‘Proshno or Questions’ poses difficult challenges for humanity to move towards a more inclusive world. Our translation by Ihlwha Choi of his own Korean poem to English also touches on his visit to the polymath’s construct in the real world, Santiniketan. All of these centring around Tagore go to commemorate the month in which he breathed his last, August. Professor Alam has also translated a poem from Bengali by Masud Khan that has futuristic overtones and builds on our imagined constructs. From Fazal Baloch we have a Balochi translation of a beautiful, almost a surrealistic poem by Munir Momin.
We travel to Andaman with Mohul Bhowmick and further into Sierra with Meredith Stephens. Ravi Shankar travels back in nostalgia to his hostel and Kathleen Burkinshaw dives into the past — discussing and responding to the media presentation of an event that left her family scarred for life, the atomic holocaust of 1945 in Japan. This was a global event more than seven decades ago that created refugees among the survivors whose homes had been permanently destroyed. Perhaps, their stories are horrific, and heart wrenching like the ones told by those who suffered from the Partition of India and Pakistan, a divide that is celebrated by Independence Days for the two nations based on a legacy of rifts created by the colonials and perpetrated to this day by powerbrokers. Aysha Baqir has written of the wounds suffered by the people with the governance gone awry. Some of the people she writes of would have been refugees and migrants too.
A poignant narrative about refugees who flock to the Greek island of Lesbos by Timothy Jay Smith with photographs by Michael Honegger, both of whom served at the shelters homing the displaced persons, cries out to halt wars and conflicts that displace them. We have multiple narratives of migrants in this issue, with powerful autobiographical stories told by Asad Latif and Suzanne Kamata. Paul Mirabile touches on how humans have adopted islands by borrowing them from seas… rather an unusual approach to migrations. We have an essay on Jane Austen by Deepa Onkar and a centenary tribute to Chittaranjan Das by Bhaskar Parichha.
The theme of migrants is echoed in stories by Farouk Gulsara and Shivani Shrivastav. Young Nandani has given an autobiographical story, translated from Hindustani to English by Janees, in which a migration out of various homes has shredded her family to bits — a narrative tucked in Pandies Corner. Strange twists of the supernatural are woven into fiction by Khayma Balakrishnan and Reeti Jamil.
I would like to give my grateful thanks to our wonderful team at Borderless, especially to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our gifted contributors and our loyal readers. Borderless exists today because of all of you are making an attempt to bringing narratives that build bridges, bringing to mind Lennon’s visionary lyrics:
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one
Translated from Bengali by Aruna Chakravarti, who adds: ‘The story, Musulmani’r Galpa[1], was published posthumously in July 1995 in the journal Ritupatra. In all probability, it was dictated from the writer’s sick bed just before his death in 1941.’
Veiled Woman, Ink on paper, by Tagore, National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi. Courtesy: Creative Commons
This is a story of long ago. Of a period in our history when the seeds of evil governance had sprouted thorns all over the land. When fear and anxiety had trapped the soul of the common man in the skeins of such a stifling web that all other emotions had dwindled and died. When imagined assault from demonic forces gripped all minds. When the simple act of living turned into a nightmare and trust could be reposed in neither God nor Man. When the line between good and evil had blurred and tears were the only reality…
In an age such as this, the presence of a girl was deemed a curse in a middle-class family. More so if she was beautiful. Porarmukhi![2]May your fair face burn to ashes! Curses such as these, bitter and stinging, were heaped on the poor girl. “If we could only rid ourselves of this accursed creature,” the women of the family wailed, “we might sleep peacefully in our beds.”
Such a situation, exactly, had arisen in the household of Bangshibadan, the talukdar[3] of Teen Mahala. His niece Kamala was beautiful. Worse, she was an orphan. Had she died along with her parents the family could have breathed easy. But she had lived on as a burden in her uncle’s household and was made aware of it every passing minute. “Just look at my luck sister,” her aunt was often heard complaining to the neighbouring women, “The parents dumped this monumental responsibility on my shoulders and left for the other world. Evil glances are cast at her from all sides. Anything may happen at any time. I have young children of my own and can’t sleep from fear of what will become of them. I live in constant dread…”
Bangshibadan didn’t share his wife’s annoyance at Kamala’s presence in his house. He loved her dearly and had brought her up with great solicitude. He kept her hidden from prying eyes, personally supervising her welfare and taking care of her needs. Life went on somehow but when a marriage proposal came for her, she couldn’t be kept hidden anymore. “I will wed her only into a family which has the means to protect her,” Bangshibadan was in the habit of saying, and now it seemed as though he had found what he was looking for.
