Categories
Stories

Evergreen

By Sayan Sarkar

For 30 years, Mr. Roy had been a professor of mathematics at a university in Kolkata.

At 65, he had grown tired of the fast-paced and boisterous city life. He never married and had no close relatives in the city. Therefore, he never had any attachments to the city.

A few months before his retirement, he had heard of an old British-era bungalow in a village in the district of Bankura.

Mr. Roy visited the location and immediately fell in love with the place. The two-storeyed bungalow stood near the outskirts of the village, very close to the forest. The other houses in the village were a little further away, and it took around 10 minutes to reach the nearest house on foot. A peepul and a banyan tree flanked the back portion of the bungalow, behind which lay a large pond. The forest began from the other end of the pond. Numerous rows of teak, sal, mahua, and arjun trees stood almost shoulder to shoulder, creating a pleasant view for the human eye.

After inspecting the bungalow and speaking with the owner, Mr. Roy finalised the deal and completed the associated formalities promptly. He decided to employ the existing caretaker as his daily help. The caretaker lived just 15 minutes from the bungalow with his family.

Mr. Roy had already sent some of his belongings to the bungalow before his retirement, and on the 15th of April, he moved permanently to this place with the rest of his items. The date was significant – 15th April was the Bengali New Year, or Poila Baisakh. Mr. Roy had specifically chosen the beginning of the new year to start this new phase in his life.

Upon his arrival on the 15th, he found a small crowd in front of his bungalow. Many of the locals had come to welcome him to their village. He invited all of them into the bungalow and spent a considerable amount of time interacting with them. The crowd thinned around noon until only the caretaker was left. His name was Samir, a man in his mid-40s.

“Samir, please give me something to eat. I am famished,” Mr. Roy said, getting ready for his bath.

“Yes, Dada! I will prepare your lunch within half an hour,” Samir replied, heading towards the kitchen.

After a long and refreshing bath, Mr. Roy got dressed and approached his bedroom window to look outside. He found that the banyan and peepul trees were quite close to his window and obstructed most of the view. Some of the branches almost touched the window as if trying to claw their way into the house. He saw a lot of birds on the trees, chirping and hopping from branch to brancch. As he looked down, he suddenly noticed a young boy of around 10. The little boy was sitting on a branch of the banyan tree and munching on an apple.

“Hey! What are you doing there? You’ll get hurt if you fall!” Mr. Roy shouted with a look of apprehension.

The boy looked up and saw Mr. Roy’s worried face. He smiled from ear to ear in response and jumped down from the branch like a trapeze artist.

“Don’t worry, Kaku[1]! I have a habit of climbing this tree,” he said with a mischievous smile and disappeared around the corner.

Hearing Mr. Roy’s shouts, Samir came up from the kitchen, just in time to see the little boy run away.

“That’s my son, Sukumar! He’s a very mischievous boy, Dada[2]! He runs around the village all day after returning from school. He climbs trees like a monkey. This spot is his favourite. He must climb the banyan tree at least once every day,” Samir confessed.

“I see,” replied Mr. Roy. “But don’t you think these trees are a little too close to the window? This is the only room in the house facing the forest, but I can’t see anything because of these two trees. And here I was thinking of sitting in front of this window and enjoying a view of the forest.”

“Yes, Dada! These trees are quite close to the house. You can even consider them to be a part of the house. It’s said that they are more than a hundred years old!” Samir informed Mr. Roy.

“Hmm. I see!” he remarked.

The next morning, Mr. Roy went out to explore the village after breakfast. He returned around noon, huffing and puffing in the summer heat. After his bath, he called Samir to his bedroom.

“Samir, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, his eyes fixed on the trees outside.
“You see, I’d been thinking about those trees since yesterday. You must admit that the view of the forest beyond the pond is breathtaking. But those damned trees are in the way! I can’t see anything at all! So, I’ve decided to get rid of them.

