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.
For as long as I can remember, I have been an introvert — this is who I am and will always be. Yet, few believe it. I come from Madagascar, a distant island where the people are called the Malagasy — a community bound by culture, tradition, and a shared sense of identity. Malagasy people are known for their warmth and generosity, often revealing a talkative side as they delight in conversation, and playful exchanges. In contrast, I am reserved — a shy person who expresses myself freely only when comfortable and among those I trust.
As a child, I was the most talkative among my siblings, recounting every detail of my school day to my parents. I delighted in describing the funny expressions my primary school teacher made while explaining lessons, or the mischievous boys who always stuck their chewing gum on the pupils’ desks and all the tasks I had accomplished. I wanted my parents to know I was doing well, that the teacher praised me, and that I helped classmates who struggled.
Both my parents are very talkative, especially my father, from whom I inherited the gift of words. Speaking in front of my family comes naturally, yet in front of others, my words often falter — a fear that has always troubled me. I speak freely only with those I know well— my family and a few close friends.
Facing a large audience has always been daunting. My father encouraged me to confront this fear, to be confident, and to meet the audience’s gaze. I tried many times: presenting in group projects, speaking as a class representative, even addressing an audience at a classmate’s parent’s funeral.
As I grew older, my determination to overcome this fear grew. I devoured books and videos on public speaking, eager to communicate with confidence. My first real test came in 2018, when I delivered a speech in a Japanese language contest. I had loved Japanese language since childhood, captivated by its culture, and dreamed of becoming fluent. Entering the contest was a dream — an opportunity to speak publicly and a chance to win a trip to Japan.
I was guided by two close friends who practiced with me daily. They corrected my mistakes, offered feedback, and most importantly, encouraged me. Having known me for years, they understood how terrifying standing on stage could be, yet they supported me out of love, friendship, and belief in my potential.
During rehearsals, I gave my utmost effort, memorising the script when necessary. Still, doubts lingered about meeting expectations, conquering fears, and not disappointing those who believed in me. The days of practice passed quickly, and soon, the big day arrived. Nervous at first, I gradually became more at ease while speaking. I managed to control my anxiety but knew my performance was imperfect. I focused on each word, yet my mind occasionally went blank, struggling with the judges’ questions. Embarrassment washed over me; I feared I had let my friends and family down.
In the end, I did not win the first prize, but my closest friends congratulated me. They reminded me that the true milestone was stepping onto the stage, speaking in front of an audience, and maintaining composure. Their encouragement helped me realise that courage and effort mattered more than the outcome itself.
As an introvert, talking to strangers is challenging, let alone addressing a crowd. Hearing the words “public speaking” makes my stomach tighten, palms sweat, and heart race. Stage fright, fear of facing many people and sharing my thoughts has always been real. Each time my name is called, I shake, my mind blanks, heart pounds, mouth dries, and confidence seems to vanish before I start. Yet, I have never lost hope. Deep down, I knew a strength within me would help rise above fear and grow into a better version of myself.
One year later, I stood again in the same contest. This annual competition was a goal I refused to let go of. As before, my friends encouraged, pushed, and trained with me every day until the D-day. Their support gave me the strength to continue. I prepared even more fiercely — joining language clubs and volunteering in storytelling activities. But it was not easy. I never felt comfortable speaking or working with strangers. I was told teamwork required discussion, sharing, and collaboration — a nightmare for an introvert.
Solitude had been my ally, yet suddenly, I was surrounded by people of all ages and personalities. Cooperation was no longer optional. However, through this challenge, I discovered an important truth: whether introverted or extroverted, whether silent or talkative, we must learn to connect with others. Survival and growth depend on collaboration and support.
The big day of the speech contest arrived in May, a season of transition between summer and winter. I arrived at the hall just in time, accompanied by a close friend. A staff member guided me to my seat, only a few meters from the judges. I felt cheerful, and calm, even giving a fist bump to nearby contestants. For the first time, I felt truly ready to give a speech — optimistic, and at peace. Perhaps it was the preparation or my friends’ wholehearted support, or maybe I had begun to trust myself.
There were four contestants in the advanced level, and I was the last to speak. Each of us hoped to win the grand prize — a trip to Japan. I did not worry about the others. I believed in my success and was determined to win first place. Just days before, I even dreamed of visiting Japan, so nothing could stand in my way.
Finally, it was my turn. I adjusted the microphone, greeted in Japanese, and bowed to the judges and audience. I spoke for about five minutes on how Malagasy parents raise children. Three judges asked each two questions. Thanks to countless practice hours and mock questions and answers sessions with my best friends, I answered every tricky question. For the first time, right after my speech, I felt like a winner.
The event lasted about three hours, and the final verdict came. The Master of Ceremonies announced winners, starting with the beginner level, then the advanced. Among the four in my category, only two remained. The Master of Ceremonies paused dramatically before announcing the first-place winner… and pronounced my name. I whispered a silent thanks to God. This result — the goal I had worked so hard for — had become reality. The trip to Japan was the reward, and even more importantly, I had overcome stage fright. I spoke naturally and confidently in front of the audience — another milestone achieved.
Later that year, in 2019, I visited Japan for the first time. The experience was magical. I met wonderful people, explored my favorite country, and fulfilled a long-cherished dream.
Six years later, I returned to the Land of the Rising Sun—this time as an international student. I now live in Tokushima prefecture, which is in southeastern Japan, far from the bustling cities, in a quiet countryside where few tourists venture. Yet, the city and its neighbourhoods are simply wonderful. It is peaceful, surrounded by greenery, and while the locals may seem reserved, they are incredibly welcoming. Even with some grasp of the local language, adapting to a new country as a foreigner is challenging. Still, thanks to the support of my seniors and friends who have lived here for years, I managed to navigate my first six months successfully.
The city where I live hosts an annual Japanese speech contest open to foreigners who have been residing here for some time. I was encouraged to participate, partly because I could speak some Japanese, and partly because it was a great chance to gain experience. I thought, why not? After all, I gradually grew more comfortable speaking in front of others.
