In conversation with Isa Kamari, a celebrated writer from Singapore, with focus on his latest book, Maladies of the Soul. Click here to read.
Translations
A Hunger for Stories, a poem by Quazi Johirul Islam, has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
A Hand Mill, a story by Ammina Srinivasaraju, has been translated from Telugu by Johny Takkedasila. Click here to read.
Kiyya and Sadu, a part of this long ballad on the legendary lovers from Balochistan, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click hereto read.
In Tintin in India, Rhys Hughes traces the allusions to India in these iconic creations of Hergé while commenting on Tintin’s popularity in the subcontinent. Click hereto read.
Meredith Stephens shares the response of some of the Californian community to healing after the 2020 forest fires with a narrative and photographs. Click hereto read.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
‘Moment’ by Margaret Atwood
With an unmanned mission reaching the moon — that moon that was chipped off the Earth’s surface when Theia bashed into the newly evolving planet — many feel mankind is en route to finding alternate biomes and perhaps, a solution to its housing needs. Will we also call moon our ‘Homeland’ and plant flags on it as we do on Earth? Does the Earth — or the moon — really belong to our species. Do we have proprietary rights on these because of lines drawn by powerbrokers who say that the land belongs to them?
These are questions Margaret Atwood addresses in her writings which often fall into a genre called cli-fi. This is gaining in popularity as climate has become uncertain now with changes that are wringing fear in our hearts. Not all fear it. Some refuse to acknowledge it. While this is not a phenomenon that is fully understood by all of us, it’s impact is being experienced by majority of the world — harsh stormy weather, typhoons, warmer temperatures which scorch life and rising water levels that will eventually swallow lands that some regard as their homeland. Despite all these prognostications, wars continue to pollute the air as much as do human practices, including conflicts using weapons. Did ‘climbing a hill’ and ‘planting the flag’ as Atwood suggests, ever give us the rights over land, nature or climate? Do we have a right to pollute it with our lifestyle, trade or wars — all three being human constructs?
In a recent essay, Tom Engelhardt, a writer and an editor, contended, “Vladimir Putin’s greatest crime wasn’t simply against the Ukrainians, but against humanity. It was another way to ensure that the global war of terror would grow fiercer and that the Lahainas of the future would burn more intensely.” And that is true of any war… Chemical and biological weapons impacted the environment in Europe and parts of Afghanistan. Atom bombs polluted not only the cities they were dropped in, but they also wreaked such havoc so that the second generation’s well-being continues impacted by events that took place more than seven decades ago. Yet another nuclear war would destroy the Earth, our planet that is already reeling under the impact of human-induced climate change. Flooding, forest fires and global warming are just the first indications that tell us not only do we need to adapt to living in changed times but also, we need to change our lifestyles, perhaps even turn pacifist to survive in a world evolving into an altered one.
Critiquing the darker trends in our species which leads to disasters is a book by an eminent Singaporean writer, Isa Kamari, called Maladies of the Soul. He too looks for panacea in a world where the basic needs of humans have been satiated and they have moved on towards overindulgence that can lead to redundancy. In a conversation, he tells us how he hopes his writings can help towards making a more hopeful future.
This hope is echoed in the palliative poems of Sanket Mhatre from his book, A City full of Sirens, excerpted and reviewed by Basudhara Roy. Bhaskar Parichha’s review of Samragngi Roy’s The Wizard of Festival Lighting: The Incredible Story of Srid, is a tribute also from a granddaughter to her grandfather celebrating human achievements. Somdatta Mandal’s discussion of fiction based on history, Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadhby Malathi Ramachandran not only reflects the tenacity of a woman’s courage but also explores the historicity of the events. Exploring bits of history and the past with a soupcon of humour is our book excerpt from Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Joley Dangay[1]), translated from Bengali by Nazes Afroz. Though the narrative of the translation is set about ninety years ago, a little after the times of Hazrat Mahal (1820 –1879), the excerpt is an brilliant introduction to the persona of Tagore’s student, Syed Mujtaba Ali (1904-1974), by a translator who describes him almost with the maestro’s unique style. Perhaps, Afroz’s writing bears these traces as he had earlier translated a legendary work by the same writer, In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan. Afroz starts with a startling question: “What will you call someone who puts down his profession as ‘quitting job regularly’ while applying for his passport?”
In non-fiction, we have Devraj Singh Kalsi’s funny retelling of his adventures with a barber while Hughes‘ essay on the hugely popular Tintin makes us smile. The patriarchal past is reflected in an essay by G Venkatesh, whereas Suzanne Kamata from Japan talks of women attempting to move out of invisibility. Meredith Stephens and Candice Louisa Daquin both carry on the conversation on climate change. Stephens explores the impact of Californian forest fires with photographs and first-hand narrative. Vela Noble draws solace and strength from nature in Kangaroo Island and shares a beautiful painting with us. Madhulika Vajjhala and Saumya Dwivedi discuss concepts of home.