“Usually, I’m against the felling of trees, but I must make an exception this time. I talked to a woodcutter in the village bazaar today. He agreed to do the job for me. However, he already had some assignments for the next three days, so he’ll be coming on Sunday.”

Samir stood aghast. He couldn’t believe his ears.

Dada…you wish to cut down the trees? But they’re a part of this house! They’ve been here long before I came to this house. You can simply cut some of the branches to give you a better view. You don’t need to cut down the entire trees!” he said, visibly emotional.

Mr. Roy stared at Samir for a few seconds before giving his reply.

“I’d thought about pruning the trees as well. But that wouldn’t solve the problem. The branches would grow back over time, and I’d have to continue pruning them every now and then. It’s better to just be done with them entirely. Besides, this village has an abundance of trees all around. It won’t cause anyone harm if I cut just two. No, no. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Okay, Dada… As you wish!” Samir turned away dejectedly.

“Samir,” Mr. Roy called him back, his tone much softer than before.

“I know you love the trees, and your son loves them too. I’ll build him a playground where he can enjoy himself.”

Samir nodded slowly and headed down towards the kitchen.

Mr. Roy felt a pang of guilt in his heart, but his desire to enjoy the view from his bedroom far outweighed his feeling of guilt. As he walked towards the window, he found Sukumar playing among the branches of the trees like the day before.

They’ll feel bad now. But time will heal everything eventually, he thought to himself.

*

Samir was a little late arriving the next day.

“What happened? Is everything all right?” enquired Mr. Roy, a little upset as well as worried.

“Sukumar is not well, Dada. He went swimming in the pond yesterday and caught a terrible cold. He’s had a fever since last night and couldn’t sleep a wink. I was finally able to put him to sleep in the morning. I’m sorry for being late,” Samir explained. His face looked worn out.

“Poor boy! If you need medicines, you can come to me, you know. I’ve been practicing homeopathy for quite some time,” Mr. Roy responded.

Samir nodded his head.

“You can go home early today after preparing dinner,” Mr. Roy added after a little pause. “Your son’s health comes first!”

“Thank you, Dada!” Samir said gratefully.

He took his leave around 5 PM, two hours before his usual time.

Mr. Roy read a book until nine o’clock, had his dinner, and then went to sleep.
He kept his bedroom window open for better air circulation. The weather outside was oppressively hot and humid. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, with no hint of a breeze whatsoever.

*

Mr. Roy was woken up by the chirping of the birds outside his window at the crack of dawn. As he gathered his senses and sat up in bed, he received quite a shock – the entire bedroom floor was strewn with dead leaves of peepul and banyan. They had reached as far as the door, which was quite some distance from the open window.

But how’s this possible? There wasn’t the slightest breeze last night! Even if there was a breeze late at night, how have the leaves fallen only on the floor and not on my bed? Mr. Roy thought to himself.

He couldn’t make head or tail of the situation.

The thing that worried him the most was the fact that all the leaves were withered and dead. Not a single fresh leaf was in sight! He collected the leaves and threw them out the window before Samir arrived, not wanting him to know about this incident.

When Samir came to work, he tried to act normally. He learnt that Sukumar was better, but still very weak. His mother was taking care of him that day.

The day passed quite uneventfully. Mr. Roy went out for a stroll through the village and returned before lunch. He took a nap in the afternoon and spent the evening reading. By the time Samir left at eight o’clock, he had finished his dinner and was sitting in front of his bedroom window smoking a cigar. As he gazed outside, the silhouette of the trees was the only thing visible to him.

The night was quite hot, and there was still no sign of a breeze. His mind wandered to the incident of the morning, and he tried in vain to find a logical explanation to satisfy himself. He decided to close the window that night to be on the safe side.

At 10 PM, Mr. Roy locked the window, double-checked it, and went to bed. As he dozed off, he silently hoped everything would be all right the next morning.

*

But alas! He woke up to a similar scene the next morning. Dead leaves were strewn across the floor. That day, he even found some leaves on his bed and his body. He jumped up to the window and found it locked—just as he’d left it the night before. His face turned pale, and he felt a chill run down his spine. As he opened the window, his eyes fell on the two trees staring back at him ominously.