This time, participants could choose their own topics, though it was suggested to focus on their experience in Japan or explore cultural connections between their home country and Japan. I was eager to participate, but selecting a topic was harder than I expected. Inspiration felt scarce, and I had no clear direction. Still, I knew that finding my own perspective was key to making the speech meaningful.
Overwhelmed by my studies, I barely noticed the passage of time. Before I knew it, the deadline had arrived. I had not written a single word, though ideas swirled in my mind. I opened my laptop, took a deep breath, and began writing everything that came to my mind. Reflecting on my experiences in Japan, I realised that people often struggled to pronounce my name correctly. That inspired me to talk about the hidden culture behind Japanese and Malagasy names.
With my theme set, I focused on making my speech coherent and captivating. I tend to draw inspiration at the last minute. I wrote, rewrote, and proofread repeatedly, staying up all night without noticing morning approaching.
Finally, I finished my manuscript and emailed it to one of my Japanese teachers to check for grammatical errors. She responded immediately, and her quick proofreading allowed me to submit my speech on the deadline. I felt relieved, yet strangely nervous, a sensation I could not quite describe.
Six years have passed since I last spoke in front of an audience. Preparing another speech made me feel nostalgic, bringing back memories of long rehearsals, the advice of my best friends, and countless sleepless nights.
A month after submitting my manuscript, I received an email from the event organizer announcing my selection. I was among the fourteen candidates chosen to compete. I whispered a quiet “wow,” but doubts immediately surfaced. I had two months to prepare. To understand what awaited me, I watched recordings of previous competitions, while my seniors and Japanese teacher helped me refine my speech.
Four students were selected from my university. The other three were Asian students with extensive experience in Japanese language and culture. They read Kanji （Japanese characters）effortlessly and conversed naturally. And then, there was me. Though I had been exposed to Japanese language and culture since childhood, memorising every character reading and grasping dialects was never easy. Back in my country, despite growing interest in Japanese language and culture, opportunities to use it in daily life remain limited. Once again, I faced a new challenge—this time in the Land of the Rising Sun.
Time flew, and soon the two months of preparation had passed. Finally, the big day arrived. Early that morning, a kind university staff member greeted us with a bright smile. As I descended from my dormitory, I saw her waiting by her car near the main gate, bowing politely. Her excitement was palpable. Three of us rode in her car; she asked about our preparations and told jokes, perhaps to ease our nerves, which were all visible.
After twenty minutes, we arrived at a large building and walked up to the fifth floor through corridors decorated in traditional style. Japanese architecture and design have always fascinated me, and I was struck by their beauty once again. The event hall was medium-sized, with a small table at the entrance holding our name tags.
One by one, the other candidates arrived. We were then led to a smaller room for a preparatory meeting. While waiting, we chatted briefly to get to know one another. The competition began in the early afternoon. We were instructed to enter the hall one by one, greeted with warm applause. Observing the other candidates, I could tell they were ready. Fourteen contestants competed in total. Thirteen were Asians from countries including China, Vietnam, India, Indonesia, the Philippines, Taiwan, Sri Lanka, and Thailand. I was the only African, from a distant country few people knew. Before each speech, the Master of Ceremonies shared a brief anecdote about the candidate’s country, offering the audience a glimpse into its culture. Each contestant then delivered a five-minute speech.
There were two types of awards: the Golden Prize for first and second place, followed by four Silver Prizes. I had hoped to place among the top five while preparing my speech.
As I listened to the first three candidates, I was deeply impressed. Their speeches were powerful, emotional, and delivered with near-native fluency. I was surprised by how advanced and impressive their speaking skills were. I was the sixth speaker. Perhaps it had been so long since I last addressed an audience, or perhaps it was the absence of my closest friends but standing alone in a foreign country in front of strangers was overwhelming. My hands trembled. When my name was announced, I feared I might not endure those five minutes on stage.
Still, I stood before hundreds of people. I bowed, held the microphone firmly, and began. My heart raced and sweat ran down my face and back. Gradually, the pressure eased. When I shared the example of the longest name in the world—from my country, the audience reacted with surprise and amusement. I realised how attentive they were and regained inner calm. Although I forgot one line, I finished my speech smoothly and expressively.
The remaining eight candidates were equally impressive. Their eloquence was such that, with eyes closed, one might mistake them for native speakers. It was the highest-level contest I had ever participated in. Each theme and presentation were unique, and every contestant spoke with confidence. I doubted whether I would receive a prize, but reassured myself that even without one, the experience was worthwhile. Most participants had lived in Japan for over three years, and the Chinese and Taiwanese contestants were especially strong in oral expression. Yet, standing among such talented competitors was an honor.
After a break that was supposed to last twenty minutes but stretched to fifty, results were announced. They began with six Encouragement Prizes. I thought I might be among them, but my name was not called. Two more awards followed, still not mine. A friend nudged me, whispering, “Congratulations!” I replied, “Stop joking. Congratulations to you instead!”
Finally, the Silver Prizes were announced. They first called my country, then my name. The applause and cheers overwhelmed me, and tears welled in my eyes. I had not expected to win a Silver Prize, given the competition’s level. One friend from my university won the Golden Prize, and the second Golden Prize went to a Vietnamese contestant.
Participating in such a high-level competition was a tremendous challenge. Every step—from manuscript preparation to standing on stage—pushed me beyond my comfort zone. Yet, when it was over, I felt immense pride. I had once again delivered a speech before a large audience, this time in the country whose language I had cherished for years.
Though I had been nervous, the audience remained unaware. Their attentive expressions and warm applause carried me through. Afterwards, my Japanese teachers praised my performance, saying I had done exceptionally well. In that moment, I realised every hour of preparation, every doubt, and every fear had been worthwhile. I had faced a formidable challenge, stood my ground, and expressed myself fully, a reminder that courage, practice, and determination can transform daunting experiences into triumphs. It is a memory I will treasure forever.