The boy was the second son of Paramananda Seth, the zamindar of Mochakhali. People feared Paramananda for his money power but even more for the posse of hefty Bhojpuri lathiyals[4] he kept to guard his house and possessions. “There isn’t one son of a gun in the whole district,” the prospective bridegroom boasted to Bangshibadan, “who’ll have the gall to lay a hand on her.” He was very proud of his father’s wealth and had devised many ways of spending it. Falcon flying, gambling, bird fights…he was a master of all these pursuits. He was, as well, extremely susceptible to feminine charm. Though he had a wife already he was looking for another, younger, one and when reports of Kamala’s beauty reached his ears, he decided that she was the bride for him.
Kamala was appalled when she heard what her uncle had in mind for her. “Where are you sending me Kakamoni?” She burst into tears, “You may as well set me adrift in the river.”
“If I had the power to, protect you,” Bangshibadan replied sadly, “I would have kept you clasped to my breast for all time to come. You know that Ma…”
The arrival of the wedding party at the bride’s house was accompanied by a lot of fanfare. The sound of drums and pipes rent the air. Bangshibadan was alarmed. “Babaji,” he folded his hands before the groom, “It would be better if the noise was toned down a bit. It is unwise to attract too much attention.” But the groom was unfazed. “Let’s see which son of a gun…” he repeated his old line, his chest puffed out with importance.
“I am a poor man with little clout,” Bangshibadan sighed and said, “I can’t vouch for the safety of everyone under my roof for long. I take responsibility only until the completion of the rituals. After that I will leave it to you to conduct your bride safely to your father’s house.”
“No need to worry. No need to worry,” The bridegroom twirled his moustache arrogantly and, watching him, the lathiyals were emboldened to twirl theirs as well.
It was nearing midnight when the wedding party set off with the bride for Mochakhali. A couple of hours later, while crossing the dreaded tract of land called Taaltarhir Maath, they were waylaid by the notorious dacoit Madhu Mallar and his gang. Bearing down on them with flaring torches and weapons far deadlier than lathis, the dacoits soon made short shrift of the lathiyals. The wedding guests fled in all directions abandoning the palanquin in which Kamala sat trembling with fear. Then, just as she was about to step out and try to hide in the bushes, she heard a man’s voice booming out of the dark. “Halt! Go back from where you came my sons. I am Habir Khan.”
Madhu Mallar and his gang stepped back instantly. They had great reverence for Habir Khan. In their eyes he was no less than a paigambar …a messenger from God.
“We can’t disobey you Khan Saheb,” Madhu Mallar said glumly, “but you’ve certainly ruined my business for the night.”
Habir Khan did not oblige him with a reply. Helping Kamala out of the palanquin he told her, “You are in great danger, child. You must leave this place at once. Come with me. I will take you to my house. It is only a short distance from here.” Seeing her shrink at his suggestion, he added, “I understand your reluctance. You are a Hindu, a brahmin’s daughter. It is natural for you to hesitate before entering a Muslim household. But let me tell you something. A truly devout Muslim respects a truly devout Hindu and won’t dream of harming him in any way. Trust me my child. You and your religion will be totally safe in my house.”
Habir Khan and Kamala walked through the woods till they came to a huge mansion. Leading her into one of its eight wings, he said, “This will be your home from now on. You will live here exactly as you did in your uncle’s house.” Kamala looked around. There was a yard with a temple at one end and a tulsi manch[5]at the other. The place looked no different from an upper-class Hindu abode. Everything she would need for her day-to-day living could be found here.
An elderly Brahmin came forward to greet her. “Come Ma,” he said in a kind voice. “Have no fear. This place is sacred. Your religion will be fully protected.”
Kamala burst into tears. “Please inform my uncle about what has happened. Tell him to come and take me home.”
“You are making a mistake child,” Habir Khan’s voice came to her ears, “After tonight’s incident you won’t find acceptance in any Hindu household. You’ll be thrown out into the streets.” He saw the expression on Kamala’s face and sighed. “Very well. I will take you there and let you see for yourself.”
Habir Khan led her to the door of Bangshibadan’s house and bade her go in. “I’ll be waiting here in case you need me,” he said.
Kamala flung herself on her uncle’s chest and wound her arms around his neck. “I have come back to you Kakamoni. Don’t send me away,” she begged. Bangshibadan’s eyes filled with tears. But before he could utter a word his wife burst into the room. “Throw her out,” she shrieked, “Throw the blighted creature out at once. She’s lived in a Muslim’s house. She’ll pollute us all.” Then turning to the weeping, shivering girl, she cursed and upbraided her in shrill penetrating tones. “Accursed one! How dare you show your face here after what you’ve done? Don’t you have any shame?”
Bangshibadan disengaged Kamala’s arms gently from his neck. “Forgive me Ma,” he said sadly. “I cannot take you back. I’m a Hindu. I’ll lose caste if I accept you. I’ll be ostracised by everyone in the village.” Kamala stood for a while, head bowed, then slowly made her way out of the house to where Habir Khan was waiting. She went away with him. The door of her old world was now shut against her for all time to come.