Are the trees sending me a message and warning me against cutting them? But how’s that possible? Am I really supposed to believe that some tree spirits are trying to threaten me? That’s simply absurd!

Mr. Roy tried to strengthen his mind. It was Friday, and the woodcutter would be arriving on Sunday to do his job. He just had to endure two more nights. He decided that he would ask Samir to stay with him for the remaining two nights.

Happy with the resolution, he then proceeded to pick up the leaves and dump them out the window.

When Samir arrived, Mr. Roy learned that his son was much better. Relieved, he asked Samir to stay with him for the next two nights, citing that he wasn’t feeling well and might need assistance at night. Samir agreed and took his leave after lunch to inform his family of his overnight stay.

Mr. Roy took a little nap in the afternoon and read the paper till evening. There was a forecast of a thunderstorm at night—what the locals called Kalbaisakhi, or what is referred to as a Nor’wester.

Samir returned around 6 PM and prepared some tea for both of them. He sat on the floor of his master’s bedroom and sipped tea, chatting with him about various topics.

Mr. Roy felt his confidence returning in the presence of another human being.

After dinner, Samir made his bed on the floor and waited for his master to go to bed. Mr. Roy instructed him to close the window just in case it started raining after they fell asleep.
They conversed a little before eventually drifting off.

Mr. Roy’s sleep was disturbed by a series of shrill noises. As he woke up with a start, he found the room engulfed in pitch-black darkness. He heard the rain pattering against the closed window. A storm was brewing outside. The fan had stopped moving.

There was a power cut.

But all this was quite normal. The only abnormal thing in this atmosphere was the continuous chirping of birds outside his window! It felt as if dozens of birds were pressed against the window, chirping incessantly.

Mr. Roy had never had such an experience before. The avian cacophony created a haunting ambience.

“Samir! Samir! Wake up!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

Samir jolted up in his bed.

Dada? What’s wrong?” he asked, unable to grasp the situation.

“Birds! Why are so many birds chirping outside my window?” Mr. Roy panicked.

Samir rubbed his eyes in confusion. “Birds? Where? I can’t hear anything!” he said after processing everything around him.

“What do you mean you can’t hear anything? There are dozens of birds chirping outside! Have you gone deaf?!” Mr. Roy responded, his voice shaking with fear.

Dada, are you alright? I can’t hear any birds at all. The only things I hear are the sound of the rain and the whistling of the wind. Maybe you are mistaking the wind for birds,” Samir tried to explain, visibly confused at the delirium of his master.

“Impossible! That’s not the wind! That’s the sound of birds! I can’t stand it anymore!” Mr. Roy desperately put both hands against his ears.

“It’s those damned trees! They won’t leave me alone!” he shouted like a madman.

Dada! Calm down, I’m here with you. Nothing will happen.” Samir got up from his bed and approached his master.

But by this time, Mr. Roy had fallen silent. He had fainted.

*

When he finally opened his eyes, it was morning.

“Thank God you’re awake! How do you feel now?” enquired Samir with a worried expression.

“What happened? Did I pass out?” Mr. Roy blurted out, still quite confused.

“Yes, Dada! Last night, you were shouting about hearing birds. You passed out shortly after that episode. I was quite worried. I couldn’t go out to fetch anyone in the storm, so I waited till morning. Should I call a doctor?” Samir asked, still quite concerned.

“No, I’m fine. No need to call a doctor. I must’ve been dreaming. Why don’t you make some tea for both of us?” Mr. Roy replied slowly.

As Samir went to the kitchen, he sat up in his bed. Although he had told Samir that he might have been dreaming of the bird sounds, he knew that he had been wide awake. He had definitely heard the chirping of birds.

It must be the trees! What are they trying to tell me? That dozens of birds will be forced to abandon their nests if I cut them down? What should I do then?

