Ghosts have been interpreted as frightening, funny, gory or weird. In this collection, we bring to you some ghostly meanderings from our pages, not written by ghosts but written about ghosts or spooky encounters that are philosophical (occasionally), funny and weird.
With enough horrors in the real world around us, we decided to focus more (not fully) on the comedic and explore horror from the perspective of fun with hopefully a cathartic impact, which will deviate our minds from realities like war, hunger and climate change. Some of the tellings may be just spooky… some claim to be real encounters… are they scary or funny? Read and find out…
Art by Henry Tayali(1943-1987). From Public Domain
Let us imagine a world where wars have been outlawed and there is only peace. Is that even possible outside of John Lennon’s song? While John Gray, a modern-day thinker, propounds human nature cannot change despite technological advancements, one has to only imagine how a cave dweller would have told his family flying to the moon was an impossibility. And yet, it has been proven a reality and now, we are thinking living in outer space, though currently it is only the forte of a few elitists and astronomers. Maybe, it will become an accessible reality as shown in books by Isaac Asimov, Arthur C Clarke or shows like Star Trek and Star Wars. Perhaps, it’s only dreamers or ideators pursuing unreal hopes and urges who often become the change makers, the people that make humanity move forward. In Borderless, we merely gather your dreams and present them to the world. That is why we love to celebrate writers from across all languages and cultures with translations and writings that turn current norms topsy turvy. We feature a number of such ideators in this issue.
Nazrul in his times, would have been one such ideator, which is why we carry a song by him translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. And yet before him was Tagore — this time we carry a translation of an unusual poem about happiness. From current times, we present to you a poet — perhaps the greatest Malay writer in Singapore — Isa Kamari. He has translated his longing for changes into his poems. His novels and stories express the same longing as he shares in The Lost Mantras, his self-translated poems that explore adapting old to new. We will be bringing these out over a period of time. We also have poems by Hrushikesh Mallick translated from Odia by Snehprava Das and a poignant story by Sharaf Shad translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch.
Book reviews homes an indepth introduction by Somdatta Mandal to Banu Mushtaq’s Heart Lamp: Selected Stories, translated from Kannada by Deepa Bhasthi. We have a discussion by Meenakshi Malhotra on Contours of Him: Poems, edited and introduced by Malaysian academic, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, in which she concludes, “that if femininity is a construct, so is masculinity.” Overriding human constructs are journeys made by migrants. Rupak Shreshta has introduced us to immigrant Sangita Swechcha’s Rose’s Odyssey: Tales of Love and Loss, translated from Nepali by Jayant Sharma. Bhaskar Parichha winds up this section with his exploration of Kalpana Karunakaran’s A Woman of No Consequence: Memory, Letters and Resistance in Madras. He tells us: “A Woman of No Consequence restores dignity to what is often dismissed as ordinary. It chronicles the spiritual and intellectual evolution of a woman who sought transcendence within the rhythms of domestic life, turning the everyday into a site of resistance and renewal.” Again, by the sound of it a book that redefines the idea that housework is mundane and gives dignity to women and the task at hand.
We wind up the October issue hoping for changes that will lead to a happier existence, helping us all connect with the commonality of emotions, overriding borders that hurt humanity, other species and the Earth.
Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her inimitable artwork. We would all love to congratulate Hughes for his plays that ran houseful in Swansea. And heartfelt thanks to all our wonderful contributors, without who this issue would not have been possible, and to our readers, who make it worth our while, to write and publish.
Out on my usual morning walk. A lovely June morning, the air fresh, cool, the rising sun obscured by a belt of sleepy, moving cloudlets. The sun’s soft, mellow rays dried the dew on the large, leafy trees and blossoming flowers of Holland Park.
As always, I bent my steps towards my favourite bench where, I could sit alone and quiet, near to the ponds, yet far enough not to hear too many voices. The air smelt fragrant that particular morning. I hastened to start on my adventures with Dickens’ David Copperfield as I turned a sharp bend on the path that took me to the bench and the great, sprawling oak tree that homed the myriad rooks and scurrying squirrels. I halted. A seedy-looking man was slowly sitting up on my bench! I had never found someone occupying my bench before. He was scratching an unshaven face and an uncombed head of black, curly hair.
Snapping out of my astonishment, I boldly went up to him. “Sir, have you been sleeping on this bench?”
Hardly looking at me, he softly replied, “In fact I have, my good man. And I will add, I enjoyed a very quiet and relaxed sleep. Not a soul in the park at two in the morning, not even the squeaking of a squirrel.” He said all this with considerable aplomb.
“Well, I’m very happy to hear that. Of course you shall be leaving soon?”
“Not that soon, I’m afraid. When I sleep out, which is almost always, I arrive here in Holland Park at 2pm. and leave at three in the afternoon, sometimes a bit later.”
I bit my lip. “What do you, eye little girls with bad intent?”
“I should think not — that is very uncouth.”
“ Spit out pieces of your broken luck?”
“Hardly. My luck has remained intact, I’m proud to say.”
“Warm your feet in the sun?”
“They keep very warm in this season, even with my shoes off.”
The bench-sleeper took out a cigarette from a torn shirt pocket, lit it, then smeared his shabby clothes with greasy fingers. “Want a smoke?”
“No thank you, I don’t smoke.”
“May I ask you why you have chosen this particular bench to sleep on?” I resumed, as he puffed away, staring blankly into space. “This is my reading bench, sir. It has been for over two years. I come almost every morning to have a good read before breakfasting at the Duck or Grouse across the road.”
“Ah ! The Duck or Grouse, I know it well. The barmaid is an acquaintance of my wife.”
“You have a wife?”
“Yes, and two children. Does that shock you?” Before I could answer he pointed a slender finger at my book: “A rather dreary read in the morning, no? I mean, why not something more droll like David Lodge or Oscar Wilde?”
“I prefer Dickens if you don’t mind,” I responded, taken aback by the man’s impertinence. The impertinent man yawned, took a bright, red apple from his trouser pocket and began munching on it.
“Sorry to have disrupted your morning reading, old chap, but oftentimes in life we are confronted by unforeseen events or encounters contrary to our habits. The question is: Should we disregard the event or investigate the meaning behind it? Why on this particular morning, on this particular bench have you been confronted by someone who has hindered your daily morning ritual? Is it accidental or providential? Please, sit down.” I did unthinkingly sit down and watched him blow blue smoke rings into the still air. I will admit that I was a bit awed by him.
He went on calmly: “Does my appearance really offend you, cause you any discomfiture? Retard your reading of Dickens, who I must say, I have never really taken a liking to?”
“Oh, so now you insult my choice of reading?” I fumed.
“I meant no insult, sir, only a reminder you that there are morning readings, afternoon readings, evening and night readings. And I’m sorry to inform you that Dickens is not a morning reading, especially David Copperfield.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but if you are to remain seated on this, my bench, then you will be subjected to my perusal of David Copperfield; and whether it pleases you or not will not change my habit of doing so.” My bold affirmation seemed not to disturb the blighter’s rings of smoke that sailed lightly up into the broad leaves of the oak tree.