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Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia is from Madagascar and is currently studying in Japan as a trainee student. She enjoys reading, writing, listening to music, and traveling to explore new cultures.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I grew up in a town where fish, shellfish, and seafood are abundant, so the specialty dishes are related to its topography. The location is humble, yet it boasts special delicacies such as noodles, porridge, tofu, duck eggs, and rice cakes. Many stores line the town’s main street, serving these types of morning and afternoon snacks that I was quite fond of. I particularly remember a store famous for its huge burgers with generous slices of cucumber, tomatoes, and onions on a tangy mayo-ketchup dressing — also popular for its all-day breakfast meals. Despite its marine resources, my hometown has no particular brand associated with it.
A Philippine-based fast-food chain was recently established in the area, and residents claim that development has now been put in place. Consumption is erroneously classified as development. A former English language student mistakenly believed that the Philippines was a wealthy nation because of the abundance of malls, only to realise later that poverty is widespread behind these malls. Consumption is peddled as a sign of progress.
This also happened during my university years when I had to take the elevated rail system to go to school. At the north end point of the train system stood a central grade school on a sprawling campus, which has now been transferred to a much smaller space but is still referred to as a central school. All central schools in our country are located on large campuses. Its original location is now part of a nationwide mall chain. Is going to the mall productive?
Years ago, my younger brother moved to the southernmost province of Luzon Island, which was our father’s hometown. In the past, I would spend holidays at my brother’s residence with some very close friends. The roads are well-paved, and in the city half an hour away, there are small commercial shops and a local fast-food chain unique to the area. The province is well-known for its “pili” nuts and handicrafts.
Pili nutsJewellery from pili nuts From Public Domain
According to my brother, the city’s landscape has drastically changed with the addition of a big mall chain and a Roman-inspired colosseum. My nephew recently informed me that the provincial projects mainly consist of community-based gymnasiums. “Progress” seems to be selective and does not necessarily foster a strong culture of creativity and productivity in each household.
In my current municipality, the main issue is the lack of social infrastructure to support entrepreneurship. The prevailing norm is consumption, whether physical or digital. Bureaucratic red tape makes business mechanisms inaccessible, discouraging newcomers from starting any kind of enterprise.
Perhaps another reason for this lack of visitors is the municipality’s location. Being the last town in the province, only residents and haulers typically come to the area. It is isolated from the main arterial road that traverses the entire province.
The town does not have a specific product to boast of, unlike other cities and municipalities known for their specialties like shoemaking, salted and duck eggs, fish sauce, specialty noodle dishes, and slippers made from water lilies.
The town’s main products are concrete and sand, extracted through continuous quarrying activities that are detrimental to both human health and the environment. Agricultural produce — such as bananas, mangoes, tomatoes, okra, and eggplants — is limited due to the town’s rocky terrain. During a visit to an upland village, I met a caretaker of a small property that was supposed to be organic, but I discovered during our conversation that it was merely a facade by a large mobile phone provider for its social enterprise project. Additionally, the population of native tilapia[1] is low due to murky waters caused by silt and mud. Despite having numerous hiking sites that also cater to consumerist interests, the municipality lacks a distinct specialty dish for people to enjoy and remember as part of its commercial offerings.
According to my sister-in-law’s brother, the main source of income for their island-province is remittances from Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) [2] .He also claims that the province is an ideal place to retire and spend money, boasting beaches, volcanic hot springs, coconut plantations, rice farms, nature resorts, and rivers. Despite having a root-crop based delicacy and an abundance of dried fish, the province lacks production or manufacturing facilities, with the exception of mining, which unfortunately led to one of the worst environmental disasters in the country’s history. As a result, consumption is the prevailing norm on the island. Isn’t it ironic that the ex-girlfriend of a close friend pursued a degree in BS Entrepreneurship but currently works as a Customer Engagement Manager at a global fast-food chain? She should have considered starting her own business, no matter how small. She is actually promoting a perpetual cycle of consumerism, rather than entrepreneurship.
Based on online sources[3], there are only ten small manufacturing firms in my current area, Montalban (Rodriguez), which covers a total land area of 172.65 km 2 (66.66 sq mi)[4]. This implies that a culture of production is not the town’s priority when it should have been the first step to economic and social progress, alongside environmental protection and sustainability.
In hindsight, society generally encourages individuals to consume the latest gadgets, trends, food, technology, shoes, fashion, apps, make-up, and hairstyles. We are therefore told to consume and discard in a never-ending cycle of consumption and waste. Creativity in building enterprise is relegated in favor of a consumerist culture. To move forward, communities must do the reverse, so wealth is neutralized. Not everyone has the business acumen to succeed. However, production must still exceed consumption.
One main reason for the failure of production to establish a strong foothold in our communities could be attributed to the lack of practical and relevant entrepreneurial courses that are accessible to everyone in terms of fees, range, and distance. These courses are not tailored to the specific needs of each locality, as businesses tend to be similar in one area, causing most enterprises to struggle to take off without offering anything unique to attract patrons. Creativity and productivity go hand in hand.
To create a more sustainable society, we need to move away from consumerism and focus on increasing production through manual, mechanical, automated, or digital means. A thriving community relies on its ability to expand and improve production capabilities.
Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specialises in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).
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Autumn Garden by Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890). From Public Domain
September heralds the start of year-end festivities around the world. It’s autumn in one part and spring in another – both seasons that herald change. While our planet celebrates changes, dichotomies, opposites and inclusively gazes with wonder at the endless universe in all its splendour, do we? Festivals are times of good cheer and fun with our loved ones. And yet, a large part of the world seems to be in disarray with manmade disasters wrought by our own species on its own home planet. Despite the sufferings experienced by victims of climate and war-related calamities, the majority will continue to observe rituals out of habit while subscribing to exclusivity and shun change in any form. Occasionally, there are those who break all rules to create a new norm.
One such group of people are the bauls or mendicants from Bengal. Aruna Chakravarti has shared an essay about these people who have created a syncretic lore with music and nature, defying the borders that divide humanity into exclusive groups. As if to complement this syncretic flow, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s piece on a human construct, literary clubs spanning different cultures spread over centuries – no less an area in which we find norms redefined for, the literary, often, are the harbingers of change.