He got out of bed and moved towards the window, deep in thought. As he looked outside, he found Sukumar playing near the peepul tree. How happy he looked!

A smile appeared across Mr. Roy’s face as he watched the child enjoying himself.

“Here’s your tea, Dada,” he heard Samir’s voice behind him.

“Samir, your son is here. He’s playing with the trees again,” Mr. Roy said, taking up his cup and sipping the hot tea.

“Yes, Dada. He missed his friends for the last few days. So, he came here early today to catch up.” Samir laughed.

Mr. Roy’s smile broadened.

“Samir, I’ve decided not to cut the trees,” he said after a moment’s silence. “As you said, they are a part of the house. Your son loves them too. Maybe I’ll get used to this view after all!”

Samir stared at his master, overwhelmed with joy.

“That’s great news, Dada! Sukumar will be very happy to hear that!” he said, wiping away a tear from his eye.

“Very well then, go home and get some rest. Come back in the afternoon. I have some reading to do.” Mr. Roy got up and shook Samir’s hand.

“Okay, Dada!” Samir replied, getting ready to go.

As he went out of the main gate, Sukumar ran to greet him.

“What did he say?” the 10-year-old boy asked anxiously.

“He has decided against cutting the trees,” assured Samir.

The boy’s face lit up. He started dancing around in joy.

Samir put his hand inside his pocket and took out an audio cassette player.

“Here, take it.” He handed it over to his son.

“I never thought your cassette recording of chirping birds from the zoo would be of any use. But it was of great service last night. You should’ve seen Mr. Roy’s face when the recording started playing outside the window. It looked like he’d seen a ghost. It was difficult for me to keep a straight face!” Samir broke off into laughter.

Sukumar quickly joined him.

“What about the dead leaves? You should give me some credit for that! That was my idea!” he declared, looking for his father’s approval.

“Of course! That was a fantastic idea,” Samir replied.

“That’s what sowed the seed of doubt in his mind. Little did he know that I’ve always had spare keys to the rooms in the house. With the keys, it was child’s play to get into his room and spread the leaves at night.”

“We sure fooled him, didn’t we, Dad?” Sukumar beamed.

“Yes, we did, son. Although it’s never good to fool another person, we did it for the greater good. Those trees are a part of the history of this village, and I will never let them be harmed!” Samir spoke, his voice quivering with emotion.

Sukumar squeezed his father’s hand tightly.

“I will protect the trees with you, Dad! I promise!” he replied with tears in his eyes.

.

[1] Uncle

[2] Elder brother – a polite form of address

Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.

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Categories
Editorial

Can Love Change the World?

The night has nearly come to an end.
The old year is almost past.
Under this dust, it will lay down
Its worn-out life at last.
Whether friend or foe,      wherever you go,
Old wrongs cast
Away. On this auspicious day,
Old grievances shed as the old year parts.

— Nobo Borshe or on New Year by Tagore

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Mid-April, Thailand celebrates Songkran and Cambodia, Thingyan — water festivals like Holi. These coincide with the celebration of multiple New Years across Asia. Sikhs celebrate Baisakhi. Kerala celebrates Bishu and Tamil Nadu, Puthandu. Nepal celebrates Nava Varsha and Bengal Nobo Borsho or Poila Boisakh. A translation of Tagore’s poem on the Bengali New Year in spirit asks us to dispense with our past angst and open our hearts to the new day — perhaps an attitude that might bring in changes that are so needed in a world torn with conflicts, hatred and anger. The poet goes on to say, “I want to tie all lives with love” but do we do that in our lives? Can we? Masud Khan’s poems on love translated by Professor Fakrul Alam explore this from a modern context. From Korea, Ihlwha Choi tells us in his translation, “Loving birds is like loving stars”. But the translation that really dwells on love bringing in changes is Nabendu Ghosh’s ‘Gandhiji’, translated by Ratnottama Sengupta, his daughter. The short story by Ghosh highlights the transformation of a murderous villain to a defender of a victim of communal violence, towering above divides drawn by politics of religion.