He wrinkled his nose: “Habits are terrible enemies.”
“Are they?”
“Yes, that’s why I oftentimes change a bench … even a park: St James is lovely with its lake. Richmond, Finsbury and Circus Gardens are very pleasant, too … You see, I despise habits, they instil an implacable rigor mortis.”
I ignored him and frowned: “So, you believe I’m a silly, old dolt because I read David Copperfield every morning on the same bench?”
“Of course not,” he responded quickly, tying the laces of his heelless shoes. “I simply wished to make clear to you on this lovely morning that a stranger has sat on ‘your’ bench, and that you have yet to ask him whether he is a beggar or not!”
The bench-sleeper’s remark put so point blank did indeed pique my curiosity, so I took up his defiance: “Are you not a beggar then?”
“Have I asked for money?” was his snappy reply.
“No … not yet, anyway.”
“Nor will I. So what are your deductions?” He peered at me with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“That you are not begging for money and that you have given me the occasion to snap my habit by engaging in conversation with you.”
“You have expressed it wonderfully!” he exclaimed.
“In that case, why do you sleep out on park benches, when you said that you have a wife and children, and you have no need of money?”
He shook the dew out of his hair. “Is there anything ambiguous or incongruous about that?” he countered.
“I think there is! I have a wife and a home, and at night I sleep in my home, not on park benches.”
“And children?”
I sat back. “No, in fact we have no children.”
He took out another cigarette. “ So?”
“So what?”
“Oh, nothing. My children often visit me in the parks when not at school, and my wife, when she’s not working.”
“I can’t believe all this!” I stuttered.
“Why not ? Have you something against a gesture so innocent, so insignificant than a man who sleeps on park benches, who is visited by his dear family, when, in fact, he could sleep in a lovely, soft bed next to his charming wife? Let us say that park benches have become my second residence.”
I gasped at that last remark mentioned so candidly. I changed the subject: “Tell me then, what do you do until two or three o’clock on this bench? You have no book to read.”
He chuckled. “My book lies outside written pages. My readings are people whom I observe, the flowers that I smell, the singing birds or gambolling squirrels that I hear. The conversations I have with many a good person, like yourself. I do read books — just the other day I found a copy of Lawrence’s The Rainbow in the trash bin. Can you imagine someone throwing away a classic of that sort?”
“Yes, that is a crime. So your days seem to pass by splendidly, a full agenda, if I may say so without irony.”
“You may say exactly that, my good man.” He stretched his limbs, took another cigarette and smoked dreamily, peering into the thick leafy foliage of the oak tree. Songbirds had been accompanying his well-stated sentences for some time now; they seemed to punctuate them, rhythmically. The manner in which he smoked his cigarette mystified me. There was a touch of delicacy, elegance, even refinement in his gestures. His speech, too, prompted me to think that he was no ordinary tramp.
He pointed to the sun: “When did you say you breakfast at the Duck or Grouse?”
“At ten o’clock.”
“Judging by the sun, it must be very close to ten.”
I glanced at my watch. “How right you are!” I said, stunned by the accurate time-telling of this unusual man.
“I’m afraid I have prevented you from reading one sentence of Dickens.”
“No bother ; I have many mornings to do so … unless …”
“Unless you find me lying or seated here every day ? Not to worry; as I said, I change benches and parks quite regularly. But who knows, we may meet again in different circumstances.” And he smiled while his eyes shone a roguishness that confounded me.
“Right!” I returned. “Perhaps we shall meet again.” I stood up to leave.
“Bon appetit,” he called out as I wended my way to the front gate.
Finishing my breakfast, I hurried home eager to share that odd encounter with my wife, at that moment busy with her morning gardening. “You’ll never know how I spent my morning, dear.”
“Reading your book, I suppose, as you always do,” my wife replied tritely without looking up, pulling out the weeds from the borders of coneflowers, forget-me-nots, asters and chrysanthemums below the bay window of our newly bought duplex.
“Not at all,” I responded. “I had a very strange conversation with a man who sleeps on park benches every night, and sits on them until three in the afternoon.”
She stood and eyed me strangely. “Talking to beggars, hey? How much did he wrest from you?”
“He wasn’t a beggar Helen. He simply sleeps and sits on park benches. In fact, he had a refined way of smoking his cigarette. Very well-spoken, too.”
She continued to stare at me without a word. “He even has a wife and children who visit him in the parks.”
“Does he ? Well I’ll be damned if he wasn’t putting you on, Marvin. Do you think I’d visit you in a park, sleeping on a bloody bench?” I smiled weakly. “He’s a smooth talker, that one is. Be careful, he might put ideas in your head, ”she concluded and attended to her peonies and snapdragons.
I felt odd and asked, “How about a restaurant tonight, dear? I’ve had a handsome pay rise, you know. Let’s dine at the Galvin La Chapelle.”
Helen jumped up like a Jack-out- of-the-Box. “Are you mad? I think that beggar or bench-sleeper got the better of you. The Galvin La Chapelle is the most expensive restaurant in London … eighty or ninety quid a menu!”
“Yes, I know. But I really feel like having a wonderful meal. After all, it’s only money…”
My wife went back to her edging and weeding.
So that night, dressed in our best clothes, we stepped under the chapelled vaults of the Galvin La Chapelle in Spitalfields, whose French cuisine and romantic atmosphere knew no rival in London, perhaps even in the whole of England. We were seated at our reserved table for two in the middle of the enormous dining hall, where we could admire the polished marble pillars supporting the stone ceiling, the timbered vaults and the arched windows. We both felt so paltry surrounded by such grandiose mediaeval decor.
“Such a posh restaurant, I’ve never seen such lovely architecture and decoration. And feel this tablecloth, it wasn’t bought at Primark,” Helen remarked blissfully, passing her rough, garden-versed fingers over the silken cloth after having been seated in a red-upholstered chair by a charming young waiter.
“I knew you’d like it, darling.” I beamed, thoroughly delighted at my wife’s first impressions. “You deserve it, haven’t we’ve worked hard: first the duplex then the car?” The Maître d’Hôtel[1] greeted them in French, then with much studied decorum, lay two menus on the table in the middle of which had been placed a vase of intoxicating tuberoses whose fragrance almost caused Helen to faint in ecstasy. Marvin ordered cocktails.
Suddenly his face turned white as a ghost. Helen, snapping out of her ecstatic state, searched the sudden whiteness for a reason: “Marvin … Marvin, are you alright ? Is it the flowers or the prices on the menu that have turned your face into stone ? I told you this place was dear. We’re not at MacDonald’s, you know …”
Marvin struggled to speak: “No … no … it’s not the menu, dear.” He turned to observe the Maître d’Hôtel presently leaning on the counter of the cocktail bar. He was attired in the most striking satin canvas double-breasted tuxedo with a black, silk bow tie whose tips brushed lightly against the red-laced lining of his vest. His tailored trousers grazed daintily a pair of Crockette and Jones shoes, the dearest in London. There he leaned on his right elbow, chatting up the barmaid. With the most refined gesture, he took out a cigarette from a gold-plaited case and lit it.