Two touching tributes along with a poem to recently deceased poet, Jayanta Mahapatra, add to the richness of our oeuvre. Dikshya Samantrai, a researcher on the poet, has bid a touching adieu to him stating, “his legacy will continue to inspire and resonate and Jayanta Mahapatra’s name will forever remain etched in the annals of literature, a testament to the enduring power of the poet’s voice.”
Our translations this time reflect a diverse collection of mainly poetry with one short story by Telugu writer, Ammina Srinivasaraju, translated by Johny Takkedasila. Professor Fakrul Alam has introduced us to an upcoming voice in Bengali poetry, Quazi Johirul Islam. Ihlwha Choi has translated his own poetry from Korean and brought to us a fragment of his own culture. Fazal Baloch has familiarised us with a Balochi ballad based on a love story that is well known in his region, Kiyya and Sadu. Our Tagore translation has attempted to bring to you the poet’s description of early autumn or Sharat in Bengal, a season that starts in September. Sohana Manzoor has painted the scene depicted by Tagore for all of us to visualise. Huge thanks to her for her wonderful artwork, which invariably livens our journal.
Profound thanks to the whole team at Borderless for their support and especially to Hughes and Parichha for helping us source wonderful writings… some of which have not been mentioned here. Pause by our content’s page to savour all of it. And we remain forever beholden to our wonderful contributors without who the journal would not exist and our loyal readers who make our existence relevant. Thank you all.
It is funny that I knew the title of this story before I had even begun it. I knew that my characters would meet at the airport, in this place where there is a momentary suspension of life, the spot which physically and symbolically marks the continuation of a journey or even the beginning of a new one and sometimes the end.
I don’t know why but it is important to me that the two characters know each other. It shouldn’t be that they were meeting each other for the first time. The two are supposed to be long lost, perhaps even estranged. But I don’t really know how to begin this story. I don’t even know what the story is, all I know is that there is supposed to be one. A story meant to take place at the airport.
The image has haunted me for a long time and has made me wonder if it is a glimpse of my past life or a premonition of the future. I have always wondered if in case it is a premonition, who would be the other person for me at the airport. I have often looked at the people around me and have been compulsively forced to imagine an arc of experiences with them that would make them that persona at the airport for me.
Some people felt to be a good fit to be the persona of my imagination, but for each person I imagined a new context, and a new feeling would colour the moment. The top contenders for that character, slowly with time disappeared from my memory altogether. Or with time, became entirely unsuitable for that moment. It became so special — this glimpse, this image — that now I think that maybe this is not a premonition but a calling for my work. That perhaps it will be the centrepiece of a story I am destined to write. But how do you write a story that you are destined to write? There is just too much riding on that. I don’t even know if it is a story about love or loss.
I think I will suddenly bump into him. When our eyes meet, in a matter of seconds, years of questions will be answered. I will look at him, realising that I have come far. I will be introduced to his wife. Now that I see her by his side, I know I didn’t belong there at all, that all the moments I questioned whether it could have been me, would finally be resolved, because she — she makes sense. At that moment my children would run to me, a set of twins — I have always imagined — and say hello to him. That looking at them he would smile, because I always talked about how I didn’t want children and was afraid that because I resist them so much, I would end up having two in one go. This moment wouldn’t be one of those moments where we would run into our old friends and would be just happy to see each other. This moment would feel like the universe allowed us a glimpse of the forbidden.
It is intriguing to me that I always saw my children, but in this vision, my husband is in the background, I cannot see him clearly. I cannot imagine, for the life of me, what my partner looks like. Is he brown or white, tall or somewhere closer to my height? Isn’t it strange that in this alleged premonition/vision of the future, I have more clarity about the man I am supposed to meet for five minutes and not the man standing next to me, supposedly for life?
But what is the story? Is it that this man and I were close, lovers maybe, and had to go our separate ways? Or were we friends who never could fall in love? I have definitely thought of being by his side. Perhaps, he is the person who remained an entity without a background. We silently must have seen each other in the periphery of our visions, too afraid to look straight. Maybe, the clarity with which we might see each other would be too much for us to handle in this life. So maybe the next? He would leave and so would I. I hope that once again somewhere, when our flights land, we can see each other. No, only in our next lives.
But I still don’t know what this story would be about, I still don’t know if I already have lived this story, I still don’t know if this is the story.
Prakriti Bandhan writes stories with a difference.
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