Another daughter who has been translating her father’s works is Amna Ali, daughter of award-winning Punjabi writer, Nadir Ali. In ‘Khaira, the Blind‘, the father-daughter duo have brought to Anglophone readers a lighter narrative highlighting the erasure of divides and inclusivity. A folktale from Balochistan, translated by Fazal Baloch, echoes in the footsteps of ‘Emperor’s New Clothes’ — a story that can found in the Andersen’s Fairy Tales published in the nineteenth century. I wonder which narrative had come first? And how did it cross cultures retaining the original ideas and yet giving it a local colour? Was it with traders or immigrants?

That such narratives or thoughts are a global phenomenon is brought to the fore by a conversation between Keith Lyons and Asian Australian poet Adam Aitken. Aitken has discussed his cross-cultural identity, the challenges of travel, writing, and belonging. Belonging is perhaps also associated with acceptance. How much do we accept a person, a writer or his works? How much do we empathise with it — is that what makes for popularity?

Cross cultural interactions are always interesting as Rhys Hughes tells us in his essay titled ‘My Love for RK Narayan’. He writes: “Narayan is able to do two contradictory things simultaneously, namely (1) show that we are all the same throughout the world, and (2) show how cultures and people around the world differ from each other.” The underlying emotions that tie us together in a bond of empathy and commonality are compassion and love, something that many great writers have found it necessary to emphasise.

Mitra Phukan’s What Will People say?: A Novel is built around such feelings of love, compassion and patience that can gently change narrow norms which draw terrifying borders of hate and unacceptance. We carry an excerpt this time from her ‘Prologue’. Somdatta Mandal has reviewed Chitra Banerjee Divakurni’s latest , Independence. Starting from around the time of the Indian Independence too is Song of the Golden Sparrow – A Novel History of Free India by Nilanjan P. Choudhary, which has been discussed by Rakhi Dalal. The Partition seems to colour narratives often as does the Holocaust. Sometimes, one wonders if humanity will ever get over the negative emotions set into play in the last century.

Closer to our times, when mingling of diverse cultures is becoming more acceptable in arts, Basudhara Roy introduces us to Bina Sarkar Ellias’s Ukiyo-e Days…Haiku Moments, a book that links poetry to a Japanese art-form. While a non-fiction that highlights the suffering of workers by enforcing unacceptable work ethics, Japanese Management, Indian Resistance: The Struggles of the Maruti Suzuki Workers by Anjali Deshpande and Nandita Haksar has been reviewed by Bhaskar Parichha. The narrative, he writes, “tells the story of the biggest car manufacturer in India through the voices of the workers, interviewed over three years. They give us an understanding that the Maruti Suzuki revolution wasn’t the unmitigated success it was touted to be when they tell us about their resistance to being turned into robots by uncompromising management.” That lack of human touch creates distress in people’s hearts, even if we have an efficient system of management and mass production is well elucidated in the review.

To lighten the mood, we have humour in verses from Rhys Hughes and Richard Stevenson’s tongue-in-cheek dino poems. Michael Burch’s poetry explores nuances of love and, yet, changes wrought in love has become the subject of poetry by Malachi Edwin Vethamani and Anasuya Bhar with more wistful lines by George Freek highlighting evanescence.  Sutputra Radheye and Jim Landwehr bring darker nuances into poetry while Scott Thomas Outlar mingles nature with philosophical meanderings. We have more poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Abdul Jamil Urfi and many more exploring various facets of changes in our lives.