Marvin gasped: “It’s him! It’s him, Helen!”
“What are you on about?”
“The head-waiter talking to the waitress at the bar…It’s the bench-sleeper in the park. I’m sure of it.”
Helen sat back, a bit ruffled at her husband’s outlandish outbursts. The young waiter brought the hors d’oeuvres[2]: duck liver royal and buffalo milk panna cotta. As soon as the waiter had served them: “Are you daft!” she whispered so as not to be heard by two couples who had just been seated near to them. “Stop this nonsense, Marvin. Control yourself. Don’t forget where we are. How can a tramp on a park bench be the head waiter of the most expensive restaurant in London?”
“But the way he smokes his cigarette…it’s exactly like the beggar’s! And his grey eyes, those glazed, blurry, grey eyes are his. Helen I can’t believe it!”
“Then don’t believe it because it can’t be him. Calm down and eat your duck liver. Look, he’s coming to take down our main dish, which because of your foolishness, we haven’t chosen yet.”
The stately Maître d’Hôtel glided over, pad in hand. Marvin, red as a lobster, buried his face in the menu. Helen scanned hers, marvelling at the names.
“Let me suggest the crab ravioli,” His soft voice sailed in between them. A voice very familiar to Marvin.
“That sounds lovely,” Helen said, staring impatiently at her husband who was hiding his face behind the menu. “With a lot of ricotta cheese, please. I’ll also order a free range aged duck sauce à l’orange. And you darling, what will it be?” she added, barely disguising her anger.
“I shall have the Iberico pork with chimichurri sauce, please,” Marvin ordered, peering over his menu at the head waiter.
“Of course, sir, we serve the finest French cuisine in England ; une cuisine exquisite!”
“How about some wine, dear?” Helen interrupted, peevishly.
The Maître d’Hôtel suggested: “An Aloxe-Corton Latour red wine goes well with pork. As to the crab, why not a carafe of Chardonnay?” Helen and Marvin acquiesced by simply nodding their heads. “If I’m not mistaken, this is your first time here? Perfect. Then permit me to offer you, on the house, our burnt honey custard tart for dessert. It simply melts in your mouth.” The first-comers wreathed in smiles, albeit Marvin’s somewhat withered, nodded again in ostentatious gratitude. The Mâitre d’Hôtel glided off across the stone-paved floor with velvet steps.
Marvin leaned over the table, his nose ruffling the tuberoses. “Helen, I’m telling you it’s him. I’m going over there to settle this mystery once and for all. I know he recognised me, that’s why he offered that dessert to us.”
“Don’t be rude, Marvin. I shan’t be embarrassed because of your ill-behaviour. That beggar has got to your head. Sip your cocktail, why are you ruining such a lovely evening, especially one that will cost you over two hundred quid?” Helen bit her lip.
“But dear, I shan’t embarrass you ; I’ll just casually stroll over to the fellow and hint at David Copperfield. He’ll get the message. He’ll know I’m on to him.”
“What do you mean ‘on to him’ ? He’s not a criminal! Stop this immediately or I’ll leave you eating your two-hundred pound meal alone!” With those stern words that brooked no rebuke, the affair appeared settled …
Marvin, however, was not to be foiled …
He stood up. Gathering courage, he made a bee-line for the cocktail bar where the Maître d’Hôtel was serving himself a drink. Marvin in a low but firm voice said: “Sir, I believe we have met elsewhere.”
Being much taller than Marvin, the Maître d’Hôtel bent over him, drawing closer. He placed a comradely hand on his shoulder : “My good man, how observant you are! My disguise has not fooled you for a moment. But please, look at your lovely wife,” and he sighed. “She’s almost in tears, worrying over your stubbornness to know the truth. The truth? Of what? About a sleeper on a park bench, one who harbours a certain disdain for Dickens in the mornings? If I were to reveal the mystery of our morning’s encounter, would you please return to your table and enjoy the meal with your wife.”
Marvin remained speechless, although he did scoop out a handful of cashew nuts from a porcelain dish on the cocktail bar counter.
“You see,” the head waiter continued philosophically, “here in this restaurant I play the role of a Maîtred’Hôtel. I wear the weeds and mask of social bearing, parade about this remarkable dining room with aristocratic ease. I follow the rigid rules of proper etiquette. Where we met and spoke this morning is my breath of fresh air, my dwelling of unconfined freedom. There I dispose my mask, divest my constraining costume and don the clothes and air of a bird that has flown out of its cage. Here inside, I’m an actor. There, outside, a spectator no longer on stage constrained to act, but react to those whom I observe. And that my good man is the essence of freedom. In the parks, I regain a sense of reality by observing the simplicity of Nature, the grass beneath my feet, the sun, moon and stars above my head. The trees and the songbirds. In the restaurant, albeit it be the finest in England, I merely act, opined as a social asset, as a means to cater to people’s needs for costly pleasures, and of course to my own and those of my family’s, although mine and theirs are far from costly. Look, I shouldn’t be smoking this, but it is the only pleasure, the only soupçon of outside freedom that I can afford myself here.”
Marvin, awed by this avowal, said nothing. The Maître d’Hôtel concluded: “Now hurry back to your charming wife who has been impatiently waiting for your return. I do believe your main course will be promptly served. But let me say this, please do not disclose the reason for my bench-sleeping activities. That will be our little secret, one only between us. Look, your wife appears so upset, why subject her to trivialities? Discretion, my good man. Discretion. Put her at ease and enjoy your meal.” The Maître d’Hôtel causually strolled to a nearby table, smiling.
Marvin shuffled to his table, where indeed Helen was fuming. “Well ! Has he called the ambulance to have you packed off to Bedlam?”
Marvin winced. The irony of her remark cut deep into his emotions. He appeared lost in thought: “No … We had a smashing conversation, in fact. He’s quite a decent chap, well-read on Dickens, too.”
“Good, then let us get on with this wonderful meal. Cheers darling, and thank you, the wine is heavenly and the crab, well, what can I say?” Helen raised her glass: “To us … and Dickens!”
Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Nazrul’s Jonomo, Jonomo Gelo(Generations passed) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read and listen to a rendition by the famed Feroza Begum.
Ajit Cour‘s short story, Nandu, has been translated from Punjabi by C Christine Fair. Click here to read.
The Scarecrowby Anwar Sahib Khan has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao moulds children’s perspectives. Click here to read.
Notes from Japan
In American Wife,Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.
Conversation
Neeman Sobhan, author of Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome, discusses shuttling between multiple cultures and finding her identity in words. Click here to road.
Storm in purple by Arina Tcherem. From Public Domain
If we take a look at our civilisation, there are multiple kinds of storms that threaten to annihilate our way of life and our own existence as we know it. The Earth and the human world face twin threats presented by climate change and wars. While on screen, we watch Gaza and Ukraine being sharded out of life by human-made conflicts over constructs made by our own ‘civilisations’, we also see many of the cities and humankind ravaged by floods, fires, rising sea levels and global warming. Along with that come divides created by economics and technology. Many of these themes reverberate in this month’s issue.