Mandal, herself, has a brilliant translation featured in this issue. We have a review of her book, an interview with her, and an excerpt from the translation of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas. Written and first published in the Tagore family journal, Bharati, the narrative is an outstanding cultural bridge which even translates Bengali humour for an Anglophone readership. That Sen had a strictly secular perspective in the nineteenth century when blind devotion was often a norm is showcased in Mandal’s translation as well as the stupendous descriptions of the Himalayas that haunt with elegant simplicity.
Our fiction this month seems largely focussed on women’s stories from around the world. While Fiona Sinclair and Erin Jamieson reflect on mother-daughter relationships, Anandita Dey looks into a woman’s dilemma as she tries to adjust to the accepted norm of an ‘arranged’ marriage. Rashida Murphy explores deep rooted social biases that create issues faced by a woman with a light touch. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao brings in variety with a fable – a story that reflects human traits transcending gender disparity.
The September issue would not have been possible without contributions of words and photographs by many of you. Huge thanks to all of you, to the fabulous team and to Sohana Manzoor, whose art has become synonymous with our journal. And our heartfelt thanks to our wonderful readers, without who the effort of putting together this journal would be pointless. Thank you all.
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.
My name is Amina Salvador, 13 years old. I was born in the rural community of Santa Maria, Philippines. I want to share with you the events that prompted me to give testimony to the police. That day was the hardest day in my life. After it was done, two long months went by until my mother received the decision of the Prosecutor’s office, stating:
“A person here left unnamed raped me, while I was still a virgin. The charges against the perpetrator were two counts of rape of a minor by sexual assault and three counts of lascivious conduct.”
The course of my life changed abruptly when my mother Selina decided to leave for Dubai in search of work as a domestic worker. Before she left, she spoke to me with tears in her eyes, promising to give me a good future and proper home where I could have access to all the comforts of life, good internet access, and would be able to pursue my studies. She would also buy me new clothes and provide for adequate food so I would not starve.
My mother left me under the care of my father. He was 43 years old, a muscular and strong man. He worked as a painter for newly built church buildings. Initially, he started pampering me with fancy items, like trendy watches and expensive clothes. This might seem like he was an ideal father.
My mother is an attractive woman, rather plump, with a pleasant face. She had a difficult life. Her parents were poor and not able to give her an education. Now, she is 40 years old.
It was by accident that I found out that my mother ran away from my “father”, the man she had married. After daily beatings in the hands of her alcoholic and abusive husband, she had no choice than to go south where her parents lived.
With a small bag of clothes and photographs of the five young children she had left behind with her abusive husband, she returned to her hometown to start afresh. At the time when all this drama was unfolding, I was still not born.
I heard that I was conceived when my mother fell in love again with another man who promised her to love and protect her. I suppose that I came into life as the sweet fruit of that promise. It didn’t take long, however, for her to discover the true character of this man whom she saw as a savior from her former abusive husband. It turned out that her boyfriend was a womaniser and a very jealous person. He too was another wife-beater.
As a result, my mother ran away a second time, with a three-month-old baby growing inside her. Feeling she had nobody to turn to, she returned to the cruel husband she had left some months ago. In this way, my mother continued her old subservient life.
I was born in a dilapidated clinic in our town, and three months later I was baptized as Amina Salvador. I took my mother’s husband family name. Anselmo Salvador was the father I got to know while growing up, until my mother, black and blue from physical abuse and humiliation, fled once more. Sad to say she ran away once more to her previous lover boy, the jealous and cheater one. Are you confused by now?
I am too young to understand what was going on inside my mother’s head. All this time I just kept quiet and did not ask questions about adult matters. As a young girl, I just wanted to play with my friends, go to school, and be myself. I still considered myself a normal kid.
Dark clouds started to form a few days after my mother flew out to Dubai. As I told you before, my mother entrusted me to her live-in partner. As you remember, previously my mother had left her lover already pregnant with me. It turns out that Solomon, yes him, is my real father. That is what my mother thinks and I have no right to refute her own truth. I was only 7 years old when she and I took a long bus ride back to her old lover boy. She held my left hand tight when we reached Solomon’s house.
The fights between her and Anselmo, and her and Solomon left a lasting impression in my young mind, yet I could not understand the causes of all of this. I suppose I was just caught in the middle of some nasty adult fights, whether I liked it or not.
I remember exactly after I said goodbye to my mom at the airport, my papa started abusing me. I woke up once in the middle of the night feeling his hands sitting on me. I was crying almost every night. I didn’t tell anyone what was going on. I was too ashamed to talk to anyone. I felt dirty. I lost weight and became more reserved.
I tried to reach out to my mother, but my monster papa was controlling my cellphone and my Facebook account he had created himself. He interfered with the messages I tried to send out. I have no idea how on earth he did this.
My harrowing experience went on and on for several months until I finally got a chance to message my mother. I did not know what to say. I simply wrote, “Is it right for may papa to kiss me on my lips?”
Instinctively, my mother felt there was something completely wrong happening to me. She asked her sister, my aunt Lenny, to take me away from my papa’s house. Aunt Lenny took me to her house and stayed with me until my mother’s immediate return from Dubai.
I am in safe hands now, under the protection of my mom and aunty. My dad was arrested and is now in prison, currently applying for bail. Prior to his arrest, he posted sexually explicit materials about me and my mom on social media, exposing me and my mom to shame in front of our extended families and friends. He also tried to kidnap me at school before my mother could return from Dubai. He orchestrated a smear campaign against me to make me appear as a flirt and a lose girl. It was terrible.
I am relieved that he is in prison right now, although he is begging my mother to withdraw the charges against him in exchange for money, and all kinds of tricks to make us back down and settle out of court.