These changes are reflected in our musings too. Sengupta has written on how change is wrought on a murderous villain by the charisma of Gandhi in her father’s fiction, as well as this world leader’s impact on Ghosh and her. Devraj Singh Kalsi addresses food fads with a pinch of sarcasm. From Japan, Suzanne Kamata has written of a little island with Greek influences, a result of cultural ties brought in by the emperor Hirohito. Ravi Shankar takes us to Pokhara, Nepal, and Meredith Stephen expresses surprise on meeting a shipload of people from Colorado in the far reaches of the Southern Hemisphere while on her sailing adventures with beautiful photographs. Stories by moderns reflect diverse nuances depicting change. While Brindley Hallam Dennis writes of the passing of an era, PG Thomas integrates the past into the present to reflect how they have a symbiotic structure in the scheme of creating or recreating natural movements through changes wrought over time in his story. Paul Mirabile explores the darker recesses of the human existence in his fiction. As if in continuation, the excerpt from Rhys Hughes’ The Wistful Wanderings of Perceval Pitthelm seems to step out of darker facets of humanity with a soupçon of wit at its best.

To create a world that endures, one looks for values that create inclusivity as reflected in these lines from Charles Chaplin’s My Autobiography, “Mother illuminated to me the kindliest light this world has ever known, which has endowed literature and the theatre with their greatest themes: love, pity and humanity.” This quote starts off a wonderful essay from film-buff Nirupama Kotru. Her narrative carries the tenor of Chaplin’s ‘themes’ to highlight not only her visit to the actor’s last home in Switzerland but also glances at his philosophy and his contributions to cinema across borders.

Our issue rotates around changes and the need for love and compassion to rise in a choral crescendo whirling with the voices of Tagore, Charles Chaplin as well as that of twenty-first century writers. Perhaps this new year, we can move towards a world – at least an imagined world — where love will wipe away weapons and war, where love will take us towards a future filled with the acceptance of myriad colours, where events like the Partition and the Holocaust will be history, just like dinosaurs.

Huge thanks to all our readers and contributors, some of whom may not have been mentioned here but are an integral and necessary part of the issue. Do pause by our April edition. I would also like to give my thanks to our indefatigable team whose efforts breathe life into our journal every month. Sohana Manzoor needs a special mention for her lovely artwork.

Thank you all and wish you a wonderful April.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

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Read reviews and learn more about Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World by clicking here

Categories
Tagore Translations

Greetings on Asian New Years in April!

 This song by Tagore welcoming the new year, Esho He Baishakh, is especially relevant because it talks of the New Year wiping away diseases that weaken and kill humanity. Here is a translation of the lyrics and renditions by popular contemporary voices and a video of a dance performance to this song.

Come O Boisakh!
(A translation of Tagore's Esho He Boisakh, Esho, Esho, 1927)

Hail O boisakh! Welcome. 

Blow away deadly diseases with your ascetic breath. 
May the debris from the old year disappear. 
Let go of old memories, let go of old melodies. 
May sorrows and tears evaporate. 
Wipe away slanders, wipe away infirmities. 
May the Earth be purified by fire. 
Wither obsessive unhealthy passions. 
Summon a storm with a conch call to
Transfigure the misty webs woven by Maya*.

*Maya is an illusory play of divine intervention.

Jayati Chakraborty Click here to listen.

Iman Chakraborty Click here to listen.

Lopamudra Mitra Click here to listen.

Sadi Mohammad Click here to listen.

New Year arrives in some parts of Asia every April, around 13th to 15th. India celebrates new year under various names and with many different traditions –  such as Ugadi in Karnataka, Vishu in Kerala, Baisakhi among Sikhs and many more. Nepal observes Nava Varsha. Thailand celebrates Songkran, which is a bit like Holi in India as it involves water play and a bit like the Thingyan, the Myanmar New Year. Sri Lanka calls their festival Avurudu, which seems to have customs close to the Tamilian new year Puthandu or that of Karnataka. Bangladesh livens up with a national festival, called Pohela Boisakh, which is a bit different from the Polia Boisakh celebrations in the Eastern parts of India.

Intrinsic to all these is the joie de vivre of the festivities whether with water play, food, Bhangra dancing or with Rabindra Sangeet.

May we all have a glorious entry into our plethora of New Years!

Greetings again for all Asian New Years !

(Written and translated by Mitali Chakravarty)

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International