From South Australia, Meredith Stephens writes of marine life dying due to algal growth caused by rising water temperatures in the oceans — impact of global warming. She has even seen a dead dolphin and a variety of fishes swept up on the beach, victims of the toxins that make the ocean unfriendly for current marine life. One wonders how much we will be impacted by such changes! And then there is technology and the chatbot taking over normal human interactions as described by Farouk Gulsara. Is that good for us? If we perhaps stop letting technology take over lives as Gulsara and Jun A. Alindogan have contended, it might help us interact to find indigenous solutions, which could impact the larger framework of our planet. Alindogan has also pointed out the technological divide in Philippines, where some areas get intermittent or no electricity. And that is a truth worldwide — lack of basic resources and this technological divide.
On the affluent side of such divides are moving to a new planet, discussions on immortality — Amortals[1] by Harari’s definition, life and death by euthanasia. Ratnottama Sengupta brings to us a discussion on death by choice — a privilege of the wealthy who pay to die painlessly. The discussion on whether people can afford to live or die by choice lies on the side of the divide where basic needs are not an issue, where homes have not been destroyed by bombs and where starvation is a myth, where climate change is not wrecking villages with cloudbursts. In Kashmir, we can find a world where many issues exist and violences are a way of life. In the midst of such darkness, a bit of kindness and more human interactions as described by Gower Bhat in ‘The Man from Pulwama’ goes some way in alleviating suffering. Perhaps, we can take a page of the life of such a man. In the middle of all the raging storms, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in a bit of humour or rather irony with his strange piece on his penchant for syrups, a little island removed from conflicts which seem to rage through this edition though it does raise concerns that affect our well-being.
Parichha has also reviewed a book by another contemporary Odia woman author, Snehaprava Das. The collection of short stories is called Keep it Secret. Madhuri Kankipati has discussed O Jungio’s The Kite of Farewells: Stories from Nagaland and Somdatta Mandal has written about Chhimi Tenduf-La’s A Hiding to Nothing, a novel by a global Tibetan living in Sri Lanka with the narrative between various countries. We have an interview with a global nomad too, Neeman Sobhan, who finds words help her override borders. In her musing on Ostia Antica, a historic seaside outside Rome, Sobhan mentions how the town was abandoned because of the onset of anopheles mosquitos. Will our cities also get impacted in similar ways because of the onset of global ravages induced by climate change? This musing can be found as a book excerpt from Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome, her book on her life as a global nomad. The other book excerpt is by a well-known writer who has also lived far from where he was born, MA Aldrich. His book,From Rasa to Lhasa: The Sacred Center of the Mandala is said to be “A sweeping, magnificent biography—which combines historical research, travel-writing and discussion of religion and everyday culture—Old Lhasa is the most comprehensive account of the fabled city ever written in English.”
With that, we come to our fiction section. This time we truly have stories from around the globe with Suzanne Kamata sending a story set in the Bon festival that’s being celebrated in Japan this week for her column. From there, we move to Taiwan with C. J. Anderson-Wu’s narrative reflecting disappearances during the White Terror (1947-1987), a frightening period for people stretched across almost four decades. Gigi Gosnell writes of the horrific abuse faced by a young Filipino girl as the mother works as a domestic helper in Dubai. Paul Mirabile gives us a cross-cultural narrative about a British who opts to become a dervish. While Hema R touches on women’s issues from within India, Sahitya Akademi Award Winner, Naramsetti Umamaheshwararao, writes a story about children.
With such hope growing out of a neolithic burial chamber, maybe there is hope for life to survive despite all the bleakness we see around us. Maybe, with a touch of magic and a sprinkle of realism – our sense of hope, faith and our ability to adapt to changes, we will survive for yet another millennia.
We wind up our content for the August issue with the eternal bait for our species — hope. Huge thanks to the fantastic team at Borderless and to all our wonderful writers. Truly grateful to Sohana Manzoor for her artwork and many thanks to all our wonderful readers for their time…
Whirling Dervishes, painting by Jean Baptiste Vanmour (1671-1737). From Public Domain
In 1976, I bought a small country cottage very pleasantly located near the town of Sheffield at Dronfield in South Yorkshire from an elderly woman who informed me she that had travelled quite extensively throughout Asia in the nineteen twenties and thirties before settling down here. She never married. The learned woman left no forwarding address.
Settling in took much time and energy because of my abundant belongings. At last, one rainy afternoon having nothing to do, I climbed the shaky stairway that led to the garret. The door had been left ajar. Inside the low-ceiling, ill-lite space, there was nothing but a large chest placed in the middle. The lid lay aslant. Its hinges were broken.
Curious about its contents, I began rummaging through the numerous newspaper and magazine clippings, booklets, letters and other documents. A particular envelop caught my eye because the red wax seal had been broken. Wax-sealed letters are very out-dated these days. When I opened the envelop I understood why it was sealed. A seven-page letter had been written in fine, elegant script, by Lady Sheil, dated 1869. Lady Sheil was quite a prominent woman in her time[1] . This indeed was a remarkable find. It baffled me why the former proprietor would leave in a chest of documents a letter of such archival interest. Since there was little light in the garret, I took the letter downstairs to read it. Unfortunately there was no addressee, so I assumed it was sent to the former proprietor. I must confess that a feeling of guilt touched me when I began my reading. Luckily I overcame this sensation because the contents of the letter proved extraordinary …
Lady Sheil details a very peculiar adventure of an Englishman who named himself Ali the Dervish -or as she spelt it, Deervish — who had undertaken a voyage to ‘Balochestan, Persia’[2]. As I read through her letter, I came to realise that the Englishman had abandoned his British ways entirely, adopting those of the semi-nomad Balochi. To such an extent was his assimilation that he even married a Balochi woman, something utterly unthinkable at that time — in the year 1856. Why Lady Sheil would write a long letter about this chap to an unknown reader or readers heightened my curiosity.
I began investigations at the Sheffield library and found Lady Sheil’s Glimpses of Persian[3] though I found nothing at all about Ali the Dervish. Lady Sheil mentioned something about his diary but nothing substantial came of this. Be that as it may, the letter fascinated me by its mysterious allusions and ellipses, especially concerning this unusual identity change. Not a simple task for a European in the nineteenth century, or even in our century for that matter. This Ali even outdid Sir Richard Burton’s bursts of outlandish impersonation …
Examining the letter carefully, I felt a strange, slight tremor goading me to do justice to this eccentric Ali. Something unsaid in the sentences urged me to read between them, to scrutinize the margins and the paragraph indents as if Lady Sheil had deliberately left out parts of her narrative for her reader to fill in those blank, yellowing spaces.
I picked up my pen, imagining myself to be both Lady Sheil and Ali the dervish, and began filling in the those blanks, writing in the gaps, the lacuna, the untold events and details so to speak. Indeed, I had convinced myself that the letter had been destined for me. And this resolution was enough for me to divulge the mystery of Ali …
Ali, whose English-born name was left unknown, had had the best of aristocratic educations in the fine arts, especially languages. He was fluent in Hindustani, Persian, Pashtun and Turkish, besides having mastered four or five European languages, including Hungarian. This was quite a linguistic feat, second only to Richard Burton whom, by the way, Ali had the occasion to meet in Lahore. A meeting which lasted two or three weeks according to a friend of Burton’s memoirs. Little, however, is reported about their relationship.