While I am happy to see the monster in prison, my mother has a different idea. She wants to protect me from the prying incursions of the court. She knows that my case may take a year or more to conclude. She keeps telling me that she just wants to me to move on with my life. She also plans to go back to Dubai to make some money so she can support me and the rest of my siblings from my other father. I tell her, “It’s up to you, mama.”
You see, I am traumatised like my mother, but I am trying to convince myself that what happened to me should not define who I am. I can’t be in a similar situation like my mother is. It is sad to say that while we are still busy with my legal case, she has met another man. At first, he appeared gentle and kind, but lately, I overheard him cursing my mother over money squabbles. So, what can I say. It’s her life.
I choose not to be broken by my story. I will fight the demons in my head. I know it won’t be easy. I will show my mother that there is another way to live, and it is to love myself.
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Gigi Baldovino Gosnell has degrees in Psychology and Education. She lectures in Psychology, worked in various NGOs, and the public service in the fields of women empowerment, land reform, social development and local government.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I remember feeling tense when I opened my very first email account with the help of the friendly staff at a British registered charity office where I was a member of the learning resource centre in Manila. I thought that it would open a floodgate of privacy issues, including surveillance and compromise. The world’s technological landscape was changing, and I had to adapt. I have always held onto the belief that while technology has immense benefits, it also has a lot of unbridled consequences, including insecurities, pride, selfishness, egoism, shame, and individual and religious superiority. A number of digital platforms have continuously increased and evolved in various iterations, from its email function to TikTok, Facebook, Messenger, Viber, vlogs, WhatsApp, YouTube channels, Pinterest, Blogspot, WordPress, LinkedIn, ZoomInfo, and Threads. The list seems endless.
I have a personal and professional Facebook account, as well as Messenger and Viber, because I find these platforms to be the most helpful to me. I have limited comprehension when it comes to understanding why young people feel the need to be on every digital platform. In my opinion, less is more. Being overexposed can be toxic in terms of seeking external validation and interaction. Not every thought needs to be published on social media. Why do you have to drag your friends and family and even strangers into your rollercoaster of emotions and shifting ideas about life’s journey all the time? While it is true that social media is a tool for self-expression, it is also equally true that it is a medium for self-destruction, as transparency can be both good and evil.
Take, for instance, the case of a woman in her mid-20s who is active on various social media platforms such as Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, Twitter, Pinterest, Blogspot, WordPress, TikTok and X (Twitter). She lost her parents at a young age and had to work as a household helper in the city. Eventually, she received a government scholarship and was able to continue her college studies. She shared on one of her social media accounts that it has become a sort of diary for her, in addition to her voice notes and physical journal. What is the reason for this repetition? Perhaps it is an issue of validation. When an individual delves into an onslaught of social media accounts, it implies proving one’s identity and self-esteem to the world. This can become a form of spiritual superiority, indicating that the person is self-absorbed. We are not the world.
The same holds true for partners who must keep up with their significant others’ social media accounts. The rat race is not just physical, but also digital. For instance, decisions about getting married early are often swayed by image quotes or social media discussions that push boyfriends to give in to these pressures, even if it’s not the right time for those who have only been working for less than two years and have not established a stable and relevant career. Saving for one’s wedding becomes the priority when it should be the other way around – saving for one’s personal and professional growth and development first. Why is there a need for comparison? As a result, emotional manipulation and threats are common. Career concerns are also plagued by the pressure to amass wealth by a certain age. The repetition of social media posts may be a way for individuals to acknowledge their own shortcomings.
In the context of a close friend, I have often wondered why, in most of his photos with me and our other friends, he rarely smiles. Yet, in his photos with his girlfriend, he has a big smile all the time. Is this a result of social media pressure, causing him to appear serious with friends while showcasing happiness in his relationship? On the contrary, I believe that his consistent seriousness may be a reflection of both his and his partner’s insecurities and jealousy.
For years, I have developed a close bond with a friend who was orphaned at a young age. Our main forms of communication are face-to-face and online. However, a year ago, he unexpectedly unfriended me on Facebook. I suspect that this decision may be related to the social media pressure he faces regarding his relationship. Despite this, we still communicate and share stories on Viber and meet face to face, although not as frequently as before. I understand that his job at a global fast food chain keeps him busy, but the pressure from social media can be overwhelming as it becomes a cycle of repetition.
In a way, social media serves as an escape, so repetition is necessary to cope with both material and non-material stressors. To some extent, this coping mechanism may be healthy, but most of the time, it becomes detrimental to a person’s well-being. Being overly repetitive on social media always comes at a cost.
Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specialises in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Nazrul’s Tumi Shundor Tai Cheye Thaki(Because you are so beautiful, I keep looking at you) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
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In Conversation with Sanjay Kumar, the founder of Pandies, a socially responsible theatre group
Some members of Pandies, with Sanjay Kumar sitting in the right hand corner.
Festivals often involve pageantry where people connect, reach out and have fun through performances. These can range from high class shows in halls to entertaining performances in street corners, individual buskers or theatricals at home. Brecht (1898-1956), often taught in universities, popularised socially responsible epic theatre. Epic theatre connects the players, imbued with welfarism and a sense of social responsibility, to educate the audience, subsequently encouraged to question and move towards altering their present reality to a more egalitarian one. Add to this students who look for more than just academic growth in universities and a young dynamic professor in the 1980s, and the end result is a volunteered ‘institution’ that has blossomed over three decades into a strangely named group – Pandies.
Sanjay Kumar
Founded in 1987 by Sanjay Kumar, an academic from Delhi University with residencies in Italy and the United States for the welfare of exploited children, the group evolved into a major voice trying to reach out to all strata of society. Kumar evolved a form of theatre to channelise the energy of students towards creating an awareness for the need to grow by helping the less fortunate. He tells us by the way of introduction: “We have been working with twenty slums or bastis in Delhi, have had interactions with a hundred schools and about twenty-five colleges. A minimum of hundred presentations are held each year. The major issue till 2000 was gender-sensitisation. Each year, pandies’ latches on to a different theme. After performing in the proscenium theatre, it takes adaptations of the same to diverse places. The group also works on issues related to environment. The adaptable, flexible, bilingual (at times multi-lingual) scripts are totally ours. The group is constantly exploring, searching for better modes to get its meaning across. Songs, dances, choreographed sequences are all a part of its repertoire. One of the most successful modes is an extremely interactive discussion at the end where the activist even narrates relevant anecdotes to get its audience to talk. The group has evolved a mega network in and around Delhi consisting of women, HIV activists, environmentalists, school and college teachers and students, progressive women from various communities including slums, victims of rape, attempted murder.” His work has reached across to multiple countries, universities (including Harvard) and has found credence among number of hearts across the East and the West.