Kamala settled down in the rooms allotted to her. “All this is yours,” Habir Khan said to her waving his hands across the yard. “Not a single member of my family will set foot in this wing. Feel free to live in it the way you wish.”
This part of the mansion had a history. It even had a name. It was called Rajputani’r Mahal[6]. Many years ago, a nawab of Bengal had brought a Rajputani princess and installed her here. He had kept her with great dignity and made sure that she had no difficulty in practicing her religion. She was a very devout woman and an ardent worshipper of Shiva, so a temple was built for her in her own premises. She loved going on pilgrimages and arrangements for them were made with meticulous care. Over the years she became a role model for other Hindu begums and many of them found sanctuary under her sheltering wings.
Habir Khan was the Rajputani’s son. Though he followed his father’s religion he worshipped his mother like a goddess. He sought her guidance in every matter and it was from her that he had learned to respect the opposite sex. She had been dead these many years, but Habir Khan never forgot the vow he had made to her. To provide shelter to widowed and abandoned Hindu women. Scorned, persecuted, hated and stigmatised for no fault of theirs, many were forced to sell their bodies for a roof above their heads and a handful of rice in their stomachs.
As the days passed a realisation started dawning on Kamala. The freedom and comfort she enjoyed in this Muslim household was of a quality she hadn’t even dreamed of while living with her uncle. He cared for her but was powerless to protect her from ceaseless taunts, curses and abuses. She had grown so used to them… she had begun to think of herself as a blighted creature, a disgrace on the family, fit only to be thrown out on the streets. Here, in her new home, she was showered with luxuries. Every need of hers was taken care of by Hindu serving women. She was overwhelmed with kindness and love.
A few years went by. Slowly a change came over her. The winds of youth started to blow and her mind and body quivered with an unknown emotion. She fell in love with one of Habir Khan’s sons.
One day she opened her heart to her protector. Habir Khan’s face paled at her confession, but she went on calmly, “My love is my religion Baap jaan[7]. I have no other. I have worshipped many gods and goddesses in the past. I have poured out my heart and soul to them in prayer. I have begged for deliverance. Yet not one deity deigned to cast a glance at me or even send a sign that my prayer had been heard. What hope is left to me from a religion that leaves a poor, trusting, suffering girl rotting in a pit of abuse and persecution? I have known what it is to live, truly live, only after I stepped across your threshold. From you I’ve learned that even the lowest of human beings deserve love and protection.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away and continued, “From all the hardships I faced in life I have learned one lesson. The Lover and Protector is the true deity. He is neither Hindu nor Muslim. Baap jaan, I have given my heart to your second son, Karim, and my worship is now tied with his. In embracing Islam, I need not give up the faith I was born to. I can follow both.”
The marriage took place. Kamala’s name was changed to Meherjaan and she became a valued and integral part of Habir Khan’s family.
Now the time came for Bangshibadan to wed his own daughter. And history repeated itself as it is wont to do. While crossing Taaltarhir Maath the groom’s party was waylaid by Madhu Mallar’s men. They had been thwarted once. They were out for revenge. But as soon as they launched their attack a voice came out of the dark. “Khabardar[8]! Step back at once.”
“Ore baba re[9]!” the dacoits ran helter skelter, “It’s Habir Khan!” Abandoning the bride to her fate the wedding guests did the same. Suddenly, a figure appeared on the scene holding a banner aloft on a spear. It was Habir Khan’s banner with his emblem, a half- moon, painted on it. But the bearer was a woman. Approaching the palanquin, she helped the trembling girl out of it. “Don’t be afraid Sarala,” she said, “Your elder sister is here to save you. From today you’ll be under the protection of the One who loves and provides sanctuary to all human beings irrespective of caste, creed or religion.”
Turning to her uncle she said, “Pronam kaka[10]. Don’t be alarmed. I shall not pollute you by touching your feet. Take Sarala home. No one has dared to lay a finger on her. She’s as pure today as on the day she was born. And tell kaki[11]that I never thought I could pay back the debt I owe her. The debt of food and shelter so ungraciously doled out while I was her dependent. I am doing so now.” Putting a red silk sari and an asan[12] covered with rich brocade into her uncle’s hands, she added, “I brought these gifts for Sarala. Take them. And remember, if she’s ever in trouble her Muslim sister will be there for her. To give her all the care and protection she requires.”
Aruna Chakravartihas been the principal of a prestigious women’s college of Delhi University for ten years. She is also a well-known academic, creative writer and translator with fourteen published books on record. Her novels Jorasanko, Daughters of Jorasanko, The Inheritors, Suralakshmi Villa have sold widely and received rave reviews. The Mendicant Prince and her short story collection, Through a Looking Glass, are her most recent books. She has also received awards such as the Vaitalik Award, Sahitya Akademi Award and Sarat Puraskar for her translations.
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