Prior to Ali’s arrival in India and that fortuitous encounter with Burton, he apparently had led a rather lukewarm existence in England, and this in spite of his family wealth, or perhaps because of it. His accumulation of capital was analogous to his successive accumulations of prolonged bouts of depression. They left him utterly exhausted. How and when he left England is not written in the letter, although he probably reached India by ship, then on horseback or foot into Northwestern India, accompanied often by erring minstrels and story-tellers. From whom Ali learned the art of dancing, chanting and story-telling. It was not a question of imitating these rituals and customs. Ali had integrated them as if they had been part of some distant, latent self that required jolts of recollection to surge up from the depths of the unconscious. In fact, Burton was quite taken aback by Ali’s very ‘unEnglish’ appearance. His manner of speaking English, too, possessed a curious twist of Persian and Hindustani syntax — a ring of their tonal stress.
To Ali’s pleasant surprise, he no longer suffered from bouts of violent depressions. The former Englishman on leaving Burton, perhaps in 1849, rid himself of paper money, donating it to missionaries, then rode off into the verdant valleys of North-western India towards Afghanistan carrying only the clothes on his back, two gourds of fresh water, several loaves of acorn-bread and a pouch of Arabic gum. Ali carried no weapon.
Ali’s sound knowledge of Hindustani, Pashtun and Persian offered him unparallel glimpses of these undomesticated lands. Lands of shifting desert sands whose rising heat conjured in the distance illusions of ravishing oases and sparkling cascades off tree-laden crags. Ali had been warned about these deceitful mirages (by Burton?) whose marvellous vision had been the death of many a brave adventurer.
He kept to the clayey track, accepting food and board from the hospitable villagers or sleeping under the silver stars on his woven kilim-saddle cloth. He rode days or nights penetrating landscapes of indescribable beauty, of terrifying singularity, of unbearable heat in the day and equally freezing nights. At one point in his wanderings, Ali, slumbering on his horse due to the rising heat and lack of food, looked up to discover a gigantic Buddha hewn into a tuft-like cliff. A small stream ran in front of the lithic niche along which flourished many date trees. There the Buddha stood, calm, reposed, sedentary, encased in his stone casket, home to a myriad birds who had made their nests on his rounded shoulders and shaven head. Ali jumped off his horse, filled his gourds with clean water, scouted about for fresh dates. With one last look at the towering Enlightened One he set off towards Persia, filled with equivocal sensations. He felt that his nomad days would soon be numbered …
A month or two passed. Now villagers tilling their fields or collecting wood no longer greeted or spoke Pashtun to him, but in Dehwari or Persian. He welcomed this language shift. Ali felt more at ease in Persian, albeit it be the Dehwari dialect, which he had learnt from one or two erring Zarathustrian talebearers in India. By then his uncombed beard touched his chest and his hair his shoulders. In one village he traded his khaki-coloured shorts for a shalwar[4] and his boots for goat-skin sandals. In another his Safari sun hat for a turban and his heavy flax shirt for a long, cotton tunic. Whenever he met tillers or merchants they would greet him with the customary ‘hoş amati’[5]. By their pronunciation and vocabulary Ali knew he was travelling southwards into Balochestan. Temperatures rose and rose — 37° C … 42° C. His horse trotted slower and slower. Her rider drooped soporifically over her mane. Ali no longer calculated his wanderings in farsakhs[6] but by the risings and settings of the sun …
Notwithstanding these discomfitures, the persevering Ali carried on. To his delight the track widened, hospitable shepherds driving before them their herds of sheep or goats offered the solitary traveller the warmth of their camp-fires, goat’s milk, cheese and acorn-bread. Caravans of transhumance nomads pressing towards the high plateaus nodded to him. The stony-faced herdsmen chanted in their own language which translated means —
A breath of mountain breeze, A breath of wind from the Sea, In the middle, We trudge The pilgrims of the fountain…
Then they called after their huge, savage dogs. Ali seized upon that admirable chant and intoned it to himself or aloud …
One sparkling, azure day, Ali, road-weary, alighted from his horse in a large settlement of tents, called Sa’idi. There both Persian and Dehwari were spoken, judging from the scores of people who came to greet him. It was a charming settlement, surrounded by fields of red poppies, iris, bluer than the blue of the sky, crown imperials whose orange tints glowed like lit candles, and tulips. Horses, sheep and goats dotted the terraced rows of poppies on the hills and skirts of the low-laying piebald mountains, motionless. Ali, both dazzled and comforted by the undulating kaleidoscope colours decided to halt for the night in this welcoming settlement to rest his fatigued physical and mental state and his horse.
When he asked for the elder of the settlement, he was directed to a very large white tent. In fact, since his arrival the snowy-bearded elder had been eyeing the stranger askance. He threw open the flap of his tent and greeted him in Persian as custom would have it, inviting his visitor inside for tea. Sipping their respective glasses of sugared tea, the snowy-bearded elder’s deep-set black eyes peered into those hazel-brown of Ali’s. Though he was pleased to meet this curious traveller, he was confused about his identity. Finally he put the question point blank to his sipping visitor: “Are you Persian?”
Ali nodded neither yes nor no. His ambiguous nod set off the string of events that followed. events that transformed the already transforming Ali into a rather ambiguous Other …
The snowy-bearded elder had read that ambiguous nod as a sign of belonging. Ali’s sun-mat complexion, his extraordinary command of both Persian and Dehwari, his knowledge of social and religious habits and practices, mostly acquired during his years on the road, opened the elder’s heart and those of the Balochi people of Sa’idi, people who now had stepped into the tent, forming a large circle round Ali and the snowy-bearded elder. Out of this wide circle came the elder’s three sons and daughter to lead him to his own red tent at the outskirts of the settlement. His horse was led to pasture with the others.
On the thick carpets of his medium-sized tent, Ali sat and meditated upon that ambiguous nod. Had he really become the one of them? Deep within his heart, the former Englishman rejoiced … rejoiced at his ‘crossing over’. He had become what he really was …
Several years passed. Ali no longer felt guilty about leaving his past behind. His immersion seemed complete. He sang and danced round the ritual fire at night. He told stories night after night after a hard day’s work in the poppy fields, apple and peach orchards and the vineyards, the tribesmen chanted their chants of ancestral lore, joined him in his whirling dance, one palm to the Heavens and the other to the Earth, eyes staring into a void of quiescence …
It was in Sa’idi that he began to be called Ali the Dervish, whirling as he did before and behind the leaping flames. Ali taught his dance to the snowy-bearded elder’s three sons. In turn, the elder offered his daughter to him in marriage — a privilege since this signified entrance into the chieftain’s family.