The most impressive performance I saw was online with young refugees from Afghanistan and migrant workers in slums. They have worked with Non-Governmental Organisations (NGOs) that work with children, sex workers and women, thus educating and learning from them and exposing them to our, more secure world where the maximum need a young student has, is to score well to get into the right university and for their family and friends to travel, to have freedom of speech and better lives. Perhaps, the best way to comprehend this kind of drama is to let Sanjay Kumar take over and introduce the work they are doing, bridging gaps at multiple levels.
Tell us about the inception of pandies’. How old is the group?
The incipience of the group goes back to college really to the year 1987 when we did the first play from Hansraj (a college under Delhi University), though we registered later in 1993, as we broke away. As I got free from MPhil, I decided to start theatre in the college in a way that steers it clear of the festival circuit of doing 25-30 minutes plays and winning small cash awards at various college fests. The College Drama Society was revived in 1987 and under that banner we did six plays, one each a year on the trot: Lorca’s Blood Wedding (1933), Ngugi’s The Trial of DedanKimathi (1974), Strindberg’s The Dream Play (1901), Vicente Lenero’s The Bricklayers(1976), Genet’s The Balcony (1957)and Brecht’s TheCaucasian Chalk Circle (1944). Each was a full-length play of at least 100 minutes.
We were doing plays at a semiprofessional level, all having a run of five to seven days in Delhi’s leading theatre halls. The bookings were being done in the name of the college but from the beginning no money was put forth by the college. The funding was collected by the students from small donations. The group was getting too big for the college. There was a constant targeting from many in the administration and the faculty, accusations of the openly sexual content of the plays, of the insubordinate behaviour of the students, of classes being bunked. And then as the group evolved, there were many students who had graduated but still wanted to be there and as the reputation grew with the choice of plays and quality of production (contemporary reviews read us at par with professional groups), many students from other colleges wanted to join us. Things came to a head with the college administration in 1993. We had already booked at the auditorium in the name of the college and were rehearsing for Macbeth. We decided to launch our own group (the work normally took about six months) and in two months we registered and collected money enough to go under the new banner — Pandies’ theatre. The relationship with structures of the university remains tricky, there are those among the younger teachers and of course students who love us but the old and orthodox are still a bit wary.
Was this theatre started for the needs of the students/ teachers or to create an interest in academic curriculum?
Yes, at that time the syllabus had a totally first world bias (the bias is still there but less), to get in plays that speak to us. They may be first world, but they critique our oppressor — Brecht, Rame, Genet.
What was the gel that bound the group together ? Was it used to satisfy the needs of the students, teachers or society. Can you elaborate?
The first thing was the love of theatre. It’s like a bug, and the heady thing about a collectivism trying its own thing, charting paths not done in college before. And then the activism took over and went way beyond the love. We started pandies’ with a view that our world is not the way we want it. We wanted to make it better for more people. Even the plays from 1987 to 1993 were exploring non-canonical theatre.
The first point of attack was the huge gender bias. We felt we were living in a misogynist, rape friendly society. Series of proscenium plays attacked that. We tied up with the feminist NGO, Shakti Shalini. Our ties go back to 1996, with LGBT movements and women’s movements. Veils had more than hundred shows, theatres, colleges, schools and markets and slums and villages. We were asking for change in rape laws in the country. She’s MAD took stories from women’s organisations about laws of mental illness being consistently used against women to label them mad to take away their property rights, custody of children and provide a veneer over patriarchal violence. Again a play that sought legislative reform was Danger Zones. It explores what happens when you are lesbian and do not have a big wallet or parents to save you — forced marriages, sale into prostitution.
Equally important, in fact more so in later years has been the attack on religious bigotry. Gujarat was a breaking point. We had years of series workshops with impoverished youth in slums exposing the rhetoric of bigotry. We start with the Sikh pogrom of ’85 and go on to dissent against what our society has evolved to under a right wing dispensation, the religious supremacism of our world.
When you work with young boys, drug peddlers and sex workers, aged eight to fourteen, you return home a wreck and in need of therapy. But if you keep that fire alive inside you, you know how to take on the oppressors.
It is about a naked politics. We seek to rouse people from slumber, awaken a critical understanding of the world we live, of the forces that govern us — patriarchy, capitalism and, the tying factor of all oppression — religion.
The need was and remains the need of our times and our ethos.
How did the name evolve? And your group evolve?
It goes back to 1993 and is fully in keeping the with ‘play’ aspect of the group which likes to play with politics with its audience. It emerged from collective decisioning that has been the hallmark of pandies’ functioning. The name is a take ‘off’, ‘away’ from Mangal Pandey and the revolt of 1857. Actually, from the inability of the British to get Indian pronunciations correct. Pandey became Pandy, a hated expletive for the British commanders and continued in their letters even 50 years after the suppression of the revolt. ‘Pandy’ was one who was a part of the British structure, in their employ (Jhansi’s soldiers were not Pandies for instance), earned from them and rose against them. The hatred conveyed by the word was many times higher than in the simple expletives of traitor or the Hindustani ‘gaddaar.’ While it has a historical solidity, it also has a playful aspect just beneath, for many of the young in the group it was also deliciously close to panties and pondies (slang for pornographic literature), the sexual aspects for which the group was falsely castigated while in college, and what we loved to grin and laugh at.