Once the three-day marriage ceremonies were over, his lovely bride — for she was truly lovely — sat next to him in the nuptial red tent. His wife, whose name has never been recorded, demanded nothing of him. She accepted all his nightly hesitations … ‘failings’ … Her fruity laugh and obsidian back eyes spoke a language that communicated higher values … loftier treasures than uncertainty, physical gratification or hereditary obligations.
Ali slowly discovered that his young bride possessed the quality of a seer, perhaps even belonged to a long lineage of Central Asian mystics. Intense were her meditations and visions of the Other World, of events passed and those to come … His past … Their future … Ali, both bewildered and beguiled by this power of prophesy, would timidly question his bride about her unusual gifts. She would answer enigmatically: “One must remove the Husk before bringing in the Bride,” an adage he never fully understood, nor would she ever elucidate.
On other moonlit nights, alone within the sanctuary of their intimacy, Ali’s wife would envision scenes of his long aristocratic lineage, each member afflicted by physical or mental atrophies, plagued by wasting ennui. The Dervish listened in awe as she revealed events quite unknown to him. Yet, he remained speechless, peering into the almond-shaped eyes of this woman depicting scenes that could very well cost him his life. She said nothing. He yearned to avow everything to her but some fey voice prevented him each time. She read his mind and laughed her fruity laugh, delving ever deeper into his life … theirs !
Ali accompanied her with his eyes then turned them to the dying embers of the stove fire, the glowing logs sizzled lightly in the silence. Was he deluding himself? He knew that his wife had discovered his native idenity. But were all those past scenes his true identity? He indeed stemmed from that hoary lineage, the last scion. Was he the last to play a role on this world stage of masquerade and mummery? No ! He was Ali the Dervish … Here amongst these hearty tribesmen he played no role. He had overcome the hardships of childhood as a fatherless boy. That unknown gentleman had left for Africa never to return! Never a letter nor a message brought by acquaintances. Before dying of grief, his poor mother repeated to him everynight: “Look to the stars.” And the sullen boy looked, and believed that they would lead him to another life … another identity !
Once Ali began to cry softly listening to the sizzling embers and the light, rhythmical breathing of his strange wife.
Many years had passed and yet, they had no children. His hair and beard had greyed. Yet, no reprimand, no rebuke, no judgement ever came from the community, especially from her aging father. Was the power of her revelations known to him ? Would he be the last branch of that gnarled and rotten aristocratic tree ?
Ali rode often into the fields and mountains to gather wood to build tent-frames or glean fruit from the many apple and peach trees. During these solitary moments his past crept up on him, making him feel guilty. There seemed only one solution : speak openly, candidly to his wife about his British birth, his genuine desire to become the Other. She would surely understand since she had already read his former life by sounding his heart. That night he would go straight to his wife.
But, just then out of the blue sky his wife came galloping towards him, whipping up her stead. She jumped off, an odd expression wrinkling her forehead. Ali ran up to her, took her shoulders gently, admiring the sapphire blue that framed them so perfectly like a painting. There she stood, basking in the soft glow of the mellowing, evening sun. Before he could utter his rehearsed confession she put a hand to his lips.
“Father has just passed away,” she whispered softly, without emotion. “He has been freed from the trammels of worldly existence.” She smiled. “Now you too are free to divest yourself of a personage that has been conferred to you by the stars and the strength of your will.”
“But who am I really, my dear?” her husband wondered. She caressed his bearded, burning cheeks. She answered: “If you want the horse to neigh, you must slacken the reins.” Turning round, she rode back to the settlement to wash the body of her deceased father and prepare the three-day funeral rites with her brothers. Ali puzzled by that enigmatic counsel trudged to his horse.
He rode back far behind her, meditating his ‘freedom’. What other choice had he?
This sentence was the last in Lady Sheil’s long, detailed letter. On further investigation into this strange fellow at the London library, I discovered that Ali the Dervish had divorced and remarried his bride to one of her brother’s mates, then left Sa’idi. He was last seen in Tabriz, Persia. No document reports his whereabouts after his reaching that northwestern town in the lands of the Azeri people.
I have often wondered whether Lady Sheil ever knew who Ali the Dervish really was. I have my doubts. Only his Balochi wife knew, and of course, that mysterious person could have never been questioned. It’s also odd that Ali himself — whatever self that be– had never woven his thoughts and experiences into a book, never enlightened a Western public on integration and assimilation into a foreign culture.
As time went by I even considered that this letter might have been a hoax to hoodwink a naive fellow like myself into clothing Ali in legendary fashion. On second thought, though, who’s to arbitrate between fact and fiction ? Not I, in any case. For isn’t it a refreshing act of freedom to slip from one to the other without a pinch of guilt ?
[6] A Persian measurement equivalent to 5.35 kilometres
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Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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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.
Nico hurried off the steamer at Burgaz Island, oblivious of the swarming passengers disembarking and embarking. How long had it been since he had stepped foot on the island of his grandfather’s birth: twelve … thirteen years ? He made a bee-line for the central plaza. There he still stood, Saït Faïk, ever so thoughtful, leaning against that eternal tree. Nico approached the Turkish poet –Grandpa would have been so delighted to be here with us again. I’m sure he would have asked you about the talking seaweed and weeping mussels, Nico mused.
Vasiliki had passed away six years ago, a natural death, probably in his sleep. The old fisherman had asked Nico to have him buried between his wife, Nefeli, and daughter, Myrto, which he dutifully accomplished. Since the adolescent was the sole inheritor, he sold his grandfather’s little house for a good price, which permitted him to live comfortably in Athens while completing his university studies. Indeed, because he was parentless, and because his grades in grammar school were excellent, Nico had qualified for a scholarship. The ambitious student, thus, enjoyed financial ease to continue studying several more years for his doctorate. He excelled in Greek language and literature, French and English philology, in European History. At nights he read and spoke Turkish with several Turkish friends, for the vision of returning to Burgaz stole upon him like those perfumed nights on Burgaz with his grandfather as they contemplated the star-studded sky. That seemed so long ago …
Once his doctoral thesis defended, Nico left Greece and set off for Burgaz, off on an adventure. Poetry had been a major part of his thesis, and he had written quite a few poems, contributing to the university Literary Club’s weekly journal. Some of his poems and short stories caught the eye of an editor in Athens who had them published in a widespread monthly magazine. Soon he was invited to poetry readings and story-telling jousts, and because of these eventful evenings his circle of readers widened like concentric ripples in a pool of water after a rock had been thrown in …
The young poet left Athens not knowing exactly what Destiny held for him … nor what drove him so powerfully to return to the island. Was it because of his love for his grandfather ? His fascination for Saït Faïk? Or both? Saïk’s provided him with inexhaustible inspiration. Perhaps, too, it was the mystery of Burgaz of which his grandfather had so oftentimes spoke. Yes. It might have been that.
The horse-drawn carriage pulled up in front of the long flight of stairs to Zorba’s ‘humble’ home. Nico paid and began to ascend the worn-out mossy steps. Nothing had changed as the fretted gable slowly loomed in front of him. The perfumed scent of azaleas, roses, honeysuckles and pomegranate stirred distant memories. He had written to Zorba about his project to spend some time on Burgaz, and the good merchant, although away for several months in the United States on business, insisted that the young poet stay as long as he wished in his ‘humble’ home. He would be greeted and well-fed by his trusty maid, Zelda.