We broke away in 1993, four teachers and about thirty students. Starting as a proscenium English group with an activist leaning in 1993, by 1996 we had turned totally activist. Starting with about thirty-five members (still the core for each project), the group soon acquired more than hundred members (today it has more than that, people go away and many return, even after a decade or fifteen years, to do that “better thing”). A strong presence of young, motivated women gave the group a feminist essence. And seeking overtly to make our ethos better, the group stressed a Left Feminist Atheist core as the law of its work from the very beginning. Activism, simply the overt statement that we are not okay with our world the way it is and seek a systemic change and are willing to do our bit as theatre enthusiasts for it.
Our three primary areas of work are : a. Proscenium: The plays are always activist and many of our own scripts and many adapted, some activist plays (Brecht, Rame and other activist scripts including agit prop) in the original; b. Theatre outside proscenium: What is usually called street theatre, nukkad natak, guerrilla theatre, the group has done actually thousands of performances and c. Workshop theatre: Where activist facilitators create plays with communities, staying with them or visiting them regularly — razor’s edge work has been done with young boy sex workers picked from platforms and housed in shelters, in the cannibalised village of Nithari, in women’s shelters, with refugees and in Kashmir. The process consists of getting ‘stories’ from the margins and creating theatre from them, performed usually by the community members, and at times along with Pandies.
Were you influenced by any theatre/art forms/writers or any external events to evolve your own form?
From the international activist tradition Brecht has been the most solid influence, his mode of showing what is obvious but we refuse to see it. Boal, Franca Rame, Dario Fo. The entire traditions of left swinging realism and alienation. In our own traditions the influence is more subtle, Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA) itself and Janam (a more contemporary people’s theatre group). We also borrow from the political and popular traditions of the subcontinent — Dastaan Goi, Jatra, Tamasha and Nautanki to name a few.
What impacts us most is the politics. Theatre is about critique, it’s about my ability to say ‘no’ and my desire to ask ‘why.’ We look back through history, history that tells us nothing can be permanent, that is record of those who stood and fought tyranny and authoritarianism. Gujarat 2002 was difficult and so was Babri Masjid but so was the emergency of 70s and never forget the anti-Sikh pogrom of the mid 80s at the heart of the country where I live.
Yes, and what is happening today, here and all over the globe cries for activist intervention.
What were the kind of content you started with? I heard you even adopted out of Aruna Chakravarti’s novel (Alo’s World?) to make a play. So, what was the content of your plays? Were you scripting your own lines?
We started with adaptations of plays with explicitly activist content which could be made more activist and imposed on our reality. Ibsen’s Ghosts, inspirations from Simon de Beauvoir, Doris Lessing. And post-1996, we were creating more and more from our own scripts, often containing multiple plays tied with thematic thrusts. And again, in times of repression one reverts to adaptations, of those who stood up to the challenge of their times, specially at the doors of gender, religion and class (the three themes of Pandies).
What we did for Aruna was akin to what we have done for other friends of Pandies, fiction writers, create small dramatic enactments based on parts their novels/short stories to go along with the launch and publicity of their works.
Have you moved away from your earlier models? What is your new model?
From proscenium to (while retaining proscenium) community theatre to (while retaining proscenium and community) workshop theatre that was the trajectory of Pandies before the pandemic struck our world.
The pandemic thrust us into a new model of cyber theatre. The group meets every Sunday but with Covid and the lockdown, we all went hibernating for a few months, awestruck by what struck us.
And then we started meeting online. It was amazing, we were able to connect with members in US, in Philippines, in UK and in different parts of India. There was the frigidity of the online mode but the ability to converse with so many people in their respective bubbles was just great. We met every Sunday. And started with storytelling for each other. With around thirty people that process took some Sundays. And then we started thinking of doing online plays using zoom. These were live online, no recording and each ending with a question-and-answer session with our audiences.
What was happening around us, the pandemic, and the equally deadly forays of our right-wing rulers made us look for avante garde activist plays from the past. We turned deliberately to the American tradition (important to let it be known that even the most decadent capitalist center has a solid activist theatre tradition) and did one agit prop and one proto-feminist play. Subterfuge was important and it was also important to say that even in the darkest of hours people have stood up to tyranny and fascism. Clifford Odets’ Till the Day I Die (1935), an anti-Nazi play of the agit prop tradition is aimed as much at Hitler as at McCarthy and relevant against all fascist governments. Broadcast simultaneously on Zoom and Facebook, the play got over 7000 hits. Sophie Treadwell’s Machinal (1928) was the second, a proto feminist play it raised issues of mainstream violence and suppression of ‘other’ voices. We were making quite an impact. Our audience was not confined to people from one city but spread internationally as friends all over the world who had wanted to see our plays (we have travelled and performed abroad twice, once in Manchester with an anti-fascist play — Cleansing in 2002 and in New York in 2012 with Offtrack, based on the lives of young boys ‘rescued’ from platforms in India).
We decided to connect with communities that we work with at least in and around Delhi through zoom. And we discovered the horrors for ourselves. While the rich had actually been ‘worried’ over the lockdown, the poor had taken an unfathomable hit. The incidence of domestic violence was at a peak (lockdown, problems getting ‘booze’, little help from cops and NGOs). Our young friends — now in late 20s, with whom we had been performing since 2006 since the Nithari (slum outside Delhi) pogrom had been thrown out of their meagre jobs, belonging to families of migrant labour — had seen it all and refugees from Afghanistan — in a bad state anyways — were really hit. And they were all artists, performers and storytellers par excellence. So, we decided on a storytelling festival where people from these sectors would narrate their stories in the same cyber format. And we asked our audience to put in some money and that was entirely distributed among the participants. The stories that emerged, personal and fiction derived from personal, were simple exhilarating.
What and how many languages do you use and how do you bridge linguistic gaps?
Language is highly political. We set out as an English group but with Macbeth itself some crucial scenes were being rendered in Hindustani (the opening scene and the porter scene). By 1996, as the group was going totally activist, a multi-language form had evolved. We were still keeping a section of English in the proscenium (had to be translated or made easier in the slums and villages shows) but sections of Hindustani and diverse languages of North India are being introduced. A recent example is an adaptation of Manto’s(1912-1955) stories and writings (Saadat Hasan Manto: Pagaleyan da Sardar), about 60 percent in Punjabi and 40 in English with no other language used (Punglish). We do a lot of translation work, including at times on the spot.
Who does your scripting? How do your scripts evolve?
The original scripts are a collective, collated exercise and emerge after months of workshopping on an issue within the group. Most of the Scripts are written by me or my colleagues from Delhi University, Anuradha Marwah and Anand Prakash.
Who are your crew members and how many team members do you have? How many did you start with?
The total number is above 100. Many leave for a while and return from careers and families. It is strictly volunteer group. The group has tried variously models and the one that works and keeps it activist intent intact is the one where we do not pay ourselves for our time. A project involves a total of about thirty people.
What was the reaction of your colleagues when you started Pandies? Did it find acceptance/ support did you receive from among your colleagues, the academics, and the media?
I would like to add that the reactions from colleagues and academia have been interesting and mixed. Pandies is the first and possibly the only story, of a group tracing its origins in college society theatre and move on without a break to establish not just a national but an international reputation. Even as the model evolved from proscenium alone to in-your-face activism, from seeking and getting funding to putting in your own money and/or collecting it from the audience but never compromising on the political content of what you do. It makes people uncomfortable, especially in the early years, say the first decade — “is this theatre at all?” Today it is seen a story, as an experiment that worked — the sheer survival of the group from 1987 to 2021 and beyond creates a space for admiration. Students spread across this university, over other universities in India and abroad have been the most ardent support system.
The media has been supportive, quite a bit actually. Over the years, the Pandies’ fan club has extended there too. We got some adverse reviews to begin with but more from those from the academia, who were writing in papers and journals, who had problems of simply — I cannot see activist success stories from the university itself.
What has been the impact on the people who are part of the Pandies? What has been the impact on the audience?
When you do political theatre the impact is on all sides of the spectrum. And the best place to measure the success is your own side. The empathy, the killing guilt and the desire to do more manifest in the group members, especially after series of tough workshop theatre evidences the impact.
I saw your play in an on online forum. What exactly made you move towards what you called cyber theatre?
Basically, the pandemic. But it has been a good experience, sheerly in terms of reach and numbers (the first play had 7000+ hits though we never got near that again, also we were ticketing plays after the first). We always crib about the reach of market theatre and how activist theatre falls by the side. The cyber medium actually gives an international access to live theatre. Think the potential is huge.
How would others access these plays?
Amazingly the reach of the smart phone is huge. When we worked with communities, we did send out signals to make available smart phones for our performers and their local audience but discovered that not much was required. The internet does at times pose problems, even for us, there are technical glitches at times but then we have glitches everywhere. And technology, as young techie at Pandies told me, is to be used and not feared. If the audience can suspend disbelief in theatre, what’s a glitch or two on screen.
The potential far outweighs the hurdles.
You had interesting pieces (or rather pieces) evolving out of slums and migrant workers. You had an interesting take on why slums develop. Can you tell us?
The ignored margins of our world. Metropolitan cities, and I speak of Delhi — my abode specifically, attract people from all over. The prospects are great, and it is not untrue, as we have seen in our experiences of performing in so many slums and more importantly creating theatre with those who live there, that life is actually better for most. They earn more, eat better and find better school and health facilities. The trajectory is both simple and awful, many villages around Delhi become abodes for migrants, first on rent and then ownership. These margins are also the blot for the rich and famous who live around there in big bungalows and condominiums. They berate the residents for being thieves and drug peddlers and use them for a supply of menial help, maids, drivers, and the same kind of drugs. Working with them and creating theatre one realises that the grievances from the other side are worse — of exploitations, profiling and being treated worse than animals.
What was the impact of this piece on migrant workers and the theatre you had with Afghan refugees among your audience? Who are the people that constitute your audience? How do they respond to these plays? Do you have collaborations with more universities or theatre groups?
In the preceding decades Pandies has performed in practical every college in Delhi University besides performing in universities all over including IITs (Indian Institute of Technology), TISS (Tata Institute of Social Sciences), Jammu, Bangalore and colleges of Rajasthan and Jharkhand. The tie-ups and collaborations are specific project related. Pandies has over the years been very zealous of guarding its artistic and political independence and anything that seeks to compromise that even slightly is not welcome. We have long lasting collaborations with organisations that work in areas we are in — Shakti Shalini (NGO Women’s group), or Saksham in Nithari (NGO running schools for children).
Can you tell us its reach — universities, theatre halls, small screen? How far have you been able to stretch out in thirty years? Tell us about the growth.
Bourgeois theatre rules the world. It’s connected and money generates more money. pandies’ endeavour has been to connect not just at the university levels, not just at national levels but at international levels, evolve collectives that deal with exploitation and oppression at diverse levels.
We perform and do workshops. The group’s reach has been wide. Going on a narrower, sharper course over the last decade to be able to work with the severely marginalised, those who don’t even come on the space of development of the downtrodden.
The nature of our theatre enables us to connect with the underserved and more than 80 percent of the work does not come on the page of the dominant middle class. Performances and presentations all over the country and many abroad use the pandies’ template, Syrian refugees in Greece (2018), Gypsy communities of Ireland (2013), communities in NYC (2012) and nooks and corners of our own country including the Muslim valley of Kashmir where angels fear to tread.
What are your future plans?
As the world opens up, all varieties of work have started again. Workshops with our underserved margins and a full-length proscenium production are both long overdue.
At the same time the cyber experience has taught us the importance of reach, that those who go physically away don’t have to opt out of working for the group.
So yes, we seek a malleable form, a hybrid that combines stage theatre with all its power and is available online live, and the online form too will merge together to the performance which will be more far reaching and accessible. Given the group’s depth we will get there and soon.
Thank you.
(This is an online interview conducted by Mitali Chakravarty.)
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Borderless 