On hearing carriage bells Zelda rushed out, waiting for the ascending Nico arms akimbo. He dropped his knapsack, shoulder-bag and hugged the good woman. Speaking Greek had been her wont when Nico accompanied his grandfather years ago, but now, since the young man had decided to sojourn in Burgaz, she spoke to him in Turkish. Zelda was pleasantly surprised to hear him reply quite readily in Turkish. In fact, Zelda would prove an excellent tutor for Nico. Her grammar was excellent and her accent easy to understand.
So, after a solid diner, exhausted after a long day of travelling, Nico once again trudged up the steps of the floating stairway, the tinkling sound of the fountain below tickling his ears, opened the door to the room he knew so well with its frescoed ceiling of Greek heroes and large bay window looking out upon the darkened forests and the Marmara Sea. He washed and before drifting off to sleep, read a few chapters from Homer’s Odeyssus, which he always carried with him when ‘on the road’, and several paragraphs from Saït Faïk’s Son Kuşlar (Last Birds), underlining the words he couldn’t understand.
Up early the next morning, Zelda had prepared a breakfast of black olives, goat’s cheese, hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter, rose jam and black tea. She had gone to the local market (it was Tuesday) and would not be back before eleven.
Dressed lightly — the weather was very warm, Nico sauntered down the same long and winding path through the wooded slope that led to the stony beach, hoping Abi Din Bey would still be serving grilled-cheese sandwiches, and spouting poetry for his customers. How the brisk island breeze of the sea swept away the cobs of lingering doubt in Nico’s mind as he descended — doubts that had tortured him because his grandfather would no longer be at his side, physically. Yet, when he stepped upon the beach these doubts evaporated. Vasiliki was there and would always be there. He spotted several fishing boats out at sea. Had Nico built a new boat with the help of his grandfather? Indeed he had. It was the biggest and most beautiful of all his boats! Much bigger than the Nefeli which was still in route towards China. But this wonderful boat would not be launched into the leaden seas: it lay housed in a small museum in Hydra where it can be admired by both the young and the old. In fact, Nico even won an award for that marvellous construction. He had named her Myrto in memory of his grandfather’s daughter. The tombstone engraver, on Nico’s behest, carved the silhouette of his boat on Vasiliki’s gravestone.
Abi Din Bey’s welcoming gate had been sealed! The homely front gardens lay desolate, the trees devoid of fruit, clusters of weed and couch grass grew wild. The poet’s house, albeit perfectly intact, exhaled an odour of negligence. Nico stared at this bleak scene, his heart growing heavy. It had never occurred to him that Abi Din Bey would not come rushing out to greet him. That this solitary man was mortal like all other human beings … like his grandfather. He felt like a child who believes his or her parents immortal out of love for them.
From behind a middle-aged man walked up to him: “Abi Din died about ten or eleven years ago,” he began in a soft voice in broken Turkish. “He has no inheritors, so his house stands derelict and abandoned.”
Nico, snapped out of his despondency, eyed the stranger with mixed emotions. “What of his poetry?”
“Abi Din’s life of a poet held absolutely no interest for most who prefer to live in a cloud of unknowing. Abi Din Bey wrote some excellent poems, but alas no one had ears to listen to them.”
“We listened to them,” remonstrated Nico, though rather lamely.
“I know you did, you and your grandfather, Vasiliki.”
Nico reeled back as if struck by a blow. “How do you know … Who are you?”
“Oh, who I am makes no difference to anyone. But if you insist. I am the pilgrim of the heart, I voyage throughout the world admiring its marvels, an idler preaching the blessings of uselessness. Abi Din was one of those marvels, one of those brilliantly elevated idlers.” With those words, the stranger turned to leave.
Nico caught him by an arm: “Sir, where is the old man who piled up stones on the beach ? I haven’t seen him.”
“Nor will you ever see him again. Gone too, and some say that he recited several passages from Saït Faïk’s Son Kuşlar on his dying breath. Have you read Saït Faïk?”
Overcome by all these converging threads of some hidden or latent fabric beyond his grasp or comprehension, Nico could only stutter: “Well … yes … in fact…”
The other interrupted: “Listen, if you want to pay respects towards Abi Din and Saït, you should buy his house. It’s not very expensive.”
“But you …” The unnamed pilgrim put up a hand.
“I have no possessions. That is my first life principle. I idle my way through countries, people and books like a phantom. You buy it, my friend. Buy it before either Time brings about its ruin or the Burgaz municipality its demolition. For now, there are no plans to do either. It’s a mystery why that quaint house has not caught the eye of some eager artist.” And he gave Nico a wink.
“Mystery?” A sudden bout of remorse paralysed Nico. Had his grandfather not spoken of a mystery on Burgaz?
“Yes, mystery! Isn’t that why you’ve returned?” With that last question left unanswered by a flummoxed Nico, the pilgrim strolled away along the beach, chanting some sea-faring tune.
When Nico came to his senses he literally jumped for joy. he would buy Abi Din’s house, settle on Burgaz and pursue his artistic life simply, wholeheartedly. He could become a resident of Turkey merely by depositing enough money in the Osmanlı Bankası[1]. The anonymous figure of the pilgrim had since vanished into a haze of blue. Nico ran up the winding path to Zorba’s home, where Zelda had been preparing lunch. Excitedly he explained his project. She thought it a smashing idea, and promised to help him with the paper work. They ate, had their coffee, and at two o’clock walked to the crossroads, hailed a carriage and rode to the Town Hall, a majestic, white-washed villa near the centre of town.
On the way, Nico asked Zelda whether or not she knew of a middle-aged man who walked about the island, idling his way here and there. Zelda giggled: “Oh yes, him. The Turks call him Mister başı boş[2]and the Greeks tempelis[3].”
“But he’s far from empty-headed,” remonstrated Nico.
“I’m sure he isn’t, that’s why I call him ‘aylak‘.”
“I don’t know the word.”
“Someone who idles about without any definite destination.” Nico nodded, puzzled none the less at these attributes of a person who seemed quite ‘full-headed’ to him …
The irksome formalities to purchase Abi Din’s house would fill a book. Suffice it to report that in two weeks the house belonged to Nico, once he had deposited enough money in the bank, and of course, bought the house in cash …
Although Nico now spent most of his time in his acquired house, he always ate lunch with Zelda at Zorba’s house, and sometimes dinner. It must be recorded here that Nico was better versed in writing stories than in culinary skills.
Every morning after breakfasting, Nico would roam the hilltops of Burgaz sauntering cheerfully along the dirt paths, jotting down in his little notebook details that caught his eye or thoughts that scudded across his mind. The island air intoxicated him as he conjured up characters and events for future stories or poems.
On Sundays, Nico would attend services at St John’s Greek cathedral, there mingling with the small community members who had taken a liking to this young man, calling him their ‘island writer’! He became a novelty for the islanders, who invited him dine or to read his creations. Meanwhile, several of Nico’s short stories and poems were being published in Athens by his editor and were read by the Greek community in Burgaz. Nico even attempted to write poems and stories in Turkish which Zelda not only corrected, but suggested a more fitting word or subtle syntax structure.
Once a month, Nico took the steamer to Heybeliada, or in Greek, Chalki[4], the third of the four Princess Islands where he was fortunate enough to consult the books at the library of the massive Greek Theological Centre, opened in 1844 for seminarists but closed by the Turkish authorities in 1971. Although prohibited, Nico’s reputation, which had spread to all the islands, allowed him to study at the library, the second largest religious library in the western world, several million tomes behind the Vatican’s. The young artist even managed to work two days a week there. How he managed that remains a mystery.
Once or twice a month, accompanied by Zelda, Nico would go to Büyükada (Big Island) called ‘Prinkipo’ in Greek because it is the largest island of the four, and stroll along a tarred road to contemplate the largest wooden building in Europe, a former Greek orphanage, built by the French in 1898. The Greeks bought it and children who had lost their parents were lodged here until its forced closing in 1964. This eerie-looking structure remained intact. Surrounded by high barb-wire fencing and guarded by savage dogs, no one could enter it. Every time Nico stood before this ominous edifice, he thought of his grandfather who had salvaged him from such a parentless fate. Perhaps, the children here were well taken care of…
One day as Nico sauntered along one of the myriad paths in the wooded hills of Burgaz he came face to face with the idling pilgrim. So delighted was Nico to meet this eccentric character that he began to pour out all the good news that had occurred to him since their last encounter many months ago. The other smiled kindly: “No need to repeat what many have already told me,” he stated indifferently. “Nothing on Burgaz goes unnoticed, especially novelties such as yourself. I wouldn’t want to puff up your pride, but some have considered you as a new Saït Faïk.”
Nico stared at the pilgrim disconcertedly. “I can assure you, my dear friend, that you have made quite a reputation for yourself on Burgaz. And who knows, you may be able to solve the mystery of which your grandfather so often spoke.” Baffled, Nico remained speechless. The other took his arm and they strolled together downwards into the sinking sun.
Nico could not contain his surprise: “How could you know about …”
“About Vasiliki’s mystery? Ah, that would entail hours of explanation, Nico. For now let us discuss your writings, for the intention behind those writings may have given you the key to unlock the mystery.”
The pilgrim paused sniffing the pine- and spruce-scented air. “You know, many writers have lost touch with reality, or have been completely overwhelmed by it. They seem incapable of telling a story, transmitting the joys and sorrows of their characters whose traits lie deep in their own hearts, imprisoned like birds in a cage, fluttering frantically, unable to express the Truth of what lies beneath the masks and costumes. Saït Faïk, Edgar Poe, Dino Buzzati[5], Guy de Maupassant[6], Somerset Maugham, Katherine Mansfield all drew their inspiration from fragments of a separate reality, the glints of a deflected flood of light, the shards of a broken vase to disclose the experiences of their characters, to bestow upon their readers the amalgamated emotions that flew freely from their hearts. Their stories and poems are not talk-of-the-day productions. They were derived from the unlocking of the cage, the flight outwards into the battlefield between joy and sorrow. You would think that their eyes were turned both inwards and outwards at the same time. There is something powerful, even sacred, if I may use that word, in their narrated experiences, which does not necessarily entail the use of I, nor does it insinuate a ‘message’ to be harnassed or brought into line by the opinionated or bigoted. The syntax rhythms and word combinations expose the élan or the coming and going between the inward and the outward regard … I discern in your regard that inward and outward alternating vision, the aura that enhaloes your stories and poems. But mind you, this is only an idler’s perception.”
“What do you mean by aura?” Nico, crimsoning under the weight of so many complex compliments, managed to ask, almost out of breath.
“The halo of tradition that all sincere writing bears,” came the succinct reply. “A poem or a short-story, as in your case, bears an aura familiar to the reader, yet whose tale and expression of this tale transports him or her to strange, unfamiliar places. This is especially noticeable in your Turkish writings, an uncanny concoction of familiarity and eeriness. Perhaps it’s due to Zelda’s mixed origins.”
Nico stopped in his tracks, a blank look on his face. “Yes, Zelda, who, when we cross paths, addresses me as the ‘aylak‘. Her father was a remarkable writer and professor of philosophy in Greece and in Turkey. She inherited much of his wisdom as well as her mother’s strong character.” Nico stood stunned by this revelation.
“Zelda is only …”
“Only what, my friend ? Zorba’s maid or servant ? Ah ! I see you haven’t delved deep enough into the hearts of those who are very close to you. I’ve noted, too, that you have never written one line or verse about your deceased grandfather.”
Nico, stung to the quick by the very truth of that remark, bowed his head. He felt a surging wave of shame, and on this billowing wave rode an undulating image of a squealing seal that he and his grandfather had admired on their fishing adventure — an image gradually over-shadowed by another, more fuzzy, the stiffening body of a seagull on a pebbly shore near the mouth of a cavern.
The mild voice of his companion brought back these troubling scenes: “When all is said and done you will surely open wider the cage and let fly the encaged birds towards brighter poetic heights. Heights that perhaps you have yet to imagine.” With those comforting but enigmatic words the pilgrim turned to leave. He halted and asked: “Tell me, have you been to Granada?”
“Granada, Spain? No I haven’t, why?”
“You look like someone I met there.” The idler disappeared downwards into the crimson glint of sunset.
Nico ran back to Zorba’s house, undecided whether to speak to Zelda about her family. He never dreamed of broaching the subject to her as she herself had never bought up.
When the young writer had lumbered up those mossy steps he found Zelda seated on an armchair in the corner of the dining room, a shadow of gloom etched on her face. Her eyes were red. Wordlessly, she handed him a letter. It was written in faulty Greek, addressed to Zelda from an associate of Zorba’s in New York. A moment later Nico looked at Zelda with deep compassion. Zorba had died of a heart attack. His body would be sent to Burgaz for burial, accompanied by several of his associates who intended to buy his house.
“What will happen to me?” were Zelda’s first strained words. “I refuse to live in the same house with strangers even if they are Zorba’s associates.”
“Have you any family, Zelda? Anywhere to go? Anyone to help you financially?” She nodded in the negative to all these questions.
Nico sat down beside her: “Listen Zelda, come live with me, it’s a bit cramped, but at least you will have a roof over your head, food on the table, and a good friend who will always be at your side.”
Zelda dried her eyes and stared at Nico in embarrassment.
“I’m old enough to be your mother,” she said faintly.
“Exactly!” responded Nico excitedly. “You shall be the mother I hardly ever knew, in the same way that the presence of Abi Din in his house has been the father I hardly ever knew. How my grandfather would rejoice at that family reunion, however surreal, if I may say so.” Zelda smiled.
And with that acquiescing smile the two orphaned destinies appeared to converge into one …
[1] The biggest bank of Turkey at the time of Nico’s arrival specializing in international transactions. (Ottoman Bank).
Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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